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.