nded by a dance
In vineyards copied from the South of France.

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,
Without being forced to bid my groom be sure
My cloak is round his middle strapped about,
Because the skies are not the most secure;
I know too that, if stopped upon my route,
Where the green alleys windingly allure,
Reeling with _grapes_ red wagons choke the way,--
In England 'twould be dung, dust or a dray.

I also like to dine on becaficas,
To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow,
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as
A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow,
But with all Heaven t'himself; the day will break as
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers
Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,
With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,
That not a single accent seems uncouth,
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,
Which were obliged to hiss, and spit and sputter all.

I like the women too (forgive my folly!),
From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
Of rays that say a thousand things at once,
To the high Dama's brow, more melancholy,
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.

Byron's next visit to Venice was in 1818, and it was then that he set up
state and became a Venetian lion. He had now his gondolas, his horses on
the Lido, a box at the Opera, many servants. But his gaiety had left
him. Neither in his letters nor his verse did he recapture the fun
which we find in _Beppo_. To this second period belong such graver
Venetian work (either inspired here or written here) as the opening
stanzas of the fourth canto of _Childe Harold_. The first line takes the
reader into the very heart of the city and is one of the best-known
single lines in all poetry. Familiar as the stanzas are, it would be
ridiculous to write of Byron in Venice without quoting them again:--

I stood in Venice, on the "Bridge of Sighs";
A Palace and a prison on ea