In his old resting-place, the bed of torture; Affection, kindness, the sweet offices
And thence look up (live long, long years of Grief of love and duty, were to him as needful
Have not killed either) on his wretched Sire, As was his daily bread; and to become
Still in that seat-as though he had not left it, A by word in the meanest mouths of Venice,
Immovable, enveloped in his mantle.

Bringing a stain on those who gave him life,

On those, alas, now worse than fatherless But now he comes, convicted of a crime To be proclaim'd a ruffian, a night-stabber, Great by the laws of Venice. Night and day, He on whom none before had breathed reproach Brooding on what he had been, what he was, He lived but to disprove it. That hope lost, "T was more than he could bear. His longing fits Death follow'd. From the hour he went, he spoke Thicken'd upon him. His desire for home

not; Became a madness; and, resolved to go,

And in his dungeon, when he laid him down, If but to die, in his despair he writes

He sunk to rise no more. Oh, if there be A letter to Francesco, Duke of Milan,

Justice in Heaven, and we are assured there is, Soliciting his influence with the State,

A day must come of ample Retribution!
And drops it to be found.—“Would ye know all ?
I have transgress'd, offended wilfully; (63)

Then was thy cup, old Man, full to o'erflowing. And am prepared to suffer as I ought.

But thou wert yet alive; and there was one, But let me, let me, if but for an instant

The soul and spring of all that Enmity, (Ye must consent—for all of you are sons,

Who would not leave thee ; fastening on thy flank, Most of you husbands, fathers), let me first Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied ; Indulge the natural feelings of a man,

One of a name illustrious as thine own! And, ere I die, if such my sentence be,

One of the Ten! one of the Invisible Three! (64) Press to my heart ('t is all I ask of you)

"T was Loredano. My wife, my children—and my aged mother

When the whelps were gone, Say, is she yet alive ?"

He would dislodge the Lion from his den ;
He is condemn'd

And, leading on the pack he long had led,
To go ere set of sun, go whence he came, The miserable pack that ever howl'd
A banish'd man-and for a year to breathe Against fallen Greatness, moved that Foscari
The vapor of a dungeon.—But his prayer

Be Doge no longer; urging his great age, (What could they less !) is granted.

His incapacity and nothingness ;

In a hall Calling a Father's sorrows in his chamber
Open and crowded by the common rabble,

Neglect of duty, anger, contumacy.
T was there a trembling Wife and her four Sons “I am most willing to retire,” said Foscari:
Yet young, a Mother, borne along, bedridden, But I have sworn, and cannot of myself.
And an old Doge, mustering up all his strength, Do with me as ye please."
That strength how small! assembled now to meet

He was deposed,
One so long lost, long mourn’d, one who for them He, who had reign'd so long and gloriously;
Had braved so much-death, and yet worse than His ducal bonnet taken from his brow,
death-

His robes stript off, his ring, that ancient symbol, To meet him, and to part with him for ever! Broken before him. But now nothing moved

The meekness of his soul. All things alike! Time and their heavy wrongs had changed them all; Among the six that came with the decree, Him most! Yet when the Wife, the Mother look'd Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired Again, 't was he himself, 't was Giacomo,

His name.

“I am the son of Marco Memmo." Their only hope, and trust, and consolation !

Ah,” he replied, “ thy father was my friend.” And all clung round him, weeping bitterly; Weeping the more, because they wept in vain. And now he goes. “It is the hour and past.

I have no business here.”—“ But wilt thou not Unnerved, unsettled in his mind from long Avoid the gazing crowd? That way is private." And exquisite pain, he sobs aloud and cries “No! as I enter'd, so will I retire." Kissing the old Man's cheek, “Help me, my Father! And, leaning on his staff, he left the Palace, Let me, I pray thee, live once more among you: His residence for four-and-thirty years, Let me go home."-—“My Son,” returns the Doge, By the same staircase he came up in splendor, Mastering awhile his grief, “ if I may still The staircase of the Giants. Turning round, Call thee my Son, if thou art innocent,

When in the court below, he stopt and said As I would fain believe," but, as he speaks, “ My merits brought me hither. I depart, He falls, "submit without a murmur."

Driven by the malice of my Enemies.”

