Who can thread the azured streets of Venice fair,1
Paved thick with sunbeams—nor long pondering dwell,2
On all that strangely there of yore befell,—3
On all that passed in days historic there ? 4
But from the Foscari’s tale of worst despair,5
The pained thought shrinks—for words were vain to tell,6
The horrors of that history! which ’ twere well,7
Could deep Oblivion shroud—man’s heart to spare !8
Ah ! that pale bride ! who might not soothe nor save,9
Who for her lord saw the earth, in its broad scope,10
Become one rack—one dungeon, and one grave !11
Wished she thy death—when thou o’er-wrench’d didst droop12
From very love ? —aye!—nor herself forgave,13
Feeling almost a murderess in that hope !14
A crowned man sits on a throne with both hands in his lap. A crowned woman sits next to him, leaning her elbow on the throne and cradling her head with her left hand. The arms of the throne are decorated with an ornate lion. They sit in an ornately decorated room. Full-page illustration.