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Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, re- "T is Foscari, the Doge. And there is one,
storing
All that was lost.

A young man, lying at his feet, stretch'd out
In torture. "T is his son, his only one;
"T is Giacomo, the blessing of his age,

Coasting, with narrow search,
Friuli-like a tiger in his spring,
They had surprised the Corsairs where they lay
Sharing the spoil in blind security
And casting lots-had slain them, one and all,
All to the last, and flung them far and wide
Into the sea, their proper element;

Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long
Had hush'd the babes of Venice, and who yet,
Breathing a little, in his look retain'd
The fierceness of his soul.

Thus were the Brides
Lost and recover'd; and what now remain'd
But to give thanks? Twelve breast-plates and twelve

crowns,

Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offerings
Of the young victors to their Patron-Saint,
Vow'd on the field of battle, were ere-long
Laid at his feet; (58) and to preserve for ever
The memory of a day so full of change,
From joy to grief, from grief to joy again,
Through many an age, as oft as it came round,
"T was held religiously with all observance.
The Doge resign'd his crimson for pure ermine;
And through the city in a stately barge (59)
Of gold, were borne, with songs and symphonies,
Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were
In bridal white with bridal ornaments,

Each in her glittering veil; and on the deck,
As on a burnish'd throne, they glided by;
No window or balcony but adorn'd

With hangings of rich texture, not a roof
But cover'd with beholders, and the air
Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars
Moving in concert with the harmony,
Through the Rialto (60) to the Ducal Palace
And at a banquet there, served with due honor,
Sate representing, in the eyes of all,
Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears,
Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice.

Their garb is black, and black the arras is,
And sad the general aspect. Yet their looks
Are calm, are cheerful; nothing there like grief,
Nothing or harsh or cruel. Still that noise,
That low and dismal moaning.

(Say, has he lived for this?) accused of murder,
The murder of the Senator Donato.

Last night the proofs, if proofs they are, were drop
Into the lion's mouth, the mouth of brass,
That gapes and gorges; and the Doge himself
Must sit and look on a beloved Son
Suffering the Question.

Half withdrawn,
A little to the left, sits one in crimson,
A venerable man, fourscore and upward.
Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrow'd brow.
His hands are clench'd; his eyes half-shut and glazed;
His shrunk and wither'd limbs rigid as marble.

Twice, to die in peace
To save a falling house, and turn the hearts
Of his fell Adversaries, those who now,
Like hell-hounds in full cry, are running down
His last of four, twice did he ask their leave
To lay aside the Crown, and they refused him,
An oath exacting, never more to ask it;
And there he sits, a spectacle of woe,
By them, his rivals in the State, compell'd,
Such the refinement of their cruelty,
To keep the place he sigh'd for.

Once again

The screw is turn'd; and, as it turns, the Son
Looks up, and, in a faint and broken accent,
Murmurs "My Father!" The old man shrinks back
And in his mantle muffles up his face.

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'Art thou not guilty?" says a voice, that once
Would greet the Sufferer long before they met,
And on his ear strike like a pleasant music-
"Art thou not guilty?"-"No! Indeed I am not!"
But all is unavailing. In that Court
Groans are confessions; Patience, Fortitude,
The work of Magic; and, released, upheld,
For Condemnation, from his Father's lips
He hears the sentence, "Banishment to Candia:
Death, if he leaves it."

And the bark sets sail;
And he is gone from all he loves-for ever!
His wife, his boys, and his disconsolate parents!
Gone in the dead of night-unseen of any-
Without a word, a look of tenderness,
To be call'd up, when, in his lonely hours
He would indulge in weeping.

XVI.
FOSCARI.

LET us lift up the curtain, and observe,
What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh,
And now a groan, is heard. Then all is still.
Twenty are sitting as in judgment there; (61)
Men who have served their country, and grown grey
In governments and distant embassies,
Men eminent alike in war and peace;
Such as in effigy shall long adorn

The walls of Venice-to show what she has been! That House as old as Venice, now among
Its ancestors in monumental brass
Numbering eight Doges-to convey her home,
The Bùcentaur went forth; and thrice the Sun
Shone on the Chivalry, that, front to front,
And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged
To tournay in St. Mark's.

Like a ghost,
Day after day, year after year, he haunts
An ancient rampart, that o'erhangs the sea;
Gazing on vacancy, and hourly starting
To answer to the watch- -Alas, how changed
From him, the mirror of the Youth of Venice,
In whom the slightest thing, or whim or chance,
Did he but wear his doublet so and so,

All follow'd; at whose nuptials, when at length
He won that maid at once the fairest, noblest, (62)
A daughter of the House of Contarini,

But lo, at last,
Messengers come. He is recall'd: his heart
Leaps at the tidings. He embarks: the boat
Springs to the oar, and back again he goes-
Into that very Chamber! there to lie

In his old resting-place, the bed of torture;
And thence look up (five long, long years of Grief
Have not killed either) on his wretched Sire,
Still in that seat-as though he had not left it,
Immovable, enveloped in his mantle.

