The walls of Venice-to show-what she was.
Their garb is black,—and black-the arras is,—
And sad-the general aspect. Yet their looks-
Are calm—and cheerful,—nothing there—like grief,
Nothing-or harsh-or cruel. Still-that noise,
Th't 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Half withdrawn,—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. 'T is his son. 'T is 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.

-shrinks back,

Once-again-
The screw-is turned; and as it turns the son
Looks up, and (in a faint—and broken tone)
Murmurs-" My father!" The old man-
And-(in his mantle) muffles up his face.
"Art thou not guilty?" says a voice-th't 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,)

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-th't now,—(among
Its ancestors-in monumental brass,)
Numbers eight Doges,—to convey her home-
The Bu-centaur-went forth; and thrice-the sun-
Shone on the chivalry-th't 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. Night-and day—
Brooding-on what he had been,—what he was,—
'T was more than he could bear. His longing fits
Thickened 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 the sovereign prince of MILAN,

(To him-whose name-among the greatest now-
Had perished,-blotted out—at once—and razed—
But for the rugged limb-of an old oak),
Soliciting his influence-with the state,-
And drops it-to be found"Would ye know all?
I have transgressed,—offended willfully;
And am prepared to suffer-as I ought.
But let me,-let me, if but for an hour,-
(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 mother,—
Say, is she yet-alive?"

He is condemned

To go-ere set of sun,-go-whence he came,—
A banished man, and for a year-to breathe
The vapor-of a dungeon. But his prayer—
(What could they less?) is granted.

In a hall

Open-and crowded-by a common herd,—

'Twas there a wife-and her four sons—yet young,—
A mother-borne along,-life-ebbing fast,

And an old Doge,—mustering his strength—in vain,—
Assembled now-(sad privilege!) to meet

One-so long lost, one-who-for them-had braved,
For them-had sought—death,—and yet worse than death!
To meet him, and to part with him-forever!

Time-and their wrongs-had changed them all,—him—most!
Yet when the wife,-the mother-looked again,
'T was he,—'t was he himself,—'t was Giacomo!
And all clung round him,-weeping—bitterly;
Weeping the more-because they wept in vain.
Unnerved, and now-unsettled in his mind-
From long-and exquisite pain,—he sobs—and cries,—
Kissing the old man's cheek,—“ Help me,—my father!
Let me,-(I pray thee,) live once more-among ye:
Let me go home." "My son,"-(returns the Doge,)—
แ Obey. Thy country-wills it."

Giacomo

That night-embarked; sent-to an early grave—
For one,-whose dying words,-"The deed-was-mine!
He is most innocent! 'T was I-who did it!"

Came-when he slept in peace. The ship (th't sailed
Swift as the winds—with his deliverance)—

Bore back-a lifeless corpse. Generous-as brave,—
Affection,-kindness,-the sweet offices

Of duty-and love-were-(from his tenderest years)
To him as needful-as his daily bread;
And to become a by-word-in the streets,—
Bringing a stain-on those-who gave him life,
And those-alas! now-worse-than fatherless ;—
To be proclaimed a ruffian,-a night-stabber;—
He-on whom none-before-had breathed reproach,—
He lived-but to disprove it. That hope-lost,-
Death followed. Oh! if justice-be in heaven,
A day must come-of ample retribution!

Then-was thy cup,—(old man,)—full—to the brim,
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!
'T was SOREDANO. 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-th't ever howled-
Against fallen greatness,) moved—that Foscari-
Be Doge-no longer; urging his great age;
Calling the loneliness of grief-neglect
Of duty,—sullenness—against the laws.
"I am most willing to retire," said he;
"But I have sworn,—and can not—of myself.
Do with me-as ye please." He was deposed,
He-who had reigned so long-and gloriously;
His ducal bonnet-taken from his brow,—
His robes stript off,-his seal-and signet-ring-
Broken-before him. But now-nothing-moved
The meekness of his soul. All things-alike!
Among the six-th't 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."
And now-he goes. "It is the hour-and past.

I have no business here."

Avoid the gazing crowd?

"But wilt thou not

That way—is private."

"No! as-I entered-so-will I retire."

And (leaning on his staff,) he left the house,—
His residence-for five-and-thirty years,)-

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 I go

Driven-by the malice-of mine enemies."
Then to his boat withdrew,-(poor-as he came,)—
Amid the sighs of those-th't 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—
It rang his knell.

But whence the deadly hate

Th't caused all this,-the hate of Soredano?

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-was wanting—there),—
Who came to tell him of another wrong

Done-or imagined. When his father died,

They whispered,-("'T was by poison,") and the words
Struck him-as uttered from his father's grave.
He wrote it—on the tomb,—('t is 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—
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.

XXXIX. THE BRIDES OF VENICE. ROGERS.

It was St. Mary's Eve; and all poured forth-
For some great festival. The fisher-came
From his green islet,-bringing o'er the waves—
His wife and little ones; the husbandman—
From the firm land,-with many a friar-and nun—
And village maiden,-(her first flight-from home,)
Crowding-the common ferry. All—arrived;
And-(in his straw) the prisoner-turned to hear,
So great-the stir-in Venice. Old-and young-
Thronged her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk,―
(Turbaned,-long-vested,) and the cowering Jew,-
(In yellow hat-and threadbare gabardine,)
Hurrying along. For,-(as the custom was,)
The noblest sons and daughters-of the state,
(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,)-proclaimed them near,
And never-(from their earliest hour)-was seen
Such splendor-or such beauty. Two-and two