POEMS.




                                 POEMS,
                        TRANSLATED AND ORIGINAL.

                                   BY

                           MRS. E. F. ELLET.

                             Philadelphia:
                     KEY & BIDDLE, 23 MINOR STREET.
                                 1835.


 Entered according to the act of congress, in the year 1835, by KEY &
  BIDDLE, in the clerk’s office of the district court of the eastern
                       district of Pennsylvania.


                             Philadelphia:
                    T. K. & P. G. Collins, Printers,
                          No. 6 George Street.




                               PREFACE.


Many of the following poems have appeared, within the last two years,
in different periodical publications, and are now, by permission,
inserted in this collection.

The tragedy at the end of the volume, is founded upon an incident well
known in the history of Venice, which has formed the material for
various works of fiction. Niccolini has written a classic play upon the
subject, of which the author of this piece has availed herself in part
of the first scene of the first act, and in a few occasional passages
of scene first of the fifth act. The conduct of the plot, and the
leading incidents, differ materially from those of Niccolini.

The author takes this opportunity to render her grateful
acknowledgments to the distinguished lady, Miss Phillips, who sustained
the part of the heroine; and to whose talents and exertions the play
was indebted for its success in representation.




                                INDEX.


The Sepulchres,                                                  PAGE 13

Lake Ontario,                                                         22

The Prince and the Palm Tree,                                         24

Hacon,                                                                26

The Forest Temple,                                                    29

Oh! her glance is the brightest that ever has shone,                  31

To a Waterfall,                                                       32

The Sea Kings,                                                        34

The waves that on the sparkling sand,                                 36

Is this a Day of Death?                                               37

Paraphrase of the one hundred and thirty-seventh Psalm,               38

The cloud where sunbeams soft repose,                                 40

Like southern birds,                                                  41

The Loss of the Anio,                                                 42

The Guardian Genius,                                                  47

Stanzas,                                                              49

Song--the closing year,                                               51

Scene from Alfieri’s Tragedy of Saul,                                 53

The Vanity of the Vulgar Great,                                       59

Sonnet--Rome in ruins,                                                61

Fables,                                                               62

O’er the far mountain peak on high,                                   65

Incantation of Hervor,                                                66

Death,                                                                69

Enthusiasm,                                                           71

The Dying Poet,                                                       74

I would I were the light winged bird,                                 80

Midnight Thoughts,                                                    82

Song of the Jewish Exiles,                                            84

The Druids’ Hymn,                                                     86

The Blind Harper,                                                     88

The Mermaid’s Song,                                                   90

Susquehanna,                                                          91

Romance,                                                              94

The Death of St. Louis,                                               96

Complaint of Harald,                                                 100

Echo,                                                                102

Epigram,                                                           _ib._

The Pictured Rocks,                                                  103

Sunset,                                                              107

To the Lance-fly,                                                    108

The Division of the Earth,                                           109

In yonder lake of silver sheen,                                      111

The Swallows,                                                        112

Nature,                                                              114

Lines,                                                               116

Fragment from “Ildegonda,”                                           117

A Life spent in Pursuit of Glory,                                    119

The Wish,                                                            120

The Northern Hunter’s Song,                                          121

From Ippolito Pindemonte--The Poet’s Last Dwelling,                  123

From mountains at the dawn of day,                                   125

The Witches’ Revel,                                                  126

Song,                                                                128

Sodus Bay,                                                           130

Notes,                                                               133

Teresa Contarini--a tragedy,                                         137




                                POEMS.




                          THE SEPULCHRES.[1]

                   FROM THE ITALIAN OF UGO FOSCOLO.


    Beneath the cypress shade, or sculptured urn
    By fond tears watered, is the sleep of death
    Less heavy?--When for me the sun no more
    Shall shine on earth, to bless with genial beams
    This beauteous race of beings animate--
    When bright with flattering hues the coming hours
    No longer dance before me--and I hear
    No more, regarded friend, thy dulcet verse,
    Nor the sad gentle harmony it breathes--
    When mute within my breast the inspiring voice
    Of youthful poesy, and love, sole light
    To this my wandering life--what guerdon then
    For vanished years will be the marble reared
    To mark my dust amid the countless throng
    Wherewith the Spoiler strews the land and sea?

    Thus is it, Pindemonte! Man’s last friend,
    Hope, flies the tomb; and dim forgetfulness
    Wraps in his rayless night all mortal things:
    Change after change, unfelt, resistless, takes
    Its tribute--and o’er man, his sepulchres,
    His being’s lingering traces, and the relics
    Of earth and heaven, time in mockery treads.

      Yet why hath man, from immemorial years,
    Yearned for the illusive power that may retain
    The parted spirit on life’s threshold still?
    Doth not the buried live, e’en though to him
    The day’s enchanted melody is mute,
    If yet life’s music with fond memories
    He wake in friendly breasts? Oh! ’tis from heaven,
    This sweet communion of abiding love!
    A boon celestial! By its charm we hold
    Full oft a solemn converse with the dead;
    If yet the pious earth, that nourished once
    Their ripening youth, in her maternal breast
    Yielding a last asylum, shall protect
    Their sacred relics from insulting storms,
    Or step profane--if some secluded stone
    Preserve their name, and flowery verdure wave
    Its fragrant shade above their honored dust.

    But he who leaves no heritage of love,
    Is heedless of an urn; and if he look
    Beyond the grave, his spirit wanders lost
    Among the wailings of infernal shores;
    Or hides itself beneath the sheltering wings
    Of God’s forgiving mercy; while his bones
    Moulder unrecked of on the desert sand,
    Where never loving woman pours her prayer,
    Nor solitary pilgrim hears the sigh
    Which mourning nature sends us from the tomb.

    New laws now banish from our yearning gaze
    The hallowed sepulchres, and envious strip
    Their honors from the dead. Without a tomb
    Thy votary sleeps, Thalia! he who sung
    To thee beneath his humble roof, and reared
    His bays to weave a coronal for thee.
    And thou didst wreathe with gracious smiles his lay
    That stung the Sardanapalus of our land,[2]
    Whose grovelling soul loved but to hear the lowing
    Of cattle pasturing in Ticino’s fields,
    His source of boasted wealth. Oh, muse inspired!
    Where art thou? No ambrosial air I breathe
    Betokening thy blest presence, in these bowers
    Where now I sigh for home. Here wert thou wont
    To smile on him beneath yon linden tree,
    That now with scattered foliage seems to weep
    Because it droops not o’er the old man’s urn
    Who once sought peace beneath its cooling shade.
    Perchance thou, goddess, wandering among graves
    Unhonor’d, vainly seek’st the spot where rests
    Parini’s sacred head! The city now
    To him no space affords within her walls,
    Nor monument, nor votive line. His bones
    Perchance lie sullied with some felon’s blood,
    Fresh from the scaffold that his crimes deserved.
    See’st thou the lone wild dog among the tombs
    Howling with famine, roam--raking the dust
    From mouldering bones--while from the skull through which
    The moonlight streams, the noisome hoopoe flies,
    And flaps his hateful wings above the field
    Spread with funereal crosses--screaming shrill,
    As if to curse the light the pious stars
    Shed on neglected burial-grounds?--In vain
    Dost thou invoke upon thy poet’s dust
    The sweet distilling dews of silent night:
    There spring no flowers on graves by human praise
    Or tears of love unhallowed!
                                  From the days
    When first the nuptial feast, and judgment seat,
    And altar, softened our untutor’d race,
    And taught to man his own and others’ weal,
    The living treasured from the bleaching storm
    And savage brute, those sad and poor remains
    By nature destined to a lofty fate.
    Then tombs became the witnesses of pride,
    And altars for the young: thence gods invoked,
    Uttered their solemn answers; and the oath
    Sworn on the father’s dust was thrice revered.
    Hence the devotion, which with various rites,
    The warmth of patriot virtue, kindred love,
    Transmits us through the countless lapse of years.

    Not in those times did stones sepulchral pave
    The temple floors--nor fumes of shrouded corpses,
    Mixed with the altar’s incense, smite with fear
    The suppliant worshipper--nor cities frown
    Ghastly with sculptured skeletons--while leaped
    Young mothers from their sleep in wild affright,
    Shielding their helpless babes with feeble arm,
    And listening for the groans of wandering ghosts,
    Imploring vainly from their impious heirs
    Their gold bought masses.--But in living green
    Cypress and stately cedar spread their shade
    O’er unforgotten graves, scattering in air
    Their grateful odors; vases rich received
    The mourners’ votive tears. There pious friends
    Enticed the day’s pure beam to gild the gloom
    Of monuments--for man his dying eye
    Turns ever to the sun; and every breast
    Heaves its last sigh toward the departing light!
    There fountains flung aloft their silvery spray,
    Watering sweet amaranths and violets
    Upon the funeral sod; and he who came
    To commune with the dead, breathed fragrance round,
    Like bland airs wafted from Elysian fields.
    Sublime and fond illusion! This endears
    The rural burial place to British maids,
    Who wander there to mourn a mother lost,
    Or supplicate the hero’s safe return,
    Who of its mast the hostile ship despoiled,
    To scoop from it his own triumphal bier.[3]

    Where slumbers the high thirst of glorious deeds,
    And wealth and fear are ministers to life,
    Unhallowed images of things unseen,
    And idle pomp, usurp the place of groves
    And mounds. The rich, the learned, the vulgar great,
    Italia’s pride and ornament, may boast
    Enduring tombs in costly palaces,
    With their sole praise--ancestral names--inscribed.
    For us, my friend, be quiet couch prepared,
    Where fate, for once, may weary of his storms,
    And friendship gather from our urn, no treasure
    Of sordid gold, but wealth of feeling warm,
    And models of free song!
                                  Yes--Pindemonte!
    The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds
    By great men’s monuments--and they make fair
    And holy to the pilgrim’s eye, the earth
    That has received their trust. When I beheld
    The spot where sleeps enshrined that noble genius[4]
    Who, humbling the proud sceptres of earth’s kings,
    Stripped thence the illusive wreaths, and showed the nations
    What tears and blood defiled them--when I saw
    His mausoleum,[5] who upreared in Rome
    A new Olympus to the Deity--
    And his,[6] who ’neath heaven’s azure canopy
    Saw worlds unnumbered roll, and suns unmoved
    Irradiate countless systems--treading first
    For Albion’s son, who soared on wings sublime,
    The shining pathways of the firmament--
    Oh! blest art thou, Etruria’s queen! I cried--
    For thy pure airs, so redolent of life,
    And the fresh streams thy mountain summits pour
    In homage at thy feet. In thy blue sky
    The glad moon walks--and robes with silver light
    Thy vintage-smiling hills; and valleys fair,
    Studded with domes and olive groves, send up
    To heaven the incense of a thousand flowers.
    Thou, Florence, first didst hear the song divine
    That cheered the Ghibelline’s indignant flight;[7]
    And thou the parents and sweet tongue didst give
    To him, the chosen of Calliope,[8]
    Who Love with purest veil adorning--Love
    That went unrobed in elder Greece and Rome--
    Restored him to a heavenly Venus’ lap.
    Yet far more blest, that in thy fane repose
    Italia’s buried glories! all, perchance,
    She e’er may boast! since o’er the barrier frail
    Of Alpine rocks the o’erwhelming tide of fate
    Hath swept in mighty wreck her arms--her wealth--
    Altars--and country--and save memory--all!

    Where from past fame springs hope of future deeds,
    In daring minds, for Italy enslaved
    Draw we our auspices. Around these tombs
    In thought entranced, Alfieri wandered oft.
    Indignant at his country, here he strayed
    O’er Arno’s desert plain, and looked abroad
    With silent longing on the field and sky:
    And when no living aspect soothed his grief,
    Turned to the voiceless dead; while on his brow
    There sat the paleness, with the hope, of death.
    With them he dwells for ever! Here his bones
    Murmur a patriot’s love.
                              Oh, truly speaks
    A god from this abode of pious rest!
    The same that fired of old in Grecian bosoms
    Hatred of Persian foes at Marathon,
    Where Athens consecrates her heroes gone.
    The mariner since, whose white sails woo the winds
    Before Eubœa’s isle, through midnight deep
    Hath seen the lightning flash of gleaming casques,
    And swift encountering brands; seen blazing pyres
    Roll forth their volumed vapors--phantom warriors
    Begirt with steel, and striding to the fight:
    While in night’s silence, o’er the distant shores,
    From those tumultuous phalanxes was borne
    The clang of arms--and trumpet’s hoarse response--
    The tramp of rushing steeds, with hurrying hoofs
    Above the helmed dead--and mingling wild,
    Wails of the dying--hymns of victory--
    And high o’er all, the Fates’ mysterious chant.[9]

    Happy, my friend, who in thine early years
    Hast crossed the wide dominion of the winds!
    If e’er the pilot steered thy wandering bark
    Beyond the Egean isles, thou heardst the shores
    Of Hellespont resound with ancient deeds;
    And the proud surge exult, that bore of old
    Achilles’ armor to Rhetœum’s shore
    Where Ajax sleeps.[10] To souls of generous mould
    Death righteously awards the meed of fame:
    Nor subtle wit, nor kingly favor gave
    The perilous spoils to Ithaca--when waves
    Stirred to wild fury by infernal gods,
    Rescued the treasures from the shipwrecked bark.

    For me, whom years and love of high renown
    Impel through far and various lands to roam,
    The muses, ever waking in my breast
    Sad thoughts, bid me invoke the heroic dead.
    They sit and guard the sepulchres:--and when
    Time with cold wing sweeps tombs and fanes to ruin,
    The gladdened desert echoes with their song,
    And its loud harmony subdues the silence
    Of noteless ages.
                      Yet on Ilium’s plain,
    Where now the harvest waves, to pilgrim eyes
    Devout, gleams starlike an eternal shrine.
    Eternal for the nymph espoused by Jove,
    Who bore her royal lord the son whence sprung
    Troy’s ancient city and Assaracus,
    The fifty sons of Priam’s regal line,
    And the wide empire of the Latin race.
    She, listening to the Fates’ resistless call
    That summoned her from vital airs of earth
    To choirs Elysian, of Heaven’s sire besought
    One boon in dying.--“Oh! if e’er to thee,”
    She cried--“this fading form, these locks were dear,
    And the soft cares of love--since destiny
    Denies me happier lot, guard thou at least
    That thine Electra’s fame in death survive!”
    She prayed and died. Then shook the Thunderer’s throne,
    And bending in assent, the immortal head
    Showered down ambrosia from celestial locks
    To sanctify her tomb.--Ericthon there
    Reposes; there the dust of Ilus lies.
    There Trojan matrons with dishevelled hair
    Sought vainly to avert impending fate
    From their doomed lords. There, too, Cassandra stood,
    O’erfraught with Deity, and told the ruin
    That hung o’er Troy--and poured her wailing song
    To solemn shades--and led the children forth--
    And taught to youthful lips the fond lament.
    Sighing she said--“If e’er the gods permit
    Your safe return from Greece, where, exiled slaves,
    Your hands shall feed your haughty conquerors’ steeds,
    Your country ye will seek in vain! Yon walls
    By mighty Phœbus reared, shall cumber earth
    In smouldering ruins. Yet the gods of Troy
    Shall hold their dwelling in these tombs;--Heaven grants
    One proud last gift--in grief a deathless name.
    Ye cypresses and palms! by princely hands
    Of Priam’s daughters planted! ye shall grow,
    Watered full soon, alas! by widows’ tears!
    Guard ye my fathers! He who shall withhold
    The impious axe from your devoted trunks,
    Shall feel less bitterly his stroke of grief,
    And touch the shrine with not unworthy hand.
    Guard ye my fathers! One day shall ye mark
    A sightless wanderer ’mid your ancient shades:
    Groping among your mounds, he shall embrace
    The hallowed urns, and question of their trust.
    Then shall the deep and caverned cells reply
    In hollow murmur, and give up the tale
    Of Troy twice razed to earth, and twice rebuilt;
    Shining in grandeur on the desert plain,
    To make more lofty the last monument
    Raised for the sons of Peleus. There the bard,
    Soothing their restless ghosts with magic song,
    A glorious immortality shall give
    Those Grecian princes, in all lands renowned
    Which ancient ocean wraps in his embrace.
    And thou too, Hector! shalt the meed receive
    Of pitying tears, where’er the patriot’s blood
    Is prized or mourned--so long as yonder sun
    Shall roll in heaven, and shine on human woes!”




                             LAKE ONTARIO.


    Deep thoughts o’ershade my spirit while I gaze
      Upon the blue depths of thy mighty breast:
    Thy glassy face is bright with sunset rays,
      And thy far-stretching waters are at rest,
    Save the small wave that on thy margin plays,
      Lifting to summer airs its flashing crest;
    While the fleet hues across thy surface driven,
    Mingle afar in the embrace of heaven.

    Thy smile is glorious when the morning’s spring
      Gives half its glowing beauty to the deep;
    When the dusk swallow dips his drooping wing,
      And the gay winds that o’er thy bosom sweep,
    Tribute from dewy woods and violets bring,
      Thy restless billows in their gifts to steep.
    Thou’rt beautiful when evening moonbeams shine,
    And the soft hour of night and stars is thine.

    Thou hast thy tempests too--the lightning’s home
      Is near thee though unseen; thy peaceful shore,
    When storms have lashed these waters into foam,
      Echoes full oft the pealing thunder’s roar.
    Thou hast dark trophies--the unhonored tomb
      Of those now sought and wept on earth no more--
    Full many a goodly form, the loved and brave,
    Lies whelmed and still beneath thy sullen wave.

    The world was young with thee;--this swelling flood
      As proudly swelled, as purely met the sky,
    When sound of life roused not the ancient wood,
      Save the wild eagle’s scream, or panther’s cry.
    Here on this verdant bank the savage stood,
      And shook his dart and battle-axe on high,
    While hues of slaughter tinged thy billows blue,
    As deeper and more close the conflict grew.

    Here too at early morn the hunter’s song
      Was heard from wooded isle and grassy glade;
    And here at eve, these clustered bowers among,
      The low sweet carol of the Indian maid,
    Chiding the slumbering breeze and shadows long,
      That kept her lingering lover from the shade:
    While, scarcely seen, thy willing waters o’er,
    Sped the light bark that bore him to the shore.

    Those scenes are past. The spirit of changing years
      Has breathed on all around--save thee alone.
    More faintly the receding woodland hears
      Thy voice, once full and joyous as its own.
    Nations have gone from earth, nor trace appears
      To tell their tale--forgotten or unknown.
    Yet here unchanged, untamed, thy waters lie,
    Azure, and clear, and boundless as the sky.




                     THE PRINCE AND THE PALM TREE.

   Abderahman, the first king of Moorish Spain, is said to have been
  the first who transplanted the palm from the East into Spain. He is
represented as frequently addressing it with great feeling, connecting
it with recollections of his native land, whence he had been driven by
                  the usurper of his rightful throne.


    Beautiful palm! though strange and rude
      The gales that breathe around thee here,
    Though in ungenial solitude
      There bloom no kindred foliage near--
    Yet lovely tree, no foreign hand
    Shall rear thee in the stranger’s land.

    My fellow exile!--dost thou sigh
      For thy lost native soil again--
    For the warm rays of Syria’s sky,
      Her bowers of fragrance, or the plain
    Where thy broad leaves once joyed to lave
    Their verdure in the southern wave?

    Across the sunlight hours of glee
      Do memories of sadness come,
    That speak of groves beyond the sea,
      That whisper of a glorious home?
    Dost thou partake my grief, when here
    I bathe thy stem with many a tear?

    Ah no! thou drink’st the beams of day
      As if thy country’s air they blest;
    As proudly do thy branches play,
      Fanned by the breezes of the west.
    The glad earth yields a soil as light--
    The heaven above thee shines as bright.

    But I, a pilgrim desolate,
      Must mourn unheeded and alone;
    Thou sharest with me the exile’s fate--
      The exile’s sorrow is mine own!
    Still glorious in thy reckless pride
    Wave thou--while I weep by thy side!




                                HACON.


    The clash of arms in battle’s rout
      Was heard on Storda’s shore;
    The war-steed’s tramp--the victor’s shout--
      Blent with the billows’ roar.
    There standard, helm, and burnish’d shield
      Were mingled on the plain--
    And blood, like rivers, from that field
      Crimsoned the shuddering main.

    Amid the plumed and martial host,
      With lofty step and bold,
    A warrior strode! a monarch’s boast
      His kingly bearing told.
    And well that boast his arm of might
      In glorious deeds redeemed--
    A meteor in the gathering night
      The sword of HACON gleamed.

           *       *       *       *       *

    The storm was o’er; from lurid skies
      Looked forth each silent star:
    And forms that never more should rise
      Cumbered the ground afar.
    And o’er them stalks the conqueror now,
      With step and glance of pride;
    The hue of slaughter on his brow--
      His falchion at his side.

    His red blade rested on the dead,
      He laid his helmet by;
    When hark! a sudden courser’s tread--
      Is it a foeman nigh?
    His ready arm has grasped the spear--
      Why falls it from his hand?
    Why mutely and with glance of fear
      Greets he that midnight band?

    Lo! shield, and crest, and lance were there,
      And casque of glittering gold;
    And long bright waves of shining hair
      Beneath each helmet rolled.
    Each on a dark steed mounted high,
      He saw the shadowy train--
    He knew the Maids of Destiny--
      The CHOOSERS OF THE SLAIN!

    Like music on the breath of night
      Their softened chorus came--
    As bending in the wan moon’s light,
      They called on HACON’S name.
    “Hero! there’s mirth in Odin’s hall,
      The royal feast is spread--
    Thou son of Yngvon! thee we call
      To banquet with the dead!

    High in Valhalla’s starry dome
      The gods expecting stand--
    They wait thy presence--conqueror--come!
      There’s joy in that green land!
    Haste, sisters, haste! Ere midnight fall,
      His welcome we prepare--
    And tell the guests in Odin’s hall
      HACON will meet them there!”

    The forms are gone. The quivering gale
      Their echoed voices bore--
    The warrior king, all cold and pale,
      Lay on that lonely shore.--
    They buried his corse beside the wave,
      His good sword by his side;--
    The only requiem o’er his grave,
      The moanings of the tide!




                          THE FOREST TEMPLE.


    Lonely, and wild, and vast! Oh, is not here
    A temple meet for worship? These tall trees
    Stand like encircling columns, each begirt
    With the light drapery of the curling vine;
    While bending from above their woven leaves
    Like shadowy curtains hang; the trembling light
    Steals sparkling through, tinged with an added beauty
    Of bright and changeful green. Sweeping their tops,
    The low deep wind comes with a solemn tone,
    Like some high organ’s music, and the stream
    With rushing wave makes hallowed symphony.
    Is not religion here? Doth not her voice
    Speak in those deep-toned murmurs? Aye! not less
    ’Tis sweetly uttered in the wild bird’s note,
    That upward with its hymn of joy and love
    Soars to the clear blue sky. The heaving ground
    Robed in its verdant mantle--the cool spring
    That gushes forth its joy, and sends abroad
    A radiant blessing to the thirsty earth--
    The glowing flowers that throng its mossy brink,
    Shedding their perfumes to the breezes round--
    Are redolent of her. Who then would seek
    To pour his heart’s devotion in a shrine
    Less mighty--less majestic? Who would quit
    A temple canopied by arching heaven,
    Fraught with the melody of heaven’s free winds,
    Nature his fellow worshipper, to bow
    In man’s frail sanctuaries? Who feels not
    In the lone forest depths at this still hour,
    A thrill of holy joy, that lifts the soul
    Above the thoughts of earth, and gives it power
    Nearer to commune with its kindred heaven?




         OH! HER GLANCE IS THE BRIGHTEST THAT EVER HAS SHONE.


    Oh! her glance is the brightest that ever has shone,
      And the lustre of love’s on her cheek:
    But all the bewildering enchantment is gone
      The moment you hear her speak!

    In the heart-winning smile that illumines her face,
      Fair Wisdom’s fit shrine you may see;
    But grieve, while you gaze on that temple of grace,
      That Folly the priestess should be.




                          TO A WATERFALL.[11]


          Wild is your airy sweep,
    Billows that foam from yonder mountain side--
    Dashing with whitened crests and thundering tide
          To seek the distant deep!

          Now to the verge ye climb,
    Now rush to plunge with emulous haste below;
    Sounding your stormy chorus as ye go--
          A never ending chime!

          Leaping from rock to rock,
    Unwearied your eternal course ye hold;
    The rainbow tints your eddying waves unfold,
          The hues of sunset mock!

          Why choose this pathway rude,
    These cliffs by gray and ancient woods o’ergrown?
    Why pour your music to the echoes lone
          Of this wild solitude?

          The mead in green array,
    With silent beauty woos your loved embrace;
    Would lead you through soft banks, with devious grace,
          Along a gentler way.

          There, as ye onward roam,
    Fresh leaves would bend to greet your waters bright:--
    Why scorn the charms that vainly court your sight,
          Amid these wilds to foam?