But now he comes, convicted of a crime Great by the laws of Venice. Night and day, Brooding on what he had been, what he was, Twas more than he could bear. His longing fits Thicken'd upon him. His desire for home Became a madness; and, resolved to go, If but to die, in his despair he writes A letter to Francesco, Duke of Milan, Soliciting his influence with the State, And drops it to be found.-"Would ye know all? I have transgress'd, offended wilfully; (63) And am prepared to suffer as I ought. But let me, let me, if but for an instant (Ye must consent for all of you are sons, Most of you husbands, fathers), let me first Indulge the natural feelings of a man, And, ere I die, if such my sentence be, Press to my heart ('tis all I ask of you) My wife, my children—and my aged motherSay, is she yet alive?"

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Unnerved, unsettled in his mind from long And exquisite pain, he sobs aloud and cries Kissing the old Man's cheek, “Help me, my Father! Let me, I pray thee, live once more among you: Let me go home."—“ My Son," returns the Doge, Mastering awhile his grief, "if I may still Call thee my Son, if thou art innocent, As I would fain believe," but, as he speaks, He falls, "submit without a murmur."

Night, That to the World brought revelry, to them Brought only food for sorrow. Giacomo Embark'd-to die; sent to an early grave For thee, Erizzo, whose death-bed confession, "He is most innocent! "T was I who did it!" Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that sail'd Swift as the winds with his recall to Honor, Bore back a lifeless corse.

Generous as brave,

Affection, kindness, the sweet offices
Of love and duty, were to him as needful
As was his daily bread;-and to become
A byword in the meanest mouths of Venice,
Bringing a stain on those who gave him life,
On those, alas, now worse than fatherless-
To be proclaim'd a ruffian, a night-stabber,
He on whom none before had breathed reproach-
He lived but to disprove it. That hope lost,
Death follow'd. From the hour he went, he spoke

not;

And in his dungeon, when he laid him down, He sunk to rise no more. Oh, if there be Justice in Heaven, and we are assured there is, A day must come of ample Retribution!

Then was thy cup, old Man, full to o'erflowing. But thou wert yet alive; and there was one, The soul and spring of all that Enmity, Who would not leave thee; fastening on thy flank, Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied; One of a name illustrious as thine own!

One of the Ten! one of the Invisible Three! (64) "T was Loredano.

When the whelps were gone, He would dislodge the Lion from his den; And, leading on the pack he long had led, The miserable pack that ever howl'd Against fallen Greatness, moved that Foscari Be Doge no longer; urging his great age, His incapacity and nothingness; Calling a Father's sorrows in his chamber Neglect of duty, anger, contumacy.

"

"I am most willing to retire," said Foscari: But I have sworn, and cannot of myself. Do with me as ye please."

He was deposed,
He, who had reign'd so long and gloriously;
His ducal bonnet taken from his brow,

His robes stript off, his ring, that ancient symbol,
Broken before him. But now nothing moved
The meekness of his soul. All things alike!
Among the six that came with the decree,
Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired
His name. "I am the son of Marco Memmo."
"Ah," he replied, "thy father was my friend."

And now he goes. "It is the hour and past. I have no business here."-"But wilt thou not Avoid the gazing crowd? That way is private." "No! as I-enter'd, so will I retire." And, leaning on his staff, he left the Palace, His residence for four-and-thirty years, By the same staircase he came up in splendor, The staircase of the Giants. Turning round, When in the court below, he stopt and said "My merits brought me hither. I depart, Driven by the malice of my Enemies." Then through the crowd withdrew, poor as he camo And in his gondola went off, unfollow'd But by the sighs of them that dared not speak.

This journey was his last. When the bell rang, Next day, announcing a new Doge to Venice, It found him on his knees before the altar, (65) Clasping his aged hands in earnest prayer; And there he died. Ere half its task was done,

It rang his knell.

But whence the deadly hate
That caused all this-the hate of Loredano?
It was a legacy his Father left him,

Who, but for Foscari, had reign'd in Venice,
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag,
Gather'd and grew! Nothing but turn'd to venom!
In vain did Foscari sue for peace, for friendship,
Offering in marriage his fair Isabel.

