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Yet what so gay as Venice? Every gale

But broken by a cloud. The wind was hush'd,
Breathed heavenly music ! and who flock'd not thither And the sea mirror-like. A single zephyr
To celebrate her Nuptials with the Sea ?

Play'd with her tresses, and drew more and more To wear the mask, and mingle in the crowd

Her veil across her bosom. With Greek, Armenian, Persian-night and day

Long I lay (There, and there only, did the hour stand still), Contemplating that face so beautiful, Pursuing through her thousand labyrinths

That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles, The Enchantress Pleasure; realizing dreams

That neck but half-conceal'd, whiter than snow. The earliest, bappiest—for a tale to catch

'T was the sweet slumber of her early age. Credulous cars, and hold young hearts in chains, I look'd and look'd, and felt a flush of joy Had only to begin, « There lived in Venice.

I would express but cannot.

Oft I wish'a • Who were the Six we supp'd with Yesternight?» (44) Gently—by stealth-to drop asleep myself, • Kings, one and all! Thou couldst not but remark And to incline yet lower that sleep might come; The style and manner of the Six that served them. » Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness.

'T was all in vain. Love would not let me rest. • Who answer'd me just now? (45) Who, when I said, ''T is nine,' turn'd round and said so solemnly,

But how delightful when at length she waked! 'Signor, he died at nine!' I- 'T was the Armenian;

When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil

So rudely scatter'd, she resumed her place The mask that follows thee, go where thou wilt.»

Beside me; and, as gaily as before, « But who stands there, alone among them all?" (46) Pourd out her innocent mind!

Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer, • The Cypriot. Ministers from foreign Courts

So, nor long since, Beset his doors, long ere his hour of rising ;

Sung a Venetian : and his Jay of love, (48) His the Great Secret! Not the golden house

Dangerous and sweet, charm'd Venice. As for me Of Nero, or those fabled in the East,

(Less fortunate, if Love be Happiness) As wrought by magic, half so rich as his !

No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm, Two dogs, coal-black, in collars of pure gold,

I went alone under the silent moon; Walk in his footsteps-Who but his familiars?

Thy place, St Mark, thy churches, palaces, He casts no shadow, nor is seen to smile!»

Glittering, and frost-like, and as day drew on,

Melting away, an emblem of themselves.
Such their discourse. Assembling in St Mark's,
All Nations met as on enchanted ground!

Those Porches (49) pass'd through which the water

What though a strange, mysterious Power was therc, Plays, though no longer on the noble forms

That moved there, sable-vested—and the Quay,
Moving throughout, subtle, invisible,
And universal as the air they breathed ;

Silent, grass-grown-adventurer-like I launch'd
A Power that never slumber'd, never pardon'd,

Into the deep, ere-long discovering All eye, all ear, no where and every where, (47)

Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas, Entering the closet and the sanctuary,

All verdure. Every where, from bush and brake, No place of refuge for the Doge himself;

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

Their slimy track across the woodman's path In secret, when the heart was on the lips,

Bright in the moonshine: and, as round I went, Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly

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

I listen'd to the venerable pines In casual converse, be it where it might,

Then in close converse; (50) and, if right I guess'd, The speaker lower'd at once his eyes, his voice, Delivering many a message to the Winds And pointed upward as to God in Heaven

In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida.
What though that Power was there, he who lived thus,

Nor when again in Venice, when again
Pursuing Pleasure, lived as if it were not.
But let him in the midnight-air indulge

Jo that strange place, so stirring and so still,

Where nothing comes to drown the human voice A word, a thought against the laws of Venice,

But music, or the dashing of the tide,
And in that hour he vanish'd from the carth!

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 Boy, call the Gondola ; the sun is sct.

Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err It came, and we embark'd; but instantly,

(It was before an old Palladian house, Though she had step on board so light of foot,

As between night and day we floated by), So light of heart, laughing she knew not why,

A Gondolier lay singing; and he sung, Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept.

As in the time when Venice was herself, (51)
From time to time I waked her, but the boat

Of Tancred and Erminia. On our oars
Rock'd her to sleep again.
The moon was up,

1 See Note.

We rested ;

and the verse was verse divine !

