7 ' ' i-jr PR4889.L3F n 9 e " UniVersl,y, - ibrary Fr ?»,y,^i5II! l .,(??.!?.?r!y. and other poems 3 1924 013 516 822 The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013516822 FROM A VENETIAN BALCONY AND OTHER POEMS ^^^^t^^^^i^S^S ( h\ S t Ukht ^P^^^^^^^^®^5?^3 FROM A VENETIAN f» Jj BALCONY l (v^w^StZ^ 1 AND OTHER POEMS OF '«© ®s !^y VENICE AND THE 1 s NEAR LANDS BY LADY LINDSAY fl,/ PEN SKETCHES BY CLARA MONTALBA fi\\ »#C |p LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER AND CO. LTD. vl/y 3 I903 of r ^^^^^g ^^^^^^M All rights reserved h±z Se^^p^H^ O Ve ne • zia.. be - ne de-ta,... non ti vo-gio piu la • sar THIS EDITION ON HANDMADE PAPER IS LIMITED TO 500 COPIES FOR ENGLAND AND AMERICA CONTENTS PAGE From a Venetian Balcony 1 1 "II Mare mi chiama" 14 Venetian Mother's Lullaby 21 Venetian Spell 22 Barcarol 24 The Tradition of the "Povero Forna- reto" 27 In the Time of Lilies 30 The Legend of the "Bocolo" • • • • 33 Summer Evening 36 The Legend of St. Mark's Ring .... 37 A Painted Missal 43 The Pearl Gatherer 49 Nina to Zuan 50 Malcontenta S3 A Sunset Shell 56 Song of the Vineyards 58 Mermaids' Voices 61 Notes 63 FROM A VENETIAN BALCONY HIGH tide at Venice; warm wind driving in from the sea. Hark ! the cry of the gulls as they flit o'er the wide canal, Flit and circle and skim, and dip in their savage glee, Striking the lead-coloured waves that scatter tempestual, Striking with sharp white wing like a flail, gorging their prey: Frutto di mare, fruit of the ocean, drift of the way. Hither and thither wend other wild birds in the storm — Gondolas black as the swift that floats o'er an autumn sky- Gondolas silent and shadowy, wondrously slender of form — iz FROM A VENETIAN BALCONY Gliding in close-measured rhythm down where the barges lie, Under the glimmering bridges, and near to the palace walls That frown in a gloomy dusk, as the sea-mist gathers and falls. Now, with a burst of voices, clang the Salutes bells, From yonder tower-lofts straining, heav'n high as they may go. Again, to our fretful world, surely the Angelus tells Patience for need and pain, and solace and calm for woe. As I listen the peal dies out — alas, and alas! alas! But from over the pallid sunset the heavy storm- clouds pass. O weird sea-birds, as ye utter your hoarse and discordant cry, Do ye wot of the north, and the hearts that are watching your ominous course? Or is it enough for ye, birds, as gyrating and slanting ye fly, FROM A VENETIAN BALCONY 13 To ride the broad Adriatic, and drink of her glamour and force, Regardless that realms beyond realms, as waves upon waves, in unrest, Look up for the message of love that God's angel brings to the blest? 14 "IL MARE MI CHIAMA" The sea is calling, calling, I hear the sound far away; The ripples are rising and falling, Tide-like, on my heart all day, With a voice so sweet and thralling That I cannot say it nay. O ! for the sight of the wide lagoon, When it thrills at touch of a summer moon, With the great Salute's shining dome — A lamp at the gate of home. And O ! for the echo on Lido's shore Of the grey Adriatic's sullen roar, And the tender blue which sunset throws On our Euganean hills, While the Grand Canal is a path of rose, And the watery mist with radiance fills, "IL MARE MI CHIAMA" 15 And the mighty palaces loom pale Like battlements in a fairy tale. And O ! for the cry of the gondolier As his sandolo glides to my window near. The sea is calling me loudly; I may not sit idle and still. You talk of your farm-lands, proudly, Of the track of the plough on the hill, Of meadows green and of hopfields, Of what every acre and crop yields; Of the apple-trees that heavily lurch O'er hedgerows fair to tempt boys from church; Of horses you ride, and flocks you drive, And grazing kine thick as bees in a hive. But I need Venice. My Venice I want, Though her colli are narrow and food is scant. I weep, I pine, yea I ache, I long, For one glimpse of her squalor, one lilt of her I song; 1 6 "IL MARE MI CHIAMA" I sigh for her sadly as day-hours pass, And at