Should her domes, which at evening are golden,
Dissolve as her Apennine snows;
Should the sceptre, which long she hath holden,
Depart, and the crown from her brows,
And the robes of her splendour be rolled in
The gray dust of her woes;
Should the glory grow dim of her Titians,
Her gondolas drift ’neath the moon;
Should her marbles, mosaics, Venetians,
Evanish and pass as a swoon;