By the same stairs up which he came in state;
Those where the giants stand, guarding the ascent,
Monstrous, terrific. At the foot he stopt,

And, on his staff still leaning, turned and said,
'By mine own merits did I come. I go,
Driven by the malice of mine Enemies.'
Then to his boat withdrew, poor as he came,
Amid the sighs of them that dared not speak.
This journey was his last. When the bell rang
At dawn, announcing a new Doge to VENICE,
It found him on his knees before the Cross,
Clasping his aged hands in earnest prayer;
And there he died. Ere half its task was done,
his knell.

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,
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag,

Gathered and grew! Nothing but turned to hate!
In vain did FOSCARI supplicate for peace,
Offering in marriage his fair ISAbel.

He changed not, with a dreadful piety
Studying revenge; listening to those alone

Who talked of vengeance; grasping by the hand
Those in their zeal (and none were wanting there)
Who came to tell him of another Wrong,

Done or imagined. When his father died,
They whispered, "'Twas by poison !' and the words
Struck him as uttered from his father's grave.
He wrote it on the tomb * ('tis there in marble)
And with a brow of care, most merchant-like,
Among the debtors in his leger-book+
Entered at full (nor month, nor day forgot)
'FRANCESCO FOSCARI-for my Father's death.'
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.'

Ye who sit

Brooding from day to day, from day to day
Chewing the bitter cud, and starting up

*❝ 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,
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.

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