And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone,
We could not err-Perhaps be was the last-

Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst;
For none took up the strain, none answer'd him; A jewell'd chain, in many a winding wreath,
And when he ceased, he left upon my ear

Wreathing her gold brocade.
A something like the dying voice of Venice!

Before the Church,

That venerable Pile on the sea-brink, (56)
The moon went down; and nothing now was seen Another train they met, no strangers to them,
Save here and there the lamp of a Madonna,

Brothers to some and to the rest still dearer;
Glimmering-or heard, but when he spoke, who stood Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume,
Over the lantern at the prow and cried,

And, as he walk’d, with modest dignity
Turning the corner of some reverend pile,

Folding his scarlet mantle, his tabarro.
Some school or hospital of old renown,
Though haply none were coming, none were near, They join, they enter in, and, up the aisle
• Hasten or slacken., 1

Led by the full-voiced choir in bright procession,
But at length Night fled; Range round the altar. In his vestments there
And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Pleasure. The Patriarch stands; and, while the anthem flows,
Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like,

Who can look on unmoved-mothers in secret Cross'd me and vanish'd-lost at once among

Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters, Those hundred Isles that tower majestically,

Sons in the thought of making them their own; That rise abruptly from the water-mark,

And they-array'd in youth and innocence, Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work Their beauty heighten'd by their hopes and fears. Of noblest architects. I linger'd still; Nor struck my threshold, till the hour was come

At length the rite is ending. All fall down And past, when, flitting home in the grey light, In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together; The

young Bianca found her father's door, (52) And, stretcliing out his hands, the holy man Thai door so often with a trembling hand,

Proceeds to give the general bencdiction ; So often-then so lately left ajar,

When hark, a din of voices from without, Shut; and, all terror, all perplexity,

And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle! Now by her lover urged, now by her love,

And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent, Fled o'er the waters to return no more.

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,
It was St Mary's Eve, (53) and all pour'd forth

Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude,

Each with his sabre up, in act to strike;
As to some grand solemnity. The fisher
Came from his islet, bringing o'er the waves

Then, as at once recovering from the spell,

Rush forward to the altar, and as soon
His wife and little one; the husbandman
From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta,

Are gone again-amid no elash of arms
Crowding the common ferry. All arrived;

Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. And in his straw the prisoner turn'd and listen d,

Where are they now?-ploughing the distant waves, So great the stir in Venice. Old and young

Their sails all set, and they upon the deck Throng'd her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk,

Standing triumphant. To the East they go, Turban'd, long-vested, and the cozening Jew,

Steering for Istria ; their accursed barks In yellow hat and thread-bare gaberdine,

(Well are they known, the galliot and the galley), 157) Hurrying along. For, as the custom was,

Freighted with all that gives to life its value!
The noblest sons and daughters of the State,

The richest argosies were poor to them!
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.

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 ; At noon a distant murmur through the crowd,

One with an axe hewing the mooring-chain Rising and rolling on, announced their coming ;

Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, And never from the first was to be secn

But on that day was drifting. In an hour Such splendour or such beauty. (54) Two and two

Half Venice was afloat. But long before, (The richest tapestry unroll'd before them),

Frantic with grief and scoring all control, First came the Brides in all their loveliness;

The Youths were gone in a light brigantine,
Each in her veil, and by two bride-maids follow'd,

Lying at anchor near the Arsenal;
Only less lovely, who behind her bore
The precious caskets that within contain'd

Each having sworn, and by the holy rood,
The dowry and the presents. On she moved,

To slay or to be slain.

And from the tower
Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand
A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-feathers.

The watchman gives the signal. In the East
Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, (55)

A ship is seen, and making for the Port; Fell from beneath a starry diadem;

Her flag St Mark's.-And now she turns the point,

Over the waters like a sea-bird Aying! 1 Premi o sta.

Ha, 't is the same, 't is theirs ! from stern to prow

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Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, restoring A young man, lying at his feet, stretch'd out
All that was lost.

