o Venice:

I heard the fiends' shrill cry: 'For Venice' good!
Rival thine ancient foe in gratitude,
Then come and make thy home with us in Hell!'
I knew it must be so. I knew the spell
Of Satan on my soul. I felt the power
Granted by God to serve Him one last hour,
Then fall for ever as the curse had wrought.
I climbed aloft. My brain had grown one thought,
One hope, one purpose. And I heard the hiss
Of raging disappointment, loth to miss
Its prey--I heard the lapping of the flame,
That through the blanched figures went and came,
Darting in frenzy to the devils' yell.
I set that cross on high, and cried: 'To Hell
My soul for ever, and my deed to God!
Once Venice guarded safe, let this vile clod
Drift where fate will.'
And then (the hideous laugh
Of fiends in full possession, keen to quaff
The wine of one new soul not weak with tears,
Pealing like ruinous thunder in mine ears)
I fell, and heard no more. The pale day broke
Through lazar-windows, when once more I woke,
Remembering I might no more dare to pray.

The idea of the story is extremely powerful, and Venetia Victrix is
certainly the best poem in the volume--better than Ophelion, which is
vague, and than A Friar's Story, which is pretty but ordinary. It shows
that we have in Miss Fitz Gerald a new singer of considerable ability and
vigour of mind, and it serves to remind us of the splendid dramatic
possibilities extant in life, which are ready for poetry, and unsuitable
for the stage. What is really dramatic is not necessarily that which is
fitting for presentation in a theatre. The theatre is an accident of the
dramatic form. It is not essential to it. We have been deluded by the
name of action. To think is to act.

Of the shorter poems collected here, this Hymn to Persephone is, perhaps,
the best:

Oh, fill my cup, Persephone,
With dim red wine of Spring,
And drop therein a faded leaf
Plucked from the Autumn's bearded sheaf,
Whence, dread one, I may quaff to thee,
While all the woodlands ring.

Oh, fill my heart, Persephone,
With thine immortal pain,
That lingers round the willow bowers
In memories of old happy hours,
When thou didst wander fair and free
O'er Enna's blooming plain.

Oh, fill my soul, Persephone,
With music all thine own!
Teach me some song thy childho