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,

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 Church,

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;

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.

XV.

THE BRIDES OF VENICE.

Ir was St Mary's Eve, (53) and all pour'd forth
As to some grand solemnity. The fisher
Came from his islet, bringing o'er the waves
His wife and little
one; the husbandman
From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta,
Crowding the common ferry. All arrived;
And in his straw the prisoner turn'd and listen'd,
So great the stir in Venice. Old and young
Throng'd her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk,
Turban'd, long-vested, and the cozening Jew,
In yellow hat and thread-bare 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 splendour 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) Fell from beneath a starry diadem;

Premi o sta.

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, Range round the altar. In his vestments there The Patriarch stands; and, while the anthem flows, 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 outeries 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 elash of arms Bearing away the maidens and the treasures.

Where are they now?-ploughing the distant waves, Their sails all set, and they upon the deck Standing triumphant. To the East they go, 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

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

In torture. 'T is his son, his only one;

'T is 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.

peace,

Twice, to die in 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

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 honour,
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

The walls of Venice-to show what she has been!
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.
"T is Foscari, the Doge. And there is one,

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.

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,
That House as old as Venice, now among
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 tourney 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.

know all?

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 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 motherSay, is she yet alive?>

He is condemn'd

Affection, kindness, the sweet offices
Of love and duty were to him as needful
As was his daily bread;-and to become
A by-word 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.

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..

But whence the deadly hate That caused all this-the hate of Loredano? It was a legacy his Father left him,

peace,

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 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 his 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
Leaving a blank-to be fill'd up
When Foscari's noble heart at length gave way,
He took the volume from the shelf again
Calmly, and with his pen fill'd up the blank,
Inscribing, «< He has paid me..

Father.. my hereafter.

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.

Twelve years ago,

When I descended the impetuous Rhone,

Its vineyards of such great and old renown, (68)

Its castles, each with some romantic tale,

Vanishing fast-the pilot at the stern,
He who had steer'd so long, standing aloft,
His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands
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 Count Ugolino.

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, cherish'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; (71)
Leading to better things?

XVIII. GINEVRA.

If ever you should come to Modena,
Where among other trophies may be seen,
Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs, (72)
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt 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.