night I'm a lover who dreams of his lass. She is surely a wondrous maiden, Her fair face colour-laden, A pomegranate bud at the ear; A smiling mouth; About her neck the sea-shells rare; Her tresses damp from the warm salt air And spiced with the perfume of the South- Such perfume you know not here. I cannot sit me idly and still; The Venetian seas moan sadly; The Frari bells, Like long farewells, Float over the waters shallow and chill, And my heart leaps madly To do fierce battle against my will. Sometimes, when twilight shrouds this place, I dream, And in my dream my swift feet seem "IL MARE MI CHIAMA" 17 To bear me hence apace Through space Unto the J°iassa. It is night. Scarce in the arcade glimmers one poor light; No creature 's visible. I, ghostlike, go Across the flagstones silently and slow, And reach San Marco's heavy-curtained door, And lift the cloth, and tread the well-known floor Once more, The gorgeous floor, waved like a shifting sea, Inlaid with lapis and with porphyry, Lit by the shimmering cross which hangs mid- line 'Twixt ground and dome — a jewel set in shrine. And there I kneel, till strange Byzantine saints From golden roofs look down, whisp'ring: " She faints, she faints." No, no — I breathe. Ah see ! I'll pull the pane Of this small English shutter and look out. 'Tis twilight yet, and here and there about The farmsteads blink, their lanterns blurred with rain, 1 8 "IL MARE MI CHI AM A " And sudden o'er the meadow comes a shout From English lads and girls — a merry train. But O ! for the cry of the gondolier, As his sandolo glides to my window near. The sea is calling, calling — The swallows are bound for its shore — Warm night is falling, falling, On the Riva I'll tread no more. O Sea! O South! In my heart Ye are shrined as pearls in shell; We have parted, we still are apart, But I know and I feel your spell. Venezia, my princess enthralling, Benedeta, fair queen of the sea ! When thou and the sea are both calling, What matters the Northland to me? -/ VENETIAN SPELL O spell of dawn! From opal skies a roseate mist floats out, And slowly wraps the towers and domes about. All Venice sleeps — nay, yonder a black barge Slides to the open from the dusky marge. O spell of silence ! Peace of mind and soul — the plash of oars, Perchance a distant bell from island shores ; Upon the glassy stillness of the mere No other sound to vex a fretful ear. O spell of age ! Historic scenes and names and memories Are bulwarks of the city in the seas; Each palace is a book, a scroll each wall — The sculptured poems hold our hearts in thrall. O spell of night ! First wanness, then the blue, then sudden dark; VENETIAN SPELL 23 Quiv'ring reflection from each tiny spark; The water makes a mirror for the moon, The heavens become a star-beflecked lagoon. O spell of beauty ! Like the goddess of grey legend-lore, Cypris or Hulda, sung in runes of yore, She — Venice — binds men with a magic chain — Her slaves, that gave an hour, through life remain. 24 BARCAROL In the June-tide, in the June-tide, In the sweet and summer noon-tide, From Murano, From Burano, And from far high-towered Torcello, Come the wherries, Filled with cherries, Flaunting sails of russet yellow, Floating onward, silent, gliding As by magic measure sliding, Drifting o'er the silver sea. In the June-tide, in the June-tide, In the sweet and summer noon-tide, When a certain boatman ferries Venice-ward his freight of cherries — Marco 's on his way to me. t/y.i » ■>?r.l " ■ ft* v «-> 27 THE TRADITION OF THE "POVERO FORNARETO" ... It is a/esfa night. The great cool Piazza wears a zone of light. Now through the stillness buoyant music floats, Above the crowd, with swift exultant notes. Tables are thronged; the people closely press, And sip cool drinks and scan each other's dress ; Ay, when the tune grows louder, laugh and talk, Or bow and greet in friendship as they walk, Pacing that wide paved plain where ne'er a horse Or cart or chariot may obstruct their course. All Venice has turned out to-night, they say, And maids flirt