Oh, toil-worn, patient Heart that bleeds, Whose martyrdom even his exceeds, Wronged, cursed, despised, misunderstood-- Oh, all-enduring multitude, Rejoice! amid you tears, rejoice! There issues from this grave a voice, Proclaiming your long night is o'er, Your day-dawn breaks from shore to shore. You have redeemed his pledge, remained Secure, erect, and self-sustained, Holding more dear one thing alone, Even than the blood of dearest son, Revering with religious awe The inviolable might of Law. A MASQUE OF VENICE. (A Dream.) Not a stain, In the sun-brimmed sapphire cup that is the sky-- Not a ripple on the black translucent lane Of the palace-walled lagoon. Not a cry As the gondoliers with velvet oar glide by, Through the golden afternoon. From this height Where the carved, age-yellowed balcony o'erjuts Yonder liquid, marble pavement, see the light Shimmer soft beneath the bridge, That abuts On a labyrinth of water-ways and shuts Half their sky off with its ridge. We shall mark All the pageant from this ivory porch of ours, Masques and jesters, mimes and minstrels, while we hark To their music as they fare. Scent their flowers Flung from boat to boat in rainbow radiant showers Through the laughter-ringing air. See! they come, Like a flock of serpent-throated black-plumed swans, With the mandoline, viol, and the drum, Gems afire on arms ungloved, Fluttering fans, Floating mantles like a great moth's streaky vans Such as Veronese loved. But behold In their midst a white unruffled swan appear. One strange barge that snowy tapestries enfold, White its tasseled, silver prow. Who is here? Prince of Love in masquerade or Prince of Fear, Clad in glittering silken snow? Cheek and chin Where the mask's edge stops are of the hoar-frosts hue, And no eyebeams seem to sparkle from within Where the hollow rings have place. Yon gay crew Seem to fly him, he seems ever to pursue. 'T is our sport to watch the race. At his side Stands the goldenest of beauties; from her glance, From her forehead, shines the splendor of a bride, And her feet seem shod with wings, To entrance, For she leaps into a wild and rhythmic dance, Like Salome at the King's. 'T is his aim Just to hold, to clasp her once against his breast, Hers to flee him, to elude him in the game. Ah, she fears him overmuch! Is it jest,-- Is it earnest? a strange riddle lurks half-guessed In her horror of his touch.