Folding his scarlet mantle.

At the gate

They join; and slowly up the bannered aisle
Led by the choir, with due solemnity

Range round the altar. In his vestments there
The Patriarch stands; and, while the anthem flows,
Who can look on unmoved-the dream of years
Just now fulfilling! Here a mother weeps,
Rejoicing in her daughter. There a son
Blesses the day that is to make her his ;
While she shines forth through all her ornament,
Her beauty heightened by her hopes and fears.

At length the rite is ending. All fall down, All of all ranks; and, stretching out his hands, Apostle-like, the holy man proceeds

To give the blessing-not a stir, a breath;
When hark, a din of voices from without,

And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle!
And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent,
And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep,
Savage, uncouth, led on by Barberigo
And his six brothers in their coats of steel,
Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like
Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude,
Each with his sabre up, in act to strike;
Then, as at once recovering from the spell,
Rush forward to the altar, and as soon
Are gone again-amid no clash of arms
Bearing away the maidens and the treasures.
Where are they now?-ploughing the distant

waves,

Their sails outspread and given to the wind,
They on their decks triumphant. On they speed,
Steering for Istria; their accursed barks
(Well are they known,1 the galliot and the galley)
Freighted, alas, with all that life endears!

The richest argosies were poor to them!

Now hadst thou seen along that crowded shore
The matrons running wild, their festal dress
A strange and moving contrast to their grief;
And through the city, wander where thou wouldst,
The men half armed and arming-everywhere
As roused from slumber by the stirring trump;
One with a shield, one with a casque and spear;
One with an axe severing in two the chain
Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank,
But on that day was drifting. In an hour
Half Venice was afloat. But long before,
Frantic with grief and scorning all control,
The Youths were gone in a light brigantine,
Lying at anchor near the Arsenal;

Each having sworn, and by the holy rood,
To slay or to be slain.

And from the tower

The watchman gives the signal. In the East
A ship is seen, and making for the Port;

Her flag St. Mark's. And now she turns the point,
Over the waters like a sea-bird flying!

Ha, 'tis the same, 'tis theirs! from stern to prow Green with victorious wreaths, she comes to bring All that was lost.

Coasting, with narrow search, Friuli-in his spring, like a tiger

They had surprised the Corsairs where they lay1 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 hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet, Breathing a little, in his look retained

In the lagoons of Caorlo. The creek is still called Il Porto delle Donzelle.

R

The fierceness of his soul.1

Thus were the Brides

Lost and recovered; and what now remained

But to give Thanks ? Twelve breast-plates and

twelve crowns,

By the young Victors to their Patron-Saint
Vowed in the field, inestimable gifts

Flaming with gems and gold, were in due time
Laid at his feet; 2 and ever to preserve
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,
'Twas held religiously. The Doge resigned
His crimson for pure ermine, visiting
At earliest dawn St. Mary's silver shrine;
And through the city, in a stately barge

Of gold, were borne with songs and symphonies
Twelve ladies young and noble.3 Clad they were
In bridal white with bridal ornaments,
Each in her glittering veil; and on the deck,
As on a burnished throne, they glided by;
No window or balcóny but adorned

With hangings of rich texture, not a roof
But covered with beholders, and the air
Vocal with joy.

Onward they went, their oars

Moving in concert with the harmony,

Through the Rialto 4 to the Ducal Palace,

1 "Paululum etiam spirans," &c.-SALLUST. Bell. Catil. 59. 2 They are described by Evelyn and La Lande, and were to be seen in the Treasury of St. Mark very lately.

3 Le quali con trionfo si conducessero sopra una piatta pe' canali di Venezia con suoni e canti."-M, SANUTO.

4 An English abbreviation. Rialto is the name, not of the bridge, but of the island from which it is called; and the Venetians say Il Ponte di Rialto, as we say Westminster Bridge.

In that island is the Exchange; and I have often walked there as on classic ground. In the days of Antonio and Bassanio it was second to none. "I sottoportici," says Sansovino, writing in 1580, "sono ogni giorno frequentati da i mercatanti Fiorentini, Genovesi, Mlanesi, Spagnuoli, Turchi, e d'altre nationi diverse del mondo, i quali vi concorrono in tanta copia, che questa piazza è annoverata

dat a banquet, served with honour there, representing, in the eyes of all,

es not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears, eir lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice.

FOSCARI.

ET 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.

1

wenty are sitting as in judgment there; 1

Ten who have served their country and grown grey

n governments and distant embassies,

Men eminent alike in war and peace;

Such as in effigy shall long adorn

The walls of Venice-to shew what she was!
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.

Half withdrawn,

A little to the left, sits one in crimson,

fra le prime dell' universo." It was there that the Christian held discourse with the Jew; and Shylock refers to it, when he says,

Signor Antonio, many a time and oft,

In the Rialto you have rated me-"

"Andiamo a Rialto "-" L'ora di Rialto"-were on every tongue; and continue so to the present day, as we learn from the comedies of Goldoni, and particularly from his Mercanti.

There is a place adjoining, called Rialto Nuovo; and so called, according to Sansovino, "perchè fù fabbricato dopo il vecchio."

The Council of Ten and the Giunta, "nel quale," says Sanuto, "fü messer lo doge." The Giunta at the first examination consisted of ten Patricians, at the last of twenty.

This story and the Tragedy of the Two Foscari were published, within a few days of each other, in November, 1821.

They, that listen,

And mark Him speaking.

stand

As if his tongue dropped honey; yet his glance
None can endure! He looks nor young nor old;
And at a tourney, where I sat and saw,
A very child (full threescore years are gone)
Borne on my father's shoulder thro' the crowd,
He looked not otherwise. Where'er he stops,
Tho' short the sojourn, on his chamber-wall,
Mid many a treasure gleaned from many a clime,
His portrait hangs—but none must notice it;
For Titian glows in every lineament,
(Where is it not inscribed, The work is his!)
And Titian died two hundred years ago."
-Such their discourse.

Mark's,

Assembling in St.

All nations met as on enchanted ground!

What tho' a strange mysterious Power was there, Moving throughout, subtle, invisible,

And universal as the air they breathed;
A Power that never slumbered, nor forgave.
All eye, all ear, no where and every where,
Entering the closet and the sanctuary,
No place of refuge for the Doge himself;
Most present when least thought of-nothing drops
In secret, when the heart was on the lips,
Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly
Observed and judged

named

a Power, that if but

In casual converse, be it where it might,
The speaker lowered at once his eyes, his voice,
And pointed upward as to God in Heaven-
What tho' that Power was there, he who lived thus,
Pursuing Pleasure, lived as if it were not.
But let him in the midnight-air indulge
A word, a thought against the laws of Venice,
And in that hour he vanished from the earth!