They told me thou wert fallen to decay,
Old Venice, and hadst lost thine ancient pride ;
But as upon thy silent streets I glide
And mark the stately piles that line the way,
And all thy spires and domes in dim array
Soft mirrored in the Adriatic’s tide,—
I cannot think thy glory all has died.
Nay! in the calmness of thy later day
Thou hast the mellow bloom of ripened age ;
Gone is thy youth, yet thou art still as fair
As any dove that haunts thy holy square.
Like Ariadne’s was thy heritage,
A lonely queen beside the silver sea,
Sad but forever beautiful to be!
(John Russell Hayes)
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