          Alas! our fate is one--
    Both ruled by wayward fancy!--All in vain
    I question both! My thoughts still spurn the chain--
          Ye--heedless--thunder on!




                            THE SEA KINGS.

“They are rightly named Sea Kings,” says the author of the Inglingasaga,
  “who never seek shelter under a roof, and never drain their drinking
                        horn at a cottage-fire.”


    Our realm is mighty ocean,
      The broad and sea-green wave
    That ever hails our greeting gaze--
      Our dwelling place and grave!
    For us the paths of glory lie
      Far on the swelling deep;
    And brothers to the tempest,
      We shrink not at his sweep!

    Our music is the storm blast
      In fierceness revelling nigh,
    When on our graven bucklers gleam
      His lightnings glancing by.
    Yet most the flash of war-steel keen
      Is welcome in our sight,
    When flies the startled foeman
      Before our falchions’ light.

    We ask no peasant’s shelter,
      We seek no noble’s bowers;
    Yet they must yield us tribute meet,
      For all they boast is ours.
    No castled prince his wide domain
      Dares from our yoke to free;
    And, like mysterious Odin,
      We rule the land and sea.

    Rear high the blood-red banner!
      Its folds in triumph wave--
    And long unsullied may it stream
      The standard of the brave!
    Our swords outspeed the meteor’s glance--
      The world their might shall know,
    So long as heaven shines o’er us,
      Or ocean rolls below.




                 THE WAVES THAT ON THE SPARKLING SAND.


    The waves that on the sparkling sand
      Their foaming crests upheave,
    Lightly receding from the land,
      Seem not a trace to leave.
    Those billows in their ceaseless play,
    Have worn the solid rocks away.

    The summer winds, which wandering sigh
      Amid the forest bower,
    So gently as they murmur by,
      Scarce lift the drooping flower.
    Yet bear they, in autumnal gloom,
    Spring’s withered beauties to the tomb.

    Thus worldly cares, though lightly borne,
      Their impress leave behind;
    And spirits, which their bonds would spurn,
      The blighting traces find.
    ’Till altered thoughts and hearts grown cold,
    The change of passing years unfold.




                        IS THIS A DAY OF DEATH?


      Is this a day of death?
    The heavens look blithely on the laughing earth,
    And from her thousand vales a voice of mirth
      And melody is springing; with the breath
    Of smiling flowers that lift their joyous heads,
    Bright with the radiant tears which evening sheds.

      Hath sorrow’s voice been heard
    With her low plaint, and broken wail of wo?--
    Hark to the play of waves!--and glancing now
      Forth from his leafy nest the exulting bird
    Pours his wild carol on the fragrant gale,
    Bidding the sunbright woods and waters hail!

      Hath happiness departed
    From this glad scene? Is there a home--a hearth
    Made desolate? Alas! the tones of earth
      Sound not in concert with the broken-hearted!
    Yon sea--the gorgeous sun--the azure sky--
    Were never meant to mourn with things that die!




        PARAPHRASE OF THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH PSALM.


    We sate us mourning by the shore
      Where Babel’s waters glide;
    The tears our aching eyelids bore
      Ran mingling with the tide:
    And there, where desert breezes swept,
    The way-worn exiles leaned and wept--
      The desert breeze replied:
    While on the drooping boughs, unstrung,
    Our tuneless, broken harps we hung.

    Exulting foes stood taunting by,
      To curse the captive throng;
    Bade us, in bitter mockery,
      Awake the glorious song
    That erst, ere Zion’s honors fell,
    High from her towers was wont to swell,
      In triumph loud and long.
    “Are Judah’s minstrels mute!” they cry--
    “Quenched is the soul of melody?”

    And shall we touch the lyre again,
      At heathen foe’s command?
    No--hushed let every chord remain!--
      Chained in a foreign land,
    For ever mute--if thou depart,
    My native Zion! from my heart--
      Be Israel’s powerless hand!
    GOD! do thy vengeful thunders sleep?
    Unheeded must thy people weep?

    Remember, Lord, when spoilers stood
      By Salem’s wasted side,
    And saw her ruins drink the flood
      Her children’s gore supplied.
    Yet--yet--the day of wrath shall come!
    Babel! like ours, a ruined home
      Shall greet thy step of pride!
    Blest shall he be who makes thee drain
    The bitter cup of Israel’s pain!




                 THE CLOUD WHERE SUNBEAMS SOFT REPOSE.


    The cloud where sunbeams soft repose,
      Gilt by the changeful ray,
    With tints still warm and golden, glows,
      When they have passed away.

    The stream that in its billowy sweep
      Bursts from the mountain side,
    Bears far into the calm blue deep,
      Its swift and freshening tide.

    Thus youthful joys our hearts can thrill,
      Though life has lost its bloom;
    And sorrow’s hours of darkness still
      With lingering charms illume.




                         LIKE SOUTHERN BIRDS.


    Like southern birds, whose wings of light
      Are cold and hueless while at rest--
    But spread to soar in upward flight,
      Appear in glorious plumage drest;

    The poet’s soul--while darkly close
      Its pinions, bids no passion glow;
    But roused at length from dull repose,
      Lights, while it spurns, the world below.




                         THE LOSS OF THE ANIO.

               FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.


    I dreamed of yore, lulled in its foamy shades,
      Pressing the turf which once a Horace trod,
    In shadowy, old arcades,
      Where, ’neath his crumbled temple, sleeps a God!
    I saw its waters plunge to yawning caves,
    Where danced the floating Iris on their waves,
    As with some desert courser’s silvery mane
    Wantons the wind, what time he scours the plain;
    Then farther off on the green moss divide
    In streamlets foaming still, the sheeted tide;
    Shrouding the flowery sod with net-work frail,
    Spread and contract by turns its waving veil.
    And filling all the glade with voice and spray,
    Sweep in its tides of quivering light away!
    There with fixed gaze upon the waters lone
    I watched them, following--losing them anon;
    So the mind, wandering from thought to thought,
    Loses--then lights upon the trace it sought!
    I saw them mount, and roll, and downward glide,
    And loved to dream bewildered by their side!
    Methought I traced those rays of glorious fame
    Wherewith the Eternal City crowned her name,
    Back to their source, across an age of night,
    Wreathing Tiburnine heights with ancient light.
    While drank mine ear the deep complaining sound
    Of billows warring in their caves profound,
    In the waves’ voice, the wailing of the tide,
    By thousand rolling echoes multiplied,
    I seemed in distance, brought by silence near,
    The voice of stirring multitudes to hear,
    Which, like these waves, more vanishing than they,
    Made vocal once these shores, now mute for aye!
    River! to whom the ages brought--I cried,
    Empire of old--and swept it from thy side!
    Whose name, once sung by poet lips sublime,
    Thanks to the bard, defies the lapse of time--
    Who the world’s tyrants on thy shores didst see
    Wander entranced, and crave their rest from thee;--
    Tibullus breathing sighs of soft complaining--
    Scipio the vulgar pomp of power disdaining--
    In thy deep shades a Julius fled from fame,
    Mæcenas claiming from his bards a name--
    A Cato pondering virtue--Brutus crime--
    What say’st thou, river, with thy ceaseless chime?
    Bring’st thou the tones of Horace’ burning lyre?
    Or Cæsar’s voice of soothing or of ire?
    The forum of a race of heroes brave,
    Where striving tribunes lashed the stormy wave
    Which, like thy mounting surge in fury hurled,
    Too mighty for its bed, o’erswept a world?

    Alas! those sounds for ever now are mute,
    The battle--the debate--the amorous lute:
    ’Tis but a stream that weeps upon the shore--
    ’Tis but thy voice, still murmuring as of yore!
    Still? ah! no more on sounding rocks to moan,
    From their drained bed thy waters too are gone!
    These beetling crags, these caverns void and wide,
    These trees that boast no more their dewy pride,
    The wandering hind, the bird with wearied wing
    That seeks upon the rock its wonted spring,
    Wait vainly that the vanished wave restore
    To the mute vale its voice and life once more;
    And seem in desert solitude to say,
    “Thus pass terrestrial pride and pomp away!”

    Ah! marvel we no more that empires fall,
    That man’s frail works speed to destruction all,
    Since nature’s fabric, built to outlast the skies,
    Sinks by degrees, and like a mortal dies!
    Since this proud stream, which centuries have seen
    Foaming and rushing, quits its ancient reign.
    A river disappears! these thrones of day,
    Gigantic hills, shall sink in turn away;
    In yonder heaven thick sown with gems so bright,
    Extinguished stars shall leave the desert night;
    Yea, perish space itself, with all that live,
    And of whate’er has been, shall nought survive.

    Nought shall survive! But THOU, of worlds the source,
    Who light’st heaven’s fires, and giv’st the waves their course,
    Who, on the wheel of time bid’st years go round,
    Thou shalt be, Lord!--For ever changeless found!
    These planets quenched, these river murmurs checked,
    These crumbled mountains, worlds in ruin wrecked,
    These ages whelmed in Time’s immensity,
    Even time and space, annihilate in Thee,
    Nature, who mocks at works her hand did raise,
    All--all are fleeting tributes to Thy praise;
    And each existence here to death betrayed
    Thy Being hymns, which knows nor change nor shade.

    Oh, Italy! thy hills of beauty weep,
    Where the world’s histories, writ in ruins, sleep!
    Where empire, passing on from clime to clime,
    Hath left impressed so deep his steps sublime!
    Where glory, emblemed once in thy fair name,
    Hides with a shining veil thy present shame!
    Lo! the most speaking of the wrecks of years--
    Weep! pity’s voice shall answer to thy tears!
    By empire, by misfortune sacred made,
    Queen, source of nations, mother of the dead!
    Not only of those noble sons the pride
    Whom thy green age hath nourished at thy side--
    By thy foes cherished, envied while betrayed,
    The home of greatness is thy mighty shade!
      The mind that from antiquity would claim
    The vanished forms of liberty and fame--
    The spirit meek that greets a purer day,
    Scorning the world’s vain gods of vulgar sway,
    That seeks an only altar, loftier still,
    For one true God, supreme, invisible--
    Both, both, with bitter tenderness and trust
    Hail thee their mother--worship thee in dust!
      The winds that snatch the relics from thy tomb
    To jealous eyes profane the holy gloom;
    From every turf the peasant’s plough divides,
    Some glorious shade the rude invasion chides;
    In thy vast temple, where the God of love
    Reigns o’er the fallen shrines of pagan Jove,
    Each mortal, while he breathes its sacred air,
    Feels it belongs to all who worship there!

    Each tree that withers on thy mountains stern,
    Each mouldered rock, each desecrated urn,
    Each floweret bruised on monumental stone,
    Each fragment smote from ruins moss-o’ergrown,
    Strikes to the nations’ heart a painful sound,
    As from the scythe of time a deeper wound!
    All that obscures thy sovereign majesty
    Degrades our glory in degrading thee!
    Thee misery only renders doubly dear;
    Each heart bounds at thy name--each eye a tear
    Pours for thy fortunes! From a brilliant heaven
    Thy sun to thee his glowing light hath given;
    The very sail that rides thy swelling seas,
    When thy far borders greet the welcoming breeze,
    Conscious and fluttering at some high command,
    Adoring bends to touch thy sacred sand!

    Widow of nations! long, ah! long be thine
    The homage deep which makes thee thus divine!
    The trophies of past grandeur, great though vain,
    Which at thy feet in Rome’s proud dust remain!
    Be all of thine, even ruin, consecrate!
    Nor envy those who boast a brighter fate:
    But as imperial Cæsar, sped to death,
    In royal mantle wrapt, resigned his breath,
    Whate’er a future destiny decree,
    Be thy proud robe immortal memory!
    What reck’st thou who the laurelled crown may wear?
    No future e’er can with thy past compare!




                       THE GUARDIAN GENIUS.[12]

               FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

    “Poesy is the guardian angel of humanity in all ages.”


    In childhood, sitting in the garden shade
      By flowering citron, or pink almond tree,
    When the spring’s breath, that round the arbor played,
      My neck caressing, tossed my tresses free--
    A voice I heard, so sweet, so wild, and deep,
      Joy thrilled my frame that owned its magic spell;
    ’Twas not the wind--the bell--the reed’s soft sweep--
      Nor infant’s voice, nor man’s, in murmuring swell--

    My guardian genius! Oh! the voice was thine!
    ’Twas thou, whose spirit communed then with mine!

    When later, from a lover doomed to part,
      Past those dear hours when by the shade we met,
    When his last kiss resounded to the heart
      That ’neath his hand’s fond pressure, trembled yet--
    The self-same voice, deep in my bosom pleading,
      Rang in mine ear with still entrancing power;
    ’Twas not his tone, ’twas not his step receding--
      Nor lovers’ echoed songs in trelliced bower;--

    My guardian genius! Oh! the voice was thine!
      ’Twas thou, whose spirit communed still with mine!

    When, a young mother, round my peaceful hearth
      I brought those gifts which bounteous heaven had sent,
    While at my door the fig-tree flung the earth
      Its fruits, by hands of eager children bent--
    A voice, vague, tender, swelled within my breast--
      ’Twas not the wild bird’s note, the cock’s shrill cry--
    Nor breath of infants in their cradled rest;
      Nor fishers’ chant, blent with the surge’s sigh;--

    My guardian genius! Oh! the voice was thine!
    ’Twas thou, whose spirit mixed its song with mine!

    Now lone and old, with scattered locks and white,
      The wood my shelter from the tempest’s sweep,
    My shrivelled hands warmed by the fires they light,
      My gentle kids, my infant charge I keep.
    That hidden voice, yet in this breast forlorn,
      Enchants, consoles me with its ceaseless song;
    It is no more the voice of life’s young morn,
      Nor his fond tone whom I have wept so long:

    My guardian genius! still--yes, still ’tis thine!
    ’Tis thou, whose spirit dwells and mourns with mine!




                               STANZAS,

         WRITTEN WHILE SAILING THROUGH THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP.


    Onward with gliding swiftness
      Our light bark cleaves the deep;
    The billow dances in our wake
      As down the tide we sweep.
    The broad high cliffs above us
      Like giant columns stand;
    As in their grandeur stationed there
      The guardians of the land.

    Yon purple clouds are drooping
      Their banners from on high,
    And brightly through their waving folds
      Gleams forth the azure sky.
    Sunset’s rich beams are tinting
      The mountain’s lofty crest;
    Yet fails their golden light to reach
      The silent river’s breast.

    The eagle soars around us;
      His home is on the height
    To which with eager, upward wing,
      He shoots in airy flight.
    The rough night blast high o’er us
      Assails the beetling verge;
    And through the forest’s tangled depths
      Murmurs like ocean’s surge:
    The foliage trembles to his breath,
      The massive timbers groan--
    But we, his might defying, pass
      In sheltered silence on.

    Onward! dim night is gathering;
      Those gilded summits fade--
    And darkly from the thickets brown
      Extends the deepening shade.
    It shrouds us, but we pause not;--
      With light and graceful sweep,
    Shadowy and swift, our vessel breaks
      The waters’ glassy sleep.
    Their rocky barrier past at length,
      We feel the cool fresh air:
    Yon light is beaming from our home,
      And welcome waits us there.




                        SONG--THE CLOSING YEAR.


      Hark--to the midnight bell!
      The solemn peal rolls on
    That tells us, with an iron tongue,
      Another year is gone!
    Gone with its hopes, its mockeries and its fears,
    To the dim rest which wraps our former years.

      Gray pilgrim to the past!
      We will not bid thee stay;
    For joys of youth and passion’s plaint
      Thou bear’st alike away.
    Alike the tones of mirth, and sorrow’s swell
    Gather to hymn thy parting.--Fare thee well!

      Fill high the cup--and drink
      To Time’s unwearied sweep!
    He claims a parting pledge from us--
      And let the draught be deep!
    We may not shadow moments fleet as this,
    With tales of baffled hopes, or vanished bliss.

      No comrade’s voice is here,
      That could not tell of grief:--
    Fill up!--We know that friendship’s hours,
      Like their own joys--are brief.
    Drink to their brightness while they yet may last,
    And drown in song the memory of the past!

      The winter’s leafless bough
      In sunshine yet shall bloom;
    And hearts that sink in sadness now
      Ere long dismiss their gloom.
    Peace to the sorrowing! Let our goblets flow,
    In red wine mantling, for the tears of wo!

      Once more! A welcoming strain!
      A solemn sound--yet sweet!
    While life is ours, Time’s onward steps
      In gladness will we greet!
    Fill high the cup! What prophet lips may tell
    Where we shall bid another year farewell?




                 SCENE FROM ALFIERI’S TRAGEDY OF SAUL.


                    SAUL, JONATHAN, MICHOL, DAVID.


    JONATHAN.

      Come, sire beloved--give truce awhile to thought,
    The pure free air restore thee! Sit thou here
    Beside us.

    MICHOL.

    Father--

    SAUL.

             Who are ye? Who is’t
    Talks of pure air? This? ’tis a hateful mist--
    The shade, the gloom of death. Hither! Behold--
    Around the sun a garland dusk--of blood!
    Yet listen--dost not hear the shriek of birds
    Of evil omen?--In the fatal air
    A sadness broods, which heavy on my heart
    Sinks and compels my tears.--But why weep you?

    JONATHAN.

     Great God of Israel! is thy face withdrawn
    Thus, from thy people’s king? him, once thy servant,
    Leav’st thou to foes infernal?

           *       *       *       *       *

    SAUL.

                                   Peace is torn from me,
    Light--offspring soul--and kingdom. I am reft
    Of all at once! Saul--miserable Saul!
    Who shall console thee! In thy path of darkness
    Who now shall guide, sustain thee? E’en thy children
    Are mute--relentless--savage! All invoke,
    Wretched old man, thy death! all hearts are fixed
    Upon the diadem, which now too long
    Hath circled thy gray locks! Hence--tear it hence!
    And sever at the same time from this body
    This trembling head! Death were more welcome far
    Than present anguish!--death--’tis death I ask.

    JONATHAN.

      Now, since his vengeful wrath dissolves in grief,
    Oh, brother! let thy voice his peace restore;
    In sweet forgetfulness thou oft hast wrapt
    His soul with song celestial.

    MICHOL.

                                  Lo! his breast
    Convulsive heaves--and his wild fiery glance
    Is quenched in tears! ’tis time to speed thy work.

    DAVID.

    Oh Thou! who uncreate, unseen, unknown,
      O’er all creation sit’st in sovereignty--
    By whose dread fiat and whose power alone
      This spirit lives, that dares to mount to Thee!--
    Whose searching glance hell’s dark abysses own,
      And yield to light their depths of mystery--
    Whose nod can shake the world--before whose hand
      The rebel nations vanish from the land--

    Thou on thy cherubim’s exulting wing
      Wert wont in veiled glory to descend;
    Thou with the might of Heaven’s eternal King
      Thine Israel’s chief in danger did’st defend!
    To him thou wert of peace the exhaustless spring--
      His Shield in war--his Captain--and his Friend!
    Oh! from thy glory send one pitying ray
    To cleave the clouds that hide from us the day!

    In wo and darkness sunk----

    SAUL.

                                Hear I the voice
    Of David? Rousing from the palsied sway
    Of mortal lethargy--it breathes a tone
    Transient, but glorious, of mine early days!

    DAVID.

      Who comes? who comes? Heard from the murky cloud,
    But hidden from the sight by dun mists, driven
        Across the face of Heaven!
    They part--and from their bosom glance afar
    The flashing steel--the panoply of war!
        Lo! from the dusky shroud
    The monarch, tower-like, stands! crowning his head
    The blood-red halo--gleams above, around,
    His sword victorious!--To the thundering tread
      Of men and steeds the quaking hills resound!--
    The sea, the laboring earth, the lurid sky.
        Echo his battle cry.
    The king comes forth! to hurl in dreadful might
    Soldier, and car, and courser from his path,
    O’erwhelmed in wild confusion:--at the sight
    His foemen shrink--nor dare to meet his wrath,
        But trembling fly,
    For God’s own lightning flashes from his eye.

    Ye sons of Ammon! where is now your boast?
    Ye that could once insult, defy, disdain
      Israel’s despised host?
    Lo! your pale corpses cumber all the plain!
      Your living men remain
    A bloody harvest, soon to writhe in dust--
    Such is their fate who in false idols trust!--
      But hark! with sudden peal
    Another trumpet shakes the sounding air!
      ’Tis still the avenging steel
    Of conquering Saul, that widely flashes there!
      He comes to quell the pride
    Of Moab, and of impious Amalek--
      Edom--and Zobah--who his power defied!
    As the fierce torrent, bursting from the chain
    Which lingering winter strives to bind in vain,
      Thus in the tide of wo
      His haughty crested foe
    The monarch sweeps in one o’erwhelming wreck!

    SAUL.

      It is the war-cry of mine ancient days
    That calls me back to glory! At the sound,
    Life, as in past years I was wont to live,
    Thrills in my veins.--Alas! who now would speak
    To me of war? Oblivion, peace, invite
    The old man to their shades.

    DAVID.

                                 We sing of peace.
    Wearied--beside the verdant shore
      Of his own native river laid,
    The champion dreams of victories o’er
      Beneath the laurel shade.
    His children stand the warrior near,
    They kiss away each starting tear,
      Exult in every smile!
    So sweet the gloom that shades each face,
    So soft of every tear the trace,

      ’Tis scarcely marked the while.
    His daughters with fond hands undo
    The shining helmet from his brow;
    His consort courts the mute caress--
    While they with emulous gentleness
    Bear water from the crystal spring,
    And bathe his front, and o’er him fling
    Flowers whose rich odors well might seem
    The lingerings of some fairy dream!
    Bedew his hand with tears of love,
      And grieve that ’tis to each denied
    Superior tenderness to prove--
      And be the closest at his side.

    And near him too, a smiling band
    Absorbed in other labors stand;
    His graceful sons!--One strives apart
    Its mirrored brilliance to restore
    To that blood-rusted steel once more:
    Another asks, with swelling heart,
    When he shall whirl the lance and shield,
    Which now his arm essays in vain to wield!
    While thus his tardy youth he chides,
      A third, with infant wile
    Behind the ponderous armor hides
      His soft seraphic smile.

    Tears that the depths of bliss bespeak,
    Roll down the monarch’s furrowed cheek;
    His presence mid that lovely race
    Lights up the joy in every face.
      Oh, beauteous peace! where’er we roam,
    Where could our wandering footsteps meet
    A truth so pure, a love so sweet,
      As in this bower of home?
    But lo! beneath the tranquil deep
      The sun is set; o’er tree and hill
      And waveless stream the winds are still--
    The king has sunk to sleep!

    SAUL.

      Oh! happy father of a race so noble!
    Blest peace of mind! A tranquil sweetness glides
    O’er all my yielding soul!




                    THE VANITY OF THE VULGAR GREAT.

              A FRAGMENT FROM THE ITALIAN OF FULVIO TESTI.


      Stay, thou ambitious rill--
    Ignoble offspring of some fount impure!
      Beneath the rugged hill
    Gloomy with shade, thou hadst thy birth obscure;
      With faint steps issuing slow,
    In scanty waves among the rocks to flow.

      Fling not abroad thy spray,
    Nor fiercely lash the green turf at thy side!
      What though indulgent May
    With liquid snows hath swol’n thy foaming tide;--
      August will follow soon
    To still thy boastings with his scorching noon.

      Lo! calmly through the vale
    The Po, the king of rivers, sweeps along;
      Yet many a mighty sail
    Bears on his breast--proud vessels--swift and strong.
      Nor from the meadow’s side
    ’Neath summer’s sun recedes his lessened tide.

      Thou threatening all around
    Dost foam and roar along thy troubled path;
      In grandeur newly found--
    Stunning the gazer with thy noisy wrath!
      Yet foolish stream! not one
    Of all thy boasted glories is thine own.

      The smile of yonder sky
    Is brief--and change the fleeting seasons know;
      On barren sands and dry
    Soon to their death thy brawling waves shall flow.
      O’er thee, in summer’s heat,
    Shall pass the traveller with unmoistened feet.




                        SONNET--ROME IN RUINS.

                      FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO.


    Pilgrim! in vain thou seek’st in Rome for Rome!
      Alas! the Queen of nations is no more!
      Dust are her towers, that proudly frowned of yore,
    And her stern hills themselves have built their tomb.

    Where once it reigned, the Palatine in gloom
      Lies desolate; and medals which of old,
      Trophies of victory--power and triumph told,
    Mouldered by time, speak only of her doom.

    Tiber alone remaining--he whose tide
      Circled the royal city, now with tone
    Solemn and sad, weeps o’er her hopeless fall.
      Oh Rome! thy grandeur and thy beauty--all
    Have passed away;--and of thine ancient pride,
      That which seemed fugitive survives alone!




                                FABLES.

                      FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE.


                                  I.

    A bear who with his master sought
      An honest living to obtain,
    In dance professional essayed
      The indulgent public’s praise to gain.

    Triumphant on the circle round
      Gazing--an ape at length he spied:
    “What think you of my art?” quoth he--
      “Bad--bad!”--the knowing ape replied.

