Beneath the wave, when heaven's serene.
People those palaces with forms
Lovely as TITIAN ever drew--
Bright creatures, whom the sunbeam warms
With that ethereal gas, all through.
Which finds a vent at lips and eyes,
And lights up in a lover's sighs.
Fancy these young Venetian maids
Listening, at night, to serenades
From amorous lutes, where Music, such
As southern skies alone afford,
Echoes to every burning touch,
And thrills in each impassion'd chord.

All this imagine, and still more,--
For whither may not Fancy soar,
If Truth do not, alas! too soon,
Puncture her brilliant air-balloon--
But go not to the spot, I pray;
O do not, _do_ not, some fine day.
Order, like STERNE, your travelling breeches;--
All's lost, if once upon your way,
The passport of Lord ----
Is death to Fancy--like his speeches.

If you would save _some_ dreams of youth
From the torpedo touch of Truth,
Go not to VENICE--do not blight
Your early fancies with the sight
Of her true, real, dismal state--