Oh God! a harlot in her woe!
Did ever grandeur fall so low?
And waving from thy palace walls
The long grass rankly grows—
Lamenting, through its dull canals,
The sluggish water flows—
And ’neath the Lion of St. Mark—
That scourge of vanished empires—hark!
The tramp of Austrian foes.
How long, Oh! Venice, o’er thy grave