    “Indeed!” the disappointed brute
      Sullen rejoined;--“’tis envy’s strain!
    Is not mine air the height of grace,
      And every step with judgment ta’en?”

    A pig approached;--with rapture gazed--
      “Wondrous!” he cried;--“what steps! what mien!
    A dancer of such magic skill
      Ne’er has been, nor e’er will be seen!”

    Bruin the sentence heard--and paused;
      Long in his brain revolved the same--
    Then thus, in modest attitude,
      Humbled and changed, was heard exclaim--

    “When the wise monkey censured me,
      I ’gan to fear my labor vain;
    But since the pig has praised--alas!
      I ne’er shall dare to dance again!”

    Each author to this rule attend--
      Doubt fortune, if the critic blames;
    But when your work the fools commend,
      At once consign it to the flames!


                                  II.

    Gentles, attend this simple rhyme:
      It boasts small skill, I’m free to say;
    Yet heard aright, its untaught chime
      May teach you more than loftier lay.

    An Ass one morning sallied forth
      To journey down a sunny vale;
    He cropped the dewy flowers of earth,
      And snuffed with joy the fragrant gale.

    Bounding at length to seek repose
      Beneath an oak tree’s welcome shade,
    He saw amid the herbage close,
      A shepherd’s flute neglected laid.

    Starting--he turned him at the sight--
      Then stooped the wonder near to view--
    When lo! his breath by chance aright,
      A tone of sudden music drew!

    Proud he looked up.--“What mortal now
      Shall doubt my skill?”--he cried with glee--
    “The bird that carols on yon bough
      Can boast no rivalship with me!”

    May many by this ditty learn--
      --Nor let the moral pass unheeded--
    Who like the Ass, all lessons spurn,
      Because they once, by chance, succeeded!




                  O’ER THE FAR MOUNTAIN PEAK ON HIGH.


    O’er the far mountain peak on high
      First shines the morning’s ray;
    And latest from the crimsoned sky
      The beam of parting day.

    Yet there, to greet the partial light,
      Nor flowers nor verdure bloom;
    But barren all--though coldly bright--
      And cheerless as the tomb.

    While in the modest vale’s recess,
      Where sunlight scarce descends,
    Fresh flowerets spring the beam to bless,
      And grateful foliage bends.

    Thus hearts that bask in fortune’s smile,
      Undimmed by clouds of care,
    Feel not the joys their hours beguile,
      Which humbler bosoms share.




                      INCANTATION OF HERVOR.[13]


    Spirit of the royal dead!
    Many a weary year is sped,
    Since these stern mountains, wild and high,
    Echoed thy lofty battle cry.
    Silence and peace their hallowed gloom
    Have shed upon the warrior’s tomb.
    I come to break the sacred rest
    The grave has heaped upon thy breast;
    The daughter of a warlike name,
    And deeds of glory--here I claim
    The sword of more than mortal fire,
    That fiercely armed thee, royal sire!
    That drank Hialmar’s murderous breath,
    And held at every point a death.

    All hushed? Are Andgrym’s fiery race,
    --Ever the first in battle’s face--
    Dim now and dust? Hath Eyvor’s son,
    The free, the bold, the glorious one,
    His pride forgot? Or sleep ye all?
    Each of the brethren twelve I call!--
    Hiorvardur!--In vain--in vain!
    Unbroken death and silence reign.

    I know the spells, with danger fraught,
    With which that fearful blade was wrought;
    I know the hand whose mystic seal
    Gave power and vengeance to the steel;
    When the dark dwarf-king in his ire
    Begirt it thrice with central fire,
    And thrice denounced, in accents dread,
    His curse upon the victor’s head,
    Who bore it from its flaming bed.
    I know that curse, whate’er it be,
    Has not been all fulfilled in thee;
    That he who dares this sword to wield
    Must his own heart its victim yield:--
    Yet will I brave the death, the guilt,
    To grasp in pride its blood-stained hilt.
    Now give! Believe, the subtle brand
    Shall grace a northern maiden’s hand.

    Still silent? Then by spear and shield
    I bid thee to my wishes yield!
    By bucklers strewn upon the plain--
    By thousand foes in battle slain--
    By Saxon bones in fearful trust
    That crumble o’er thy conquering dust--
    By banners in the red field borne--
    By hearts from bleeding bosoms torn--
    By hate-lit eye--and lowering brow--
    By lifted hand--and solemn vow--
    I charm thee from repose--and doom
    Thine ashes to a restless tomb,
    Till from the shelter of the grave
    Thy hand shall give the boon I crave!

    By this o’ershadowing vine, whose stem
    Gives to the wind thy requiem--
    By spreading forest--flowing stream--
    By mountain shade--and sun light’s gleam--
    By crimsoned clouds at eve that lie
    Upon the margin of the sky--
    By midnight tones from every flower--
    By viewless steps in every bower--
    By songs that from its caverns sweep
    When twilight shrouds the foaming deep--
    By moonlight forms that nightly lave
    Their locks upon the emerald wave--
    By all that’s bright in earth or sky--
    Monarch! I charm thee to comply!

    By gathering clouds and tempests driven
    When the red lightning rends the heaven--
    By Odin’s self, when his dread form
    Bestrides and guides the vengeful storm--
    By Eger’s hoary sceptre, spread
    Across the ocean’s crystal bed--
    By mighty Thor’s cloud-girdled throne,
    Who hurls the thunderbolt alone--
    I ask the gift with spirit bold,
    Which none but thee would dare withhold.

    Now by all hidden spells that lie
    In the deep soul of poesy--
    By the stern death-song of the brave,
    The last best gift that Odin gave--
    And by the power that gives to me
    The keys of nature’s secresy--
    And by the prophet glances thrown
    Into the depths of worlds unknown--
    By thine own proud and royal name--
    Once more the enchanted sword I claim!

    It comes! the gleaming point I see--
    It comes with solemn minstrelsy!
    With bounding heart and rapturous eyes
    I grasp the long contested prize!
      Now let the broken turf-bed close
    In peace above thy deep repose;
    Thou canst not feel another spell--
    Prince! To thy dust a long farewell!




                                DEATH.


    Ye may twine young flowers round the sunny brow
      Ye deck for the festal day,--
    But mine is the shadow that waves o’er them now,
      And their beauty has withered away.
    Ye may gather bright gems for glory’s shrine,
      Afar, from their cavern home--
    Ye may gather the gems--but their pride is mine,
      They will light the dark cold tomb.

    The warrior’s heart beats high and proud,
      I have laid my cold hand on him;
    And the stately form hath before me bowed,
      And the flashing eye is dim.
    I have trod the banquet room alone--
      And the crowded halls of mirth,
    And the low deep wail of the stricken one
      Went up from the festal hearth.

    I have stood by the pillared domes of old,
      And breathed on each classic shrine--
    And desolation gray and cold
      Now marks the ruins mine.
    I have met young Genius, and breathed on the brow
      That bore his mystic trace--
    And the cheek where passion was wont to glow
      Is wrapt in my dark embrace.

    They tell of a land where no blight can fall,
      Where my ruthless reign is o’er--
    Where the ghastly shroud, and the shadowy pall
      Shall wither the soul no more.
    They say there’s a home in yon blue sphere,
      A region of life divine:
    But I reck not--since all that is lovely here,
      The beauty of earth--is mine.




                              ENTHUSIASM.

               FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.


    As erst the eagle of the sky
      Bore Ganymede to courts of Jove,
    Yearning for earth, the unwilling boy
      Against the bird imperial strove;
    He, while more closely in their clasp
    The panting prize his talons grasp,
      Soared upward to the immortals’ seat;
    And heedless of the suppliant’s prayer,
    His captive cast, all trembling, there,
      Before the Thunderer’s feet.

    Thus, when my earth-bound soul to claim,
      Oh eagle conqueror! stoop’st thou near,
    The rushing of thy wings of flame
      My bosom thrills with holy fear.
    I struggle vainly ’gainst thy might--
    Shrink trembling from the presence bright
      That well might blast a heart like mine;
    As fire that heaven’s winged bolt allumes,
    Unquenched, unquenchable, consumes
      The votive pyre, the fane, the shrine!

    But to the daring flight of thought
      Sense would oppose its bonds in vain;
    Beneath the god to frenzy wrought,
      My soul leaps up, and spurns the chain.
    The lightning courses through my veins,
    The fire that in my being reigns,
      Even while I strive, more fiercely glows;
    The lava of o’erflowing soul
    In waves of melody doth roll,
      My breast consuming while it flows.

    Lo, muse! thy victim here behold!
      No more the brow inspired is mine,
    No more the glance so rapt and bold,
      That once shot forth a ray divine!
    Worn with the heart-devouring strife,
    A wretched residue of life
      Scarce to my wearied youth is left;
    With wan exhaustion stamped, my face
    Bears but the scathing thunder’s trace,
      Whose bolt this frame of vigor reft.

    Happy the bard insensible!
      Unbathed with burning tears his lyre;
    His fancy, ruled by peaceful will,
      Feels not the touch of passion’s fire.
    For him, a clear and grateful tide,
    The gathered streams of pleasure glide
      In measured and harmonious flow:
    His Icarus, that ne’er essayed
    To soar in Heaven, with wing betrayed,
      No fall from heaven can know.

    But we must burn, who proudly claim
      To kindle generous souls;--must steal
    From jealous heaven its triple flame:
      To paint all things--all things must feel!
    A focus of concentrate light,
    The heart from all in nature bright
      Must gather all the rays;--
    Why on our life should censure fall?
    The torch that fires with envy all
      Was kindled first at passion’s blaze.

    No--never from a tranquil breast
      Such heavenly raptures found their way;
    The concord wild, the sweet unrest,
      Wherewith a subject world we sway.
    The God that ruled o’er Homer’s birth,
    When, his dread darts to launch on earth,
      From Eryx’ radiant height he came,
    To hell’s infernal kingdoms strode,
    And dipped his weapons in the flood,
      In Stygian waves of boiling flame.

    Thou from the height of song descend,
      Who ’dst blush for transports idly given;
    The heroic lute alone can blend
      The thrilling harmonies of heaven!
    The heart of Genius, proud and bold,
    Is like the marble which of old
      Breathed its wild dirge o’er Memnon’s tomb;
    To give the statue voice and might,
    From the pure day-god’s eye of light
      One beam must pierce the gloom.

    Thou wouldst that rousing in my breast
      The fires that ’neath their ashes lie,
    I barter now my spirit’s rest
      For tones that vanish with a sigh.
    Ah! glory is a shadow’s dream!
    Too brief even to its votaries seem
      The fleeting days its charms that prove!
    Thou wouldst that in the mocking strife
    I waste my last frail breath of life--
      I would that breath preserve--to love!




                            THE DYING POET.

               FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.


    Broken, while mantling yet, my cup of life;
    The breath in sighs retained and feeble strife
      No grief of mourning friends can now delay;
    The hollow bell from yonder giant tower
    Tolls out my doom!--Pass we the waning hour
      In tears or song away?

    In song--my fingers clasp the lyre in death--
    My spirit, swanlike, with departing breath
      To worlds unseen lifts her melodious cry:--
    How should the soul, of music wrought above,
    Save in the strains of harmony and love,
      Pour forth her farewell sigh?

    The lyre in breaking yields its loftiest sound;
    The dying lamp, ere quenched in gloom profound,
      Shoots forth a beam that shames its vanished rays;
    Heavenward the swan’s expiring glance is cast--
    While man alone weeps for his pleasures past,
      And counts his closing days.

    What is the worth of time that we deplore?
    A sun--a sun--an hour--and yet an hour--
      And each the last resembling in its flight!
    One brings the joys another bears away;
    Labor--grief--rest--a vision! Such the day!
      Then comes the unconscious night.

    Let him lament, who pressed with eager fears,
    Clings like the ivy, to the wreck of years;
      Whose hope can hail no future, holier morn:--
    I, who have held in earth nor root nor seed,
    Pass without effort, like the fragile weed
      On evening breezes borne.

    Like is the poet to the birds of flight
    Which shun the strand that ocean crests with white,
      Nor seek mid forest shades their brief repose;
    Poised on the wave, they pass the far-off shore
    With heedless warblings--and the world no more
      Than their wild voices, knows.

    No master’s hand along the sounding wires
    Guided mine own, nor taught my soul its fires;
      No lessons give what heaven alone doth send:
    The stream learns not from its deep source to sing--
    Eagles--to cleave the skies with soaring wing--
      The bee--its sweets to blend.

    The bell resounding from its dome on high,
    In glad or mournful anthem to the sky
      Peals for the rites of marriage or the grave;
    My being too, e’en like that fire-wrought bell,
    To every passion’s touch, in mighty swell,
      A solemn answer gave.

    ’Tis thus at night the wild harp, far and faint,
    Blending with wailing streams its airy plaint,
      Pours to the wind spontaneous melodies:
    The charmed traveller stays his step to hear,
    And thrilled with wonder, marvels whence so near
      The sounds celestial rise.

    Full oft my chords were steeped in tears and rue;
    For the soul’s flower are tears the heavenly dew--
      It blooms not in the sun’s unclouded ray.
    From broken cups the sparkling juice is shed,
    And the crushed herb, beneath our reckless tread,
      Spreads perfume on our way.

    God wrought my spirit of the subtle fire;
    All she approached her being did inspire.
      Ah, fatal gift! with love o’erfraught, I die.
    All I have touched resolves in dust away--
    So on the wasted heath the lightning’s ray
      Sinks, its own ruins nigh.

    Time? ’tis no more.--Fame?--What is to the sage
    This echo vain from age transferred to age?
      This name--the toy of centuries yet to dawn?
    Ye who would promise the far future’s reign,
    Hear--hear my harp’s last utterings.--’Tis in vain!
      With the gale’s sweep they’re gone!

    Ah! yield to craving death a hope more meet!
    Say, shall a sound so perishing and fleet
      Waft round a tomb the eternal voice of praise?
    Is this renown--a dying mortal’s sigh?
    And you who said his glory ne’er could die--
      Know you your term of days?

    Attest the gods--through life, that mighty name
    My lips have uttered but in scorn and shame--
      That name--the vaunt of man’s delirious pride:
    Proved more--still more its emptiness I find--
    And spurn it--like the parched and vapid rind
      Of fruits our lips have tried.

    In sterile hope of this uncertain fame
    Man to the tide commits a cherished name;
      From day to day wanes its receding light;
    With the bright wreck Time’s billow sports--yet on
    Year after year it floats--then plunges down,
      Whelmed in the abyss of night.

    One bark the more I launch upon the deep,
    To sink or float, sport of the tempest’s sweep.
      Can it avail me, if a name remain?
    The swan that sails in yon imperial sky--
    Asks he if yet his wings, self-poised on high,
      Shadow the subject plain?

    Then wherefore sing?--Ask of the minstrel bird
    Wherefore all night her plaintive voice is heard
      Mingled with streamlets moaning ’neath the shade!
    I sang--as man impulsive drinks the air--
    As breezes sigh--as rivers murmur--where
      They roam the silent glade.

    Love, prayer, and song to me existence gave:--
    Of all the earthly good that mortals crave,
      In this my farewell hour I nought regret;
    Nought--save the burning sighs that soar above,
    The lyre’s full ecstasy, or wordless love
      Of hearts that ne’er forget.

    To sweep the lyre at listening beauty’s feet--
    To mark from note to note the transport sweet
      Thrill her rapt bosom with responsive power;
    To draw the tears of rapture from her eyes,
    As morning dews are swept by zephyrs’ sighs
      From the full, bending flower--

    To watch her pensive glances meekly rise
    In hallowed transport to the arching skies,
      The seraph sounds pursuing in their flight--
    Then softly bend to earth, with fondness beaming,
    While from the downcast lids the soul is gleaming,
      Like trembling fires at night--

    To mark on her fair brow the shade of thought,
    Words failing to the lips with awe o’erfraught--
      And mid the silence deep at length to hear
    That word which fills the seraph’s holiest strain--
    The word--“I love!”--pronounced by gods and men--
      This--this is worth a tear!

    A tear! a vain regret--an idle breath!
    My soul mounts heavenward on the wings of death.
      I go--where all our loftiest wishes rise;
    I go--where hope hath fixed her burning gaze--
    I go--where float my lute’s high notes of praise--
      Where tend my latest sighs.

    Like birds that see through darkness of the tomb,
    The spirit’s eye hath pierced my gathering gloom,
      With prophet instinct pointing to the dead;
    Toward that vast future where our thoughts aspire,
    How oft, upborne to heaven on wings of fire,
      My soul hath death outsped!

    O’er my last dwelling grave no haughty name,
    Nor raise me monuments inscribed to fame.
      Are the dead jealous of their lonely dust?
    Leave only at my tomb enough of space,
    Where some sad wanderer near the sacred place
      May kneel in humble trust.

    Oft in the hush of secresy and gloom
    Hath prayer gone up beside the solemn tomb,
      And hope descended to the weary soul!
    The foot clings less to mortal weakness there--
    Heaven grows more vast--the spirit mounts its sphere
      Less bowed to earth’s control.

    Give to the winds, the flame, the ocean’s roar,
    These strings which to my soul respond no more.
      The harp of angels soon these hands shall sweep!
    Soon, thrilled like them with an immortal fire,
    Seraphic hosts, perchance, my ardent lyre
      In ecstasy shall steep!

    Soon--but the dull cold hand of death along
    My chords has struck:--one farewell gush of song
      Sad and receding--to the winds is given.
    They break--’tis gone!--my friends, be yours the hymn!
    My parting soul would rise, while earth grows dim,
      In melody to heaven!




                 I WOULD I WERE THE LIGHT-WINGED BIRD.


    I would I were the light-winged bird
      That carols on the breezy air,
    When summer songs of joy are heard,
      And fields and skies are fair!
    When verdure lives on every tree,
    And beauty blooms o’er land and sea.

    Then when the morn to deck her brow,
      A chaplet weaves of golden light,
    And sparkle on each waving bough
      Her gems, like diamonds bright--
    I’d spring to greet her with my song,
    The gayest of the festive throng.

    When silent noon usurped the sky,
      I’d hide me in the forest shade,
    Where leaves and blossoms, twined on high,
      An arching shelter made--
    While cooling streams, the earth to bless,
    Came gliding from the green recess.

    Of gladness wearied, I would go
      To seek the lonely captive’s cell;
    There, in his hours of bitterest wo,
      Of peace and hope to tell,
    I’d sing of freedom in his ear,
    And he should smile, that song to hear.

    And where the brave ship ploughed the sea,
      Her stately course I’d mark on high:
    The sailor, as he gazed on me,
      Should deem his home was nigh--
    Each voice in all that shouting band
    Should bless the herald of the land.

    New joys the fleeting hours would bring;
      And when the summer’s feast was o’er,
    I’d hie me on unwearied wing
      To some far favored shore--
    My vanished pleasures to renew
    ’Neath suns as bright, and skies as blue.




                          MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS.


    The heavens display thy glory, Lord of life!
    And the clear firmament, as with a tongue
    That ceaseless speaks, proclaims to earth--to man--
    Thy wondrous power--the everlasting theme
    From day to day, from night to night renewed.
    The night is deep, and ocean sleeps in calm;
    The winds are hushed, and with them hushed awhile
    The storm in human breasts.--Look on the heavens!
    Disturbed by fitful clouds, which recent winds
    Have torn and flung in fleecy whiteness there,
    I see amid the desert waste of blue,
    Bright stars, which gleam with interrupted light.
    Beautiful stars! yet, though careering now
    Triumphant through illimitable space
    With lustre unsubdued--ye fail at last!--
    The time must come, when from your glorious orbs
    The Eternal shall withdraw the kindling look
    That feeds your living fires--and all these suns,
    Extinct at once--shall perish! Thou Boötes,
    Brightest of all that walk the beamy North!
    Sunken and pale--thy golden car o’erturned,
    Shalt set in night! and Sirius, who dost shine
    In bright Orion’s train!--Ye Pleiades,--
    Who on your silver path majestic rise,
    Hymning your chorus to celestial ears,
    Your melody must cease!--Thou, radiant Ship,
    Which round and round the firmament, on high
    Hung like a sea, from immemorial time
    Hast sailed,--shalt sink, in waves of darkness whelmed.
    And thou, lone watcher of the ancient Pole,--
    Who through unnumbered years hast held unmoved
    Thy seat in Heaven, and marked the birth and death
    Of kindred worlds--shalt quit thy station too!
    The seaman’s guide no more! All fade away!
    And I, who gaze upon your glories now,
    Desponding and afar, must I too share
    The darkness of your ruin?--No--these powers
    Though shrouded, were not given to fail with yours!
    They live--to vaster and to loftier life
    For ever swelling--when your orbs shall pass
    Unheeded to the chaos whence they sprung.




                      SONG OF THE JEWISH EXILES.

 “Observing many Jews walking about the place, and reposing along the
 brook Kedron in a pensive mood, the pathetic language of the Psalmist
  recurred to me as expressing the subject of their meditations;--‘By
     the rivers we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion.’ On
frequently inquiring the motive that prompted them in attempting to go
  to Jerusalem, the answer was--‘To die in the land of our fathers.’”

                                                    _Wilson’s Travels._


    We wander where the cedars grow,
      And by the mountain side--
    And think with shame and sorrow now
      O’er Judah’s days of pride.
    Ere He who loved this holy place
    Left desolate his chosen race.

    In Kedron’s vale the clustering vine
      Still sheds its stores of gold--
    On Carmel’s top the sun-beams shine
      As in the days of old.
    The palm that waves beside the sea
    Is fresh--and green the olive tree.

    But ah! no day of hope returns
      For Salem’s blighted throne;
    Our desolated Zion mourns
      Her glorious beauty gone.
    Her withered land with carnage stained--
    Her fallen towers--and dust profaned.

    Mute is the harp whose lofty tone
      Made glad this sacred spot--
    Its broken chords are crushed and gone,
      Its melodies forgot.--
    And Zion’s place of holy birth
    Hath not a vestige left on earth.

    Yet better thus--than it should be
      In pristine beauty still,
    The theme of pagan mockery,
      The sport of pagan will.
    Better a wreck without a name,
    Than left a monument of shame.

    From earth’s remotest lands we come
      By the lone wilderness,
    To look upon our fathers’ home,
      Our fathers’ soil to press.
    And worn with exiles’ misery,
    Beside our fathers’ graves to die.




                           THE DRUIDS’ HYMN.

  “The Druids, till their religion had been interlarded with that of
   other nations, had neither images nor temples. They had generally
   those circles and altars, at which they performed their religious
 ceremonies, situated near the deep murmur of some stream, within the
      gloom of groves, or under the shade of some venerable oak.”

                                           _Smith’s Gallic Antiquities._


    Not in the pomp of temples made with hands,
    Nor where in pride the sculptured marble stands--
    Where pillared aisles their labored lines display,
    And painted casements mock the imprisoned day,
    Or the broad column swells--we worship Thee,
    Spirit Almighty!--but in this vast shrine,
    Where nature bids her elder glories shine,
    Fit emblems of thine own eternity.
    These woods, which through the lapse of time have given
    Their spreading branches to the light of heaven--
    This stream that bears its flowery stores along,
    And tells thy wisdom in its murmured song--
    Yon placid lake, in whose transparent breast
    Each bending shrub’s green image is at rest,
    Whose face anon the rippling breezes swell--
    The towering rocks which crown that shadowy dell--
    All speak thy presence. Thine immensity,
    That fills this breathing earth--the land--the sea--
    Moves in the winds, when soft as now and warm,
    Or bearing on their wings the hurrying storm--
    Shines in the glorious sun--the deep blue sky--
    And glows in yonder worlds that roll on high--
    Dwells also here--the lightest leaf that moves,
    Stirs with thy breath--Thy hand has raised these groves,
    And wreathed their foliage--and sent sportive light
    To sparkle in their blossoms, and make bright
    The leaping fount. Each tender flower that waves
    Aloft its head--each drop of spray that laves
    The smiling ground, and drinks the sun’s warm rays,
    An offering sends of fragrance and of praise
    To Thee, the source of every creature’s good:
    Then, in this calm and holy solitude,
    Let ours, ascending, mix with Nature’s voice--
    Let us, with sun, and wood, and stream rejoice--
    Join in the chant of universal love
    That swells from all below and all above,
    To hymn the Uncreate, Invisible,
    In whom all power, and life, and glory dwell.




                           THE BLIND HARPER.