fans, and children leap and play, While from the crowded Merceria come Lilting of songs and merry voices' hum. But yonder — far from flare and turmoil all, There where St. Mark uplifts a seaward wall, c 28 THE TRADITION OF Rich, under domes — in sight of columns old, Theodore's and the Lion's ('twixt whose hold The prisoners died), in sight of that broad mere, Moonlit, where Giorgio looms, dark-rimmed, austere — Two tiny lamps gleam red that ever tell The story of a lost life and its knell. One night — five centuries ago — a boy In some dark calk picked up from the ground A dagger wet with blood, so carried it, Deeming no ill might follow. Here had been Some hideous crime, some ghastly murder done, Though both were hid — the slayer and the slain. But, as he went, the servants of the law Met him and seized him — was he not red- handed? Naught it availed that he should speak the truth, Cry out for justice, swearing innocence ; Helpless he was, and poor — a baker's lad — The dread Tribunal judged him — he must die. He died. Betwixt those columns twain he died, Laying his head upon the headsman's block, For he in bitter pain must expiate Another's deed. But when his blood ran red, THE "POVERO FORNARETO" 29 Behold ! the doer of the crime was traced, And he — the baker's lad — had wrought no guilt. Five centuries gone by — yet ever since Those puny lamps have burned, and burn on now, Telling the story, as in contrite speech Of ancient rulers who gave judgment wrong. They shine out to the columns, where the boy Died innocent. You see them, ye who float, Gondola-wafted, o'er the still lagoon. The salt wind scarce may blur them in a storm; And when the air is peaceful, blue, and calm, Heavenward theyseem to raise two pleading eyes. . . . It is a/esta night. The great cool Piazza wears a zone of light. Again the band strikes up a joyous dance — Some dainty melody of modern France. 3° IN THE TIME OF LILIES (Dedicated to Mrs. Eden) I know a garden beautiful, Near by the slumbrous seas; Tall lilies line its dusky paths — Les rois desfleurs, les lis — They spread out as a field of snow Betwixt the lemon-trees. A red pomegranate peeps to see The garden's new-wrought crown, And vines make roofing, lest the sun Should gaze too hotly down; Only the south wind bears away Sweet message to the town. All other flowers have shrunk to naught, And faded in despair; Even the rose's garlands droop Nor will the glory share ; Tis as though angels, taking hands, Have softly floated there. 33 THE LEGEND OF THE "BOCOLO" There lived a high-born maid in ancient time, Who loved a minstrel famed for song and rhyme. ( Venice was young.) Because of him her dark eyes flashed and burned, Because of her his heart in sorrow yearned. (O fair red rose of Love!) He was so lowly-born they might not wed — "Seek then the King of France," the maiden said. ( Venice was young.) " Earn thou a soldier's glory in the field, So may my father to our pleading yield." {O fair red rose of Love I) Thus, at her bidding, went the troubadour, Forthwith enrolled to fight the paynim Moor; ( Venice was young!) 34 LEGEND OF THE " BOCOLO " And soon from France the praises of him rang — Tancred, the warrior brave, who sweetly sang. (O fair red rose of Love I) Southward at last came bands from Charlemayne, Led by the peerless Roland and his train, ( Venice was young!) And he sought out the maid. With tears, he sighed : " Tancred is dead; clasped in my arms he died. (O fair red rose of Love I) " He breathed thy name. A rose-tree nigh he fell, And plucked this flower for her he loved so well. (Venice was young.) How blest art thou, by him held dear and true — The noblest soul that Roland ever knew." (O fair red rose of Love f) The maiden spake not. Cold and white as snow, She wept no tear, she gave no sign of woe. ( Venice was young.) The next day dawned (St. Mark's), in death she lay, And on her heart was found the rose, they say. (Ofair red rose of Love 1) LEGEND OF THE " BOCOLO " 35 Since, on San Marco's morn, each year again, For memory of those hapless