To what was once the loved reality
Of this true fairy-land; but I refuse
To deck with Art's fantastic wizardry
A haunt of Trade. Mine is not Mammon's Muse,
She will not sing for hire of Soaps, or Silks, or Shoes.
I know that there are such,—but let them go,—
They came like ghouls, they'll disappear like dreams.
But oh! my Venice, dare they treat thee so?
I fain would flay the Vandal horde; still teems
My mind with memories of thy towers and streams,—