"And round the walls of the porches there are set pillars of variegated stones, jasper and porphyry, and deep-green serpentine spotted with flakes of snow, and marbles that half refuse and half yield to the sunshine, Cleopatra-like, 'their bluest veins to kiss,'--the shadow, as it steals back from them, revealing line after line of azure undulation, as a receding tide leaves the waved sand; their capitals rich with interwoven tracery, rooted knots of herbage, and drifting leaves of acanthus and vine, and mystical signs, all beginning and ending in the cross; and above them, in the broad archivolts, a continuous chain of language and of life,--angels, and the signs of heaven, and the labors of men, each in its appointed season upon the earth ... until at last, as if in ecstasy, the crests of the arches break into a marble foam, and toss themselves far into the blue {262} sky in flashes and wreaths of sculptured spray, as if the breakers on the Lido shore had been frost-bound before they fell, and the sea-nymphs had inlaid them with coral and amethyst." In comparison with the above, how curiously commonplace was Goethe, with his very practical queries, when first he saw the Horses of St. Mark: "A glorious team of horses,--I should like to hear the opinion of a good judge of horse flesh. What seemed strange to me was that, closely viewed, they appear heavy, while from the piazza below they look light as deer." To me the mystery in which they are veiled is their chief attraction. We know that the brave old Dandolo sent them from Constantinople to be one of his most striking monuments. In this temple porch, Old as he was, so near his hundredth year, And blind,--his eyes put out,--did Dandolo Stand forth, displaying on his crown the cross. There did he stand, erect, invincible, Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears, For in his prayers he had been weeping much; And now the pilgrim and the people wept With admiration, saying in their hearts, "Surely those aged limbs have need of rest!" There did he stand, with his old armor on, Ere, gonfalon in hand, that streamed aloft, As conscious of its glorious destiny, So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret, He sailed away, five hundred gallant ships, Their lofty sides hung with emblazoned shields, Following his track to fame. He went to die; But of his trophies four arrived erelong, Snatched from destruction,--the four steeds divine, That strike the ground, resounding with their feet, And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame Over that very porch, SAMUEL ROGERS.