Yes, this is Venice; yon's the Bridge of Sighs;
The palace and the prison, still they stand:
But 'midst the maze foul funnel fumes arise.
As by the touch of an enchanter's hand,
A hundred such their smoky wings expand,
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
On what was once the poet's, artist's land,
Soot smears the wingéd Lion's marble piles,
And Venice reeks like Hull, throned on her hundred isles.
She looks a swart sea Cyclops, from the ocean,