    Rest thee--companion of my toilsome way--
    And thou, my gentle guide. Beside the fount
    That with its plashing coolness bathes my hand,
    And sends its dewy moisture to my brow,
    We’ll sit--till the fresh breath of evening comes
    To cool the burning air;--for I am faint
    Beneath the burden of the summer’s day--
    And feel my limbs bowed down with weariness.
    And thy step too, my boy, has been less light,
    Thy tone less buoyant, than when morning’s flowers
    Were fresh beneath thy feet.--How faintly now
    Rustles the drooping foliage--as the wind
    Comes like the breath of infancy, when hushed
    In quiet slumber on the mother’s breast.
    How beautiful must be this visible world
    To those whose sense can drink the glorious light
    Shed over nature’s face! for whom the day,
    Fresh dawning, brings in newer loveliness--
    The rich and treasured beauties which the earth
    Pours forth in glad profusion!--For my soul,
    A world of unpierced darkness lies before;
    The past, a waste where memory cannot pluck
    One solitary blossom. Closed to me
    Are nature’s stores of joy. In vain the sun
    Sheds blessings down from his ambrosial throne
    Upon a thousand charms--the lone old man
    Beholds them not. The voice of birds in spring,
    The whispered melody of murmuring streams,
    The hum of insects, and the myriad tones
    Of love and life, that on the liberal air,
    Fraught with the perfumes of the breezy flowers,
    Float like the breathings of some heavenly dream--
    Are tuneless music to a weary heart.
      And thou, my harp--last solace! though thy notes
    Are dear to him who wakes them--though the wild,
    Sad melody thou utterest brings back
    The visions of my youth and all I loved;
    Yet soon the hand that trembles o’er thee now
    Shall strike thy chords no more;--withered and rent,
    Like me, thou’lt lie neglected--rudely swept
    By stern and wintry winds, or crushed beside
    Thy master’s grave--his fitting monument.




                          THE MERMAID’S SONG.


    My ocean home--my ocean home!
      Far in the dark blue main--
    When shall the wearied exile roam
      Thy glassy halls again!
    Where is the wave that shadows thee,
    Haunt of remembered infancy!

    Where the broad flag that rests below
      In its gem-girdled sleep,
    And the yellow fan--and the dulse’s glow,
      That bloom in the sunless deep?
    And the purple rocks--and the coral grove--
    All dear to memory and to love.

    They may talk of their heaven of azure light,
      And their sphere-wrought harmony--
    And the glittering gems of their burning night--
      Yet what are these to me?
    I hear the deep wild strains that swell
    From the sea green depths of my ocean cell.

    Oh, give me back my pearl-lit home,
      Beneath the billowy main--
    And let the wearied exile roam
      Her own green halls again!
    Oh, let me leave this smiling shore,
    For my own shadowy caves once more.




                             SUSQUEHANNA.


    Softly the blended light of evening rests
    Upon thee, lovely stream! Thy gentle tide,
    Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky,
    Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind,
    Majestically flows. Oh! by thy side,
    Far from the tumults and the throng of men,
    And the vain cares that vex poor human life,
    ’Twere happiness to dwell, alone with thee,
    And the wide solemn grandeur of the scene.
    From thy green shores, the mountains that inclose
    In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain,
    Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend,
    Enrobed with clustering woods o’er which the smile
    Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed,
    Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues,
    And flinging o’er the lowliest leaf and shrub
    His golden livery. On the distant heights
    Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar
    Their burnished summits in the clear blue heaven,
    Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled eye
    Turns drooping from the sight.--Nature is here
    Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice doth tell
    In music never silent, of her power.
    Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she builds
    Such monuments of regal sway. These wide,
    Untrodden forests eloquently speak,
    Whether the breath of Summer stir their depths,
    Or the hoarse moaning of November’s blast
    Strip from the boughs their covering.

                                All the air
    Is now instinct with life. The merry hum
    Of the returning bee, and the blithe song
    Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude,
    Swell upward--and the play of dashing streams
    From the green mountain side is faintly heard.
    The wild swan swims the waters’ azure breast
    With graceful sweep, or startled, soars away,
    Cleaving with mounting wing the clear bright air.

    Oh! in the boasted lands beyond the deep,
    Where Beauty hath a birth-right--where each mound
    And mouldering ruin tells of ages past--
    And every breeze, as with a spirit’s tone,
    Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back,
    Waking the soul to lofty memories,
    Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill
    The heart with peace more pure?--Nor yet art thou,
    Proud stream! without thy records--graven deep
    On yon eternal hills, which shall endure
    Long as their summits breast the win’try storm,
    Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been
    The chroniclers of centuries gone by:
    Of a strange race, who trod perchance their sides,
    Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth
    Which now they shade. Here onward swept thy waves,
    When tones now silent mingled with their sound,
    And the wide shore was vocal with the song
    Of hunter chief, or lover’s gentle strain.
    Those passed away--forgotten as they passed;
    But holier recollections dwell with thee:
    Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud
    And solemn monuments. The mighty dust
    Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen,
    Hath mingled with the soil, and hallowed it.
    Thy waters in their brilliant path have seen
    The desperate strife that won a rescued world--
    The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts,
    And hymned their requiem.

                                Far beyond this vale
    That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers,
    Gay village spires ascend--and the glad voice
    Of industry is heard.--So in the lapse
    Of future years these ancient woods shall bow
    Beneath the levelling axe--and Man’s abodes
    Displace their sylvan honors. They will pass
    In turn away;--yet heedless of all change,
    Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on,
    Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee
    To mark the wrecks of time, and read their doom.




                               ROMANCE.

                            FROM THE FRENCH.


    How thrillingly remembrance clings,
      My native France, to thee!
    Oh, sister! life had joyous wings,
      When by the deep-blue sea,
    In the free light of childhood’s day,
    We sported childhood’s hours away.

    And thou rememb’rest too, when near
      The fire side’s glimmering light,
    Our mother chained the listening ear
      With tales that charmed the night;
    And smoothed our glossy locks, and prest
    Us fondly to her matron breast.

    And the old tower, where thou and I
      Together knelt to pray;
    Where matin voices swelled on high
      To hail the coming day;
    And vesper hymn, of praise and prayer,
    Rose sweetly on the Summer air.

    And the blue tranquil lake, with bank
      Rich with the gifts of Spring--
    Whose transient bubbles rose and sank,
      Touched by the swallow’s wing;
    When the sun swept across the deep
    In glory to his ocean sleep.

    And she--the loved, the lost, the friend
      Of youth’s unclouded years--
    Alas! remembrances but tend
      To dim the past with tears:
    Yet still my latest sigh shall be
    Sacred, my native land! to thee!




                        THE DEATH OF ST. LOUIS.

 St. Louis of France, who embarked with an army for Palestine in 1270,
   landing at Tunis, was besieged by the inhabitants in the town of
 Carthage, and with great numbers of his people, fell a victim to the
 plague. In his dying moments he caused himself to be removed from his
     couch, and placed upon ashes; and in that situation expired.


      The sun had well nigh set; on Afric’s strand
    The billows, tipped with silver, kissed the sand,
    As if they leaped rejoicing in the light
    Whose mellowing radiance ushered in the night.
    From cloudless skies the purple lustre fell
    O’er palmy plain, and hill, and shaded dell;
    While o’er the peopled city towering near,
    The rays gleamed back from shield and burnished spear,
    And the faint breezes many a banner stirred,
    And many a waving plume. Yet was there heard
    From those still streets no voice, nor martial clang
    Of trumpet’s thrilling note; nor wildly rang
    The war-steed’s tramp; nor burst the warrior’s song
    Forth in stern gladness from that ghastly throng.
    Silence unbroken, deep as of the dead,
    Brooded around; for Pestilence had spread
    Her withering wings, and quenched the soldier’s pride,
    And poisoned in each breast its bounding tide.
    Helpless in life’s last throb the champion lay,
    In his full manhood--he who in the day
    Of strength and youth had buckled on his heel
    The knightly spur, and grasped the avenging steel
    For France and glory; he, whose matchless might
    O’erwhelmed all foes; whose name, if heard in fight,
    Back from each front could make the life-blood start,
    And turn to coward’s every warrior’s heart.
    Moveless he lay--unmarked and powerless now,
    With none to wipe the death sweat from his brow:
    His hand was on his blade--his eager eye
    Glanced feebly upward to the glowing sky,
    As if to curse the fierce and searching air
    That scorched his brain and drank the life-blood there.
    Youth too was near; the fearless step, and glow
    Of kindling pride all changed and vanished now:
    And woman, with her deep devoted love
    That smiles at change--all mortal fear above;
    Pale, wasted, but intent alone to give
    Strength to the weak, and bid the sufferer live.
      Oh! different far their aspect and the scene
    From what its gorgeous pomp so late had been,
    When girded in their might that glorious band
    Had passed in triumph from their native land,
    Honored and hailed by noble and by slave,
    To reap the promised guerdon of the brave.
    With eager rapture in that kindling hour
    The gallant knight forsook his lady’s bower,
    Knelt in farewell, her hand with fervor pressed
    That bound the sacred symbol on his breast,
    And rushed to follow in the path of fame
    His royal chief. From breast to breast the flame
    Of holy ardor spread--their cause was blest
    By priest and saint; their swords should win the rest!
    France poured her bravest forth to swell the band,
    Beauty with tearful eyes and waving hand
    Watched their departure; while the trumpet’s peal
    From rank to rank was heard--the clash of steel
    The martial clangour answered--and the cry
    Echoed by joyous shouts, was--“France and victory!”
    Led by their princely chieftain they had passed
    Through ocean’s storms, nor feared the tempest’s blast;
    In trusting zeal to Afric’s shores of wo
    They came to seek them friends, and found a foe!
    Was this the fruit of all their welcome toil,
    Ignoble graves upon a foreign soil?
    Had they the joys of home and love resigned,
    Once all their own, such guerdon here to find?
    Thus must they perish--with besieging bands
    Of foes without the gates, while round them stands
    Yon frowning wall as if its massy height
    Had risen to mock the vainly yearning sight;
    And even the strength their sinking frames deny
    To seek the field where they might bravely die?
      And where was he, at whose beloved side
    Thousands had rushed to fall? He who defied
    The haughty Saracen, and came to free
    The holy shrine from heathen mockery--
    Their leader and their king? Alas! no more
    His hand shall wield the sceptre, or before
    His mailed bands, lead on in victory’s way:--
    Pale, haggard, motionless, the monarch lay
    Upon his couch, while mournful round him stood
    A few brave friends, who would have poured their blood
    To stay his ebbing life. From his damp brow
    The helmet was removed--too heavy now
    To press those temples; while upon his cheek
    The life-blood lingered in one last faint streak,
    And the dim haze of death crept slowly o’er
    The eye whose glances could command no more.
    Around, disease’s blighting touches told
    His fearful ravages on features bold
    And noble in their paleness; no face there
    Wore not the brand of suffering and despair;
    Yet all stood silent, for a heavier blow
    Made each in this forget his selfish wo:
    Tears fell unchecked and fast;--then while the hue
    Of hastening death grew deeper, wide they threw
    The casement; on his couch the day beam played--
    The admitted light dispelled the solemn shade:
    O’er his wan face the broad pale radiance streamed,
    And sadder still that place of mourning seemed.
    He turned and gazed. The sea-breeze fresh and light
    Blew on his cheek, while full before his sight,
    In distance softened, rolled the heaving sea;
    Its billows flashed as brightly, and as free
    Danced in the light, as when his fleet had pressed,
    Broad and triumphant, ocean’s willing breast.
    His ships were on the shore--dismantled, tost
    By every wave that lashed the sandy coast;
    Vain wrecks of hope and triumph, there they lay!
    Oh! never mortal tongue may dare to say
    What thoughts of anguish racked the monarch’s breast.
    “Accursed of God!” he cried--“and thus unblest,
    ’Tis not for me in kingly state to die!
    It may be that my late humility
    Will yet avert from those who linger here
    The wrath of heaven.--Prepare the sinner’s bier!”
    Striving to change his desperate will in vain,
    Weeping, they bear him to his bed of pain--
    The last he e’er shall press! “Thus, thus,” he cried--
    “In shame I pay the penalty of pride!
    Thus with repentance, and with humble trust
    In Him who smites, is dust consigned to dust!
    Giver of deathless life! GOD! who dost spare
    The guilty even in vengeance--hear my prayer!
    Accept my offered penance! Be thy dread
    Just chastisement poured only on my head!
    And save my people!”--As these accents passed
    From his pale lips, a flush, the deepest, last,
    Crimsoned his dying face: a sudden gleam
    Of martyr triumph kindled with its beam
    His closing eyes--and e’re its lustre fled,
    The self-devoted rested with the dead.




                         COMPLAINT OF HARALD.

                    IMITATED FROM AN ICELANDIC SONG.


    My gallant ship a rich freight bore
    Around Sicilia’s tideless shore;
    Laden with gold and warriors brave
    With rapid keel she ploughed the wave;
    We woo’d the fresh’ning breeze in vain--
    I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

    Strong in the pride of youthful might,
    Stern Drontheim’s troops I quelled in fight;
    Dire was the conflict, ’mid the throng,
    While pealed the war shouts loud and long:
    I slew their chieftain;--still in vain
    I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

    I’ve stemmed the troublous ocean’s tide,
    And met the tempest in its pride;
    When darkly scowled the foaming deep,
    My bark has cleft the billows’ sweep.
    Full dangerous were my toils and vain;
    I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

    With graceful arm I rein the steed,
    Unmatched in courage as in speed
    I skim the ice; and dextrous wield
    The dripping oar, and lance and shield.
    I forge the weapon; yet in vain
    I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

    I’m skilled to lead the hunter’s chase,
    Each Runic character I trace;
    I bear the gift of godlike fire,
    To wake the glories of the lyre.
    Its magic chords but speak in vain;
    I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

    Stern Norway’s highlands claim my birth;
    My arms have conquered Southern earth.
    In desert wilds my banners play,
    And the wide seas confess my sway.
    A reckless victor still in vain
    I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!




                                 ECHO.


    Echo was once a love-sick maid,
      They say:--The tale is no deceiver!
    Howe’er a woman’s form might fade,
      Her voice would be the last to leave her!




                               EPIGRAM.

                        FROM SAVERIO BETTINELLI.


    Before the shrine Aurelia pours her prayer--
    “Oh, let my suffering consort prove thy care!”
    The anxious spouse returned--the husband died:
    “Good saint! I did not ask so much!” she cried.




                        THE PICTURED ROCKS.[14]


    Earth hath her wondrous scenes--but few like this.
    Lo! how yon cliffs do spurn the swelling deep,
    Lifting their huge bare walls to middle heaven,
    As if they sought to reach it! On their front,
    Vast and unbroken, hangs no jutting crag
    Which beetling might arrest the weary eye,
    Or give a shelter to the shrieking bird
    That sought a resting place. The short gray moss
    Grows in their crevices--and here and there
    Some stunted shrub hangs midway from the top,
    Stretching its blighted branches in the air,
    Or scattering withered leaves. Their summits shoot
    Far upward to the sky--and sometimes there
    The eagle on his heavenward path will pause
    To rest his wearied wing, and gaze below
    Into the broad white lake, where snowy sails
    Swell in the summer breeze. But mortal foot
    Hath never climbed those heights. At their deep base
    The everlasting surge hath worn itself
    A pathway in the solid rock; and there,
    Far in those caverned chambers, where the warm
    Sweet sun-light enters not, is heard the war
    Of hidden waves, imprisoned tempests--bursting
    Anon like thunder, then with low deep moan
    Falling upon the ear--the mournful wail,
    As Indian legends say, of spirits accurst.

    There is a tale that once was current here,
    Which lent a wild and fearful interest
    To these stern rocks.--While yet the vales beyond
    Lay trackless by intruding stranger’s step,
    While the blithe savage in his untamed pride
    Roved the free woods, and dreamed not of the day
    When pale invaders should profane his home--
    An Indian maiden bloomed--among those tribes
    Renowned for loveliness. Her step was light
    As the young fawn’s; her dark bright eye spoke love,
    And youth, and happiness. Her fairy song
    Was first to greet the morning--first at eve
    Hailed with delight, when her young comrades left
    Their forest huts to dance in the green glade,
    Or pluck the wild flowers on the hillock sheen.
    She was beloved by rivals of her tribe,
    And for a season smiled alike on both.
    The one was bright and joyous as herself;
    He loved to bring her flowers--to snare with her
    The fish that sparkled in the silvery stream;
    To range the wood or shore, and rifle thence
    Some delicate feather, or some purple shell,
    To please a maiden’s fancy.--But his rival
    Bore a stern brow, a fierce unyielding soul.
    His was the skill to wield the hunter’s bow,
    Or the keen tomahawk. He trod the wood
    To wring some trophy of barbarian strength;
    To make its wide depths echo with the shriek
    Of slaughtered foes. His name was feared and hated
    Among the neighbouring tribes. The maid was proud
    That one so stern and terrible as he
    Should own her power--and though she loved him not,
    She still would smile and listen when he told
    His fierce exploits, and boasted deeds sublime.
      Time passed, and she grew weary of his gloom,
    And laughed to scorn his face of sullenness;
    And when at dusky eve his step was heard
    Approaching, she would quit her cottage home
    To shun his sight;--and seek the thicket’s shade
    To meet her gentler lover.
                        One bright sun-set
    She waited for his coming. Hours passed on,
    And the gray twilight faded from the hills,
    And from the sheltered valley. Still he came not.
    She turned to seek her home--when at her side
    A figure stood, panting with breathless haste.
    ’Twas he, the dark browed youth. His eye was wild,
    Blood on his forehead--and his reeking weapon
    Of the same crimson hue. She shrunk aghast,
    For her fears told what blood had dyed that blade.
    With unresisted might he bore her thence,
    Fleet as the eagle, to the dusky shore.
    Ere she had power to shriek--to strive--to pray--
    She was upon the wide and silent waters
    Alone with him. The night was gathering fast,
    And as their bark shot onward, o’er them rose
    Those massive rocks, shadowy and stern as now--
    On whose bleak sides the winds swept tremulously,
    And the dark wave broke on the stormy barrier
    Foaming and furious. As they neared the cliff,
    The sky was black with clouds--and hopelessly
    The maiden struggled with her fearful foe.
    They touched the frowning rock.--He rose to moor
    His vessel to its side. A blasted bough,
    Sole remnant of the cedar’s giant pride,
    He caught--it fell--the billow urged them on,
    And high above the rushing waters’ moan
    Sounded her shriek--as o’er the dashing waves
    They entered that wild chasm.
                              They were seen
    No more; nor when the sunny morn looked forth,
    Was trace e’er found of that ill-fated pair,
    The maiden and the murderer. Some have said
    That both soon perished in the cavern’s depths--
    Others, that still at midnight may be seen
    That bark with its dread tenants, gliding slow
    O’er the hushed wave! Yet--false or sooth the tale--
    No wandering peasant now at twilight’s hour,
    When silence hallows the pure lake’s repose,
    Or when the tempest with his wings of darkness
    Broods o’er the deep--will pass that fearful spot.




                                SUNSET.


    The sun sinks broadly in the west;
      And fainter as his radiance glows,
    Scarce heeded falls o’er nature’s breast
      The languor of a soft repose.
    Each breeze is hushed--each leaf is still--
      The wild bird pours his song no more;
    And gliding round yon graceful hill,
      The meek stream laves the silent shore.

    Oh--vain as fair--thou fleeting light!
      Who now may in thy charms confide?
    So shine earth’s pageants, false and bright,
      And pass like sails on ocean’s tide.
    In swift succession onward go
      To live and fail--day after day;
    Thus human joys deceitful glow,
      And fade like waning light away.

    I’ve wandered oft amid these bowers,
      And heard sweet notes from every bough;
    And quaffed their fragrance from the flowers,
      Where all is sad and silent now.
    But these in ruddy morning’s smile
      Shall live and bloom as bright again;--
    I, constant in my grief the while,
      In gloom unchanged alone remain.




                           TO THE LANCE-FLY.


      Forth with the breezy sweep
    Of spirit wings upon thy path of light,
    Thou creature of the sunbeam! upward keep
        Thine earth-defying flight!

      The glowing west is still;
    In hallowed slumber sinks the restless sea;
    And heaven’s own tints have wrought o’er tree and hill
        A purpling canopy.

      Go--bathe thy gaudy wing
    In freshened azure from the deepening sky--
    In the rich gold yon parting sunbeams fling,
        Ere yet their glories die.

      The boundless air is thine,
    The gorgeous radiance of declining day;
    Those painted clouds their living hues entwine
        To deck thy heavenward way.

      Soar on! my fancies too
    Would quit awhile the fading beauties here,
    To roam with thee that waste of boundless blue!
        And view yon heaven more near.

      Lost--in the distant haze,
    Ere my bewildered thoughts for flight were free!
    Farewell! in vain upon the void I gaze,--
        I cannot soar like thee!




                      THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH.

                      FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.


    Thus Jove to men from his eternal heaven
      O’er earth new formed: “Your’s, mortals, is the prize;
    To you in endless heritage ’tis given;
      Hence,--and divide the bounty of the skies!”

    And, lo! each mortal to his portion sped,
      Old men and eager youth; none idle stood:
    The husbandman seized on the fruitful mead,--
      The stately huntsman chose the sounding wood;

    The merchant treasured up his various stores,
      The priest consoled him with Falernian wine;
    The monarch placed his bar on streams and shores,
      And proudly cried,--“The tithe of all is mine!”

    Listless and late, when the partition vast
      Had long been made, from far the poet came;
    But ah! the lots of fate already cast,--
      No part remained to meet the wanderer’s claim.

    “Alas, alas! I, of the sons of earth
      Alone forgot!--thy faithful and thine own!”
    Then broke the flood of wild complainings forth,
      As rushed the suppliant to the Thunderer’s throne.

    “If idly thus amid the land of dreams
      Thou roam’st,” the God returned, “upbraid not me!
    Where wert thou when yon world, too small, it seems,
      Was portioned out?” Replied the bard,--“With thee!

    “Mine eyes entranced hung on thy visage bright,
      My ears drank harmonies of heavenly birth;
    And oh forgive! if, drunken with thy light,
      My soul forgot she e’er belonged to earth!”

    The Thunderer smiled: “Earth is no longer mine,--
      To others given her fruits, her woods, her sea;
    Yet, wanderer, this my heaven of light divine,
      Come when thou wilt, is open hence to thee!”




                    IN YONDER LAKE OF SILVER SHEEN.


    In yonder lake of silver sheen,
      A heaven of glory shines;
    There sunset’s glancing beams are seen--
      There the pale moon reclines.

    Thus should the soul--a waveless sea,
      From which earth’s cares are driven,
    From passion’s ruffling tempest free--
      Reflect the light of heaven.




                             THE SWALLOWS.

                      FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.


    Captive on Afric’s barren shore,
      And bending ’neath the Moorish chain,
    A warrior cried--“I see once more
      The birds that fly from winter’s reign.
    Swallows! which Hope with welcomed glance
      Hath followed o’er the burning sea,
    Ye left my native sunny France--
      What speak ye of that land to me?

    Bring me, I pray--an exile sad--
      Some token of that valley bright,
    Where in my sheltered childhood glad,
      The future was a dream of light.
    Beside the gentle stream, where swell
      Its waves beneath the lilac tree,
    Ye saw the cot I love so well--
      And speak ye of that home to me?

    Perhaps your eyes beheld the day
      Beneath the roof that saw my birth;
    Have mourned with one to grief a prey--
      A mother by her lonely hearth.
    Day after day my step she hears,
      And looks the well known form to see;
    Listens--then weeps more bitter tears--
      Oh! speak ye of her love to me?

    Is my fair sister yet a bride?
      Saw ye the gay and youthful throng
    That hailed, close pressing to her side,
      The nuptial day with smile and song?
    My comrades who for glory burned,
      And sought the fight with kindred glee,
    To that sweet vale have they returned?
      Speak ye of all those friends to me?

    Above their buried forms perchance
      Strange footsteps tread the valley’s ways;
    Hushed is the bridal song and dance--
      My home some other lord obeys.
    For me ascends no mother’s prayer,
      Though here I languish to be free;--
    Birds that have breathed my country’s air,
      Tell ye my country’s woes to me?”




                                NATURE.

                      FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.


    How wondrous Nature’s plan appears,
      In pleasures fruitful as in woes!
    The world immersed in hopeless tears,
      An ample meed of suffering knows.
    But Beauty binds us to her feet,
    And still the mantling cup is sweet.
    Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
    In you the earth forgets her care.

    In every land destruction’s wave
      O’er buried plains triumphant rode:
    Alas! even now an ark may save
      Some wretch who flies the advancing flood.
    But see! the rainbow shines above,
    And toward them comes the peaceful dove--
    Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
    In you the earth forgets her care.

    What means this field of burning death?
      Proud Etna heaves, by fury riven,
    And seems to hurl from depths beneath,
      Hell’s weapons toward the kindling heaven.
    Soon sink the flames below the plain--
    The shaken world grows calm again.
    Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
    In you the earth forgets her care.

    New griefs upon their path have sped--
      The plague unfolds his wings of night,
    Whose influence o’er the victim shed
      Arrests in death his feeble flight.
    Lo! health returns! serene the sky--
    The doomed one feels a friend is nigh.
    Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
    The earth in you forgets her care.

    War fills the cup of pain once more--
      We meet the challenge monarchs gave;
    The earth that drank the fathers’ gore
      Has given the reckless sons a grave.
    But tyrants weary of the steel,
    And mourn the wounds they yet may heal.
    Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
    In you the earth forgets her care.

