he few spirits who, despite of all,
And worse than all--the sudden crimes engendered
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall,
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tendered
Gushing from Freedom's fountains, when the crowd,
Maddened with centuries of drought, are loud,
And trample on each other to obtain
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain
Heavy and sore, in which long yoked they plowed
The sand; or if there sprung the yellow grain,
'Twas not for them,--their necks were too much bowed,
And their dead palates chewed the cud of pain;--
Yes! the few spirits who, despite of deeds
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth
With all her seasons to repair the blight
With a few summers, and again put forth
Cities and generations--fair when free--
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!

III

Glory and Empire! once upon these towers
With Freedom--godlike Triad!--how ye sate!
The league of mightiest nations in those hours
When Venice was an envy, might abate,
But did not quench her spirit; in her fate
All were enwrapped: the feasted monarchs knew
And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate,
Although they humbled. With the kingly few
The many felt, for from all days and climes
She was the voyager's worship; even her crimes
Were of the softer order--born of Love.
She drank no blood, nor fattened on the dead,
But gladdened where her harmless conquests spread;
For these restored the Cross, that from above
Hallowed her sheltering banners, which incessant
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent,
Which if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe
The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles;
Yet she but shares with them a common woe,
And called the "kingdom" of a conquering foe,
But knows what all--and, most of all, _we_--know,
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!

IV

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone
O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe:
Venice is crushed, and Holland deigns to own
A sceptre, and endures the purple