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Marina. And Foscari? I do not think of Had thousands of such citizens, and shall,

such things,

So I be left with him.

Doge. You shall be so;

Thus much they cannot well deny.
Marina. And if

They should, I will fly with him.
Doge. That can ne'er be.
And whither would you fly?

Marina. I know not, reck not—
To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman-

Any where, where we might respire unfetter'd,

And live nor girt by spies, nor liable
To edicts of inquisitors of state.

Doge. What, wouldst thou have a rene-
gade for husband,

And turn him into traitor?
Marina. He is none!

The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth

Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem
None rebels except subjects? The prince who
Neglects or violates his trust is more
A brigand than the robber-chief.
= Doge. I cannot

Charge me with such a breach of faith.
Marina. No; thou

Observ'st, obey'st, such laws as make old
Draco's

A code of mercy by comparison.

Doge. I found the law; I did not make it. Were I

A subject, still I might find parts and portions

Fit for amendment; but as prince, I never Would change, for the sake of my house,

the charter

Left by our fathers.

Marina. Did they make it for The ruin of their children?

Doge. Under such laws Venice Has risen to what she is a state to rival In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, In glory (for we have had Roman spirits' Amongst us), all that history has bequeath'd Of Rome and Carthage in their best times,

when

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I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. Marina. Accursed be the city where the laws

Would stifle nature's!

Doge. Had I as many sons

As I have years, I would have given them all, Not without feeling, but I would have given them

To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes
On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be,
As it, alas! has been, to ostracism,
Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse
She might decree.

Marina. And this is patriotism?
To me it seems the worst barbarity.
Let me seek out my husband: the sage Ten,
With all their jealousy, will hardly war
So far with a weak woman as deny me
A moment's access to his dungeon.
Doge. I'll

So far take on myself, as order that
You may be admitted.

Marina. And what shall I say
To Foscari from his father?
Doge. That he obey

The laws.

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SCENE 1.-The Prison of JACOPO FOSCARI.

J. Foscari (solus). No light, save yon faint gleam, which shows me walls Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds, The sigh of long imprisonment, the step Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan Of death, the imprecation of despair! And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, With some faint hope, 'tis true, that time, which wears

The marble down, had worn away the hate Of men's hearts: but I knew them not, and here

Must I consume my own, which never beat For Venice but with such a yearning as The dove has for her distant nest, when

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And the poor captive's tale is graven on
His dungeon-barrier, like the lover's record
Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears
His own and his beloved's name. Alas!
I recognize some names familiar to me,
And blighted like to mine, which I will add,
Fittest for such a chronicle as this,
Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches.
[He engraves his name.

Enter a Familiar of the Ten.
Familiar. I bring you food.

J. Foscari. I pray you set it down;

I am past hunger; but my lips are parch'd—
The water!

Familiar. There.

Marina. As I had been without it.
Couldst thou see here?

J. Fosari. Nothing at first; but use and
time had taught me

Familiarity with what was darkness;
And the gray twilight of such glimmerings as
Glide through the crevices made by the
winds

Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun,
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers
Save those of Venice: but a moment ere
Thou camest hither I was busy writing.
Marina. What?

J. Foscari. My name: look, 'tis there,
recorded next

The name of him who here preceded me,

J. Foscari (after drinking). I thank you: If dungeon-dates say true.
I am better.

Familiar. I am commanded to inform
you that

Your further trial is postponed.
J. Foscari. Till when?
Familiar. I know not.-It is also in my
orders

That your illustrious lady be admitted.
J. Foscari. Ah! they relent then—I had
ceased to hope it:

'Twas time.

Enter MARINA.

Marina. My best beloved!

J. Foscari (embracing her). My true wife, And only friend! What happiness!

Marina.

No more.

We'll part

Marina. And what of him?

J. Foscari. These walls are silent of men's ends; they only

Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern
walls

Were never piled on high save o'er the dead,
Or those who soon must be so. — What of him?
Thou askest.—What of me? may soon be
ask'd,

With the like answer - doubt and dreadful
surmise-

Unless thou tellst my tale.
Marina. I speak of thee!

J. Foscari. And wherefore not? All then
shall speak of me:

The tyranny of silence is not lasting, And, though events be hidden, just men's groans

How! wouldst thou share a Will burst all cerement, even a living

J. Foscari dungeon?

Marina. Ay,

The rack, the grave, all-any thing with

thee,

But the tomb last of all, for there we shall
Be ignorant of each other: yet I will
Share that all things except new separation;
It is too much to have survived the first.
How dost thou? How are those worn limbs?
Alas!

Why do I ask? Thy paleness—

J. Foscari. 'Tis the joy

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so
Without expectancy, has sent the blood
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like
thine,

For thou art pale too, my Marina!