    No more at Nature’s ills we’ll frown,
      But welcome chant for smiling spring;
    With roses from her wreath we crown
      Our glowing temples while we sing.
    Heedless of pallid slavery’s check,
    Amid a crumbling empire’s wreck--
    Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
    In you the earth forgets her care.




                                LINES.


    I live the thrall of visions! in each dream
      That comes my soul in fancy’s hues to steep,
    The illusion bright reality I deem,
      Smile in its joys--in its mock sorrows weep.
    When comes the waking hour of thought, to give
      My spirit back to reason, and dispel
    The phantoms frail its folly could believe?
      Ah! not in poesy alone doth dwell
    That charm fantastic! but whate’er may seem
      Truth in this being vain--or hope or rest,
    Is falsehood all--life is a fevered dream!
      A pageant wild, where none are truly blest.




                      FRAGMENT FROM “ILDEGONDA.”


    Serene the heavens--while in the deep blue sky
      The moon rode forth, and poured her silvery light,
    Within the turret’s shadow wandering nigh,
      An armed warrior met the maiden’s sight.
    No voice was heard; nor breeze’s whispered sigh,
      To break the brooding quiet of the night,
    Save, ever and anon, the warning sound
    Of sentry pacing on his guarded round.

    Then rose the song.--“Of pilgrimage the sign,
      The red cross, bound upon her snowy breast,
    Her regal halls Fiorina did resign
      To follow him her maiden love had blest;
    And side by side in holy Palestine,
      Their arms oft bowed the Moslem’s haughty crest.
    They fell together--bravest of the brave,
    And found in that bright land a common grave.

    “’Twas Autumn--and the morning like a bride--
      The last for her!--came forth in fair array;
    ‘My plighted love!’ her faithful Sveno cried--
      ‘Seek not with me--seek not the fight to-day!
    Fierce slaughter waits to roll his crimson tide--
      Oh, save thyself! nor tempt the dangerous fray!’
    She listened not;--they fell among the brave,
    And found in that bright land a common grave.

    “Their corpses pale were found upon the plain
      Where the stern conflict deadliest had been:
    In mute embrace the undivided twain
      With love on each dead feature stamped, were seen.
    Their spirits blest repose from earthly pain
      In God’s own peace, ineffable, serene.
    Their bodies--where they fell among the brave,
    Have found in that bright land a common grave.”

    He ceased; but ceased not yet his voice’s tone
      That broke so late the silence deep and dread:
    From those high walls, so frowning, vast, and lone,
      Back the sad notes in echoed murmurs sped.
    The far-off fields heard too the solemn moan,
      Where o’er the herbage night her dews had shed,
    More faint and faint--till blending with the roar
    Of distant flood--or winds--’tis heard no more.




                   A LIFE SPENT IN PURSUIT OF GLORY.

                     FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.


    Man’s new-born life is like the crystal rill,
    Nameless and lowly issuing from the rock;
    While in the clear deep bed by nature scooped
    As in a cradle noiseless, calm, it sleeps,
    Flowers crown its bank with perfume, and serene
    The blue of heaven descends upon its breast:--
    But from the hill’s close arms escaped, when spread
    Its waves o’er neighbouring plains--with river slime
    How swell its billows, and with bloated bulk
    Grow pale and putrid! From its shores recede
    The wonted shade, and but the naked rock
    Receives its fugitive waves. Cleaving new paths,
    The graceful windings of its parent vale
    It scorns to follow--but ’neath arches deep,
    Rolling with haughty port, there gains a name
    As sounding as its surge. Still onward rushing
    With bounds impetuous; bearing in its path
    The ships, the tumult, and the mire of cities!
    Each stream that swells its course another change--
    Till swoln with waters various and corrupt,
    Troubled though great, its being vain resigning,
    In the sea’s breast it pours its pride and slime!




                               THE WISH.

                           FROM THE ITALIAN.


    Oh! that in some far solitude,
    Where earthly cares might ne’er intrude,
    From man’s vain pomp and friendship free,
    My lot of joy were fixed with thee!
    Where thou alone shouldst prove and share
    My wealth, my greatness, and my care;
    Where all the heaven I sought on high
    Should be the azure of thine eye;
    And every flower that decks the field
    In thy pure brow and cheek revealed;
    Where gazing on thy face the while,
    And basking in thy sunny smile,
    Like some fair river’s noiseless tide
    The stream of passing years should glide;
    And like the clear and gushing spring,
    Life’s fount still new-born raptures fling.
    There, when in happiness grown old,
    The fires of youthful hearts are cold,
    And youthful pleasures fleet away
    Before our locks of sober gray;
    Should love, retired with modest grace,
    To holier friendship yield his place;
    And from the ashes of his fires,
    Though all their brilliant light expires,
    Content should bud, to gild the gloom,
    And flourish in perennial bloom!




                      THE NORTHERN HUNTER’S SONG.


        The lingering morn is come--
    The long sweet morn of summer’s day!
        The brooding mists are flown;
    And brightly on his golden way
        Comes the long absent sun.
    With the mirth of light hearts, and the horn’s deep sound,
    And the stirring bay of the restless hound,
        Away from the hunter’s home!

        Away to the forest vast!
    The warm rays have shone on peaks of snow--
        They have vanished beneath the gleam,
    And the dark bare rocks on the mountain’s brow
        Now greet the returning beam!
    O’er the rushing stream from his fetters free,
    O’er the blossoming heath, and the heaving sea,
        A mantle of light is cast!

        Hark--to the voice of song!
    The thrush’s soft tones on the passing breeze
        Like measured music float;--
    And afar is heard, through the bending trees,
        The capercali’s note.
    The shepherd’s low pipe, from the distant shore,
    Is blent with the hoarse waves’ mingled roar,
        And summons his fleecy throng.

        Roused by the sea wind’s sweep,
    The eagle has flown from his cliff-built nest,
        And stoops to the dashing spray
    That foams on the billow’s whitened breast,
        To grasp his unwary prey.
    The brown bear, to drink at his founts again,
    And trample the flowers on the verdant plain,
        Has sprung from his wintry sleep.

        In the sunlight’s gladdening ray
    The red deer bounds from his rocky lair,
        To roam in sportive pride,--
    And wild birds abroad in the free bright air
        Our lingering footsteps chide!
    While nature anew to life is born,--
    With mirthful shout--and the sounding horn--
        To the woods and the hills--away!




                       FROM IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE.

                       THE POET’S LAST DWELLING.


    Oh! in this hallowed peace let me descend
      To the dark chambers of the silent tomb!
    And step by step, at length the journey end
      Of this frail life--so dear--so fraught with gloom.
    The parted day renewing beams attend;
      But never from its long and quiet home
    This dust shall rise, to gaze on mead or isle
    With flowers bedecked, or sunset’s golden smile.

    Perchance by those green hills some future day,
      Hither a friend his listless step may turn,
    And asking to my humble home the way,
      The nameless stone that marks my bones may learn:
    Reared ’neath yon oak where now full oft I stray,
      When for cool shade and soft repose I yearn;
    Where tranced in solemn thought I linger long,
    Or pour in Zephyr’s ear my pensive song.

    That very shade shall shelter me in death,
      Which I so loved while life this frame did know;
    These flowers that soothe me with their fragrant breath,
      In rank luxuriance o’er my head shall grow.
    ‘Oh! happy thou who sleep’st this sod beneath!’
      My friend will say--‘whose path, though lone and low,
    Hath led thee to a better land at last,
    Where thou canst smile at fate, nor feel his blast!’


                              TO EVENING.

    Whether in smiles and tears, with dripping hair,
      Spring gently woo thee to her flowery bed--
    Or with white feet and glowing bosom bare,
      To meet thee Summer bound with lightsome tread--
    Or Autumn in thy lap with generous care
      Delight his relics and his gifts to shed--
    Thee, Evening! will I sing!--and my poor lay
    Oh! may it e’er prolong thy welcome stay!


                      TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

    If thou with me among these hills couldst stray,
      Glad wouldst thou mark my spirit’s graver tone;
    Thou, who with mild reproach didst oft essay
      To wake in me thoughts lofty as thine own.
    From folly-nurtured love’s bewildering sway
      To set me free, thy hand had power alone;
    While I, though yet my heart to weakness clung,
    With rapturous fondness on thy lessons hung.

    But Oh! not yet--though heard no longer here--
      The music of thy voice is dead to me!
    It speaks within, in accents strong and clear,
      Deep from the heart devoted still to thee.
    And this its burthen--‘Is the shadowy bier
      So dread a thing? So fearful can it be
    In life’s warm prime to feel the spoiler’s blight?
    Oh! not to those who know--to live aright!’




                  FROM MOUNTAINS AT THE DAWN OF DAY.


    From mountains at the dawn of day
      That wide and far their shadows send,
    Beneath the sun’s more perfect ray
      Brief and more brief the shades extend.
    Till, risen the god to noontide height,
    They’re bathed in living, gorgeous light.

    ’Tis thus the soul, through earthly taint
      Though first its shrouded glories shine,
    Spurns at the gloom each hour more faint,
      And purer drinks the beam divine.
    Till wrapt in rays from shadow free,
    The noon-tide of eternity.




                          THE WITCHES’ REVEL.


    On with the dance! let the echoing earth
    From the depth of its caverns resound to our mirth!
    ’Tis the blithe hour of revel! the moon’s hated light
    Is quenched in the scowl of the tempest-winged night--
    The spirits of death and of vengeance are nigh,
    And their voice of wail moans to the darkened sky!

    On with the dance! On the far battle field
    Dimmed with gore is the glitter of helmet and shield;
    The stream of fierce carnage still reeks on the air,
    And the raven stoops earthward, his banquet to share!
    Let him feast! the last breath from the vanquished is sped--
    But our song shall exult o’er the festering dead!

    On with the dance! Of the red lightning’s gleam
    We will twine us a wreath that in triumph shall beam;
    For the pale flowers of earth, in that garland to shine,
    Of our victim’s torn limbs gasping trophies we’ll twine;
    For the rich mantling wine cup of luxury to tell,
    With their hearts’ drained life-blood our goblets shall swell!

    Sisters--rejoice! on yon foam-crested wave
    There are ships going down with the fair and the brave;
    As the storm petrel flaps his wing fitfully there,
    Ye may hear in the wild blast the curse and the prayer!
    Ye may hear the last groan as the victim sweeps by--
    Ye may catch the last gleam of the quivering eye!

    Wake the loud revel! The roar of the sea,
    And the drowning ones’ death-shriek, our music shall be!
    While our beacon of vengeance illumines the night,
    And the deep thunder peals from his mantle of light--
    While the freed winds rejoice--and the fierce lightnings glance--
    ’Tis the blithe hour of revel! On--on with the dance!




                                 SONG.


    Come, fill a pledge to sorrow,
      The song of mirth is o’er,
    And if there’s sunshine in our hearts,
      ’Twill light our theme the more.
    And pledge we dull life’s changes,
      As round the swift hours pass--
    Too kind were fate, if none but gems
      Should sparkle in Time’s glass.

    The dregs and foam together
      Unite to crown the cup--
    And well we know the weal and wo
      That fill life’s chalice up!
    Life’s sickly revellers perish,
      The goblet scarcely drained;
    Then lightly quaff, nor lose the sweets
      Which may not be retained.

    What reck we that unequal
      Its varying currents swell--
    The tide that bears our pleasures down,
      Buries our griefs as well.
    And if the swift winged tempest
      Have crossed our changeful day,
    The wind that tossed our bark, has swept
      Full many a cloud away!

    Then grieve not that nought mortal
      Endures through passing years--
    Did life one changeless tenor keep,
      ’Twere cause indeed for tears.
    And fill we, ere our parting,
      A mantling pledge to sorrow;
    The pang that wrings the heart to-day
      Time’s touch will heal to-morrow!




                              SODUS BAY.


          I bless thee--native shore!
    Thy woodlands gay, and waters sparkling clear!
          ’Tis like a dream once more
    The music of thy thousand waves to hear!
          As murmuring up the sand,
    With kisses bright they lave the sloping land.

          The gorgeous sun looks down,
    Bathing thee gladly in his noontide ray;
          And o’er thy headlands brown
    With loving light the tints of evening play.
          Thy whispering breezes fear
    To break the calm so softly hallowed here.

          Here, in her green domain,
    The stamp of Nature’s sovereignty is found;
          With scarce disputed reign
    She dwells in all the solitude around.
          And here she loves to wear
    The regal garb that suits a queen so fair.

          Full oft my heart hath yearned
    For thy sweet shades and vales of sunny rest!
          Even as the swan returned,
    Stoops to repose upon thine azure breast,
          I greet each welcome spot
    Forsaken long--but ne’er, ah, ne’er forgot!

          ’Twas here that memory grew--
    ’Twas here that childhood’s hopes and cares were left;
          Its early freshness too--
    Ere droops the soul, of her best joys bereft.
          Where are they?--o’er the track
    Of cold years, I would call the wanderers back!

          They must be with thee still!
    Thou art unchanged--as bright the sunbeams play--
          From not a tree or hill
    Hath time one hue of beauty snatched away.
          Unchanged alike should be
    The blessed things so late resigned to thee!

          Give back, oh, smiling deep!
    The heart’s fair sunshine, and the dreams of youth
          That in thy bosom sleep--
    Life’s April innocence, and trustful truth!
          The tones that breathed of yore
    In thy lone murmurs, once again restore!

          Where have they vanished all?--
    Only the heedless winds in answer sigh--
          Still rushing at thy call,
    With reckless sweep the streamlet flashes by!
          And idle as the air,
    Or fleeting stream, my soul’s insatiate prayer!

          Home of sweet thoughts--farewell!
    Where’er through changeful life my lot may be,
          A deep and hallowed spell
    Is on thy waters and thy woods for me!
          Though vainly fancy craves
    Its childhood with the music of thy waves!




                                NOTES.


[1] Page 13. _The Sepulchres._

This poem was composed by Foscolo during a temporary retirement to
Brescia, in Northern Italy. The occasion which called it forth was
a law passed about that time in the Italian kingdom, directing that
all burials should take place without the confines of the cities,
forbidding inscriptions or any mark of distinction upon the graves,
and prohibiting the approach of visiters to the cemeteries. Though
intended to obviate the inconveniencies arising from the ancient
custom of interring the dead in the churches, this law was carried to
an arbitrary and unnecessary extreme; for it consigned the departed
to one indiscriminate place of sepulture, and denied to the mourner
the last consolation of grief. Our poet, fired with indignation at
this sacrilegious infringement of the solemn rights of nature, gave
utterance to his feelings in the work just mentioned, in which he
dwells on the salutary influence over the living of their veneration
for the dead; and proves the mischievous effects of that policy
which would invade the sacredness of a sentiment so holy.--_American
Quarterly Review_, Vol. xvi. page 76.

[2] Page 15. _That stung the Sardanapalus of our land._

“_Il Lombardo Sardanapalo._” The Prince Belgiojoso, severely satirized
in Parini’s poem of “The Day.”

[3] Page 17. _To scoop from it his own triumphal bier._

Nelson is said to have carried about with him, sometime before his
death, a coffin made from the main mast of the ship _Oriente_; that
when he had finished his career in this world, he might be buried in
one of his trophies.

[4] Page 17. _The spot where sleeps enshrined that noble genius._

Nicolo Machiavelli.

[5] Page 17.

                  ----_when I saw
    His mausoleum_.

Michel Angelo.

[6] Page 17. _And his, who ’neath Heaven’s azure canopy._

Galileo.

[7] Page 18. _That cheered the Ghibelline’s indignant flight._

Dante.

[8] Page 18. _To him, the chosen of Calliope._

Petrarch was born in exile, of Florentine parents.

[9] Page 19. _And high o’er all, the Fates’ mysterious chant._

Popular rumor related that over the field of Marathon the sailor could
hear all night the trampling of horses, and witness the encounter of
spectral combatants.

[10] Page 19.

        _And the proud surge exult, that bore of old
    Achilles’ armor to Rhetœum’s shore,
    Where Ajax sleeps._

“The shield of Achilles, stained with the blood of Hector, was by an
unjust sentence adjudged to Ulysses; but the sea which snatched it from
the wreck, caused it to swim, not to Ithaca, but to the tomb of Ajax;
thus manifesting the unfair judgment of the Greeks, and restoring to
Salamis the honor due.--It is said that the story of the arms borne by
the waves to the sepulchre of Telamon was current among the Eolians who
afterwards inhabited Troy. The promontory of Rhetœum, in the Thracian
Bosphorus, was famous among all the ancients for the tomb of Ajax.”

[11] Page 32. _To a Waterfall._

These lines were suggested by a Portuguese sonnet; but too much has
been added to entitle them to be called a translation.

[12] Page 47. _The Guardian Genius._

This poem, from Lamartine’s “Destinies of Poetry,” is supposed to be
sung by the female peasants of Calabria.

[13] Page 66. _Incantation of Hervor._

This is not a translation of the celebrated Icelandic lyric, which
consists of a dialogue between HERVOR and ARGANTYR; but merely a
sketch of what the heroic daughter may be supposed to have said, when
trying the power of the spells of poesy to wake her ancestor from the
dead, and compel him to give up his sword, which had been buried with
him. The sword in question had been made by the dwarfs, and was taken
by Angrim, the father of Argantyr, from the grandson of Odin.

[14] Page 103. _The Pictured Rocks._

On the southern shore of Lake Superior.




                           TERESA CONTARINI:

                               A TRAGEDY,
                            _IN FIVE ACTS_.

             FIRST PERFORMED AT THE PARK THEATRE, NEW YORK,
                              MARCH, 1835.




PERSONS REPRESENTED.


DOGE OF VENICE.
FOSCARINI.
CONTARINI.  }
LOREDANO.   }  _Inquisitors of State._
BADOERO.    }
VENIERO.
VINCENTIO.
LEONARDO.
STENO.      }  _Officers of the Inquisition._
PASCALI.    }
BELTRAMO, _the Jailer_.
MEMMO, _Captain of the Guard_.
MARCO.
STEFANO.

TERESA.
FIORILLA.
MATILDA.

FIRST ATTENDANT.
_Senators--Guards--Attendants, &c._


SCENE VENICE.

_The passages marked with inverted commas were omitted in the
representation._




                           TERESA CONTARINI.




                                ACT I.


                               SCENE I.

_Grand Council Chamber._ DOGE _and Senators discovered in debate_.

    DOGE.

    I would not counsel to severity.
    If Venice be in danger, she has arms
    To wield the sword against all threatening foes,
    And hearts enough to bleed in her defence.

    LOREDANO.

      Should we not watch more jealous o’er her rights?
    And rather crush rebellion in the bud,
    Than pamper it into luxurious growth
    By our delay? Spain looks with eager eye
    To find some crevice in the wall of safety
    Wherewith our vigilance hath hedged the state:--
    France joins the envious league;--their minions lurk
    Within the city’s bounds, to discontent
    Stirring the populace.--But one way offers
    Security--let laws too often slighted
    Reign in full force.

    CONTARINI.

                         It doth become us here
    To feign sleep, but unclose a thousand eyes;
    To treasure up each doubtful sign and word,
    To write down sighs.

    LOREDANO.

                         Let all suspected die!
    Let the first breath of treason be the signal
    To crush the offender.

    VENIERO.

                           For the guilty, arm
    Your power with all its terrors. Be severe,
    And firm, but frame not laws whose weight must fall
    Upon a thousand innocent heads, to reach
    One that deserves their penalty.

    LOREDANO.

                                     Would you bar
    The course of justice?

    VENIERO.

                           Justice! ye misname
    What is but cruelty. Is not your power
    Already vast enough? If the pale slave
    Whisper of you, he bends his brow to earth,
    Lifting in awe his trembling hand toward heaven,
    And mutters “_Those above!_” A power so boundless,
    Why would you make but tyranny?

    LOREDANO.

                                    ’Tis right
    It should be so. The multitude esteem
    Each god a tyrant, and all tyrants gods.
    Not by the force of hostile powers without,
    A state will fall, if in herself she bear not,
    As doth the human frame, those hidden seeds
    That ripen for destruction.--Ours the charge
    To seek and root them out.--Look on the years
    Of our brave ancestors. The sacred yoke
    Of laws severe, inflexible and just,
    They bore unmurmuring--and the citizen
    Learned here the lesson to all Italy
    Besides, unknown--to govern and obey!
    ‘On such a policy shone days of splendor:
    Easy was then the task to put to rout
    The Gallic fleets; to humble Frederick’s pride
    In a single conflict--and on every tower
    Raised by our foes beyond our country’s bounds,
    To plant the Lion standard of St. Mark.
    Asia then trembled for her kingdom’s safety,
    Though Europe intervened; and ’gainst all Europe
    Leagued for our injury, alone and armed
    Stood forth the genius of Venetian power.’
    Now times are changed. Now crime unblushing claims
    Impunity. In this degenerate age,
    Nor evils will be borne--nor remedies!
    And we are branded with the name of tyrants,
    By every worthless flatterer of the people
    Who boasts himself a statesman, and would here
    Let crime pass scatheless.

    VENIERO.

                               Nay--why fix you thus
    Your glance on me? am I the “worthless flatterer”
    Whom you would here denounce?

    LOREDANO.

                                  Even as you will--
    Your conscience must reply.

    DOGE.

                                Nay--nay--my lords,
    Descend not here to brawl. Retire--and let
    The vote be taken.

                             [CONTARINI _and_ BADOERO _count the votes_.

                       Senators of Venice,
    Ye to the public eye should be as gods,
    Not men thus passion moved.

    CONTARINI.

                                Fathers! the laws have triumphed.
    Read the decree.

    BADOERO (_reads_.)

    “It is hereby enacted, that if any Patrician be seen to hold
    intercourse in secret with the ambassadors of France or Spain, or
    pass their thresholds after sunset, he shall be held guilty of
    treason and shall suffer its penalty.”

    DOGE.

    ’Tis well; such is the Senate’s voice. And now
    Another duty. Summon Foscarini.

                        [_A guard goes out, and returns with_ FOSCARINI.

                                    Antonio Foscarini!
    To you our council hath decreed the trust
    Of the embassy to Switzerland. We will
    That you depart to-night.

    FOSCARINI.

                              My gracious lord,
    Humble, yet grateful, I receive the trust
    You’re pleased to invest me with. My years are few,
    Yet ripe for strict obedience.

    DOGE (_rising_.)

                                   It grows late.
    The council is dissolved.

                                 [_Exeunt all but_ DOGE _and_ FOSCARINI.

                              Small time remains
    To show thee, Foscarini, ere we part,
    The prince merged in the friend:--I was thy father’s.
    Say, if my efforts can in aught avail
    To do thee service?

    FOSCARINI.

                      I do prize your goodness:
    Will tax it for one boon. There is a maid
    Within this town, I speak not of her beauty,
    For that were idle, and you’d smile perchance,
    At lover’s rhapsodies----

    DOGE.

                              Well, cut them short;
    Her name?

    FOSCARINI.

              She is the daughter of Veniero;
    All Venice knows his feud with Loredano,
    Their strife and hate. My suit is briefly this--
    From Loredano and his secret arts,
    Protect Teresa and her sire.

    DOGE.

                                 You ask
    As if the Doge did govern here, and were not
    Most bound to servitude. Yet will I watch
    Over their safety.

    FOSCARINI.

                       And if peril threaten,
    Inform me of the danger?

    DOGE.

                             That I promise.

    FOSCARINI.

    Enough! with lighter heart I shall now leave
    My native city. Fare you well!

    DOGE.

                                   Heaven guard you.

                                                    [_Exeunt severally._


                               SCENE II.

_A Street._--_Enter_ VINCENTIO _and_ LEONARDO, _with other citizens_.

    VINCENTIO.

    Talk not of patience here! On every pleasure
    Some spy doth watch, in mirth’s unguarded hour
    To seize stray thoughts which haply may transgress
    The straitened bounds of prudence.

    LEONARDO.

                                       Hush! you tread
    Close on its limits now. The mighty ones
    Are like the gods, invisible and present.

    VINCENTIO.

    Aye, like the gods too, that their cunning visits
    Their destined victims with a wholesome madness!
    By Heaven! I’d rather grapple with the Hun,
    Or serve the turbaned Turk, than linger life out
    In such concealed bondage! ’Twas but now,
    Even at the masque, I saw the peering eyes
    Of that dark villain, Steno, fixed upon me.
    I’ve marked him oft--he serves the state in secret!
    Mine arm ached for the dagger, as I watched
    His lowering face.

    LEONARDO.

                       Are you alone in fear?
    Our Senators----

    VINCENTIO.

    Are tigers clothed in robes.

    LEONARDO.

    Not all. Yet when the voice of mirth is heard,
    If they appear, in terror steals away
    Each startled reveller, and all around
    Is silent as the grave--

    VINCENTIO.

                             To which they doom
    The luckless murmurers.

    LEONARDO.

                            Hush! some one approaches.
    The Signor Loredano, and another.
    In converse, too.

    VINCENTIO.

                      Some double, unheard crime
    They ponder.

    LEONARDO.

                 Let us go.

                                                              [_Exeunt._

                   _Enter_ CONTARINI _and_ LOREDANO.

