'thorns' whereon to 'lean his breast.'" At the same time, the melancholy
with which his heart was filled was soothed and cherished by the
associations which every object in Venice inspired. The prospects of
dominion subdued, of a high spirit humbled, of splendour tarnished, of
palaces sinking into ruins, was but too faithfully in accordance with
the dark and mournful mind which the poet bore within him. Nor were
other motives of a nature wholly different wanting to draw him to
Venice.[1] How beautifully has the poet illustrated this preference:--

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone--but Beauty still is here.
States fall, hearts fade--but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.

But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away--
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.