In torture. 'T is his son, his only one;
Coasting, with narrow search, 'T is Giacomo, the blessing of his age,
Friuli-like a tiger in his spring,

(Say, has he lived for this ?) accused of murder. They had surprised the Corsairs where they lay

The murder of the Senator Donato. Sharing the spoil in blind security

Last night the proofs, if proofs they are, were dropt And casting lots—had slain them, one and all,

Into the lion's mouth, the mouth of brass, All to the last, and flung them far and wide

That gapes and gorges; and the Doge himself
Into the

proper element;

Must sit and look on a beloved Son
Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long

Suffering the Question. Had hush'd the babes of Venice, and who yet,

Twice, to die in peace, Breathing a little, in his look retain'd

To save a falling house, and turn the hearts
The fierceness of his soul.

Of his fell Adversaries, those who now,
Thus were the Brides Like hell-hounds in full cry, are running down
Lost and recover'd; and what now remain'd

His last of four, (wice did he ask their leave But to give Thanks? Twelve breast-plates and twelve To lay aside the Crown, and they refused him, crowns,

An oath exacting, never more to ask it; Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offerings And there he sits, a spectacle of woe, Of the young victors to their Patron-Saint,

By them, his rivals in the State, compell’d, Vow'd on the field of battle, were ere-long

Such the refinement of their cruelly, Laid at his feet; (58) and to preserve for ever

To keep the place he sigh'd for.

a day so full of change,

Once again
From joy to grief, from grief to joy again,

The screw is turn'd; and, as it turns, the Son Through many an age, as oft as it came round,

Looks up, and, in a faint and broken accent, 'T was held religiously with all observance.

Murmurs « My Father!. The old man shrinks back, The Doge resign'd his crimson for

And in his mantle muffles pure ermine;

his face.

up And through the city in a stately barge (59)

· Art thou not guilty?" says a voice, that once Of gold, were borne, with songs and symphonies,

Would greet the Sufferer long before they mel, Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were

And on his ear strike like a pleasant music, In bridal white with bridal ornaments,

« Art thou not guilty ?»-« No! Indeed I am not!: Each in her glittering veil; and on the deck,

But all is unavailing. In that Court As on a burnish'd throne, they glided by;

Groans are confessions ; Patience, Fortitude, No window or balcony but adorn'd

The work of Magic; and, released, upheld, With hangings of rich texture, not a roof

For Condemnation, from his Father's lips But cover'd with beholders, and the air

He hears the sentence, « Banishment to Candia. Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars

Death, if he leaves it. Moving in concert with the harmony,

And the bark sets sail; Through the Rialto (60) to the Ducal Palace,

And he is


from all he loves-for ever! And at a banquet there, served with due honour, His wife, his boys, and his disconsolate parents ! Sate representing, in the eyes of all,

Gone in the dead of night-unseen of anyEyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears,

Without a word, a look of tenderness, Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice.

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
Let us lift up the curtain, and observe,

An ancient rampart, that o'erhangs the sea; What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh,

Gazing on vacancy, and hourly starting And now a groan is heard. Then all is still.

To answer to the watch--Alas, how changed Twenty are sitting as in judgment there; (61)

From him, the mirror of the Youth of Venice, Men who have served their country, and grown grey

In whom the slightest thing, or whim or chance, In governments and distant embassies,

Did he but wear his doublet so and so, Men eminent alike in war and peace;

All follow'd; at whose nuptials, when at length
Such as in effigy shall long adorn

He won that maid at once the fairest, noblest, (62)
The walls of Venice-to show what she has been ! A daughter of the House of Contarini,
Their garb is black, and black the arras is,

That House as old as Venice, now among
And sad the general aspect. Yet their looks

Its ancestors in monumental brass
Are calm, are cheerful; nothing there like grief, Numbering eight Doges—to convey her home,
Nothing or harsh or cruel. Still that noise,

The Bucentaur went forth; and thrice the Sun
That low and dismal moaning.

Shone on the Chivalry, that, front to front,
Half withdrawn,

And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged
A little to the left, sits one in crimson,

To tourney in St Mark's.
A venerable man, fourscore and upward.