lovers twain, ( Venice was young.) Venetian youths, their ardent hearts to show, A rosebud on the maid they court bestow. O fair red rose of Love!) 36 SUMMER EVENING The sapphire deepens; Night draws on apace, Moulding high walls and towers to filmy ghosts; Each outline fades of yonder shallow coasts That were so lately girt by sunset grace. Some white yachts slumber in their anchored space, And warm lights twinkle amid masts and posts, While o'er the smooth ways that our city boasts Flit firefly gondolas in mimic race. O Venice! Like some visage intimate dear Whose beauty's grown o'ersure for questioning, Worn old by years thy charm seems but more near; If wan, thy poets would thee freshly sing; And who with thee for comrade dwelleth here Sees in thee, as in Love, undying Spring! 37 THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK'S RING The water flows high in the Piassa, The wind shrieks loud from the sea, No boat may ride on the stormy tide, Though hardy the boatman be. " The flood is high in the Piassa, The wind shrieks loud from the sea, But whate'er the flow to San Giorgio I go, So, fisherman, ferry thou me." The fisherman trembling plies his oar, The stranger sits grim the while ; So dark the night, not a star in sight — Yet they reach St. George's isle. Scarce, scarce the bark had made her way, Scarce, scarce had touched the land, When a knight in shining steel array Leapt lightly from the strand. 38 LEGEND OF ST. MARK'S RING " Put out again, good fisher, And cross the wide lagoon, Yea, here 's great need for all thy speed — We must reach the Lido soon." The tempest waxes fiercer, Distant the inland shore ; From the sounding beach beyond Lido's reach Comes the ocean's mighty roar. " Speed on, speed on, good fisher, Though the waves be like yon main, O hasten on, good fisher, Now haste thee on again ! " At San Nicolo di Lido, As the boat in peril neared, A monk's tall form came swift through the storm, And the fisherman shuddered and feared. " Nay, hasten on, good fisher, Prithee hasten on again, For all we three are bound to sea — Row fast to the open main ! " He rowed in haste and terror, While the lightning marked the track, LEGEND OF ST. MARK'S RING 39 To yon wild dark sea where the wind rushed free, And the waves rose high with their wrack. Then toward them slid a phantom ship That carried a devil's crew, And some of her crowd on the wind piped loud, And some giant hailstones threw. And some flung a lance, with a curse and a toss, And some sang the songs of hell; But the three in the boat made sign of the Cross, And the fiends dared not rebel. They forthwith faded and dropt away, They vanished into the night; The storm abated, the shore loomed grey, And the eastern sky grew bright. Calm day-dawn spread o'er the shadowy land, The light broke over the sea, And each set his face to return to his place — Each one of the glorious three. To the Lido Nicolo would go, Giorgio to the island strand, And Messer Marco, as we know, To the Piassa's high command. 4o LEGEND OF ST. MARK'S RING Yet, when he reached the Piassetta, He paused on his solemn way : " Go, fisher, and tell the Doge what befell, And this ring shall approve thy say." Thus Venice was saved, for surely The demons were put to rout, And her guardian saints securely Encompassed the city about. ,/ f-v- 43 A PAINTED MISSAL The other day I chanc'd to look At the beautiful page of an ancient book. 'Twas painted in gold and in ultramarine, Vermilion, and carmine, and tenderest green; As fresh were the colours as though they'd been laid On the vellum but yesterday — yet folk said The work was quite four centuries old. Ay, man 's outlived by madder and gold, And Time cannot stay like a parchment page That carries God's story from age to age ! I gazed at the book as it lay on my knee; Its dead world rose and surrounded me : The years ebbed back, and to me it seemed That in Florence I dwelt, and lived, not dreamed. I walked through a garden I knew full well, To seek one grave monk in his convent cell. D 44 A PAINTED