The fronts of some, though time had shattered them,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
As though the wealth within them had run o’er....
Gliding on,
At length we leave the river for the sea.
At length a voice aloft proclaims ‘Venezia!’
And, as called forth, She comes.
A few in fear,
Flying away from him whose boast it was[1]
That the grass grew not where his horse had trod,