By the same stairs up which he came in state; And, on his staff still leaning, turned and said, It rang But whence the deadly hate That caused all this-the hate of LOREDANO? It was a legacy his Father left, Who, but for FOSCARI, had reigned in Venice, Gathered and grew! Nothing but turned to hate! He changed not, with a dreadful piety Who talked of vengeance; grasping by the hand Done or imagined. When his father died, Ye who sit Brooding from day to day, from day to day *❝ Veneno sublatus," The tomb is in the Church of St. Elena. + A remarkable instance, among others in the annals of Venice, that her princes were merchants; her merchants princes, As tho' the hour was come to whet your fangs, BIBLA MARCOLINI. It was midnight; the great clock had struck and was still echoing through every porch and gallery in the quarter of ST. MARK, when a young Citizen, wrapped in his cloak, was hastening home under it from an interview with his Mistress. His step was light, for his heart was so. Her parents had just consented to their marriage; and the very day was named. 'Lovely GIULIETTA!' he cried,' And shall I then call thee mine at last? Who was ever so blest as thy MARCOLINI?' But as he spoke, he stopped; for something glittered on the pavement before him. It was a scabbard of rich workmanship; and the discovery, what was it but an earnest of good fortune? Rest thou there!' he cried, thrusting it gaily into his belt. If another claims thee not, thou hast changed masters!' and on he went as before, humming the burden of a song which he and his GIULIETTA had been singing together. But how little do we know what the next minute will bring forth! He turned by the Church of ST. GEMINIANO, and in three steps he met the Watch. A murder had just been committed. The senator RENALDI had been found dead at his door, the dagger left in his heart; and the unfortunate MARCOLINI was dragged away for examination. The place, the time, every thing served to excite, to justify suspicion; and no sooner had he entered the guardhouse than a damning witness appeared against him. The Bravo in his flight had thrown away his scabbard; and, smeared with blood, with blood not yet dry, it was now in the belt of MARCOLINI. Its Patrician ornaments struck every eye; and, when the fatal dagger was produced and compared with it, not a doubt of his guilt remained. Still there is in the Innocent an energy and a composure, an energy when they speak and a composure when they are silent, to which none can be altogether insensible; and the Judge delayed for some time to pronounce the sentence, though he was a near relation of the dead. At length however it came; and MARCOLINI lost his life, GIULIETTA her reason. Not many years afterwards the truth revealed itself, the real criminal in his last moments confessing the |