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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; and ever to preserve
The memory of a day so full of change,
From joy to grief, from grief to joy again,
Thro' 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 thro' the city, in a stately barge

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 burnished throne, they glided by;
No window or balcony 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,
Thro' the Rialto to the Ducal Palace,

And at a banquet, served with honour there,
Sat representing, in the eyes of all,

Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears,
Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of VENICE.

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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;

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

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Half withdrawn,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,

A venerable man, fourscore and five.

Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrowed brow.

His hands are clenched; his eyes half-shut and glazed;

His shrunk and withered limbs rigid as marble.

"Tis FOSCARI, the Doge.

And there is one,
A young man, lying at his feet, stretched out
In torture. 'Tis his son. 'Tis GIACOMO,
His only joy (and has he lived for this?)
Accused of murder. Yesternight the proofs,
If proofs they be, were in the lion's mouth
Dropt by some hand unseen; and he, himself,
Must sit and look on a beloved son

Suffering the Question.-Twice to die in peace,
To save, while yet he could, a falling house,
And turn the hearts of his fell Adversaries,

Those who had now, like hell-hounds in full cry,

Chased down his last of four, twice did he ask
To lay aside the Crown, and they refused,
An oath exacting, never more to ask;
And there he sits, a spectacle of woe,
Condemned in bitter mockery to wear
The bauble he had sighed for.Once again
The screw is turned; and, as it turns, the Son
Looks up, and, in a faint and broken tone,

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Murmurs My Father!' The old man shrinks back,

And in his mantle muffles up his face.

'Art thou not guilty?' says a voice, that once
Would greet the Sufferer long before they met,
'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, revived,
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 in life!
Gone in the dead of night-unseen of any-
Without a word, a look of tenderness,
To be called 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 there

Starting as from some wild and uncouth dream,
To answer to the watch. Alas, how changed
From him the mirror of the Youth of VENICE;
Whom in the slightest thing, or whim or chance,
Did he but wear his doublet so and So,

All followed; at whose nuptials, when he won
That maid at once the noblest, fairest, best,
A daughter of the House that now among
Its ancestors in monumental brass
Numbers eight Doges-to convey her home,
The Bùcentaur went forth; and thrice the Sun
Shone on the Chivalry, that, front to front,
And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged
To tourney in ST. MARK'S.--But lo, at last,
Messengers come. He is recalled: 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 steel;

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 stirred;
Immovable, and muffled in his cloak.

But now he comes, convicted of a crime
Great by the laws of VENICE.

Brooding on what he had been,

'Twas more than he could bear.

Night and day,

what he was,

His longing-fits

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