shore far away,
From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the shore-winds
brown.

If I were as I once was, the gold hooves crushing the sand and the
shells,
Coming forth from the sea like the morning with red lips murmuring a
song,
Not coughing, my head on my knees, and praying, and wroth with the
bells,
I would leave no Saint's head on his body, though spacious his lands
were and strong.

Making way from the kindling surges, I rode on a bridle-path,
Much wondering to see upon all hands, of wattle and woodwork made,
Thy bell-mounted churches, and guardless the sacred cairn and the
earth,
And a small and feeble populace stooping with mattock and spade.

In one or two places the music is faulty, the construction is sometimes
too involved, and the word 'populace' in the last line is rather
infelicitous; but, when all is said, it is impossible not to feel in
these stanzas the presence of the true poetic spirit.

A young lady who seeks for a 'song surpassing sense,' and tries to
reproduce Mr. Browning's mode of verse for our edification, may seem to
be in a somewhat parlous state. But Miss Caroline Fitz Gerald's work is
better than her aim. Venetia Victrix is in many respects a fine poem. It
shows vigour, intellectual strength, and courage. The story is a strange
one. A certain Venetian, hating one of the Ten who had wronged him and
identifying his enemy with Venice herself, abandons his native city and
makes a vow that, rather than lift a hand for her good, he will give his
soul to Hell. As he is sailing down the Adriatic at night, his ship is
suddenly becalmed and he sees a huge galley

where sate
Like counsellors on high, exempt, elate,
The fiends triumphant in their fiery state,

on their way to Venice. He has to choose between his own ruin and the
ruin of his city. After a struggle, he determines to sacrifice himself
to his rash oath.

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 blenched 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 ful