Marina. Tis

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin
To darkness more than light, by lending to
The dungeon-vapours its bituminous smoke,
Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even

thine eyes

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A music most impressive, but too transient: The mind is much, but is not all. The mind Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, And torture positive, far worse than death (If death be a deep sleep), without a groan, Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges

Than me; but 'tis not all, for there are things More woful-such as this small dungeon, where

I may breathe many years.

Marina. Alas! and this
Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince.
J. Foscari. That thought would scarcely
aid me to endure it.

My doom is common, many are in dungeons, No, not thine eyes-they sparkle-how they But none like mine, so near their father's

palace;

J. Foscari. And thine! - but I am blinded But then my heart is sometimes high, and

sparkle!

by the torch.

hope

Will stream along those moted rays of light | And the sweet freedom of the earth and air,
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford
Our only day; for, save the jailor's torch,
And a strange firefly, which was quickly
caught

Last night in yon enormous spider's net,
I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas!
I know if mind may bear us up, or no,
For I have such, and shown it before men;
It sinks in solitude: my soul is social.
Marina. I will be with thee.

I would not cavil about climes or regions.
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not
A paradise; its first inhabitants
Were wretched exiles.

J. Foscari. Well I know how wretched!
Marina. And yet you see how from their
banishment

Before the Tartar into these salt isles,
Their antique energy of mind, all that
Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance,
Created by degrees an Ocean-Rome;
And shall an evil, which so often leads

J. Foscari. Ah! if it were so!
But that they never granted - nor will grant,
And I shall be alone: no men-no books-To good, depress thee thus?
Those lying likenesses of lying men.

I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind,
Which they term annals, history, what you
will,

Which men bequeath as portraits, and they

were

Refused me; so these walls have been my
study,

More faithful pictures of Venetian story,
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is
The hall not far from hence, which bears
on high

Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates.
Marina. I come to tell thee the result
of their

Last council on thy doom.

J. Foscari. I know it-look!

[He points to his limbs, as referring

to the tortures which he had un-
dergone.

J. Foscari. Had I gone forth

From my own land, like the old patriarchs,
seeking

Another region, with their flocks and herds;
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion,
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila
From fertile Italy to barren islets,
I would have given some tears to my late
country,

And many thoughts; but afterwards address'd
Myself, with those about me, to create
A new home and fresh state: perhaps I could
Have borne this-though I know not.
Marina. Wherefore not?

It was the lot of millions, and must be
The fate of myriads more.

J. Foscari. Ay-we but hear
Of the survivors' toil in their new lands,
Their numbers and success; but who can
number

Marina. No-no-no more of that: even The hearts which broke in silence of that

they relent

From that atrocity.

J. Foscari. What then?
Marina. That you

Return to Candia.

J. Foscari. Then my last hope's gone.
I could endure my dungeon,for 'twas Venice;
I could support the torture, there was some-
thing

In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up,
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms,
But proudly still bestriding the high waves,
And holding on its course; but there, afar,
In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives,
And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck,
My very soul seem'd mouldering in my
bosom,

And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded.
Marina. And here?

J. Foscari. At once-by better means,
as briefer.

What! would they even deny me my sires'
sepulchre,

As well as home and heritage?
Marina. My husband!

I have sued to accompany thee hence,
And not so hopelessly. This love of thine
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil
Is passion, and not patriotism: for me,
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect,

parting,

Or after their departure; of that malady
Which calls up green and native fields to

view

From the rough deep, with such identity
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he
Can scarcely be restrain'd from treading
them?

That melody, which out of tones and tunes
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away
From his snow-canopy of cliffs and clouds,
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous
thought,

And dies. You call this weakness! It is
strength,

I say, the parent of all honest feeling.
He who loves not his country, can love
nothing.

Marina. Obey her, then; 'tis she that
puts thee forth.

J. Foscari. Ay, there it is: 'tis lik mother's curse

Upon my soul-the mark it set upon me. The exiles you speak of went forth by nations,

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Their hands upheld each other by the way,
Their tents were pitched together. I'm alone.
Marina. You shall be so no more - I
will go with thee.

J. Foscari. My best Marina! — and our | And thus far I am also the state's debtor,

children?

Marina. They,

I fear, by the prevention of the state's
Abhorrent policy (which holds all ties
As threads, which may be broken at her
pleasure)

Will not be suffer'd to proceed with us.
J. Foscari. And canst thou leave them?
Marina. Yes. With many a pang.
But I can leave them, children as they are,
To teach you to be less a child. From this
Learn you to sway your feelings, when
exacted

By duties paramount; and 'tis our first
On earth to bear.

J. Foscari. Have I not borne?
Marina. Too much

From tyrannous injustice, and enough

To teach you not to shrink now from a lot Which, as compared with what you have undergone

Of late, is mercy.

J. Foscari. Ah! you never yet Were far away from Venice, never saw Her beautiful towers in the receding dis

tance,

While every furrow of the vessel's track Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart; you never

Saw day go down upon your native spires
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory,
And after dreaming a disturbed vision
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them
not.