    CONTARINI.

    Chafe not at idle words.

    LOREDANO.
                             I am not wont
    To let them move me. In another age
    The stain of insult must be washed with blood,
    Or it grew rank, and spread unsightliness
    On him that bore it. Now, though thrice reviled,
    Thrice, at the banquet, in these times the steel
    ’Tis dangerous to wield. Hate is resisted
    By wisdom.

    CONTARINI.

               And let wisdom vanquish hate.
    And now to softer themes. Wilt go with me
    Where pleasure ever waits to greet the guest?

    LOREDANO.

    The lady Fiorilla’s?

    CONTARINI.

                         Fiorilla!
    Shame! in a tone where bitterness so lately
    Hath dwelt, to breathe her name--were not that name
    Of power to sweeten all! Hear but her voice--
    Oh! the dull spheres, to hear it, might descend,
    Lessoned by music sweeter than their own!
    ’Twill charm the evil spirit from your soul,
    As the enamored bard of old beguiled
    Hell’s guilty prisoners to a transient bliss,
    And won the bride he loved from Pluto’s arms!

    LOREDANO.

    You love this syren?

    CONTARINI.

                         Nay--to shrines so fair,
    Kneeling, we offer passionate vows, but dream not
    Of single worship. Would the sun in heaven,
    That fills the world with glory, treasure up
    His gathered beams for one poor mortal’s gaze?
    Or if he might, would not the dazzling tide
    O’erwhelm his votary? Fiorilla’s charms
    Were never made for one--and all who share
    The sunlight of her smile, may bask in safety;
    It shines on all alike.

    LOREDANO.

                            You know I seek not
    A lady’s favor. May your hopes grow ripe
    Beneath her cherishing glance!

    CONTARINI.

                                   My dearest hopes
    Are elsewhere fixed.

    LOREDANO.

                         So fickle a gallant!

    CONTARINI.

    Your pardon! The majestic flower that spreads
    Its beauties to the open eye of day
    All may admire, and quaff its bounteous fragrance.
    But love we less some gentle, shrinking bud,
    That blooms but for our gaze?

    LOREDANO.

                                  Ha! and who plays
    The treasured blossom to your miser’s bower?

    CONTARINI.

    A lovely, and a stately one; full soon
    To be transplanted to that genial soil.
    To night my vows I pay where hundreds more
    Will emulate my worship. Will you go?

    LOREDANO.

    I’ll join you soon. [_Exit_ LOREDANO.

    CONTARINI.

                        He’ll serve my purpose well.
    His anger is well-timed: it gives a color
    To my intent, which makes all doubly sure.
    This for the marble that so meetly yawns
    For secret accusations. Loredano
    Must aid my labors, while I reap the fruit. [_Exit._


                              SCENE III.

_A Garden_--TERESA _appears, descending the steps of a balcony_.

    TERESA.

    ’Tis sunset, and he is not here; though wont
    To anticipate the hour! It matters not.
    How lovely is the silvery, deepening twilight!
    There needs but some faint sound, in melody
    Stealing upon the silence--some fond whisper
    Which makes us sigh for quiet in return,
    To muse upon its meaning!
    (_A strain of music without, which continues for some moments._)

    _Enter_ FOSCARINI.

    FOSCARINI.

      She listens like a goddess, fresh from heaven,
    To airs that breathe nought heavenly save her name.
    The winds that wanton, lady, o’er thy lips,
    Steal thence the fragrance that with prodigal wings
    They lavish round the world!

    TERESA.

                                 Flatterer! thy boldness
    I would rebuke, but that thy tones have music
    That charms away reproof.

    FOSCARINI.

                              Oh! woman, woman!
    Who marking on your cheek the sudden brightness,
    The brow that strives so vainly to compel
    Disdain to sit there--who could deem you loved not
    The voice of homage? Nay--sweet monitor----

    TERESA.

      I never feigned disdain.

    FOSCARINI.
                               Nor felt it?

    TERESA.

                                            Never
    Toward you.

    FOSCARINI.

      Why thanks; and well may I be proud,
    Who merit scorn so richly; rashly seeking
    To win such excellence, as other eyes
    Are blinded while they gaze on!

    TERESA.

                                    Again, again!

    FOSCARINI.

    Forgive me--it is hard to measure words
    When the heart overflows. Mine own Teresa!
    Do I not love--have I not loved thee long?
    As we do ever love all gentle things,
    All glorious things, and holy--the rich flowers--
    The brilliant morn--the far and smiling heaven!
    All these grow sometimes pale;--heaven is o’ercast--
    The dawn is clouded--and the fickle flowers
    Are blighted ere their bloom be ripe!--Oh, tell me,
    Who shall ensure to love, in chilling absence,
    Exemption from their change?

    TERESA.

                                 It owns no change.
    To speak like you in figures,--wears the sky
    A fainter hue, because some cloud awhile
    Obscures its glory to terrestrial eyes?
    But wherefore talk of absence?

    FOSCARINI.

                                   We must part.

    TERESA.

    Part!

    FOSCARINI.

          For a time. Let it not blanch thy cheek,
    Though, sooth, that hue of fear is dearer far
    Than were ten thousand roses.

    TERESA.

                                  Has my favor
    O’erwearied you so soon?

    FOSCARINI.

                             Nay! thou dost wrong
    Thy favor, to say thus. What could have power
    To lure me from thy presence, save the trust
    That short-lived sorrow should a harvest yield
    Of rich, enduring bliss? [_Music heard at a distance._
                             Hark! ’tis the gondola
    That waits to bear me hence. I must not linger.
    Come with me for a space; and as we go
    I’ll tell thee of my hopes--hopes that will banish
    Intrusive fear, and clothe the rugged peaks
    Of wild Helvetia’s Alps with smiles and flowers,
    Breathing Elysian fragrance o’er their snows! [_Exeunt._




                                ACT II.


                               SCENE I.

VENIERO’S _house_.--VENIERO _and_ CONTARINI.

    VENIERO.

      Thus are we diverse--both would climb to rule,
    With different ends: you for the pride of sway--
    I, to amend the people’s wrongs.

    CONTARINI.

                                     It may be.
    Enough of that when we have reached the summit
    That now appears receding.

    VENIERO.

                               How is this?
    You’ve gained the Spaniard, and I’ve many a friend
    To add unto our list.

    CONTARINI.

                          No league so strong
    But discord may dissever it. Come--come!
    Veniero, you and I are gone too far,
    And yet not far enough, for each to hope
    Safety alone. We need yet firmer ties
    To bind our mutual interests.

    VENIERO.

                                  You distrust me--

    CONTARINI.

    Your pardon. In an enterprise like ours,
    Where lives and fortunes hang on mutual faith,
    Behooves us tread securely.

    VENIERO.

                                It is just.
    Nor shall you lack a pledge. My daughter’s hand,
    Have I not once assured you, seals our bond!

    CONTARINI.

    True, yet I doubt. She loves seclusion:
    And if I meet her in the shaded walk,
    She shuns me with quick step. Or if we sail
    By moonlight on the glassy sea--or join
    The dance--or banquet in the palace hall--
    She meets my salutation with a mien
    Repulsive, cold, as if a guest she deemed me
    Intrusive.

    VENIERO.

    Nay, you wrong her courtesy.

    CONTARINI.

    If wealth and rank, too poor to match her charms,
    Yet worth somewhat to youthful woman’s heart,
    Could tempt her to be mine----

    VENIERO.

                                   You have a pledge
    More strong--a father’s promise. Were she loth,
    A prize, perchance a crown, lies at her feet,
    And ’twere a kindly part to bid her wear it,
    Even in her own despite. She comes.

                            _Enter_ TERESA.

                                        Teresa,
    Our noble friend doth wait to greet you here,
    The signor Contarini.

    TERESA.

                          As your friend
    The signor Contarini’s ever welcome.

    CONTARINI.

    Thanks, lady! Yet it deeply doth concern me
    Business now claims my absence, and forbids
    The dear delight I else had hoped to share
    With all your presence blesses. With the evening
    I’ll seek again this happiness. [_Exit._

    VENIERO.

                                    My daughter!
    Why do thy looks--nay start not--thus belie
    The morning’s joyousness.

    TERESA.

                              What mean you, sir?

    VENIERO.

    A change of late, hath passed upon this brow
    So open once and trusting. Thy light step
    Hath lost its buoyancy; that drooping eye
    Too often reads the ground--and meets not mine
    With glance so bright and bold, as when it had
    No consciousness of aught to hide. Dost cherish
    A grief that I know not?

    TERESA.

                             What should I grieve for?
    You have mistaken, father.

    VENIERO.

                               Nay--perchance
    Thou lovest me not, as once thou didst? I am grown
    Much sterner than of old;--my altered bearing
    Suits not thy gentle temper.

    TERESA.

                                 Father--dearest!
    Yet cruel, and unkind, to doubt the love
    Which grows but deeper with advancing years!
    Nay, question me no more--these arms shall tell
    My growing coldness!

    VENIERO.

                         Thou dost love me then!
    ‘And thy young heart, in tenderness unchecked,
    ‘Shall pour its thoughts and feelings in my breast,
    ‘Even as of yore. Come hither! I will hear
    ‘Patient, the tale of maiden fears and hopes;
    ‘And note not all the trembling, downcast looks
    ‘That comment on the story.--Come!

    ‘TERESA.

                                       ‘Dear father--
    ‘What must I tell you?

    ‘VENIERO.

                           ‘O, that innocent look!
    ‘Well, I’ll unfold the secret, and list thou!
    ‘Thou hast thrown off the garb of joyous girlhood,
    ‘And donned a statelier one. A riper rose
    ‘Deepens upon thy cheek. Thine eye can flash
    ‘From its clear depth of blue such meanings forth
    ‘As thrill the gazer’s heart.

    ‘TERESA.

                                  ‘Hold--would you mock
    ‘Your own Teresa with such flatteries?

    ‘VENIERO.

                                           ‘Are mine alone
    ‘The lips that breathe such sounds? Say, say, how oft
    ‘In the gay throng of pleasure, when each tongue
    ‘Uttered thy praise, and every eye glanced on thee
    ‘With longing admiration, have I marked
    ‘Thy step grow prouder, and the mantling flush
    ‘Of beauty richer, ’neath the adoring gaze,
    ‘As the young flower doth brighten into bloom,
    ‘From the sun’s ardent glance!

    ‘TERESA.

                                   ‘Nay--nay--you wrong me
    ‘To say I love such scenes. I ask no voice
    ‘To sound my praise, dear father, if your eye
    ‘Look smilingly upon me!

    ‘VENIERO.

                             ‘And if one,
    ‘One voice, my girl--in its low musical depth
    ‘More dear and thrilling than the crowd’s applause,
    ‘Even as the far off murmur of the surge,
    ‘Heard at hushed eve, is sweeter than the homage
    ‘Of waves tumultuous dashing at our feet--
    ‘If one fond voice shall whisper in your ear
    ‘A deeper worship--Ha! methinks I’ve banished
    ‘Indifference now!

    ‘TERESA.

                       ‘I pray you----

    ‘VENIERO.

                                       ‘Well--no more!’
    I will not question further.--But, just now,
    When summoned, thou camest hither, wherefore sate
    Repelling coldness on thy moody brow?
    Did not my guest deserve regard?

    TERESA.

                                     Forgive me,
    If I have lacked it!

    VENIERO.

                         Nay, it is not well
    To wear an aspect sullen thus and cold
    Toward one I love. This noble, my Teresa,
    Is high in power.

    TERESA.

                      In his proud eye there lurks
    A something which I would not look upon.

    VENIERO.

    Nought can’st thou read there, save the admiration
    Which woman never shrinks from. Hear me girl,
    This noble loves you. He who spurned all chains,
    Would be your willing captive. He has bent
    To sue, who could command; and offers you
    His greatness and his power, claiming your hand
    The purchase of such gifts.

    TERESA.

                                Oh--never! never!

    VENIERO.

    Come--come--displease me not. What state is proffered
    That you should slight the boon? A princely one!
    Why--not a maid in Venice but will gaze
    In envy on your pomp, as you flaunt by,
    A queen in all but name! Wed Contarini!
    The great--the proud! him that would never deign
    To bend his glance on beauty, emulous
    To court it!

    TERESA.

      Nay--my father! happiness
    Dwells not with pride! Not for a crown,
    A regal crown, would I bestow my hand
    Where my heart went not herald to the gift!

    VENIERO.

    Ungrateful girl! and may not pleasure dwell
    With pomp? Or dost thou deem his years too many?
    And know’st not that to such as he, his passion
    Is an idolatry? Oh! when time has checked
    The blood’s swift current, and made pale the brow
    With lofty thought, and blanched stern manhood’s locks,
    Love comes with boundless power, and sways the heart
    A sole, unrivalled sovereign. How doth youth
    Wear his soft yoke? More lightly than he wears
    The pageant plume, which every fickle wind
    Stirs at its will, to be thrown careless by,
    When he shall weary of its pride! To youth
    Love is the shallow rill that mocks the sunshine,
    Wasting its strength in idle foam away:--
    To age, the river, silent, broad, and deep--
    Hiding the wealth of years within its breast--
    Baffling the vain eye that would read its depths--
    Broader and deeper growing, as the channel
    Of life wears on!

                      _Enter_ STENO _and_ PASCALI.

    STENO.

      Signor Veniero, we arrest you.

    VENIERO.

                                     Ha!
    Treachery afoot!

    TERESA.

                     My father!--what means this?

    STENO (_presenting a paper_.)

    Would you behold our warrant?

    VENIERO (_aside_.)

                                  ’Tis his hand!
    And from the cypher breaks a clearer light
    Upon this business! (_aloud_) Though unconscious quite
    Of any deed or thought which could draw on me
    Suspicion or displeasure, I obey
    The council’s will.

    TERESA.

                        My father, go not with them!
    Some wrong is here. Nay, Signors, ye have sought
    A culprit--not Veniero, old Veniero,
    Whose head is grey in service of the state!
    The friend of Contarini, too! but now
    He parted hence.

    STENO.

                     If he be innocent,
    Let him before the council vindicate
    His slandered fame, and be dismissed with honor:
    The guiltless can have nought to dread.

    VENIERO.

                                            No more,
    Teresa! He speaks well. On false pretence
    St. Mark will ne’er condemn one who has prized
    His interests so dearly. Let us part.
    Await here my return, which I will hope
    Mine innocence shall speed.

    TERESA.

                                No--no--my father--
    I will go with you!

    STENO.

                        Lady--it may not be.
    Signor, we are ready.

    VENIERO.

                          I attend you.

                                               [_Exeunt all but_ TERESA.

    TERESA.

                                        Gone,
    To prison, and his prison barred to me!
    I’ll seek these senators. I’ll plead for him
    With words of ready truth, on which shall hang
    Conviction. If there be love of justice,
    I’ll rouse and arm it for my cause! [_Exit._


                               SCENE II.

FIORILLA’S _house_.--_Enter_ FIORILLA _with attendants and_ MARCO.

    FIORILLA (_to attendants_.)

    Go for the present: deck the hall of mirth
    As may become her state who bids the guests;
    And your own emulous skill. For this poor person,
    I’ll care for it alone. [_Exeunt attendants._
    You have prepared
    The chamber for our secret guests?

    MARCO.

                                       ’Tis ready.
    They need not fear intrusion.

    FIORILLA.

                                  All is right. [_Exit_ MARCO.
    I am now mistress of their secret. Set me
    A woman’s wit against a statesman’s arts!
    I’ll hold them at my bidding. Troth, I knew not
    How great a spirit bowed to me, when knelt
    The lordly Contarini at my feet!

                           _Enter_ LEONARDO.

    Sir, welcome.

    LEONARDO.

                  Thanks, sweet lady. I am honored
    In your fair greeting.

    FIORILLA.

                           Tell me, you who hear
    The lightest breath of ever varying rumor,
    What says the world abroad?

    LEONARDO.

                                Tumults are stirring
    That fill the popular ear, and threaten danger
    To those in power.

    FIORILLA.

                       What reck I of the danger
    Which statesmen tempt, when beauty’s empire shakes not
    Her sparkling sceptre ’tis, that I would wield,
    Her throne I covet.

    LEONARDO.

                        Rumor, too, has tongues
    Enough to speak of you.

    FIORILLA.

                            And what say they?

    LEONARDO.

    They join your name with Contarini’s, lady,
    And say, they shortly will be one.

    FIORILLA.

                                       Indeed!
    ’Tis an impertinent tale;--but power like his
    Were it not worth the sharing?

    LEONARDO.

                                   And such grace
    And loveliness would well become its pride.

    FIORILLA.

    Nay--now you flatter. Come, I’ll be content
    To wear mine own name now, meek Fiorilla;
    An humble one, ’tis true, but best befitting
    Her modesty, that bears it. For the rest,
    If time have honors in his keeping for me----

                           _Re-enter_ MARCO.

    MARCO.

      Lady, some other guests.

    FIORILLA.

                               I will receive them. [_Exeunt._


                              SCENE III.

BADOERO’S _house_. ENTER BADOERO, LOREDANO, _and_ CONTARINI.

    LOREDANO.

    We look to search out guilt among the people,
    And lo! it greets us on our very threshold!
    Who would have thought that one so widely trusted,
    A hero in our wars, one who has borne
    Honors unnumbered from the generous state,
    Could prove himself a traitor?

    BADOERO.

                                   We must look
    More closely, ere we judge.

    LOREDANO.

                                What need we more?
    ’Twas rumored long ago that he opposed
    The election of the Ten, the prop of Venice.
    In the conspiracy so lately crushed,
    Did he not plead for mercy on the guilty?
    Hath he not said we needed not a power
    Supreme, to interfere with the decrees
    Of the great council? And this paper, found
    Only last night within the Lion’s mouth,
    Denounces him our foe.

    BADOERO.

                           Be it ours to weigh
    Proofs and defence. We may not spill the blood
    Of senators precipitately, nor keep
    The axe from the guilty, though it strike the noblest.
    But what new guest is this?

                            _Enter_ TERESA.

    CONTARINI.

                                Lady--whence come you?

    TERESA.

    I come to seek for justice; yet find only
    Looks that repel me. Where’s the doge?

    LOREDANO.

                                           Who is it,
    That thus intrudes on us?

    CONTARINI.

                              Veniero’s daughter.

              (_Endeavouring to persuade her to return._)

    Business attends us. Nay, we are not used
    To admit such counsellors.

    TERESA.

                               Are you the judges
    Who fain would close your ears against defence,
    The culprit’s right? Away! there is no place
    Where innocence may not plead against the wrong
    Which threatens it--wrong that will harm alike
    The judges and the accused. I pray you, signors,
    A word! ye will go hence the imputed crime
    To judge of one who----

    LOREDANO.

                            Who hath wronged the state.

    TERESA.

    No--no! ye do mistake--he never did!
    Know ye of whom ye speak? ’Tis Veniero,
    The patriot, the patrician! He do wrong?
    Why--not a peasant who e’er shared his bounty,
    Would not repel the charge! I’ve seen him list
    With pitying, tearful eye the beggar’s tale,
    Whose heart was gladdened by his sympathy!
    I’ve known him watch for hours beside the couch
    Of some poor menial slave, who had no friend
    Save God and him. ‘He do wrong? Oh! the lips
    Of the poor bless him, and the humblest heart
    Leaps at his presence!’

    LOREDANO.

                             There are sacred duties
    Higher than such, fair lady! He betrays
    The people in their rulers.

    TERESA.

                                Believe it not!
    He has served you long and well. His years are many,
    But they outnumber not the victories
    He won for you. His hair is grey--’tis blanched
    With hardship more than age. Would he now cast
    The reverend mantle of his honors off,
    To league with traitors? No--you need not fear him!

    LOREDANO.

    What boots all this? The guardian of the state,
    Where he fears, punishes.

    TERESA.

                              Are ye wont to doom
    Without at least the solemn show of right?
    Will ye hear no defence? And, Contarini,
    Darest thou not speak for him, who wast so late
    His loved and honored guest? or art thou leagued
    In bitter compact with this scorner here
    To rob me of his life?

    LOREDANO.

                           Let her begone;
    Must she insult us? Come, the hour draws nigh.

    BADOERO.

      Your pardon. Heed not words that sorrow utters.
    She did not mean offence.

    TERESA.

                              My lord--my lord!
    There’s mercy in your looks; nay they are human.
    Are you my father’s judge?

    BADOERO.

                               Pray you, retire,
    And be at peace.

    TERESA.

                     You will not heed the terms
    “Traitor” and “treachery!” They mean nought--at least
    Nought--coupled with his name! Listen to me.
    I’ve known him long--longer than any here.
    He reared my childhood. I have sate by him
    In hours of fondness, when the careless words
    Fell from his lips unnoted, save by me:--
    Think you he would deceive me? No! I’ll pledge
    Life, more than life, upon his truth!

    BADOERO.

                                          Nay--lady;
    This cannot aught avail. Trust in our justice.
    That shall be rendered him. If we fail not
    To rend the veil from guilt, we are not slow
    To acquit the innocent.

    TERESA.

                            He is innocent!

    BADOERO.

    Then go thy way, and hope the best. My lords,
    Business attends us.

                               [_Exeunt all but_ CONTARINI _and_ TERESA.

    CONTARINI.

                         Teresa!

    TERESA (_looking up_.)

    Who calls? You my lord, who keep
    Stern silence, when one you have called your friend
    Is basely slandered?

    CONTARINI.

                         As a senator,
    I may not screen the guilty.

    TERESA.

                                 Hence, then--join
    The herd who seek his slaughter, while I go
    To share his dungeon!

    CONTARINI.

                          Hear me yet a moment.
    One way remains to save his life;--and you,
    You may redeem it.

    TERESA.

                       How? speak--and I’ll bless you!

    CONTARINI.

    Briefly--your sire revealed before his arrest
    My love, my suit. Grant it--bestow your hand
    On one who loves you with a boundless passion,
    And I will stir the powers of heaven and earth
    To compass his release.

    TERESA.

                            And do you proffer
    Such terms in earnest truth?

    CONTARINI.

                                 In truth I do.
    Accept them--and be blest.

    TERESA.

                               Is this the noble
    So honored? This the haughty senator?
    Ready to barter in his selfishness
    The trust he holds? Bearing the solemn charge--
    A nation’s safety--laden with the prayers
    Of suppliant millions, on his truth who rest
    Their hopes--their all--yet ready to fling down
    The mighty burthen, if it impede the way
    To some light goal of pleasure! Is’t to such
    We plead?--Before I reverenced, though I feared thee,
    I scorn thee now!

    CONTARINI.

                      Proud, wayward girl, remember
    Whom ’tis you taunt!

    TERESA.

                         Full well, my lord, I know
    There can be few like you. Within yon halls,
    Some there must be, to whom the voice of justice
    Shall not unheeded speak. To them I trust--
    To Heaven--and to the strength of innocence,
    And not to you! [_Exit._

    CONTARINI.

                    So lovely in disdain!
    She shall be mine, despite her scorn and hate! [EXIT.


                               SCENE IV.

_A prison._--VENIERO _discovered_.--BELTRAMO _enters with a lamp_.

    VENIERO.

    Set down the lamp--there--where its beams may pierce
    Farthest into the gloom. ‘Alack, the rays
    ‘Faint ere they half can journey to these walls,
    ‘Though sooth, they are not spacious.’--You have orders,
    Remember, to admit my child. Retire. [_Exit_ BELTRAMO.
    A dark dawn, truly, for the gorgeous day
    That waits upon my fortunes; but its noon
    Will shine the brighter. Can he fail me now?
    I scarce would trust his plighted word alone!
    But, were it not that breath of mine could blow
    His fabric of ambition to the winds,
    I’ve yet another hold; he loves the girl
    Whose fair young hand must bind this wreath of glory
    Around her brows and mine.--She is here. This hour
    Improved, shall win us all.

    _Enter_ TERESA.

                                My daughter here?
    I am not quite forsaken.

    TERESA (_clinging to him_.)

                             No, my father!

    VENIERO.

    Who bade thee seek me? Let me look on thee,
    Thy cheek is wet with tears. Nay, dry them girl--
    Let them not flow for me. True, I can give
    Poor welcome; yet thy loveliness breaks in
    Upon my prison’s gloom, like the fresh light
    Of morning to the hopeless. Weep not for me!
    Why--foolish child! will tears undo these bars?
    They are of massive weight, and have withstood
    In ancient service past, more briny floods
    Than would have drowned this cell, save that the earth
    Drank the hot tide of anguish as it gushed,--
    More thirsty now than ever! Let me pass
    Nearer that side--methinks a freer air
    Is entering thence. Your hand, Beltramo--

    TERESA.

                                              Hold!
    What hand should serve him but mine own?--What’s this?
    You tremble, you are faint! Help--ho!

    VENIERO.

                                          ’Tis nought!
    I do not tremble. Yet I’m sick at heart
    To look upon this dungeon--knowing here
    The wretched remnant of my days may pass,
    Shut out from light and life!

    TERESA.