But lo, at last,
Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrow'd brow. Messengers come. He is recallid: his heart
His hands are clench'd; his eyes half-shut and glazed; Leaps at the tidings. He embarks : the boat
His shrunk and wither'd limbs rigid as marble. Springs to the oar, and back again he goes-
"T is Foscari, the Doge. And there is one,

Into that very Chamber! there to lie

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In his old resting-place, the bed of torture;

Affection, kindness, the sweet offices
And thence look up (five long, long years of Grief Of love and duty were to him as needful
Have not killed either) on his wretched Sire,

As was his daily bread ;-and to become
Still in that seat--as though he had not left it,

A by-word in the mcanest mouths of Venice, Immovable, enveloped in his mantle.

Bringing a stain on those who gave him life,

On those, alas, now worse than fatherless But now he comes, convicted of a crime

To be proclaim'd a ruffian, a night-stabber, Great by the laws of Venice. Night and day,

He on whom none before had breathed reproachBrooding on what he had been, what he was,

He lived but to disprove it. That hope lost,
'T was more than he could bear. His longing-fits Death follow'd. From the hour he went, he spoke not;

him. His desire for home

And in his dungeon, when he laid him down,
Became a madness; and, resolved to go,

He sunk to rise no more. On, if there be If but to die, in his despair he writes

Justice in Heaven, and we are assured there is,
A letter to Francesco, Duke of Milan,

A day must come of ample Retribution!
Soliciting his influence with the State,
And drops it to be found.---- Would ye know all ? Then was thy cup, old Man, full to o'erflowing.
I have transgress'd, offended wilfully; (63)

But thou wert yet alive; and there was one,
And am prepared to suffer as I ought.

The soul and spring of all that Enmity, But let me, let me, if but for an instant

Who would not leave thee ; fastening on thy tlank, (Ye must consent-for all of you are sons,

Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied; Most of you husbands, fathers), let me first

One of a name illustrious as thine own! Indulge the natural feelings of a man,

One of the Ten! one of the Invisible Three! (64) And, ere I die, if such my sentence be,

'T was Loredano. Press to my heart ('t is all I ask of you)

When the whelps were gone, My wife, my children-and my aged mother

He would dislodge the Lion from his den ;
Say, is she


And, leading on the pack he long had led,
He is condemna

The miserable pack that ever howl'd
To go ere set of sun, go whence he came,

Against fallen Greatness, moved that Foscari A banish'd man-and for a year to breathe

Be Doge no longer; urging his great age, The vapour of a dungeon.-But his prayer

His incapacity and nothingness; (What could they less?) is granted.

Calling a Father's sorrows in his chamber
In a hall

Neglect of duty, anger, contumacy.
Open and crowded by the common rabble,

· I am most willing to retire, said Foscari: 'T was there a trembling Wife and hier four sons • But I have sworn, and cannot of myself. Yet young, a Mother, borne along, bedridden,

Do with me as ye please.»
And an old Doge, mustering up all his strength,

He was deposed,
That strength how small! assembled now to meet He, who had reign'd so long and gloriously;
One so long lost, long mourn'd, one who for them His ducal bonnet taken from his brow,
Had braved so much-death, and yet worse than death— His robes stripe off, his ring, that ancient symbol,
To meet him, and to part with him for ever!

Broken before him. But now nothing moved

The meekness of his soul. All things alike! Time and their heavy wrongs had changed them all; Among the six that came with the decrec, Him most! Yet when the wife, the Mother look'd Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired Again, 't was he himself, 't was Giacomo,

His name.

. I am the son of Marco Memmo.. Their only hope, and trust, and consolation !

• Ah,, he replied, • thy father was my friend.» And all clung round him, weeping bitterly; Weeping the more, because they wept in vain.

And now he goes.

It is the hour and past.

I have no business here..-. But wilt thou not Unnerved, unsettled in his mind from long

Avoid the gazing crowd ? That way is private.
And exquisite pain, he sobs aloud and cries

No! as I enter'd, so will I retire..
Kissing the old Man's check, · Help me, my Father! And, leaning on his staff, he left the Palace,
Let me, I pray thee, live once more among you : His residence for four-and-thirty years,
Let me go home.. --- My Son,. returns the Doge, By the same staircase he came up in splendour,
Mastering awhile his grief, if I may still

The staircase of the Giants. Turning round,
Call thee my Son, if thou art innocent,

When in the court below, he stopt and said, As I would fain believe, - but, as he speaks,

My merits brought me hither. I depart, He falls, • submit without a murmur..