Marina. I will divide this with you.
Let us think

Of our departure from this much-loved city (Since you must love it, as it seems), and this Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. Our children will be cared for by the Doge, And by my uncles: we must sail ere night. J. Foscari. That's sudden. Shall I not behold my father?

Marina. You will.

J. Foscari.

Where?

Marina. Here or in the ducal chamber—

And shall be more so when I see us both Floating on the free waves-away-awayBe it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd, Unjust, and

J. Foscari. Curse it not. If I am silent, Who dares accuse my country?

Marina. Men and angels!

The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven, The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons,

Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects,

Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads; and Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst thou say

Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee?

J. Foscari. Let us address us then, since so it must be,

To our departure. Who comes here?

Enter LOREDANO, attended by Familiars. Lored. (to the Familiars) Retire, But leave the torch:

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Such presence hither.

Lored. 'Tis not the first time I have visited these places. Marina. Nor would be

The last, were all men's merits well rewarded.

Came you here to insult us, or remain
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us?

Lored. Neither are of my office,noble lady, I am sent hither to your husband, to Announce the Ten's decree.

Marina. That tenderness
Has been anticipated: it is known.
Lored. As how?

Marina. I have inform'd him, not so

gently, Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe,

He said not which. I would that you could The indulgence of your colleagues; but he

bear

Your exile as he bears it.

J. Foscari. Blame him not.

I sometimes murmur for a moment; but He could not now act otherwise. A show Of feeling or compassion on his part Would have but drawn upon his aged head Suspicion from the Ten, and upon mine Accumulated ills.

Marina. Accumulated!

What pangs are those they have spared you?
J. Foscari. That of leaving
Venice without beholding him or you,
Which might have been forbidden now, as

'twas
Upon my former exile.

Marina. That is true,

knew it.

If you come for our thanks, take them, and

hence!

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To nurse them wisely. Foscari-you know | No less than master; I have probed his soul Your sentence, then?

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If she so wills it.

Marina. Who obtain'd that justice? Lored. One who wars not with women. Marina. But oppresses

Men: howsoever, let him have my thanks For the only boon I would have ask'd or taken From him or such as he is.

Lored. He receives them As they are offer'd.

Marina. May they thrive with him So much!-no more.

J. Foscari. Is this,sir,your whole mission? Because we have brief time for preparation, And you perceive your presence doth disquiet

This lady, of a house noble as yours.
Marina. Nobler!

Lored. How nobler?

Marina. As more generous!

We say the "generous steed" to express the purity

Of his high blood. Thus much I've learnt, although

Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze), From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts

Of Egypt, and her neighbour Araby:
And why not say as soon "the generous man?”
If race be aught, it is in qualities
More than in years; and mine, which is as old
As yours, is better in its product, nay-
Look not so stern-but get you back, and pore
Upon your genealogic tree's most green
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there
Blush to find ancestors, who would have
blush'd

For such a son-thou cold inveterate hater!
J. Foscari. Again, Marina!
Marina. Again! still, Marina.
See you not, he comes here to glut his hate
With a last look upon our misery?
Let him partake it!

J. Foscari. That were difficult.
Marina. Nothing more easy. He par-

takes it now—

Ay, he may veil beneath a marble-brow And sneering lip the pang,but he partakes it. A few brief words of truth shame the devil's

servants

A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long, Will reach it always. See how he shrinks

from me!

With death, and chains, and exile in his hand To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit: They are his weapons, not his armour, for I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart.

I care not for his frowns! We can but die, And he but live, for him the very worst Of destinies each day secures him more His tempter's.

J. Foscari. This is mere insanity. Marina. It may be so; and who made us mad?

Lored. Let her go on; it irks not me. Marina. That's false !

You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph Of cold looks upon manifold griefs! You came To be sued to in vain to mark our tears, And hoard our groans-to gaze upon the wreck

Which you have made a prince's son-my husband;

In short, to trample on the fallen—an office The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him!

How have you sped? We are wretched, signor, as

Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us,

And how feel you?

Lored. As rocks.

Marina. By thunder blasted: They feel not,but no less are shiver'd. Come, Foscari; now let us go, and leave this felon, The sole fit habitant of such a cell, Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly Till he himself shall brood in it alone. Enter the DOGE.

J. Foscari. My father!

Doge (embracing him). Jacopo! my son— my son!

J. Foscari. My father still! How long it is since I

Have heard thee name my name-our name! Doge. My boy!

Couldst thou but know

J. Foscari. I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. Marina. Doge, look there!

[She points to LOREDANO. Doge. I see the man-what meanst thou? Marina. Caution! Lored. Being

The virtue which this noble lady most May practise, she doth well to recommend it. Marina. Wretch! 'tis no virtue, but the

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