The spouseless Adriatic mourns her Lord,[lm] And annual marriage now no more renewed-- The Bucentaur[388] lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood! St. Mark yet sees his Lion[389] where he stood[3.H.] Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued,[ln][390] And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a Queen with an unequalled dower. XII. The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns--[4.H.] An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains Clank over sceptred cities; Nations melt From Power's high pinnacle, when they have felt The sunshine for a while, and downward go Like Lauwine loosened from the mountain's belt; Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo![391][5.H.] Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe.[lo][392] 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. XIV. In youth She was all glory,--a new Tyre,-- Her very by-word sprung from Victory, The "Planter of the Lion,"[395] which through fire And blood she bore o'er subject Earth and Sea; Though making many slaves, Herself still free, And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite;[396] Witness Troy's rival, Candia![397] Vouch it, ye Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight![398] For ye are names no Time nor Tyranny can blight. XV. Statues of glass--all shivered--the long file Of her dead Doges are declined to dust; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals,[7.H.] Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. XVI.