                                  Oh! talk not so!
    We’ve friends in the council; they will never hear
    Your name attainted, and hold back in silence.

    VENIERO.

    Alas! you know them not; know not that here
    Who is suspected is already doomed.
    ’Tis hard that I should perish thus, the scorn
    Of the schooled rabble! Trust me--I would meet
    Death on the field with joy--but to be hewn
    By menial hands--gazed on by eyes that gloat
    Upon my blood--or wept by vulgar pity!
    I do not scorn to say I fear such fate.

    CONTARINI (_entering_.)

    You may escape it.

    VENIERO.

                       Ha!

    CONTARINI.

                           Hear me, Veniero.
    I speak to you as one who is condemned,
    Though sentence be not passed. Proofs are alleged
    So specious and so startling, it were madness
    To dream of an acquittal. I alone
    By means that cannot fail, have power to save you.

    VENIERO.

    Thanks! thanks! (_aside_) you’ve well begun!

    CONTARINI.

                                                      Yet will I sue
    And humble me for you, to be disdained
    By yonder fair, when I shall kneel to claim
    My guerdon for such service? Shall the city
    Know that I saved you for your daughter’s love,
    And know me spurned by her? No! I will plead
    For you, but as the father of my bride!
    Let your Teresa pledge her faith to me,
    Before high heaven and you;--in two hours’ time
    I’ll set you free.

    VENIERO.

                       Teresa!

    TERESA.

                               It is false!
    His story’s false, my father! Heed him not!
    They will not sentence you!

    CONTARINI.

                                You’ll learn my truth,
    When ’tis too late.

    VENIERO.

                        Dost doubt him,
    When proofs like these (_pointing to his dungeon walls_) confirm his
     tale?
    Or deem’st thou
    My life not worth the purchase?

    TERESA.

                                    Alas! my strait
    Is fearful! But I know him the deceiver!
    Trust him not. If he talk of bribes and stratagems,
    Think you he’d scruple at a gilded tale,
    To cheat us with false hopes?

    CONTARINI.

                                  Let the sun set,
    And you are fatherless!

    TERESA.

                            And would you take,
    Even could you wring from me the sacrifice,
    A victim bride?

    CONTARINI.

                    Aye, though I won your hate!
    From you even hate is sweetness--Choose between
    A husband whom you love not, and the death
    Of one you love!

    VENIERO.

                     Urge her no more--her choice
    Is fixed already! Let me die in peace--
    She may look on; and--if she weep for me,
    Some dearer hand will dry her short lived tears.

    TERESA (_struggling with emotion_.)

    My father!

    VENIERO.

               Touch me not! the old man’s years
    Are nearly run--why should they now be lengthened?
    These hairs are white--no matter! they’ll be dabbled
    With red, full soon! My limbs are old and weary--
    They’ll rest well in the grave--and until then
    The earth’s a fitting bed! (_throws himself on the ground_.)

    TERESA (_kneeling beside him_.)

                               Oh! taunt me not
    So bitterly! Oh! I would die to save you!

    VENIERO.

    Would die! so those who prate of filial virtue
    Talk--but shrink from the test. Off! I’ll no more
    Of clinging and of honied words!

    TERESA.

                                     Dear father!
    I am your child--and more than life I love you!
    Speak to me! speak to me! With idle words
    I will displease no more.--For your sake, father,
    I will do all!--will wed--him!

    VENIERO.

                                   She is yours!

              [_Joins her hand with_ CONTARINI’S.--_The curtain falls._]




                               ACT III.


                               SCENE I.

FIORILLA’S _house_.--_Enter_ FIORILLA _and_ LEONARDO.

    FIORILLA.

    The letter was delivered?

    LEONARDO.

                              ’Twas entrusted
    To one who never failed me, and the messenger
    Is even now returned.

    FIORILLA.

                          Did he reveal
    The whole to Foscarini?

    LEONARDO.

                            No--we judged
    The youth should know naught of his lady’s falsehood.
    ’Twas vaguely urged, that matters of deep import
    Required his presence here; that enemies
    Were laboring ’gainst his peace. But, pardon me--
    I know not how this artifice may prevent
    The nuptials of proud Contarini!

    FIORILLA.

                                     Know you
    That Foscarini loves the maid, and she
    Returns his passion, bitterly detesting
    His haughty rival! Let the youthful lover
    Come at the latest hour--his presence crosses
    These ill starred nuptials.

    LEONARDO.

                                And you, fairest lady--
    Forgive me--is a false admirer worth
    Such stratagem to regain?

    FIORILLA.

                              Hear me, Leonardo.
    You see me but the gay and fickle dame
    Whose smiles are showered on all; to whom the hours,
    Brilliant alike, seem but to bring their tribute
    Of emulous sweets, even as the gilded flowers
    Yield up their honey to the fluttering insect.
    How well for those who bask in Pleasure’s smile,
    She wears a mask!

    LEONARDO.

                      But _your_ smile is the sunlight
    That banishes all gloom where’er it shines.

    FIORILLA.

      Yet envious philosophers have said
    The sun himself, that warms and gladdens all,
    Is a cold, lifeless mass. No more of that.
    His beams can scorch and wither--so can those
    You’ve aptly likened to them, when condensed
    In hatred’s burning glass.

    LEONARDO.

                               I cannot guess
    Your meaning.

    FIORILLA.

                  Contarini--you may deem
    ’Twas vanity--’twas pride--that bound me to him!
    Folly! when all that Venice boasts of rank
    And wealth were at my feet, why should I spurn
    Such suppliance--turning to one who seemed
    To mock my power?

    LEONARDO.

                      He never offered, then,
    His solemn vows?

    FIORILLA.

                     He did! by all that’s sacred!
    And I, who feigned his passionate words to hear
    As the wind’s idle breath, treasured them deep,
    Deep in my soul, which they have filled with gall.
    Aye! and its bitterness shall be distilled
    In drops upon his heart! Stay, Leonardo,
    You’ve not heard all. You shall not see me creep
    Like a scorned slave, aside, while others fill
    The place that should be mine. I’ll hurl him thence
    Or ere he gains that height!

    LEONARDO.

                                 Nay, lady--

    FIORILLA.

                                             Yes!
    ’Tis you must aid me, while I bring to light
    His plottings. It will peril many a head
    In Venice--but I care not, so he finds
    The hand he spurned is armed with deadly power!

    LEONARDO.

    If you have aught of import to disclose,
    Madam, unto the council----

    FIORILLA.

                                Aye--the council!
    And they shall hear! Yet, tell me, is not he
    One of that fearful number who preside
    In secret o’er the state?

    LEONARDO.

                              ’Tis rumored so--
    But the inquisitors’ persons are unknown.

    FIORILLA.

    ’Tis well. Forget my passion and my words.
    Now to our business. Leonardo, seek
    This youth, and speedily conduct him hither;
    He cannot come too soon. I will await you. [_Exeunt._


                               SCENE II.

TERESA’S _chamber_. TERESA, _in bridal robes, sitting at a table, with
writing materials_.

    TERESA.

    I cannot write to him! If I would guide
    The pen, my hand refuses to record
    The tale it ought to tell. Oh, fatal hand!
    Which soon must seal my shame, well dost thou shrink
    To do the accusing office!--Foscarini!
    Yet may I breathe that name! the walls about me
    Will not yet hear it as a guilty sound,
    But softly echo back the whispered word,
    As if their stones could pity!--
    To-night! to-night!
    I’m strangely calm. So long I’ve pondered on it,
    It seems that even despair has lost its keenness,
    And only sits a thick and leaden weight
    Upon my soul. I’ve wept, alas! so much,
    The founts of grief are dry, and will not yield
    A drop to soften me!

    _Enter_ MATILDA.

    Why have you come?

    MATILDA.

                       Forgive me--’tis not meet
    You should be left alone with sombre thoughts
    At such an hour.

    TERESA.

                     It is not late.

    MATILDA.

                                     Look out--
    The sun has long since set.

    TERESA.

                                Some envious cloud
    It is, that hides his beams.

    MATILDA.

                                 No! it is night--
    The summit of yon gilded cupola,
    Where last the hues of sunset ever linger,
    Has long been wrapt in gloom!

    TERESA.

                                  Is it not strange
    I should regret the daylight?

    MATILDA.

                                  Come--no more
    Of these sad musings. You have cherished them
    ’Till your fair cheek is pale, and unbecoming
    A youthful bride. Why look--these radiant pearls,
    Whose pure transparence should have suited well
    With your fresh brow, will find their whiteness shamed.

    TERESA.

                                                            Matilda!

    MATILDA.

      Here--these flowers are fresh; I’ll wreathe them
    In the full wavings of your hair. I’ll braid it
    In dark, rich folds upon your temples. Ah!
    That form, so stately, yet so full of grace,
    That high fair front--they will indeed proclaim you
    The queen of loveliness, to every eye
    That seeks you in its homage!

    TERESA.

                                  Hush! Matilda--
    Waste not your idle praises.

    MATILDA.

                                 I will keep them
    For other ears. But should I not be proud
    To deck you for your nuptials?

    TERESA (_shuddering_.)

                                   No!

    MATILDA.

                                       Look not
    So sadly. True--you love not Contarini;--
    But who among us thinks to wed for love,
    When wealth, and rank, and power, and all that’s dear
    To woman’s heart, do beckon us to seize them!
    Oh! trust me! love’s a bauble, fit to toy with--
    But like the shining plaything of the child,
    To be thrown by, when riper years bestow
    Far richer gifts, and teach him ’twas a trifle
    He prized before!

    TERESA.

                      Nay, nay--I need not this.
    My heart is senseless. It is cold--cold--cold!
    Steeled in an apathy more deep than wo,
    Which even keen thought can never pierce again.
    What nights of feverish unrest I’ve borne,
    What days of weeping and of bitterness,
    When I have schooled me to a mocking calmness,
    While my heart ached within! But all is past!
    My spirit is a waste o’er which hath raged
    The desolating fire, to leave its trace
    In blackened ruins!--I can feel no more!
    Would that I could! I’d rather bear the gnawing
    Of anguish, than this dull, dead, frozen void,
    In which all sense is buried!

    MATILDA.

                                  Would the harp
    Soothe you? or shall I sing those cheerful songs
    That once you loved to hear?

    TERESA.

                                 No--no--the sound
    Would be a mockery.--Yet, if time urge not,
    I’d have you read to me that mournful tale
    We oft have read together--of a maid
    Compelled like me to nuptials she abhorred,--
    Who fled to death’s arms to escape that bridal,
    And sleeps within the grave of him she loved.

    MATILDA.

    Nay--nay--you shall not hear so sad a story!

    TERESA.

    It cannot move me. Hers was a bold spirit,
    That dared to spurn the chain, and purchase peace
    Even at the price of life.--Would I could be
    Like her!

    MATILDA.

              Teresa!

    TERESA.

                      Fear me not--my hands
    Are cowards; ‘and my veins were never meant
    ‘To flow with blood like that which nourishes
    ‘Heroic hearts.’--There’s something in death’s aspect,
    Even when he smiles, that human spirits quail at!
    ‘The foolish skin doth creep--and the frame shudder,
    ‘At thought of what awaits them--the dusk pall--
    ‘The narrow house--the clay cold living tenants--’

    MATILDA.

      Holy St. Mary! Are such thoughts as these
    Meet for a festival?

    TERESA.

                         A festival!
    True--there’s a noble festival at hand!
    Yes--yes--I will be passive.--Deck me out
    A victim--oh, how truly!--At the altar,
    Say--must I wear a smile!

    MATILDA.

                              Oh! not like that!
    No--do not smile--the veil will hide your face.--

    TERESA.

    Will it? that’s well.--I fear me it would shame
    The gay surrounding group.--They are not wont
    To see such revellers. My looks would wither
    More roses than will deck the festal hall!

    MATILDA.

    Talk not so strangely!

    TERESA.

                           Strangely? am I changed?

    MATILDA.

    Oh, sadly!

    TERESA.

               I rejoice--I would be changed!
    Who comes? [_Enter two female attendants._

    ATTENDANT.

               My lady, will you go?

    TERESA.

    Whither?

    MATILDA.

             Do you forget? but a few moments
    Remain--

    ATTENDANT.

      My lord enquires for you. The guests
    Are even now assembled.

    TERESA.

                            It is well.
    I’ll follow you. [_Exeunt._


                              SCENE III.

_A street, faintly lighted._ _Enter_ FOSCARINI.

    FOSCARINI.

    Once more in Venice! How my native air
    Takes from these limbs their weariness! What were
    The breezes of the rugged Alps, to this,
    So bland--so wooing? All, in loveliness
    The same--the same! The Lagune, brightly clear,
    Yet mirrors in its depths the marble domes
    That rise above it--lordly towers--where shine
    A thousand torches, like so many stars
    Gleaming through clouds of silver. From afar,
    The surge-like tone of multitudes, the hum
    Of glad, familiar voices, and the wild
    Faint music of the happy gondolier,
    Float up in blended murmurs. Queen of cities!
    Goddess of ocean! with the beauty crowned
    Of Aphrodite from her parent deep!
    If thine Ausonian heaven denies the strength
    That nerves a mountain race of sterner mould,
    It gives thee charms whose very softness wins
    All hearts to worship!

    _Enter_ VINCENTIO.

                           By this light--Vincentio?
    Whence come you, signor?

    VINCENTIO.

                             Foscarini?

    FOSCARINI.

                                        Aye!
    What news are stirring?

    VINCENTIO.

                            None--of note.

    FOSCARINI.

                                           You come
    I augur by your garb--from some late festival?

    VINCENTIO.

    A bridal. One of our first citizens
    To-night doth wed his daughter--and assembles
    The prime of Venice. Light, and flowers, and smiles,
    Soon wearied me--who am not wont to toy
    My hours away in mirth.

    FOSCARINI.

                            Then, splenetic,
    You left the joyous scene?

    VINCENTIO.

                               ’Twas not all joy.
    If I mistake not, with the flowers that wrought
    The bridal wreath, some leaves of bitterness
    Were mingled.

    FOSCARINI.

                  Ha!

    VINCENTIO.

                      The bridegroom rich and noble--
    The father proud and pleased--the guests all smiling--
    But the mute bride!--I could not see her face,
    But in her drooping form, like a bowed lily--
    Her passive mien, and strange unconsciousness,
    I read far more than bashfulness.

    FOSCARINI.

                                      Indeed!

    VINCENTIO.

    Before the altar she might have been deemed
    A life like statue. From her veiled lips
    Her words came slow and solemn, as the oracle
    Speaks from its cloudy shrine.--Oh! much I fear
    The fathers of our city are grown stern,
    And sacrifice to gold and foul ambition
    Treasures of youthful love.

    FOSCARINI (_aside_.)

                                I dare not utter
    The doubt that’s at my heart--(_aloud_)--The bridegroom, said you?

    VINCENTIO.

    Is stern and haughty--though in courtesy
    Well skilled--as noble senator should be. (_ironically._)

    FOSCARINI.

    A senator? his name----

    VINCENTIO.

                            ’Tis Contarini--
    A synonyme for all that’s merciful! (_sneeringly._)

    FOSCARINI.

                                        The bride?

    VINCENTIO.

                                                 Teresa--daughter to----

    FOSCARINI.

                                                                No more!
    Or I shall stop your breath! begone!

    VINCENTIO.

                                         What’s this?

    FOSCARINI.

    Hence! you have basely slandered her--the fairest--
    The truest.--No! ’twas not Teresa! speak!
    You have mistaken her name?

    VINCENTIO.

                                I spoke the truth--
    Veniero’s daughter.

    FOSCARINI.

                        Well--begone and leave me!

    (_Exit_ VINCENTIO. FOSCARINI _paces the scene a few moments in
                    silence--then suddenly stops_.)

    If this be true, I’ll seek her--I’ll confront her--
    I’ll blast her sight--and drag her from his arms.
    E’en at their bridal feast inflict the penalty
    Of guile like hers. Away. [_Exit._


                               SCENE IV.

 _A spacious and magnificent apartment; brilliantly decorated and
 illuminated._ VENIERO _discovered. Numerous guests, some in masks,
 seemingly in conversation._

 _Enter the_ DOGE, BADOERO, CONTARINI, TERESA, MATILDA, _and others_.

    VENIERO.

    Once more we welcome all! Let mirth reign here,
    Since ne’er a day hath dawned, of joy like this!
    And Loredano too--I craved his presence;
    Why comes he not? I harbor no resentments
    In this glad hour. When happiness o’erflows
    The heart, its tide doth sweep all evil thoughts
    Like wrecks, away. He should be welcome here.
    Say--will ye pledge me, friends?

    DOGE.

                                     Most willingly.
    This to the noble lady, in whose honor
    We are to-night assembled. Ne’er till now
    So fair a claim to loyalty hath met
    Our willing homage.

    VENIERO.

                        Cheer, my girl! wear not
    That solemn aspect, which would better grace
    The sanctuary! Our friends and your fond sire
    Invoke your smiles to make them happy.

    TERESA.

                                           Sir,
    I thank both them and you.

    VENIERO (_to_ CONTARINI.)

                               I pray you, Signor,
    Since to your keeping my authority
    Over this wayward girl is now surrendered,
    Command her to be merry.

    CONTARINI.

                             Pardon me.
    You would not have me claim so speedily
    A wife’s obedience! Now, at least, her will
    Shall rule herself and me!

    VENIERO.

                               Oh! you will be
    A proper husband! Who begins by bending
    His neck to greet the yoke--henceforth must wear it!

   (FOSCARINI _enters, masked, and remains at the back of the scene,
                          watching_ TERESA.)

    CONTARINI.

    And where could chains so golden and so soft,
    Clasped by a hand so fair, enfold a captive
    In sweeter bondage? Trust me--you know not
    The worth of smiles like hers, to deem them fit
    For every eye to share!
    Say, gentle lady--would you join the dance?

    TERESA.

    The dance? No--no!--My lord--I pray your pardon,
    I meant not this abruptness.

    CONTARINI.

                                 As you will!
    You are a queen here, and in queenly right
    You shall control us all; your regal pleasure
    The law that we obey.

    FOSCARINI (_aside_.)

                          She does not smile!
    Her falsehood bears with it the sting, remorse!

    CONTARINI.

    Would music please my noble bride?

    TERESA (_aside_.)

                                       These lights!
    My brain grows sick beneath their weary glare!
    Leave me, I pray you! Nay--nay--heed me not!
    Let me not mar your mirth!

    CONTARINI.

                               I will not leave you:
    I am too proud to stand beside you.

    FOSCARINI (_in a low tone_.)

                                        Aye!
    She may betray you too!

    TERESA (_aside_.)

                            That voice--that voice!
    I cannot ’scape it! Strange--my haunting fancies
    Should thus take form, to syllable reproaches
    I ever hear within!

    ‘DOGE.

                        ‘What ails the lady?

    ‘TERESA (_aside_.)

    ‘They must be silenced--for I may not hear
    ‘Their tauntings now!’

    MATILDA.

                           Teresa! you are pale
    And discomposed:--this night’s fatigue hath been
    O’er harassing.

    TERESA.

                    Yes--yes--

    CONTARINI.

                               Wine will restore her--

    TERESA.

                                                       You are mistaken;
    I am not ill!

    CONTARINI.

                  Take it--fair lady--

    FOSCARINI (_snatches another cup and advances_.)

                                       Hold!
    I claim a right to pledge your lovely bride!
    I--humblest of her slaves! Lady! I drink
    Long life to you--and happiness--such as
    Your truth deserves! Could man e’er wish you more?

    TERESA.

    ’Tis he. Oh God! (_faints_.) [FOSCARINI _retires_.

    CONTARINI.

                     Teresa!

    VENIERO.

    She has swooned! my daughter! Help!

    (_They raise her--she revives--but still appears unconscious._)

    TERESA (_wildly_.)

    Accuse me not! accuse me not! Oh no!
    I did not wrong thee! I have borne the wrong!
    Didst thou but know the misery that has dragged me,
    Despite of all thy love to bear me up,
    Down, down, to this! thou wouldst not, couldst not scorn me!
    Judge me not here!

    CONTARINI.

                       Who was’t disturbed you,--say?

    TERESA (_recovering_.)

    Ha!

    CONTARINI.

    Who was it dared intrude, to move you thus?
    Reveal his name, and instant punishment
    Shall overtake the wretch!

    TERESA (_eagerly detaining him_.)

                               Oh, no--no--no!

    CONTARINI.

    Detain me not! let me but find him!

    TERESA.

                                        Hold!
    What would you do? what have I said? ’twas nothing--
    Indeed--’twas nothing!

    CONTARINI.

                           Tell me--whose the voice
    That frighted you?

    TERESA.

                       No voice! Move not--I pray you!
    It was an idle fancy.--Did I say
    Some one had spoken to me?--’Twas not so!
    My brain hath coined strange tales! ’Tis cause for mirth
    That I should think such things.

    CONTARINI.

                                     Such eagerness
    To screen the offender----

    TERESA.

                               My lord! I am ashamed
    To have disturbed this noble company
    With such absurd, strange weakness. I beseech you
    Let me retire awhile!

    VENIERO.

                          Go.

                             [_Exeunt_ TERESA, MATILDA _and attendants_.




                                ACT IV.


                               SCENE I.

_A street._--_Enter_ CONTARINI _and_ STENO.

    CONTARINI.

                              Know you his name?

    STENO.

                                                 Antonio Foscarini.
    The same whom you a short time since despatched
    On the embassy to Switzerland.

    CONTARINI.

                                   So soon
    Returned?

    STENO.

              Some private cause of haste, it seems,
    Hath brought him hither. But a few days past,
    I know, he was not here.

    CONTARINI.

                             Well--trace him out,
    He’s desperate--and should be removed. Mark you?

    STENO.

                                                     Signor, ’tis done.

    CONTARINI.

                                  Be wary--but be speedy. [_Exit_ STENO.

    _Enter_ FIORILLA.

    A lady! I must smooth this troubled brow,
    For such fair meeting.

    FIORILLA.

                           Well--my lord--

    CONTARINI.

                                           Fiorilla!

    FIORILLA.

    Am I so changed, that you scarce know me, sir?
    Then doth my mirror flatter, for it tells me
    Of features yet unaltered; and in truth
    They might be--for short space of time hath passed
    Since we last met.

    CONTARINI.

                       They are all radiant still
    With beauty--and would be, though years had striven
    To steal some charm away. But those few days
    Have wrought a change in me. I’m wedded--lady.

    FIORILLA.

    Wedded? Aye, I have heard the tale--but sooth,
    It dwelt not in my mind. These idle rumors,
    You know, my lord, even when they merit credence,
    So lightly pass us by--we scarce are wont
    To give them heed!

    CONTARINI.

                       And yet I hoped once, lady,
    Fiorilla would not heedlessly have listened
    To aught that spoke of me!

    FIORILLA.

                               Ha! ha!

    CONTARINI.

                                       My bride--
    You have not seen her! Oh! her gentle beauty
    Might rival yours!

    FIORILLA.

                       Indeed!

    CONTARINI.

                               The rose perchance
    Upon her cheek wears not a bloom so rich;
    Her brow may be less haughty--but ’tis moulded
    In form as perfect.

    FIORILLA.

                        Gallant cavalier!
    Why in seclusion veil such matchless charms?

    CONTARINI.

    She seeks it.

    FIORILLA.

                  Undisturbed to muse, no doubt,
    On you, to greet you with a dearer welcome
    When you invade her solitude. Happy bridegroom!
    Whom no tormenting sprite of jealousy
    Can haunt! whose treasured flower will yield its sweets
    To him alone--none other!

    CONTARINI.

                              She would jest;
    Yet plays a smile too mocking on her lips
    For courtesy!--Fiorilla--

    FIORILLA.

                              Nay, my lord--
    I would not that your gracious words be wasted
    On one so worthless, when far dearer cares
    Await you at your home. Your lady, doubtless,
    Mourns for your absence; or--perchance I err,
    Invokes the aid of some more courteous knight
    To while away the hours.

    CONTARINI.

                             Ha!

    FIORILLA.

                                 Only, signor,
    A substitute. When the proud sun withdraws
    His beams, we hail the star--less bright indeed,
    That cheers the gloom.--Methinks I saw but now
    Young Foscarini.--Ho! there.--

    _Enter_ MARCO.

    Farewell my lord--I’ll not detain you longer--

                                                      [_Exit_ CONTARINI.

    Let him go ponder on my words. Hence, Marco,
    Seek Loredano, and entreat his presence
    Now, at my house. [_Exit_ MARCO.] I will no longer pause
    But strike the blow, and win a swift revenge! [_Exit._


                               SCENE II.

_An apartment in_ CONTARINI’S _palace_.--_Enter_ TERESA.

    TERESA.

    Let him believe me false! Let him believe
    I spurned at truth--if such a thought can heal
    The bitter wound I planted in his breast!
    But mine--why--let it fester, and grow rank,
    And spread, and spread, till its consuming poison
    Hath eaten life out! Let him curse and hate me!
    Yet that were hard to bear! My misery, sure
    Might claim some pity! I would fain be thought on
    With grief, but not with scorn. I’d be remembered
    Like a dim, far off vision, wan and sad,
    Leaving a mournful yet a softened image,
    Mellowed by passing time to tenderer hues,
    To fade at length, like tremulous light, away!

