XIII.

Before St. Mark still glow his Steeds of brass, Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; But is not Doria's menace[393] come to pass?[6.H.] Are they not bridled?--Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a sea-weed, unto whence she rose![lp][394] Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun, Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign foes,[lq] From whom Submission wrings an infamous repose.