Night, Then through the crowd withdrew, poor as he camo
That to the World brought revelry, to them And in his gondola went off, unfollow'd
Brought only food for sorrow. Giacomo

But by the sighs of them that dared not speak.
Embark'd-to die; sent to an early grave
For thee, Erizzo, whose death-bed confession,

This journey was his last. When the bell. rang,
“He is most innocent! 'T was I who did it!" Next day, announcing a new Doge to Venice,
Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that sail'd It found him on his knees before the altar, (65)
Swift as the winds with his recall to Honor, Clasping his aged hands in earnest prayer;
Bore back a lifeless corse. Generous as brave, And there he died. Ere half its task was done,

It rang his knell.

Such as a shipwreck'd man might hope to build, But whence the deadly hate Urged by the love of home when I descended That caused all this the hate of Loredano? Two long, long days' silence, suspense on board, It was a legacy his Father left him,

It was to offer at thy fount, Valclusa,
Who, but for Foscari, had reign'd in Venice, Entering the arched Cave, to wander where
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag,

Petrarch had wander'd, in a trance to sit
Gather'd and grew! Nothing but turn'd to venom! Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit,
In vain did Foscari sue for peace, for friendship, Musing, reciting on some rock moss-grown,
Offering in marriage his fair Isabel.

Or the fantastic root of some old fig-tree,
He changed not; with a dreadful piety,

That drinks the living waters as they stream Studying revenge! listening alone to those Over their emerald-bed; and could I now Who talk'd of vengeance ; grasping by the hand Neglect to visit Arqua, (69) where, at last, Those in their zeal (and none, alas, were wanting) When he had done and settled with the world, Who came to tell him of another Wrong,

When all the illusions of his Youth were fled, Done or imagined. When his father died, Indulged perhaps too long, cherish'd foo fondly, "Twas whisper'd in his ear, “He died by poison !" He came for the conclusion ? Half-way up Ile wrote it on the tomb ('t is there in marble) He built his house, (70) whence as by stealth he caught, And in his ledger-book—(66) among his debtors- Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life, Enter'd the name “FRANCESCO Foscari," That soothed, not stirrd.—But knock, and enter in. And added, “For the murder of my Father.” This was his chamber. 'Tis as when he left it; Leaving a blank—to be fill'd up hereafter.

As if he now were busy in his garden. When Foscari's noble heart at length gave way, And this his closet. Here he sate and read. He took the volume from the shelf again

This was his chair; and in it, unobserved, Calmly, and with his pen fill'd up the blank, Reading, or thinking of his absent friends, Inscribing, “He has paid me."

He pass'd away as in a quiet slumber.

Ye who sit, Brooding from day to day, from day to day

Peace to this region! Peace to all who dwell here. Chewing the bitter cud, and starting up

They know his value-every coming step, As though the hour was come to whet your fangs,

That gathers round the children from their play, And, like the Pisan,' gnaw the hairy scalp

Would tell them if they knew not.—But could aught, Of him who had offended—if ye must,

Ungenile or ungenerous, spring up Sit and brood on; but oh! forbear to teach

Where he sleeping; where, and in an age
The lesson to your children.

Of savage warfare and blind bigotry,
He cultured all that could refine, exalt; (71)

Leading to better things ?
XVJI.

XVIII.
ARQUA.

GINEVRA.
THERE is, within three leagues and less of Padua
(The Paduan student knows it, honors it),

If ever you should come to Modena,
A lonely tomb-stone in a mountain-churchyard; Where among other trophies may be seen
And I arrived there as the sun declined

Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs, (72
Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),
Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Singing their farewell-song—the very song Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini,
They sung the night that tomb received a tenant; Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
When, as alive, clothed in his Canon's habit And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
And, slowly winding down the narrow path Will long detain you—but, before you go,
He came to rest there. Nobles of the land, Enter the house forget it not, I pray-
Princes and prelates mingled in his train,

And look awhile upon a picture there.
Anxious by any act, while yet they could,
To catch a ray of glory by reflection ;

"Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, And from that hour have kindred spirits flock'd (67) Done by Zampieri (73)—but by whom I care not.