MISSAL I passed down a path as familiar as sweet ; I brushed the soft daisies with eager feet; I parted the lilies — and there I stood, Awhile, at the fringe of an ilex wood. In the belfry all the bells were asleep; From the porch one lay brother did vigil keep, And yonder, across the warm white wall, A lizard slid into the cypress tall. I made my way up the broad stone stair, Though many a white-robed monk was there; I gazed down into the cloister calm, Where the west wind carried the citron's balm, Where a young monk, burnished pail in hand, Stood barefoot on the glittering sand, Ready the water pure to draw From a great stone well that I plainly saw, Under pomegranate trees, in a nook 'Mid vines that lay curl'd like a shepherd's crook. This was the door; it had bolt and bar, But to-day it seemed to be just ajar. I pushed it open, and entered the cell Where my friend would be busy if all were well. Ay, here he sat at the high oak desk Carved deep with many an arabesque : A PAINTED MISSAL 45 A gaunt white figure 'gainst wall of white, His austere face in a flood of light. The light came streaming the window through — A narrow streak of cerulean blue, With a peep of the hills and the city that lay Like a diamond bright in keen mid-day. The artist paused from his blazoned line, His kind eyes raised to encounter mine. The pen was lifted, the work awhile Put by; the thin face warm'd with a smile. Yet presently — when on the missal I gazed, And tremblingly spoke, and anxiously praised — One wan vein'd finger showed me the place In the marge, where the brush with its purple should trace A chain of pansies my touch might now spill On the breezy edge of the window-sill, And where butterflies, gilt as a yellow kingcup, Oi. yon painted rosebud to-morrow must sup. Clear all adown ran the lettering fair : Beati omnes in workmanship rare; S.carlet initial that burned, as. I read, On the chrome like a poppy in summer-corn bed; Gloria patri etfilio; and then: Spiritui sancto; whilst far down : Amen. 46 A PAINTED MISSAL And I looked and I looked, till the page seemed to glow Like a garden of glory where heaven's buds blow, Till a deep voice sighed softly: "Farewell, O my son! For life is but short, and my task is scarce done, And needs must I write; through long cycles to come, This message shall speak when the scribe has gone home. Our hands are but human, yet art is divine If the glory of God shine through colour and line." # # # # # Then I woke. Lo, the book lay outspread on my knee! But the monk in his cell could I nevermore see. 49 THE PEARL GATHERER 'Tis there — where the blue billows curl In the perfum'd warm East, Where, rapturous, meet sun and spray, While the breeze plays the priest; Where life 's but a languid sweet day — There the diver leaps for the pearl. But below — in the twilight-bound deep, In the solemn cold shade, Where never a sound is heard, Where he shrinks, half afraid, From creatures that glare as they're stirr'd- His harvest of pearl he'll reap. For he who a gem would find, A treasure not bought, Must leave the sun for the gloom, And in stillness of thought, Standing calm before possible doom, Reign alone o'er the realm of his mind. 5° NINA TO ZUAN Voga, voga, gondolier, O'er the shining pale lagoon; Bring a white rose for my hair From the gardens of the moon. Bring sweet lemons for my lips From the hedgerows of the sun; From the broad-winged passing ships Bear me lilies, one by one. Voga, voga, gondolier, Out toward the silver sea; Where blue islands glisten fair Sheave an hundred thoughts for me! S3 MALCONTENTA On the calm banks of the Brenta Stands an ancient house alone, Known to all as " Malcontenta " — Sombre monument of stone. On the silent river Brenta Stands the house of Malcontenta. By a vineyard closely bounded Rise the grey walls desolate; Grasses have the steps surrounded, Sedges cluster at the gate. On the green banks of the Brenta Stands the house of Malcontenta. Still the courtly stair invites us, Though no balustrade remains, And the columned shade delights us With its view of peaceful plains. On the low banks of the Brenta Stands the house of Malcontenta. 