II.

They trail me, these three godless knaves, Past every church that saints and saves, Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves By Lido’s wet accursed graves, They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, And ... on thy breast I sink!

_She replies, musing._

Dip your arm o’er the boat-side, elbow-deep, As I do: thus: were Death so unlike Sleep, Caught this way? Death’s to fear from flame, or steel, Or poison doubtless; but from water--feel! Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass To plait in where the foolish jewel was, I flung away: since you have praised my hair, ’Tis proper to be choice in what I wear.

_He speaks._

Row home? must we row home? Too surely Know I where its front’s demurely Over the Giudecca piled; Window just with window mating, Door on door exactly waiting, All’s the set face of a child: But behind it, where’s a trace Of the staidness and reserve, And formal lines without a curve, In the same child’s playing-face? No two windows look one way O’er the small sea-water thread Below them. Ah, the autumn day I, passing, saw you overhead! First, out a cloud of curtain blew, Then, a sweet cry, and last, came you-- To catch your lory that must needs Escape just then, of all times then, To peck a tall plant’s fleecy seeds, And make me happiest of men. I scarce could breathe to see you reach So far back o’er the balcony, (To catch him ere he climbed too high Above you in the Smyrna peach) That quick the round smooth cord of gold. This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, Fell down you like a gorgeous snake The Roman girls were wont, of old, When Rome there was, for coolness’ sake To let lie curling o’er their bosoms. Dear lory, may this beak retain Ever its delicate rose stain As if the wounded lotus-blossoms Had marked their thief to know again! Stay longer yet, for others’ sake Than mine! what should your chamber do? --With all its rarities that ache In silence while day lasts, but wake At night-time and their life renew, Suspended just to pleasure you --That brought against their will together These objects, and, while day lasts, weave Around them such a magic tether That dumb they look: your harp, believe, With all the sensitive tight strings That dare not speak, now to itself Breathes slumbrously as if some elf Went in and out the chords, his wings Make murmur wheresoe’er they graze, As an angel may, between the maze Of midnight palace-pillars, on And on, to sow God’s plagues have gone Through guilty glorious Babylon. And while such murmurs flow, the nymph Bends o’er the harp-top from her shell, As the dry limpet for the lymph Come with a tune he knows so well. And how your statues’ hearts must swell: And how your pictures must descend To see each other, friend with friend! Oh, could you take them by surprise, You’d find Schidone’s eager Duke Doing the quaintest courtesies To that prim Saint by Haste-thee-Luke And, deeper into her rock den, Bold Castelfranco’s Magdalen You’d find retreated from the ken Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser-- As if the Tizian thinks of her, And is not, rather, gravely bent On seeing for himself what toys Are these, his progeny invent, What litter now the board employs Whereon he signed a document That got him murdered! Each enjoys Its night so well, you cannot break The sport up, so, indeed, must make More stay with me, for others’ sake.

_She speaks._