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XIII.

ST. MARK'S PLACE.

OVER how many tracts, vast, measureless, Nothing from day to day, from year to year, Passes, save now and then a cloud, a meteor, A famish'd eagle ranging for his prey; While on this spot of earth, the work of man, How much has been transacted! Emperors, Popes, Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil, Landing, have here perform'd their several parts, Then left the stage to others. Not a stone In the broad pavement, but to him who has An eye, an ear for the Inanimate World, Tells of Past Ages.

In that temple-porch

(The brass is gone, the porphyry remains), (35)
Did Barbarossa fling his mantle off,
And, kneeling, on his neck receive the foot
Of the proud Pontiff (36)—thus at last consoled
For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shake
On his stone pillow. In that temple-porch,
Old as he was, so near his hundredth year,
And blind his eyes put out-did Dandolo
Stand forth, displaying on his ducal crown
The cross just then assumed at the high altar.
There did he stand, erect, invincible,
Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears,
For in his prayers he had been weeping much;
And now the pilgrims and the people wept
With admiration, saying in their hearts,
"Surely those aged limbs have need of rest!"
-There did he stand, with his old armor on,
Ere, gonfalon in hand, that stream'd aloft,
As conscious of its glorious destiny,
So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret,
He sail'd away, five hundred gallant ships,
Their lofty sides hung with emblazon'd shields,
Following his track to Glory. He returned not;
But of his trophies four arrived ere-long,

Snatch'd from destruction-the four steeds divine,
That strike the ground, resounding with their feet, (37)
And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame
Over that very portal-in the place
Where in an after-time Petrarch was seen
Sitting beside the Doge, on his right hand,
Amid the ladies of the court of Venice,
Their beauty shaded from the setting sun
By many-color'd hangings; while, beneath,
Knights of all nations, some from merry England, (38)
Their lances in the rest, charged for the prize.

Here, among other pageants, and how oft
It came, as if returning to console

The least, instruct the greatest, did the Doge,
Himself, go round, borne through the gazing crowd,
Once in a chair of state, once on his bier.
They were his first appearance, and his last.

The sea, that emblem of uncertainty, Changed not so fast for many and many an age, As this small spot. To-day 't was full of maskers; And lo, the madness of the Carnival, (39)

8

The monk, the nun, the holy legate mask'd!
To-morrow came the scaffold and the heads-man;
And he died there by torch-light, bound and gagg'il,
Whose name and crime they knew not. Underneath
Where the Archangel, turning with the wind,
Blesses the City from the topinost-tower,
His arms extended-there continually
Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side,
Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other;
Horror and Mirth. Both vanish'd in one hour!
But Ocean only, when again he claims

His ancient rule, shall wash away their footsteps

Enter the Palace by the marble stairs
Down which the grizzly head of old Faliero
Roll'd from the block. (40) Pass onward through tho
Chamber,

Where, among all drawn in their ducal robes,
But one is wanting-where, thrown off in heat,
A short inscription on the Doge's chair
Led to another on the wall yet shorter; (41)
And thou wilt track them-wilt from halls of state
Where kings have feasted, and the festal song
Rung through the fretted roof, cedar and gold,
Step into darkness; and be told, «"T was here,
Trusting, deceived, assembled but to die,
To take a long embrace and part again,
Carrara and his valiant sons were strangled;
He first-then they, whose only crime had been
Struggling to save their Father.-Through that door
So soon to cry, smiting his brow, "I'm lost!"
Was shown, and with all courtesy, all honor,
The great and noble captain, Carmagnola.-(42)
That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern
Aught as it is) leads to the dripping vaults
Under the flood, where light and warmth came never!
Leads to a cover'd Bridge, the Bridge of Sighs;
And to that fatal closet at the foot,
Lurking for prey, which, when a victim enter'd,
Grew less and less, contracting to a span;
An iron door, urged onward by a screw,
Forcing out life.-But let us to the roof,
And, when thou hast survey'd the sea, the land,
Visit the narrow cells that cluster there,
As in a place of tombs. They had their tenants,
And each supplied with sufferings of his own.
There burning suns beat unrelentingly,
Turning all things to dust, and scorching up
The brain, till Reason fled, and the wild yell
And wilder laugh burst out on every side,
Answering each other as in mockery!

