'Twas 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 know all?

I have transgress'd, offended wilfully;
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 ('tis all I ask of you)
My wife, my children--and my aged mother-
Say, is she yet alive?"

He is condemn'd

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

In a hall
Open and crowded by the common rabble,
'Twas there a trembling wife and her four sons
Yet young, a mother, borne along, bedridden,
And an old doge, mustering up all his strength,
That strength how small! assembled now to meet
One so long lost, long mourn'd, one who for them
Had braved so much-death, and yet worse than
death-

To meet him, and to part with him for ever!

Time and their heavy wrongs had changed them all;

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. O, 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!
'Twas 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

Him most! Yet when the wife, the mother look'd His name. "I am the son of Marco Memmo."

Again, 'twas he himself, 'twas Giacomo,

Their only hope, and trust, and consolation!
And all clung round him, weeping bitterly;
Weeping the more, because they wept in vain.
Unnerved, unsettled in his mind from long
And exquisite pain, he sobs aloud and cries,
Kissing the old man's cheek, "Help me, my father!
Let me, I pray thee, live once more among you :
Let me go home."-" My son," returns the doge,
Mastering a while his grief, " if I may still
Call thee my son, if thou art innocent,
As I would fain believe," but, as he speaks,
He falls, "submit without a murmur."

Night,

That to the world brought revelry, to them
Brought only food for sorrow. Giacomo
Embark'd-to die; sent to an early grave
For thee, Erizzo, whose death-bed confession,
"He is most innocent! "Twas I who did it!"
Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that sail'd
Swift as the winds with his recall to honour,
Bore back a lifeless corse. Generous as brave,
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,

"Ah," he replied, "thy father was my friend."
And now he goes. "It is the hour and past.

I have no business here."-" But wilt thou not
Avoid the gazing crowd? That way is private."
"No! as I enter'd, so will I retire."
And leaning on his staff, he left the palace,
His residence for four-and-thirty years,
By the same staircase he came up in splendour,
The staircase of the Giants. Turning round,
When in the court below, he stopt and said,

My merits brought me hither. I depart,
Driven by the malice of my enemies."
Then through the crowd withdrew, poor as he came,
And in his gondola went off, unfollow'
But by the sighs of them that dared not speak.

This journey was his last. When the bell rang,
Next day, announcing a new doge to Venice,
It found him on his knees before the altar,
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
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,
Gather'd and grew! Nothing but turn'd to venom!
In vain did Foscari sue 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 (an I none, alas! were wanting)
Who came to tell him of another wrong,
Done or imagined. When his father died,
'Twas whisper'd in his ear, "He died by poison!"
He wrote it on the tomb, ('tis there in marble,)
And in his ledger-book-among his debtors-
Enter'd the name "Francesco Foscari,"
And added, " For the murder of my father."
Leaving a blank-to be fill'd up hereafter.
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."

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 O! forbear to teach
The lesson to your children.

XVII.
ARQUA.

THERE is, within three leagues and less of Padua,
(The Paduan student knows it, honours it,)
A lonely tombstone 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
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,
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,
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 arch'd 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, where, at last,

*Count Ugolino.

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? Halfway up
He built his house, 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. "Tis 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;
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,
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 a while upon a picture there.
"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
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 than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.

But then her face

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor
That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child-her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;

Since last we parted; and those five short years—
Much had they told! His clustering locks were
turn'd

Gray; nor did aught recall the youth that swam
From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice,
Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought
Flash'd lightning-like, nor linger'd on the way,
Waiting for words. Far, far into the night
We sate, conversing-no unwelcome hour,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose,

'Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day
Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought
Miraculous cures―he and his stage were gone;
And he who, when the crisis of his tale
Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear,
Sent round his cap; and he who thrumm'd his wire
And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain
Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries,*
So well portray'd, and by a son of thine,

* See the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Caracci. He was of very humble origin; and, to correct his brother's vanity, once sent him a portrait of their father, the tailor, threading his needle.