54 MALCONTENTA Was she young and fair of feature, Heiress in the long ago, She — the wild and wilful creature Who would bid the world to know That her soul was malcontenta On the calm banks of the Brenta? Caring naught — so runs the story — For the palace or the land, Naught, perchance, for gold and glory Brimming full her maiden hand, As she gazed beyond the Brenta And the house of Malcontenta. Did she meet the French King's splendour, Stately, down her frescoed hall, While her eyes grew sad and tender For some distant lover's thrall? Ay, the angered folk of Brenta Named the great house: Malcontenta. What if she was hard and grasping, Vain and changeful in her mind, Proud of race, with accents rasping, Manners rude, and deeds unkind? MALCONTENTA 55 Well — as we glide down the Brenta We forgive poor Malcontenta. Centuries ago — tradition Of the maid tells only this : Lightly held she high position, Power to her had come amiss. And the grey house on the Brenta Keeps the name of " Malcontenta." 56 A SUNSET SHELL 1 Sunset all in a shell? The luminous West imprisoned And held in the palm of your hand ! Yon mystic opalesque land, The dream scarce a poet can tell, Minimized, ay, re-christened Here, in a sunset shell? Just cast up by the sea In the wet froth close to our seeking, Painted clove-pink by the maids Who dwell in the ocean shades — A frail thing it seems to be, With green weed and brine yet reeking, Here cast up by the sea. Is the sky under spell? Nay, it may surely be wisest 1 There is a small shell so named. A SUNSET SHELL 57 Broad firmaments so to view, Complete in such form and hue. Thy roof-tree 's coloured full well, Poor little mollusc that risest Up on the grey sea-swell ! Our world like thine is small; Are we not made by one Maker? And is the gold sunlight more Than a perfect shell on the shore? To Him who created all An inch is as lov'd as an acre, And the great the same as the small. Perchance, as for whelks, to us The gate of broad vision is closed; Perchance on some wall outside The reflex of heaven is descried, Or, the converse of life fettered thus Is God's heaven itself, pure, rosied — A glory still hidden from us. 58 SONG OF THE VINEYARDS And one has lavished pearl and gold, And one has offered wealth untold. (The wild bird sings apart.) And one has brought me for my dower A ruddy red pomegranate flower — (O lover of my heart 1) And one is lord of all the town, And one may wear a jewelled crown. (The wild bird sings apart.) And one owns but a grassy mead, Where kingcups blow, and white lambs feed- (O lover of my heart!) And one a prancing charger rides, And one a gilded chariot guides. (The wild bird sings apart.) And one, beside the willow-tree, Would breathe his last for need of me — (0 lover of my heart!) 6i MERMAIDS' VOICES The golden moon peers through the rifted clouds, Now gleams the quiet sea; And gentle winds unto our ears do bring The songs that plaintive mermaids sing With mournful phantasy, And strange weird minstrelsy, In magic caves beneath the echoing sea. The moonbeams play upon the masts and shrouds, And bid all darkness flee; While gentle voices in our ears do ring, And songs that plaintive mermaids sing With mournful phantasy, And strange weird minstrelsy, In magic caves beneath the echoing sea. 63 NOTES Venetian Mother's Lullaby. Page 21. " Fio mio," my son. " Boc 1 a bast," mouth for kisses. "Anzoleto," little angel. " Calle," a. narrow street. " Bagarelo," baby. The Tradition of the "Povero Fornareto." Page 27. " The popular tradition of Venice asserts that the two little lamps which constantly burn on this, the south-west side of the church, commemorate the ' Morte Innocente,' or buon' anima del fornareto, of a baker's boy who (1507) was tried, condemned, and executed for murder — though perfectly innocent — because he had picked up the sheath of a dagger with which a murder had been committed in a neighbouring calle, and it had been found in his possession." — Augustus Hare's Venice. "22 Marzo, 1507. 