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He changed not; with a dreadful piety,
Studying revenge! listening alone to those
Who talk'd of vengeance; grasping by the hand
Those in their zeal (and none, alas, were wanting)
Who came to tell him of another Wrong,
Done or imagined. When his father died,
"I was whisper'd in his ear, He died by poison!"
He wrote it on the tomb ('tis there in marble)
And in his ledger-book—(66) among his debtors-
Enter'd the name "FRANCESCO FOSCARI,"
And added, "For the murder of my Father."
Leaving a blank-to be fill'd up hereafter.
When Foscari's noble heart at length gave way,
He took the volume from the shelf again
Calmly, and with his pen fill'd up the blank,
Inscribing, "He has paid me."

Ye who sit,
Brooding from day to day, from day to day
Chewing the bitter cud, and starting up
As though the hour was come to whet your fangs,
And, like the Pisan,' gnaw the hairy scalp
Of him who had offended-if ye must,
Sit and brood on; but oh! forbear to teach
The lesson to your children.

XVII.

ARQUA.

Twelve years ago,
When I descended the impetuous Rhone,
Its vineyards of such great and old renown, (68)
Its castles, each with some romantic tale,
Vanishing fast-the pilot at the stern,
He who had steer'd so long, standing aloft,
His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands
On what at once served him for oar and rudder,
A huge misshapen plank-the bark itself
Frail and uncouth, launch'd to return no more,

Such as a shipwreck'd man might hope to build,
Urged by the love of home-when I descended
Two long, long days' silence, suspense on board,
It was to offer at thy fount, Valclusa,
Entering the arched Cave, to wander where
Petrarch had wander'd, in a trance to sit
Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit,
Musing, reciting-on some rock moss-grown,
Or the fantastic root of some old fig-tree,
That drinks the living waters as they stream
Over their emerald-bed; and could I now
Neglect to visit Arqua, (69) where, at last,
When he had done and settled with the world,
When all the illusions of his Youth were fled,
Indulged perhaps too long, cherish'd too fondly,
He came for the conclusion? Half-way up

1 Count Ugolino.

He built his house, (70) whence as by stealth he caught,
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life,

That soothed, not stirr'd.—But knock, and enter in.
This was his chamber. "T is as when he left it;
As if he now were busy in his garden.
And this his closet. Here he sate and read.
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved,
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends,
He pass'd away as in a quiet slumber.

Peace to this region! Peace to all who dwell here.
They know his value-every coming step,
That gathers round the children from their play,
Would tell them if they knew not.—But could aught,
Ungentle or ungenerous, spring up

Where he is sleeping; where, and in an age

Of savage warfare and blind bigotry,
He cultured all that could refine, exalt; (71)
Leading to better things?

THERE is, within three leagues and less of Padua
(The Paduan student knows it, honors it),
A lonely tomb-stone in a mountain-churchyard;
And I arrived there as the sun declined
Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe
Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds
Singing their farewell-song-the very song
They sung the night that tomb received a tenant;
When, as alive, clothed in his Canon's habit
And, slowly winding down the narrow path
He came to rest there. Nobles of the land,
Princes and prelates mingled in his train,
Anxious by any act, while yet they could,
To catch a ray of glory by reflection;

"Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;

And from that hour have kindred spirits flock'd (67) Done by Zampieri (73)—but by whom I care not.

From distant countries, from the north, the south,
To see where he is laid.

He, who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.

XVIII.
GINEVRA.

If ever you should come to Modena,
Where among other trophies may be seen
Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs, (72)
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini,
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you-but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,

As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold
Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot,
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-

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Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial Feast,
When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting.
Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried,
"Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guess'd,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived-and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find-he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the Gallery,

There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;

When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fasten'd her down for ever!

XIX.
BOLOGNA.

"Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day
Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought
Miraculous cures he and his stage were gone;
And he who, when the crisis of his tale
Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear
Sent round his cap; and he who thrumm'd his wire
And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain
Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries,'
So well portray'd and by a son of thine,
Whose voice had swell'd the hubbub in his youth,
Were hush'd, Bologna; silence in the streets,

The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs'
And soon a courier, posting as from far,
Housing and holster, boot and belted coat
And doublet, stain'd with many a various soil,
Stopt and alighted. "T was where hangs aloft
That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming
All who arrive there, all perhaps save those
Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell,
Those on a pilgrimage: and now approach'd
Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding,
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,
Mine host received the Master-one long used
To sojourn among strangers, everywhere
(Go where he would, along the wildest track)
Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost,
And leaving footsteps to be traced by those
Who love the haunts of Genius; one who saw,
Observed, nor shunn'd the busy scenes of life,
But mingled not, and, 'mid the din, the stir,
Lived as a separate Spirit.

Well I remember how the golden sun
Fill'd with its beams the unfathomable gulfs,
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,
"Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perish'd-save a wedding-ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"Ginevra."

