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The last Doge to fettered Venice

I saw a phantom sitting in her rags

Upon a throne that sea-gods wrought of old ;

Her tatters, stamped with blazonry of gold,

Seemed made of remnants of victorious flags ;

Her face was fair, though wrinkled like a hag's.

And in the sun she shivered as with cold ;

While round her breast she tightened each torn fold

To hide her chains, more thick than felon drags.

O Venice, in the silence of the night,

I think of when thy vessels used to bring

The gems and spices of the plundered East

Up to thy feet, and like an endless flight

Of hurrying sea-birds, on a broad white wing.

Heaped up the gift that ever still increased.