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 reigned in Venice, And, like the venom in the serpent's bag, Gathered and grew! Nothing but turned to venom! In vain did Foscari sue for peace, for friendship, Offering in marriage his fair Isabel. He changed not; with a dreadful piety, Studying revenge; listening alone to those Who talked 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, 'Twas whispered in his ear," He died by poison !" He wrote it on the tomb ('tis there in marble) And in his ledger-book among his debtors Entered the name, "Francesco Foscari." And added" For the murder of my Father." Leaving a blank - to be filled up hereafter. When Foscari's noble heart at length gave way, He took the volume from the shelf again Calmly, and with his pen filled up the blank, Inscribing," He has paid me." XV. ARQUA. THERE is, within three leagues and less of Padua, (The Paduan student knows it, honours 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 farewel-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, Princes and prelates mingled in his train, Anxious by any act, while yet they could, To catch a ray of glory by reflection; And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked From distant countries, from the north, the south, |