His motley household came-Not last nor least,
Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea
Of Venice, had so ably, zealously
Served, and, at parting, flung his oar away
To follow through the world; who without stain
Had worn so long that honorable badge,2

Much had pass'd

Since last we parted; and those five short years
Much had they told! His clustering locks were turn'd
Grey; nor did aught recall the Youth that swam
From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice,

Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought
Flash'd lightning-like, nor linger'd on the way,
Waiting for words. Far, far into the night
We sate, conversing-no unwelcome hour,
The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose,
Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine.

1 See the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Carracci. He was of very humble origin; and, to correct his brother's vanity, once sent him a portrait of their father, the tailor, threading his needle.

2 The principal gondolier, il fante di poppa, was almost always in the confidence of his master, and employed on occa 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,
Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour
Guarding his chamber-door, and now along
The silent, sullen strand of Missolonghi
Howling in grief.

He had just left that place Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,1 Ravenna; where, from Dante's sacred tomb He had so oft, as many a verse declares,* Drawn inspiration; where, at twilight-time, Through the pine-forest wandering with loose rein, Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld3 (What is not visible to a Poet's eye?) The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds, and their prey, The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth Suddenly blasted. "T was a theme he loved, But others claim'd their turn; and many a tower, Shatter'd, uprooted from its native rock, Its strength the pride of some heroic age, Appear'd and vanish'd (many a sturdy steer 4 Yoked and unyoked), while as in happier days He pour'd his spirit forth. The past forgot, All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured Present or future.

He is now at rest; And praise and blame fall on his ear alike, Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone, Gone like a star that through the firmament Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks, Was generous, noble-noble in its scorn Of all things low or little; nothing there Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do Things long regretted, oft, as many know, None more than I, thy gratitude would build On slight foundations: and, if in thy life Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert, Thy wish accomplish'd; dying in the land Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire, Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious!

They in thy train-ah, little did they think, As round we went, that they so soon should sit Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourn'd, Changing her festal for her funeral song; That they so soon should hear the minute-gun, As morning gleam'd on what remain`d of thee, Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering Thy years of joy and sorrow.

XX.
FLORENCE.

Or all the fairest cities of the earth
None are so fair as Florence. "Tis a gem
Of purest ray, a treasure for a casket!
And what a glorious lustre did it shed, (74)
When it emerged from darkness! Search within,
Without, all is enchantment! "Tis the past
Contending with the present; and in turn
Each has the mastery.

Thou art gone;
And he who would assail thee in thy grave,
Oh, let him pause! For who among us all,
Tried as thou wert-even from thine earliest years,
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland-boy-
Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of rame;
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek,
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine
Her charmed cup-ah, who among us all
Could say he had not err'd as much, and more?

In this chapel wrought (75) Massaccio; and he slumbers underneath. Wouldst thou behold his monument? Look round! And know that where we stand, stood oft and long Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself, He and his haughty Rival-patiently, Humbly, to learn of those who came before, To steal a spark from their authentic fire, Theirs, who first broke the gloom, Sons of the Morning.

There, on the seat that runs along the wall,
South of the Church, east of the beltry-tower
(Thou canst not miss it), in the sultry time
Would Dante sit conversing (76), and with those
Who little thought that in his hand he held
The balance, and assign'd at his good pleasure
To each his place in the invisible world,
To some an upper, some a lower region;
Reserving in his secret mind a niche
For thee, Saltrello, who with quirks of law
Hadst plagued him sore, and carefully requiting (77)
Such as ere-long condemu'd his mortal part
To fire. (78) Sit down awhile-then by the gates
Wondrously wrought, so beautiful, so glorious,
That they might serve to be the gates of Heaven,
Enter the Baptistery. That place he loved,
Calling it his! And in his visits there

Well might he take delight! For, when a child,
Playing, with venturous feet, near and yet nearer
One of the fonts, fell in, he flew and saved him, (79)
Flew with an energy, a violence,
That broke the marble-a mishap ascribed
To evil motives; his, alas! to lead

A life of trouble, and ere-long to leave
All things most dear to him. ere-long to know
How salt another's bread is, and how toilsome
The going up and down another's stairs.

Nor then forget that Chamber of the Dead, (80) Where the gigantic forms of Night and Day, Turn'd into stone, rest everlastingly,

Yet still are breathing; and shed round at noon
A two-fold influence only to be felt-
A light, a darkness, mungling each with each;
Both and yet neither. There, from age to age,
Two Ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres.
That is the Duke Lorena Mark him well. (81)
He mediates, his head uron his hand.
What scow's beneath his broad and helm-like bonnel!
Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull ?
"Tis hid in shade: yet, like the basilisk,

1 Adrianum mare.-Cic. 2 See the Prophecy of Dunts. It fascinates, and is intolerable.
His mien is noble, most majestical!

3 See the tale as told by Boccaccio sad Dryden.

4 They wait for the traveder's carriage at the foot of every hill. Then must so, when the distant choir is heard,

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