The last of that illustrious family ;
From distant countries, from the north, the south,

He, who observes it-ere he passes on,
To see where he is laid.
Twelve years ago,

Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
When I descended the impetuous Rhone,

That he may call it up, when far away. Its vineyards of such great and old renown, (68) She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Its castles, each with some romantic tale,

Her lips half-open, and her finger up, Vanishing fast—the pilot at the stern,

As though she said “ Beware!” her vest of gold He who had steer'd so long, standing aloft,

Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot, Ilis eyes on the white breakers, and his hands An emerald-stone in every golden clasp; On what at once served him for oar and rudder, And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A huge misshapen plank—the bark itself

A coronet of pearls. Frail and uncouth, launch'd to return no more,

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
1 Count Ugolino.
The overflowings of an innocent heart-

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Like some wild melody!

Fasten'd her down for ever!
Alone it hangs

XIX.
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An caken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,

BOLOGNA.
Bat richly carved by Antony of Trent

'Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ; Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought A chest that came from Venice, and had held Miraculous cures—he and his stage were gone; The ducal robes of some old Ancestor

And he who, when the crisis of his tale That by the way—it may be true or false Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear But don't forget the picture ; and you will not, Sent round his cap; and he who thrumm'd his wire When you have heard the tale they told me there. And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain

Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries,' She was an only child—her name Ginevra, So well portray'd and by a son of thine, The joy, the pride of an indulgent Father ; Whose voice had swell’d the hubbub in his youth, And in her fifteenth year became a bride,

Were hush'd, Bologna ; silence in the streets, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,

The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs' Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. And soon a courier, posting as from far,

Housing and holster, boot and belted coat Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,

And doublet, staind with many a various soil, She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Stopt and alighted. "T was where hangs aloft

That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.

All who arrive there, all perhaps save those But now the day was come, the day, the hour;

Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell, Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum;

Those on a pilgrimage: and now approach'd And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave

Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding, Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade

As the sky changes. To the gate they came;

And, ere the man had half his story done, Great was the joy ; but at the Nuptial Feast,

Mine host received the Master-one long used When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting. To sojourn among strangers, everywhere Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried,

(Go where he would, along the wildest track) * T is but to make a trial of our love!"

Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, And fillid his glass to all; but his hand shook,

And leaving footsteps to be traced by those And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. Who love the haunts of Genius; one who saw, Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,

Observed, nor shunn'd the busy scenes of life, Laughing and looking back, and flying still,

But mingled not, and, 'mid the din, the stir, Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.

Lived as a separate Spirit. But now, alas, she was not to be found;

Much had pass'd Nor from that hour could anything be guess'd,

Since last we parted; and those five short years But that she was not!

Much had they told! His clustering locks were turn'd Weary of his life,

Grey; nor did aught recall the Youth that swam Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,

From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice, Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought Orsini lived_and long might you have seen Flash'd lightning-like, nor linger'd on the way, An old man wandering as in quest of something,

Waiting for words. Far, far into the night Something he could not find-he knew not what.

We sate, conversing—no unwelcome hour, When he was gone, the house remained awhile

The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose, Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers.

Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine. Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, Well I remember how the golden sun When on an idle day, a day of search

Fillid with its beams the unfathomable gulfs, 'Md the old lumber in the Gallery,

As on we travell’d, and along the ridge, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 't was said 'Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild fig, By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, His motley household came-Not last nor least, “Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea Twas done as soon as said; but on the way Of Venice, had so ably, zealously It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

Served, and, at parting, Nung his oar away
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, To follow through the world; who without stain
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.

Had worn so long that honorable badge,
All else had perish'd save a wedding-ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

1 See the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Carracci. Engraven with a name, the name of both,

He was of very humble origin ; and, to correct his brother's *Ginevra."

vanity, once sent him a portrait of their father, the tailor, There then had she found a grave!

threading his needle. Within that chest had she conceal'd herself,

2 The principal gondolier, il fante di poppa, was almost al

ways in the confidence of his master, and employed on occa Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; sions that required judgment and address.

The gondolier's, in a Patrician House
Arguing unlimited trust.-Not last nor least,
Thou, though declining in thy beauty and strength,

FLORENCE.
Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour
Guarding his chamber-door, and now along

Of all the fairest cities of the earth
The silent, sullen strand of Missolonghi

None are so fair as Florence. "T is a gem llowling in grief.