Few Houses of the size were better fill'd;
Though many came and left it in an hour.
"Most nights," so said the good old Nicolo
(For three-and-thirty years his uncle kept
The water-gate below, but seldom spoke,
Though much was on his mind), " most nights arrived
The prison-boat, that boat with many oars,
And bore away as to the Lower World,
Disburdening in the Canal Orfano, (43)

That drowning-place, where never net was thrown,
Summer or Winter, death the penalty;
And where a secret, once deposited,

Lay till the waters should give up their dead."

1 Scala de' Giganti.

Yet what so gay as Venice? Every gale
Breathed heavenly music! and who flock'd not thither
To celebrate her Nuptials with the Sea?
To wear the mask, and mingle in the crowd
With Greek, Armenian, Persian-night and day
(There, and there only, did the hour stand still)
Pursuing through her thousand labyrinths
The Enchantress Pleasure; realizing dreams
The earliest, happiest-for a tale to catch
Credulous ears, and hold young hearts in chains,
Had only to begin, "There lived in Venice "-

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Such their discourse. Assembling in St. Mark's,
All Nations met as on enchanted ground!

What though a strange, mysterious Power was there,
Moving throughout, subtle, invisible,
And universal as the air they breathed;

A Power that never slumber'd, never pardon'd,

All eye, all ear, nowhere and everywhere, (47)
Entering the closet and the sanctuary,

No place of refuge for the Doge himself;

But broken by a cloud. The wind was hush'd,
And the sea mirror-like. A single zephyr
Play'd with her tresses, and drew more and more
Her veil across her bosom.

Long I lay
Contemplating that face so beautiful,
That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles,
That neck but half-concealed, whiter than snow.
"T was the sweet slumber of her early age.
I look'd and look'd, and felt a flush of joy
I would express, but cannot.

Oft I wish'd
Gently-by stealth-to drop asleep myself,
And to incline yet lower that sleep might come;
Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness.
"T was all in vain. Love would not let me rest.

But how delightful when at length she waked!
When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil
So rudely scatter'd, she resumed her place
Beside me; and, as gaily as before,
Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer,
Pour'd out her innocent mind!

So, nor long since,
Sung a Venetian: and his lay of love, (48)
Dangerous and sweet, charm'd Venice. As for me
(Less fortunate, if Love be Happiness)

No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm,
I went alone under the silent moon;
Thy place, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces,
Glittering, and frost-like, and as day drew on,
Melting away, an emblem of themselves.

Those porches (49) pass'd through which the water.
breeze'

Plays, though no longer on the noble forms
That moved there, sable-vested-and the Quay,
Silent, grass-grown--adventurer-like I launch'd
Into the deep, ere-long discovering

Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas,
All verdure. Everywhere, from bush and brake,

Most present when least thought of-nothing dropt The musky odor of the serpents came;

In secret, when the heart was on the lips,
Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly

Their slimy track across the woodman's path
Bright in the moonshine: and, as round I went,

Observed and judged-a Power, that if but glanced at Dreaming of Greece, whither the waves were gliding.

In casual converse, be it where it might,

The speaker lower'd at once his eyes, his voice,
And pointed upward, as to God in Heaven-
What though 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 vanish'd from the earth!

XIV.

THE GONDOLA.

Boy, call the Gondola; the sun is set.-
't came, and we embark'd; but instantly,
Though she had stept on board so light of foot,
So light of heart, laughing she knew not why,
Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept.
From time to time I waked her; but the boat
Rock'd her to sleep again.

The moon was up,

I listen'd to the venerable pines
Then in close converse; (50) and, if right I guess'd,
Delivering many a message to the Winds
In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida.

Nor when again in Venice, when again
In that strange place, so stirring and so still,
Where nothing comes to drown the human voice
But music, or the dashing of the tide,
Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica
Sung to her lute, her signal as she sate
At her half-open window. Then, methought,
A serenade broke silence, breathing hope
Through walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart
Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err,
(It was before an old Palladian house,
As between night and day we floated by),
A Gondolier lay singing; and he sung,
As in the time when Venice was herself, (51)
Of Tancred and Erminia. On our oars

1 See Note.

We rested; and the verse was verse divine!
We could not err-Perhaps he was the last-
For none took up the strain, none answer'd him;
And when he ceased, he left upon my ear
A something like the dying voice of Venice.

