How light we go, how soft we skim, And all in moonlight seem to swim! In moonlight is it now, or shade? In planes of sure division made, By angles sharp of palace walls The clear light and the shadow falls; O sight of glory, sight of wonder! Seen, a pictorial portent, under, O great Rialto, the vast round Of thy thrice-solid arch profound! (How light we go, how softly! Ah, Life should be as the gondola!) How light we go, how softly—— _Sp._ Nay; Fore heaven, enough of that to-day: I’m deadly weary of your tune, And half-ennuyé with the moon; The shadows lie, the glories fall, And are but moonshine after all. It goes against my conscience really To let myself feel so ideally. Come, for the Piazzetta steer; ’Tis nine o’clock or very near. These airy blisses, skiey joys Of vague romantic girls and boys, Which melt the heart and the brain soften, When not affected, as too often They are, remind me, I protest, Of nothing better at the best Than Timon’s feast to his ancient lovers, Warm water under silver covers; ‘Lap, dogs!’ I think I hear him say; And lap who will, so I’m away. _Di._ How light we go, how soft we skim, And all in moonlight seem to swim! Against bright clouds projected dark, The white dome now, reclined I mark, And, by o’er-brilliant lamps displayed, The Doge’s columns and arcade; Over still waters mildly come The distant waters and the hum. (How light we go, how softly! Ah, Life should be as the gondola!) How light we go, how soft we skim, And all in open moonlight swim! Ah, gondolier, slow, slow, more slow! We go; but wherefore thus should go? Ah, let not muscle all too strong Beguile, betray thee to our wrong! On to the landing, onward. Nay, Sweet dream, a little longer stay! On to the landing; here. And, ah! Life is not as the gondola. _Sp._ _Tre ore._ So. The Parthenone Is it? you haunt for your limone. Let me induce you to join me, In gramolate persiche. SCENE III.—_The Academy at Venice._ _Di._ A modern daub it was, perchance, I know not: but the connoisseur From Titian’s hues, I dare be sure, Had never turned one kindly glance, Where Byron, somewhat drest-up, draws His sword, impatient long, and speaks Unto a tribe of motley Greeks His fealty to their good cause. Not far, assumed to mystic bliss, Behold the ecstatic Virgin rise! Ah, wherefore vainly, to fond eyes That melted into tears for this? Yet if we must live, as would seem, These peremptory heats to claim, Ah, not for profit, not for fame, And not for pleasure’s giddy dream, And not for piping empty reeds, And not for colouring idle dust; If live we positively must, God’s name be blest for noble deeds.