Of purest ray, a treasure for a casket!
He had just left that place

And what a glorious lustre did it shed, (74) of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,

When it emerged from darkness! Search within, Ravenna ; where, from Dante's sacred tomb

Without, all is enchantment! "Tis the past
He had so oft, as many a verse declares,

Contending with the present; and in turn
Drawn inspiration; where, at twilight-time, Each has the mastery.
Through the pine-forest wandering with loose rein,

In this chapel wrought (75) Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld 3

Massaccio; and he slumbers underneath. (What is not visible to a Poet's eye ?)

Wouldst thou behold his monument? Look round! The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds, and their prey, And know that where we stand, stood oft and long The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth Ofi till the day was gone, Raphael himself, Suddenly blasted. "T was a theme he loved, He and his haughty Rival-patiently, But others claim'd their turn; and many a tower, Humbly, to learn of those who came before, Shatter'd, uprooted from its native rock,

To steal a spark from their authentic fire, Its strength the pride of some heroic age,

Theirs, who first broke the gloom, Sons of the Morning. Appear'd and vanish d (many a sturdy steer * Yoked and unyoked), while as in happier days He pour'd his spirit forth. The past forgot,

There, on the seat that runs along the wall,

South of the Church, east of the beltry-tower
All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured
Present or future.

(Thou canst not miss it), in the sultry time
He is now at rest;

Would Dante sit conversing (76), and with those And praise and blame fall on his ear alike,

Who little thought that in his hand he held

The balance, and assign'd at his good pleasure
Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone,

To each his place in the invisible world,
Gone like a star that through the firmament
Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course

To some an upper, some a lower region;
Dazzling, perplering. Yet thy heart, methinks,

Reserving in his secrei mind a niche

For thee, Saltrello, who with quirks of law Was generous, noble—noble in its scorn

Hadst plagued him sore, and carefully requiting (77) Of all things low or little; nothing there Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs

Such as ere-long condemu'd his mortal part

To fire. (78) Sit down awhile—then by the gates Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do

Wondrously wrought, so beautiful, so glorious, Things long regretted, oft, as many know,

That they might serve to be the gates of Heaven, None more than I, thy gratitude would build Oa slight foundations : and, if in thy life

Enter the Baptistery. That place he loved,

Caliing it his! And in his visits there No: happy, in thy death thou surely wert,

Well might he take delight! For, when a child, Thy wish accomplish d; dying in the land Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire,

Playing, with venturus feet, near and yet nearer

One of the foats, fell in, he dew and saved him, (79) Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious !

Flew with an energy, a violence,

That broke the marble mishap ascribed They in thy train-ah, little did they think.

To evil moures; his, alas! to lead As round we went, that they so soon should sit

life of trouble, and ere-long to leave Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourn d,

All things most dear to him, ere-long to know
Changing her testal for her funeral sang; How salt another's bread is, and how soulsome
That they so soon should hear the minute-gr:n,

The going up and down another's stairs.
As morning gleamd on what remaind of shee,
Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering

Nor then forget that Chamber of the Dead, (80) Thy years of joy and sorrow.

Thou art gone ;

Where the gigante forms of light and Day, And he who would assail thee in thv grave,

Turn'd into stone, rest everiasingly, Oh, let kun paise! For wbo among us all.

Yet sall are breathing: andi söed round at noon Tried as thou wert-even frven thine earliest years,

A two-tond in vedeonly to be felt When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland-box

Aligt, a darkness mingling each with each; Thed as thou wert, and with the soul of tame:

Beth and ret neither. There. from age to age, Pleassure, while vet the down was on thy cheek

Two Gys de setning on their sepulchres.

That is the Duke Loren Mark him well. (81) l'pathing, pressing, and to hps bảe thine

He mediates his head upea his band.
Her charmed eual, who among us all
Cour say be band avi errd as much, and more?

W si suwis beneath his broad and beim-like bonnet!
Is it a tice, or but an ereless skril!

"Tis bad in shade: vec. Lte the basilisk,
1 Adriannam mar.- ? See the Prophecy of Dente. It fisimies and is incolenbie.
3 Se the tail as sold by Buccalume and Pryden.