'Pietro Faziol (Fornareto) forner essendo di notte stato trovato dalli sbirri con un coltello insanguinato, ed essendo la sudetta notte 64 NOTES susseso un omicidio, fu per sent, del Cons di X im- piccato come reo di detto delitto.' Cod. 796 all' Archiviodi Stato inVenezia." — Footnote to Professor Eugenio Musatti's Leggende Popolari. The legend of the " Bocolo.'' Page 33. "Because of him her dark eyes flashed and burned." " Maria, figlia di un altero patrizio veneziano, Orso Partecipazio, biondissima e soave fanciulla che tutti chiamavano Vulcana perche avea le fiamme ardenti nella profondita degli occhi nerissimi. . . ." "How blest art thou, by him held dear and true!' " Ecco il fiore, o benedetta fra le donne, o fortunata, che foste amata dalla piu grande anima che Orlando abbia conosciuto." — Popular narrative. The Legend of St. Mark's Ring. Page 37. " One night in February, 1340, a violent storm raged in the Adriatic and convulsed even the Lagune. It so happened that a fisherman, intent on trying to moor his boat near the Piazzetta, was accosted by a stranger who ordered him to row over to the island of San Giorgio. The terrified fisherman at first refused, but, overcome by the stranger's insist- ence, at last obeyed. On arriving at San Giorgio, they were met by a knight in armour, who entered the boat and ordered its owner to row to San Nicolo di Lido, where a third stranger entered the boat, and ordered the amazed fisherman to row out to the NOTES 65 open sea. Having miraculously done so, in the teeth of the hurricane, they met a ship full of demons, swiftly proceeding to Venice in order to submerge and destroy her. Thereupon the three strangers made the sign of the Cross, and immediately the ghastly phantoms vanished into thin air, the storm abated, and Venice was saved. " The three strangers then returned, each to the place whence he had embarked, and the first, on arriving at the Piazzetta, informed our fisherman that he was St. Mark, and that his companions were St. George and St. Nicholas, who, having been super- naturally acquainted with the intention of the evil spirits, had determined to save their beloved Venice. " Furthermore, in order that the miracle should be known to all, he, the Evangelist, enjoined the fisher- man to obtain audience of the Doge, narrating all that had happened, together with the bestowal of a ring as guarantee of veracity." (From a description in the catalogue of the Acca- dentia at Venice of the picture by Paris Bordone, representing a fisherman consigning St. Mark's ring to the Doge.) Malcontenta. Page 53. " The waters of the river Brenta," writes Augustus Hare, " formerly supplied the wells of Venice, con- veyed across the lagoon from Moranzana in long boats, so heavily laden that they were almost level with the water. The rich flat water-meadows are a 66 NOTES sheet of flowers in spring, and the vines are arcaded out in many directions from the trees by which they are planted. It is ' fruitful Lombardy, the pleasant gardens ' of Shakespeare. . . . Finest of the villas, and really grand and stately in its desolation, is Malcontenta, its noble portico reflected in the still water. It is said to derive its name from a discon- tented heiress, never satisfied, even when her father built this palace to gratify her desire." The following poems have already appeared in print: "A Venetian Balcony" and "Song of the Vine- yards? published in, " The Prayer of St. Scholas- tica"j "II Mare mi chiama? in "The King's Last Vigil"; "A Painted Missal," " The Pearl Gatherer? " A Sunset Shell? and " Mermaids' Voices? in " Lyrics." CHISWICK PRESS: PRINTED BY CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. VOLUMES OF POEMS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. LYRICS. THE KING'S LAST VIGIL. THE FLOWER SELLER. THE APOSTLE OF THE ARDENNES. THE PRAYER OF ST. SCHOLASTICA. A CHRISTMAS POSY. Published by Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner and Co., Ltd., London.