Driven by the malice of my Enemies."

Night, Then through the crowd withdrew, poor as he came, That to the World brought revelry, to them

And in his gondola went off, unfollow'd
Brought only food for sorrow. Giacomo

But by the sighs of them that dared not speak.
Embarked - to die; sent to an early grave
For thee, Erizzo, whose death-bed confession,

This journey was his last. When the bell

rang • He is most innocent! 'T was I who did it!,

Next day, announcing a new Doge to Venice, Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that sail'd It found him on his knees before the altar, (65) Swift as the winds with his recall to Honour,

Clasping his aged hands in earnest prayer; Bore back a lifeless corse. Generous as brave,

And there he died. Ere half its task was done,

his knell.

But whence the deadly late
That caused all this--the hate of Loredano?
It was a legacy his father left him,
Who, but for Foscari, had reign'd in Venice,
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag,
Gathered and grew ! Nothing but turn'd to venom!
In vain did Foscari suc for peace, for friendship,
Offering in marriage his fair Isabel.
He changed not; with a dreadful piety,
Studying revenge ; listening alone to those
Who talk'd 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,
'T was whispered in luis ear, - He died by poison!,
He wrote it on the tomb ('t is there in marble)
And in his ledger-book-(66) among his debtors-
Entered the name, « FRANCESCO FOSCARI.»
And added, « For the murder of my father."
Leaving a blank-to be filld up hereafter.
When Foscari's noble heart at length gave way,
He took the volume from the shelf again
Calmly, and with his



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 As though 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.

Urged by the love of home-when I descended
Two long, long days' silence, suspense on board,
It was to offer at thy fount, Valclusa,
Entering the arched Cave, to wander where
Petrarch had wander'd, in a trance to sit
Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit,
Musing, reciting-on some rock moss-grown,
Or the fantastic root of some old fig-tree,
That drinks the living waters as they stream
Over their emerald-bed ; and could I now
Neglect to visit Arqua, (69) where, at last,
When he had done and settled with the world,
When all the illusions of his Youth were fled,
Indulged perhaps too long, cherishi’d too fondly,
He came for the conclusion ? Half-way up
He built his house, (70) whence as by stealth he caught,
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life,
That soothed, not stirr’d.-But knock, and enter in.
This was his chamber. 'T is as when he left it;
As if he now were busy in his garden.
And this his closet. Here he sate and read.
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved,
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends,
He pass'd away as in a quiet slumber.


Peace to this region! Peace to all who dwell here! They know his value-every coming step, That gathers round the children from their play, Would tell them if they knew not. But could aught, Ungentle or ungenerous, spring up Where he is sleeping ; where, and in an age Of savage warfare and blind bigotry, He cultured all that could refine, exalt; (1) Leading to better things ?


If ever you should come to Modena,
Where among other trophies may be

Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs, (72)
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwell in of old by one of the Orsini,
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you- but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

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 farewell-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, He came to rest there. Nobles of the land, 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 flock'd (67) From distant countries, from the north, the south, To see where he is laid.


years ago,
When I descended the impetuous Rhone,
Ils vineyarus of such great and old renown, (68)
Its castles, each with some romantic tale,
Vanishing fast-the pilot at the stern,
Ile who had steer'd so long, standing aloft,
llis eyes on the white breakers, and his bands
On what at once served him for oar and rudder,
A huge misshapen plank-the bark itself
Frail and uncouth, launch'd to return no more,
Such as a shipwreck'd man might hope to build,

1 Court Ugolino.

'T is of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family; Donc by Zampieri (73)-but by whom I care not. He, who observes it-ere he passes on, Gazes bis fill, and comes and comes again, 'That he

call it

when far


She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half-open, and her finger up, As though she said « Beware!, her vest of gold Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot, An emerald-stone in every golden clasp; And on her brow, fairer ihan alabaster, A coronet of pearls.

But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart

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