The moon went down; and nothing now was seen Save here and there the lamp of a Madonna, Glimmering or heard, but when he spoke, who

stood

Over the lantern at the prow, and cried,
Turning the corner of some reverend pile,
Some school or hospital of old renown,
Though haply none were coming, none were near,
“Hasten or slacken."'

But at length Night fled;

And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Pleasure.
Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like,
Cross'd me and vanish'd-lost at once among
Those hundred Isles that tower majestically,
That rise abruptly from the water-mark,
Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work
Of noblest architects. I linger'd still;
Nor struck my threshold, till the hour was come
And past, when, flitting home in the grey light,
The young Bianca found her father's door, (52)
That door so often with a trembling hand,
So often-then so lately left ajar,
Shut; and, all terror, all perplexity,
Now by her lover urged, now by her love,
Fled o'er the waters to return no more.

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Turban'd, long-vested, and the cozening Jew,
In yellow hat and threadbare gaberdine,
Hurrying along. For, as the custom was,
The noblest sons and daughters of the State,
They of Patrician birth, the flower of Venice,
Whose names are written in the Book of Gold,
Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials.

At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd,
Rising and rolling on, announced their coming;
And never from the first was to be seen
Such splendor or such beauty. (54) Two and two
(The richest tapestry unroll'd before them),
First came the Brides in all their loveliness;
Each in her veil, and by two bride-maids follow'd,
Only less lovely, who behind her bore
The precious caskets that within contain'd
The dowry and the presents. On she moved,
Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand
A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-feathers.
Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, (55)

1 Premi o sta.

Fell from beneath a starry diadem;
And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone,
Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst;

A jewell'd chain, in many a winding wreath,
Wreathing her gold brocade.
Before the Churcn,
That venerable Pile on the sea-brink, (56)
Another train they met, no strangers to them,
Brothers to some, and to the rest still dearer;
Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume,
And, as he walk'd, with modest dignity
Folding his scarlet mantle, his tabarro.

They join, they enter in, and, up the aisle Led by the full-voiced choir in bright procession, The Patriarch stands; and, while the anthem flows, Range round the altar. In his vestments there Who can look on unmoved?-mothers in secret Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters, Sons in the thought of making them their own; And they-array'd in youth and innocence, Their beauty heighten'd by their hopes and fears.

At length the rite is ending. All fall down
In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together;
And, stretching out his hands, the holy man
Proceeds to give the general benediction;
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 Barbarigo,
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?-plowing the distant waves
Standing triumphant. To the east they go,
Their sails all set, and they upon the deck
Steering for Istria; their accursed barks
(Well are they known, the galliot and the galley),(57)
Freighted with all that gives to life its value!
The richest argosies were poor to them!

Now might you see the matrons running wild Along the beach; the men half-arm'd and arming, One with a shield, one with a casque and spear; One with an axe hewing the mooring-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, 't is the same, 't is theirs! from stern to prow

Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, re- "T is Foscari, the Doge. And there is one,

storing

All that was lost.

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.

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

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

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

Last night the proofs, if proofs they are, were dropt
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.

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.

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,

The walls of Venice-to show what she has been! That House as old as Venice, now among

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,
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.

Its ancestors in monumental brass
Numbering eight Doges-to convey her home,
The Bucentaur 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.

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,
"T was 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 ('t is all I ask of you)
My wife, my children-and my aged mother-
Say, is she yet alive?"

He is condemn'd

To go ere set of sun, go whence he came,
A banish'd man-and for a year to breathe
The vapor of a dungeon.-But his prayer
(What could they less?) is granted.

In a hall
Open and crowded by the common rabble,
'Twas there a trembling Wife and her four Sons
Yet young, a Mother, borne along, bedridden,
And an old Doge, mustering up all his strength,
That strength how small! assembled now to meet
One so long lost, long mourn'd, one who for them
Had braved so much-death, and yet worse than
death-

To meet him, and to part with him for ever!

Time and their heavy wrongs had changed them all; Him most! Yet when the Wife, the Mother look'd Again, 't was he himself, 't was Giacomo, Their only hope, and trust, and consolation! And all clung round him, weeping bitterly; Weeping the more, because they wept in vain.

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 innoceat, 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.

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"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,

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