Chapter I: On the Street

There is a popular old air That every fiddler loves to scrape. 'T is wrung from organs everywhere, To barking dog with wrath agape.

The music-box has registered Its phrases garbled and reviled. 'T is classic to the household bird; Grandmother learned it as a child.

The trumpet and the clarinet, In dusty gardens of the dance, Blow it to clerk and gay grisette, In shrill, unlovely resonance.

And of a Sunday swarm the folk Under the honeysuckle vine, Quaffing, the while they talk and smoke, The sun, the melody, the wine.

It lurks within the wry bassoon The blind man plays, the porch beneath. His poodle whimpers low the tune, And holds the cup between its teeth.

The players of the light guitar, Decked with their flimsy tartans, pale, With voices sad, where feasters are, Through coffee-houses fling its wail.

Great Paganini at a sign, One night, as with a needle's gleam, Picked up with end of bow divine The little antiquated theme,

And, threading it with fingers deft, He broidered it with colours bright, Till up and down the faded weft Ran golden arabesques of light.

II

ON THE LAGOONS

Tra la, tra la, la, la, la,--who Knows not the theme's soft spell? Or sad or light or mock or true, Our mothers loved it well.

The Carnival of Venice! Long Adown canals it came, Till, wafted on a zephyr's song, The ballet kept its fame.

I seem, whene'er its phrase I hear, A gondola to view, With prow voluted, black and clear, Slip o'er the water blue;

To see, her bosom covered o'er With pearls, her body suave, The Adriatic Venus soar On sound's chromatic wave.

The domes that on the water dwell Pursue the melody In clear-drawn cadences, and swell Like breasts of love that sigh.

My chains around a pillar cast, I land before a fair And rosy-pale facade at last, Upon a marble stair.

Oh! all dear Venice with her towers, Her boats, her masquers boon, Her sweet chagrins, her mad, gay hours, Throbs in that ancient tune.

The tenuous, vibrant chords that smite, Rebuild in subtle way The city joyous, free and light Of Canaletto's day!

III

CARNIVAL

Venice robes her for the ball; Decked with spangles bright, Multi-coloured Carnival Teems with laughter light.

Harlequin with negro mask, Tights of serpent hue, Beateth with a note fantasque His Cassander true.

Flapping loose his long, white sleeve, Like a penguin spread, Through a subtle semibreve Pierrot thrusts his head.

Sleek Bologna's doctor goes Maundering on a bass. Punchinello finds for nose Quaver on his face.

Hurtling Trivellino fine, On a trill intent, Scaramouch to Columbine Gives the fan she lent.

Gliding to the tune, I mark One veiled figure rise, While through satin lashes dark Luring gleam her eyes.

Tender little edge of lace, Heaving with her breath! "Under is her own dear face!" An arpeggio saith.

And beneath the mask I know Bloom of rosy lips, And the patch on chin of snow, As she by me trips!