His mina is mole. s rajestical! 4 They wait for chu za veider's carriage at the foot of every ballThea must su when we sani chuur is beant,

cried,

64

At morn or eve—nor fail thou to attend

The bloody sheet. “Look there! Look there” ho On that thrice-hallow'd day, (82) when all are there ; When all, propitiating with solemn songs,

“ Blood calls for blood—and from a father's hand! With light, and frankincense, and holy water, -Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office. Visit the Dead. Then wilt thou feel his power! What!” he exclaim'd, when, shuddering at the sight,

The boy breathed out, “I stood but on my guard." But let not Sculpture, Painting, Poesy,

Darest thou then blacken one who never wrong'd Or they, the masters of these mighty spells,

thee, Detain us. Our first homage is to Virtue.

Who would not set his foot upon a worm ? Where, in what dungeon of the Citadel

Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee, (It must be known-the writing on the wall (83)

And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all.” Cannot be gone't was cut in with his dagger,

Then from Garzia's side he took the dagger, Ere, on his knees to God, he slew himself),

That fatal one which spilt his brother’s blood; Where, in what dungeon, did Filippo Strozzi,

And, kneeling on the ground, “Great God!" he cried, The last, the greatest of the Men of Florence, Breathe out his soul-lest in his agony,

“Grant me the strength to do an act of Justice.

Thou knowest what it costs me; but, alas. When on the rack and call'd upon to answer,

How can I spare myself, sparing none else He might accuse the guiltless.

That debt paid,

Grant me the strength, the will—and oh forgive

The sinful soul of a most wretched son. But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty,

"Tis a most wretched father who implores it." We may return, and once more give a looso

Long on Garzia's neck he hung, and wept
To the delighted spirit—worshipping,
In her small temple of rich workmanship,'

Tenderly, long press'd him to his bosom ;

And then, but while he held him by the arm, Venus herself, who, when she left the skies,

Thrusting him backward, turn'd away his face, Came hither.

And stabb'd him to the heart.
XXI.

Well might De Thou,
DON GARZIA.

When in his youth he came to Cosmo's court,

Think on the past; and, as he wander'd through Among the awful forms that stand assembled The Ancient Palace (87)—through those ample spaces In the great square of Florence, may be seen Silent, deserted—stop awhile to dwell That Cosino, (84) not the Father of his Country, Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall (88) Not he so styled, but he who play'd the tyrant. Together, as of two in bonds of love, Clad in rich armor like a paladin,

One in a Cardinal's habit, one in black, But with his helmet oft—in kingly state,

Those of the unhappy brothers, and infer Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass ;

From the deep silence that his questions drew, (89) And they, who read the legend underneath, The terrible truth. Go and pronounce him happy. Yet there is

Well might he heave a sigh A Chamber at Grosseto, that, if walls

For poor humanity, when he beheld Could speak, and tell of what is done within, That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire, Would turn your admiration into pity.

Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate, Half of what pass'd died with him; but the rest, Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess, All he discover'd when the fit was on,

In the last stage-death-struck and deadly pale ; All that, by those who listen'd, could be glean'd His wife, another, not his Eleonora, From broken sentences and starts in sleep,

At once his nurse and his interpreter. Is told, and by an honest Chronicler. (85)

XXII. Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia (The eldest had not seen his sixteenth summer),

THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE.
Went to the chase; but one of them, Giovanni, 'Tis morning. Let us wander through the fields,
His best beloved, the glory of his house,

Where Cimabue (90) found a shepherd-boy!
Return'd not; and at close of day was found Tracing his idlemfancies on the ground;
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas! And let us from the top of Fiesole,
The trembling Cosmo guess'd the deed, the doer; Whence Galileo's glass by night observed
And having caused the body to be borne

The phases of the moon, look round below
In secret to that chamber-at an hour

On Arno's vale, where the dove-color'd oxen When all slept sound, save the disconsolate Mo- Are plowing up and down among the vines, ther,(86)

While many a careless note is sung aloud, Who little thought of what was yet to come, Filling the air with sweetness and on thee, And lived but to be told-he bade Garzia

Beautiful Florence, (91) all within thy walls, Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers, A winking lamp, and in the other a key

Drawn to our feet. Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led ;

From that small spire, just caught And, having enter'd in and lock'd the door, By the bright ray, that church among the rest (92) The father fix'd his cyes upon the son,

By One of Old distinguish'd as The Bride, And closely questioned him. No change betray'd Let us pursue in thought (what can we better ?) Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up

Those who assembled there at matin-prayers;' (93)