                    _Enter_ STEFANO _with a paper_.

    STEFANO.

    Lady--a cavalier without desired me
    To give you this.

    TERESA.

    (_Takes the paper, looks at it,--then hurriedly averts her head._)

    And bade you bring the answer?

    STEFANO.

    He did.

    TERESA.

    To write to him! to speak with him!
    I must not;--will not! I have reared the barrier
    That aye must sever us, and will abide
    The die which duty cast.--Take it--Stefano--
    Tell him there is no answer. [_Exit_ STEFANO.
                                 Cruelty!
    Must we not probe deep, to dig out the venom?
    What matter if he deem me cold and proud?
    I must be so--to him!

    _Enter_ MATILDA.

    MATILDA.

                          Hush! I have tidings.
    The unhappy Foscarini is without,
    And craves to see you.

    TERESA.

                           Me!

    MATILDA.

                               For one short moment.
    Oh! had you seen him as he urged the boon--
    So suppliant, so desperate! his voice
    Tremulous with suffering.

    TERESA.

                              Hold--Matilda--hold!
    He is already answered.

    MATILDA.

                            How?

    TERESA.

                                 You ask?

    MATILDA.

    Oh, do not be so stern! what wrong can chance
    Or harm, if you will grant this poor request?
    But just to bid farewell, he says;--and then
    He’ll fly from you for ever, into lands
    Where Venice is unheard of.

    TERESA.

                                Urge no more!
    I will not see him. Let him go--and bury
    All thoughts of me for ever!

    MATILDA.

                                 He’ll not go;
    He will besiege you with his fruitless prayers,
    Though you are deaf to them.--Think of his danger.

    TERESA.

                                                       What?

    MATILDA.

    His life is sought by secret enemies.
    This is too certain; I myself have heard
    Dark-boding threats from Contarini’s lips,
    Uttered when he thought none beheld. You know
    His cold blood-thirsty hate!

    TERESA.

                                 Oh, yes--too well!
    Hasten Matilda! warn him--bid him ’scape
    While there is time.

    MATILDA.

                         Alas! he will not heed
    Warning, except from you.

    TERESA.

                              What must I do?

    MATILDA.

    Speak to him--bid him leave this fatal place.
    He will obey you. Pause not! your delay
    May seal his fate.

    TERESA.

                       No--no--say I command,
    Command him to be gone! by all that’s past--
    (_bitterly._) The past! what curse is in that word! what claim
    Have I to his obedience?

    MATILDA.

                             Dear Teresa,
    Weigh not a fancied duty ’gainst his life;
    Think--should he fall beneath their eager swords--
                                                      And you the cause?

    TERESA.

    Oh heaven! Away--and tell him
    I come.--I do no wrong--to save the innocent!
    Lead the way--quick--but softly. [_Exeunt._


                              SCENE III.

_A Garden, near the palace of_ CONTARINI. _On one side the palace of
the Spanish ambassador._

_Enter_ FOSCARINI.

    FOSCARINI.

    She would repel me! but I’ll see her once
    Before we part for ever: claim her pardon.
    How could I deem her worthless! Oh, what wild
    Playthings of fortune we--who if the cup
    We drink hath aught of bitter--dash it down--
    And madly spurn the sweetness in the dregs!
    We tear the wound--and hate the balm that heals it!

    _Enter_ TERESA.

                                                        Teresa!

    TERESA.

                                                                Signor--

    FOSCARINI.

      So cold! then all I feared is true:
    You love me not!

    TERESA.

                     Hush--busy torturer!
    Should I be here, else?

    FOSCARINI (_bitterly_.)

                            Such was not your welcome
    When last we met!

    TERESA.

                      And is all else unchanged?
    Look in my face, and read what I have borne
    Since then.

    FOSCARINI.

                Alas! so wasted and so wan--
    Yet never half so lovely!

    TERESA.

                              Why--that’s well--
    If burning sorrow could dry up life’s springs--
    But they flow on--though every fount is sealed
    That could renew them. Strange--that life should cling
    But closer as we strive to shake it off!
    And mock its tenement, though that be worn
    Too thin to harbor it!

    FOSCARINI.

                           Nay--you talk wildly.

    TERESA.

    Oh, there has been a weary fever here,
    That scorched--and scorched--as it would sear my brain,
    ’Till that grew wayward. All things seemed a vision,
    ‘Measureless, shadowy--strange--yet dim and fleeting’--
    But I’m awake now!

    FOSCARINI.

                       Awake to keener grief,
    I would not add to it!

    TERESA.

                           You pity me!
    You have forgiven me! All my fault and wrong,
    And suffering--you know!

    FOSCARINI.

                             All--but too well.
    I know you guiltless.

    TERESA.

                          No--you know not half
    The wild, bad thoughts I’ve cherished.--Foscarini,
    I’ve wished thee dead! I’ve looked upon the sky
    When the fierce tempest blackened it--and hoped--
    And hoped its wings would sweep thee to destruction!
    Invoked the hoary mountain rocks to crush thee!
    Prayed, as I ne’er before have prayed for weal
    Of thine or mine--for death--ere thou shouldst come
    To find me thus.--Why art thou here?

    FOSCARINI.

                                         I come
    To look on you once more; to hear your voice
    Even in these groves--where we were wont to meet
    In happy hours----

    TERESA.

                       Speak not, speak not of them!
    They’re angels, whose accusing voice to heaven
    Doth tell of broken faith, and trampled hopes,
    And injured goodness! They have baneful influence
    They made me what I am!

    FOSCARINI.

                            Mine own Teresa!
    Let me so call you now--blame not yourself
    For what hath severed us. I blame you not.
    Heaven doth attest my truth, I hold you now,
    As pure, as guiltless of all wrong--as when
    I first believed you.

    TERESA.

                          Oh! thou wilt not hate me!
    I bless thee for it! That fear has wrought so oft
    My thoughts to bitterness! It was a phantom
    That haunted me, and mocked my tears! No--no!
    Thy pity, like the angel of Heaven’s mercy,
    Will smile--and smile--and soothe me as I pass
    Down to the cold and welcome grave--and then--
    When I am dead--thou’lt think on me--weep for me--
    Wilt thou not, Foscarini?

    FOSCARINI.

                              Listen to me!
    The victim hath no duties. That forced vow
    Which came not from the heart, and bears no sanction
    Of the consenting will, Heaven did not register.

    TERESA.

                                                     What mean you?

    FOSCARINI.

      You are mine! Good spirits have heard
    Our vows, and sealed those bonds, which mortal hands
    Can never loose. Far from this hated land
    Shine skies as bright--and fields as verdant bloom
    To bless the fond and true. Escape with me.
    The ship is waiting--let it bear us far
    To some propitious clime, where no regrets
    Or misery shall pursue us.

    TERESA.

                               Ha! a fitting
    Companion to your flight! a fugitive wife!
    Whose wife? ’Tis well--peace I have lost--and you
    Would take all that remains!

    FOSCARINI.

                                 Forgive--forgive me!
    ’Twas but a thought of madness. It is past.
    I’ll not offend again. Now shall you know
    What he can dare, who loses you!

    TERESA.

                                     What frenzy
    Gleams in your eye! No--Foscarini--no!
    You could not do so wild, so fierce a wrong,
    Because the blossom of young life is blighted,
    To pluck its stem of verdure from the root!
    Live--for my sake! Hence from this wretched city,
    Where you are watched, and sought for, as the bloodhound
    Doth seek his prey! Go--go! we may not meet
    On earth again.

    ‘FOSCARINI.

                   ‘So wretched----

    ‘TERESA.

                                    ‘Happier far
    ‘Than I, since you in liberty may weep;
    ‘While I in secret, chided, must pour forth
    ‘The bitter drops that burn where’er they fall.
    ‘Remain not here’--we part----

                      _Enter_ MATILDA, _hastily._

    MATILDA.

                                   Begone--with speed!
    You’re traced, and to this spot. Your husband comes
    With men and torches to arrest him. Hence! [_to_ FOSCARINI.
    Not that way! There they throng the path! This side!
    You may escape them there!
    [_points in the direction of the Spanish palace._

    TERESA (_withholding him._)

                               No! no! not there!

    MATILDA.

                                                  It is the only way.

    TERESA.

                                              The Spaniard dwells there!
    ’Tis death to enter these forbidden walls!
    Is it not so decreed?

    FOSCARINI.

                          ’Tis infamy
    To you, if I remain!

    TERESA.

                         You shall not go.
    What is a name to me? Stay--I’ll reveal
    All--all to Contarini; I will plead
    Even at his feet! He’ll hear me, and will save you!

    FOSCARINI.

    You know him not; he’d spurn you, and his slaves
    Would scoff at you. No--no--I choose my death,
    Rather than your disgrace!

    TERESA (_clinging to him._)

                               Break not my hold!
    I caused thy danger--I alone! I’ll shield thee
    With my entwining arms. They shall not strike--
    Or if they do--mine--mine--shall be the death!

    FOSCARINI.

                                                   Love! love! my fate
    Preserves me for embrace so blest as this,
    Only when I must break from it! Oh! death
    Would have such sweetness thus! [_footsteps heard._
    Hence--let me go!
    They’ll not arrest me. I will never fall,
    Trust me, by hands ignoble, while this weapon
    Can serve me truly! [_breaks from her, and exit._

    _Enter_ CONTARINI _and_ STENO, _with servants bearing torches_.

    CONTARINI.

                        Ha! the traitor fled!
    But one way’s open. Steno--haste--withdraw
    Your trusty men, and search within the walls
    Of yonder palace. He is proved a traitor.

                                         [_Exeunt_ STENO _and servants_.

    He’s in my toils--and you--so fair and false----

               (_Tumult--the report of a pistol heard._)

    TERESA.

                                                     Lost! lost!

   (_Re-enter_ STENO _and servants, dragging in_ FOSCARINI, _who is
                     wounded. The curtain falls._)




                                ACT V.


                               SCENE I.

_Secret chamber of the Inquisitors._

                    _Enter_ BADOERO _and_ LOREDANO.

    BADOERO.

    Our colleague comes not.

    LOREDANO.

                             He is here.

                          _Enter_ CONTARINI.

    BADOERO.

                                         Proceed we
    At once, to business. This unhappy youth----

    LOREDANO.

    Speak not as if you pitied him. None here
    Should sigh, except the guilty--rigid justice
    Must reign!

    BADOERO.

                Then may the guiding light of wisdom
    Descend to dissipate the uncertain twilight
    Of human judgment!

    LOREDANO.

                       Know you with what object
    He broke the law?

    CONTARINI.

                      Know I? and do you think
    I would confer with traitors?

    BADOERO.

                                  ’Tis important
    We learn his motive.

    CONTARINI.

                         Need we look beyond
    The act itself? Did not the late decree
    Pronounce it death for a patrician
    To speak with foreign ministers, or enter
    Beneath his roof under the veil of night?

    BADOERO.

    ’Tis true.

    CONTARINI.

               What would you more? This daring boy
    Mocks at our prohibition, and is found
    Within the interdicted walls!

    BADOERO.

                                  The spirit
    Of that decree should rule us in decision
    More than the letter. If it shall appear
    He had no thought of treason, shall his youth
    And recent services, all plead in vain?

    LOREDANO (_significantly_.)

    ’Tis rumoured that some fairer cause impelled him
    Incautious into danger.--

    CONTARINI.

                              Idle falsehoods!
    Must we give heed to every lying breath
    That stirs the populace?

    BADOERO.

                             Hush, the prisoner comes.

               (FOSCARINI _is brought in by_ BELTRAMO.)

    _To_ BELTRAMO.] You may retire. [_Exit_ BELTRAMO.

                                    Antonio Foscarini--
    You stand here--arraigned
    Of foul ingratitude and treason ’gainst
    Your country’s state and sovereignty. Events
    Appear against you. You have violated
    A late and solemn law. What answer you
    To this high charge?

    FOSCARINI.

                         Nothing!

    BADOERO.

                                  Speak freely. We
    Would fain be merciful, if you reveal
    Such motives as may palliate the deed.
    What was your business ’neath the Spaniard’s roof?

    FOSCARINI.

                                                      I will not answer.

    BADOERO.

                                                     Nay, consider well,
    Sincerity may save you.

    FOSCARINI.

                            I can give
    No further answer.

    CONTARINI.

                       He confesses guilt.
    Is it not plain?

    FOSCARINI.

                     Honor I here defend--
    Not life.

    LOREDANO.

              So obstinate? let us then try
    If torture will avail!

    CONTARINI (_quickly_.)

                           No--not the torture!
    He is too weak for it; we could not hope
    To force the truth by violent means from him.

    LOREDANO (_aside_.)

    Unwonted clemency! I well can guess
    Its meaning!
    (_To_ FOSCARINI.) Dost thou not fear the torture?

    FOSCARINI.

                                                      Ye may tear
    Emulous, these wretched limbs; your power can never
    Reach to the soul, unless your hatred dare
    To chronicle as words the groans that falter
    Upon the blood-stained lip; here, I repeat it,
    I will die silent!

    BADOERO.

                       To a gentle judge
    Give gentle answer. By thy noble country,
    The honor of thine ancestors, all great
    In arms and council--by these walls, defended
    With blood of thine illustrious sire--I pray thee,
    Spare thine own fame! Reveal----

    FOSCARINI.

                                     Within my heart
    Your prayer is heard. You shall have fit reply.
    Lo! on the traitor’s breast, the vestiges
    Of foreign wars! Here pierced the Spaniard’s blade!

    LOREDANO.

    We would not count thy wounds: the latest one,
    Thy hand inflicted.

    CONTARINI.

                        Aye--in guilty terror.
    Waste time no more!

    BADOERO.

                        Dost know, misguided youth,
    The penalty of thy crime?

    FOSCARINI.

                              ’Tis death.

    BADOERO.

                                          And yet
    A further punishment.

    FOSCARINI.

                          What more?

    BADOERO.

                                     Dishonor!
    Who shall wipe off the stain thy execution
    Will fix on all the kindred of thy house?

    FOSCARINI.

    Answer you that! You may decree, ’tis true,
    My death, but with my death you will decree
    Your everlasting infamy. Where’er
    In future years the deed shall be remembered,
    ’Twill tell of shame--not mine! The popular voice
    May here be dumb--but in all lands, that spurn
    The tongue-controlling terrors of your sway,
    There shall be weighed--there writ in characters
    Indelible--my merits--your reward!

    BADOERO.

    Withdraw a space. [FOSCARINI _retires up the stage_.

    CONTARINI.

                      Can you doubt now?

    BADOERO.

                                         Appearances
    Are strong against him, but his words, though bold,
    Seem those of innocence.

    CONTARINI.

                             Is’t new to you,
    The boldness of the guilty?

    BADOERO.

                                He preserves,
    At least, the aspect of his former virtue.

    LOREDANO.

    Hear me! The doge is Foscarini’s friend.
    Grant him a meeting with the prisoner;
    He may prevail, and draw the secret from him
    That we have failed to learn.

    CONTARINI.

                                  What mockery this!

    LOREDANO.

    Nay--is not life at stake? Should we neglect
    Aught that may save the boy?

    BADOERO.

                                 It is but just.
    The doge shall be admitted. Ho! Beltramo!

    _Enter_ BELTRAMO.

    Take back your prisoner, and whom we shall send
    Permit to see him. [BELTRAMO _leads out_ FOSCARINI.

             (_Exeunt the inquisitors on the other side._)


                               SCENE II.

_A Street._

   _Enter_ VINCENTIO _and_ LEONARDO, _followed by several citizens_.

    VINCENTIO.

    Courage, my friends! this way leads to his prison.
    We’ll break those bars, and drag their gloomy secrets
    Into unwonted light.

    LEONARDO.

                         Nay--by such madness
    You cast away success.

    VINCENTIO.

                           Shall we shrink back
    Even on its threshold?

    LEONARDO.

                           One false step, bethink you,
    May lose you all. Look--yonder they approach!

    VINCENTIO.

    Now is the moment.

    LEONARDO.

                       No--’twould but endanger
    Yourselves--and serve not him. Pray you--be patient
    ’Till they have reached the palace; then surround it,
    And with your prayers, which more than threats avail,
    Besiege their ears.

    VINCENTIO.

                        To be repulsed and mocked!

    LEONARDO.

    If so, despair; no force of yours can save him.
    The Senate would but laugh at you.
    _To citizens._] Depart!
    We are safe no longer here. [_Exeunt._


                              SCENE III.

CONTARINI’S _palace_.

                  _Enter_ TERESA, _meeting_ MATILDA.

    TERESA.

    Is he returned?

    MATILDA.

                    This instant.

    TERESA.

                                  He will come,
    If that he bears ill tidings. What have I
    To do with dread? Hush! ’tis his step.--Away!

                [_Exit_ MATILDA _as_ CONTARINI _enters_.

    CONTARINI.

    She looks beseechingly--but dares not speak!
    I’ll feast upon her pale despair! Fair madam,
    Your lover is condemned.

    TERESA.

                             Condemned--already?

    CONTARINI.

    Are the inquisitors slow to doom the guilty?
    Yet hear one truth which haply may console you.
    Even in strict trial he would not reveal
    The motive that impelled him to the act
    For which he dies.

    TERESA.

                       He would not!

    CONTARINI.

                                     Though the tale
    Of your disgrace had saved him, he persisted
    In silence!

    TERESA.

                And you--Contarini--you--
    Oh God! do coldly stab him with the weapon
    His generous virtue gives you!

    CONTARINI.

                                   Even so!

    TERESA.

    Is there no righteous ministry in heaven,
    No power, no will, to save the innocent?
    Is this your justice? Oh! it cannot be--
    I wrong even you, to impute such guilt as this!
    Your hearts are hard--you’re cruel--but this pitch
    Of fiendish cruelty surpasses you!
    You could not do this! no--you smile--you could not!
    There’s not in human breasts a void so drear,
    So horrible--whence all that sweetens life
    Has been driven forth, to welcome hell’s worst spirits!
    Oh! you who have framed these horrid words, to sear
    And strike me dead--and I have borne the blow
    Whose force is spent on me--on me alone!
    Is’t not thus? say--say--

    CONTARINI.

                              That they have import
    You will soon know.

    TERESA.

                        And is your bosom steeled
    To pity, as to truth? Hear me--but hear me!
    I’ll buy his life.--I’ll pay your price of blood!
    Heap vengeance on my head. I’ll bear it all!
    But save him! Do an act which shall bring down
    The blessings of a broken heart upon you!
    Which shall unlock the treasures of Heaven’s mercy,
    And bid you draw from its deep fount at will!

    CONTARINI.

    These prayers are idle. Could they aught avail,
    ’Twould be to make his fate more sure.

    TERESA.

                                           ’Tis madness
    ‘To speak to thee of mercy! Yet--bethink thee,
    ‘Is there no sure and solemn retribution
    ‘Striding even now, fast on thy guilty footsteps?
    ‘Shalt thou remain unpunished? Will the voice
    ‘That from the innocent blood reeks to the sky,
    ‘Cease to upbraid thee? Will these mortal men
    ‘Above whom this, thy hellish deed, will raise thee
    ‘In eminence of evil--fail to shun,
    ‘To curse the murderer?

    ‘CONTARINI.

                            ‘Thou’rt his murderer.’

    TERESA.

    Take heed! take heed! you know me not! nor know
    The strength of desperation. Deeply hid
    Doth lurk ofttimes the fire, which fanned to rage,
    Shall wrap whole cities in devouring flame!
    Abide its fury now! I will denounce you
    Myself--before your infamous tribunal!
    They’ll hear me! if no justice dares to dwell there,
    I’ll drag it from the skies--and bid it thunder
    Its vengeance in your ears!

    CONTARINI.

                                Stay--stay--rash woman!
    Dost think I prize my name and fame so lightly,
    To leave it longer in thy keeping? Look--
    The doors are barred.

    TERESA.

                          Your name and fame! I’ll blast it!
    I’ll blast it! not a tongue in this wide Venice
    But shall dwell on, and scoff at your disgrace!
    I’ll publish it abroad! I will proclaim
    To all--aye all--and none will dream of doubt,
    Myself a thing of guilt, that the black stain
    May reach through me to you, and all you boast!
    It shall cling to you ever--with its deep
    And damning blight--and none shall cancel it!
    Then _I_ will triumph!

    CONTARINI.

                           Nay! she is distraught!
    Teresa--listen!

    TERESA.

                    No--no--you shall plead
    As I have; but ’tis now my turn to scorn! [_Exit._

                     (CONTARINI _retires slowly_.)


                               SCENE IV.

_A corridor leading from the prisons._

_Enter_ FOSCARINI, _fettered and guarded_--_the_ DOGE, _and_ BELTRAMO.

    FOSCARINI.

    _To_ BELTRAMO.] If it may be,
    Loose me these fetters;--for the last time here
    I fain would pass unchained.

    BELTRAMO.

                                 I should be forced
    To wear them.

    FOSCARINI.

                  Pardon! I forgot that here
    Pity was death!

    DOGE.

                    I grieve to see you thus!

    FOSCARINI.

    Why? my arrest, my punishment, methinks,
    Should mark me out for envy--since the bolt
    Of vengeance from the state in this resembles
    Heaven’s winged lightnings--that it ever strikes
    The proudest head!

    DOGE.

                       Your judges would be gentle.
    Why not reveal your secret--and afford
    Room for their mercy?

    FOSCARINI.

                          No! I scorn their mercy!

    DOGE.

    A word may save your life----

    FOSCARINI.

                                  And blast that life
    With infamy eternal!

    DOGE.

                         Then the secret
    Involves deep guilt?

    FOSCARINI.

                         It doth not. Urge no more--
    My doom is fixed--and fixed is my resolve.

    DOGE.

    Have you considered it--the deep disgrace
    Your fate will stamp on all you love?

    FOSCARINI.

                                          Alas!
    There is the sting! ’tis not enough in darkness
    To doom the offender, and to take from him
    Life with its joys and hopes--but they pursue
    Beyond the grave, and load the senseless dust
    With calumny! To what hath not risen
    This monstrous power? Oh! well indeed had’st thou
    Thy cradle ’midst the clay of thy lagunes,
    Base city, which hast borne it!

_Enter_ MEMMO.

    MEMMO (_to_ DOGE.)

                                    Sir--the council
    Await your attendance. [_Exeunt._


                               SCENE V.

 _Grand Council Chamber._ _Inquisitors_, VENIERO, _and other Senators_.
 _Enter the_ DOGE, _and_ FOSCARINI _guarded_. PASCALI _stands behind
 among the guards_.

    BADOERO.

    Hath he disclosed aught?

    DOGE.

                             Nothing!

    BADOERO (_to_ FOSCARINI.)

                             Then stand forth.
    To our arraignment thou confessest guilt?

    FOSCARINI.

                                              I broke the laws.

    CONTARINI.

                                                                Guilty!

    FOSCARINI.

                                                       On earth--perhaps
    In Heaven’s eye innocent.

    BADOERO.

                              Thy sentence hear--
    ’Till sunset shalt thou live--but at that hour--
    When the bell strikes--bid thine adieu to earth;
    Go now--and make thy peace with Heaven.

    FOSCARINI.

                                            ’Tis made
    Already--victim to your human laws,
    I hope acquittal there! [_Exit, guarded._

    CONTARINI.

                            So--until sunset!
    Too long a space remains. Why pause, when danger
    May wait on our delay?

    BADOERO.

                           What danger?

    CONTARINI.

                                        Hath he not
    Friends who may interfere to strike aside
    The axe of justice? He is much beloved
    By many citizens.

                            _Enter_ STENO.

    STENO.

                      Signors--a tumult
    Is raised among the populace.

    LOREDANO.

                                  Rebellion?

    STENO.

    They throng the courts--and every tongue repeats
    The name of Foscarini. With acclaim
    They call for his release.

    BADOERO.

                               Lead forth the guard.
    Their sight will be enough. [_Exit_ STENO.

    CONTARINI.

                                Enough! how rash
    To tempt their fury! Need we linger now?
    Command his instant execution--let
    The rabble see what tumults will avail.

    BADOERO.

    Not so. Should we anticipate the hour
    ’Twould show that we have feared them--that we heed
    The voice of faction. Let our first decree
    Be sacredly observed. (_To_ LOREDANO.) Shall it not be so?

    LOREDANO.

                                              My judgment seconds yours.

  (CONTARINI _makes signs apart to_ PASCALI, _who goes out hastily_.)
                            _Enter_ MEMMO.

    MEMMO (_to_ DOGE.)

    My liege, a lady, closely veiled, without,
    Entreats to see your highness.

    DOGE.

                                   A lady?

    MEMMO.

                                           She has passed
    The guard with prayers and bribes--and doth implore
    A moment’s audience--pleading that her business
    Concerns you strictly.

    CONTARINI.

                           She cannot be admitted;
    She’s an accomplice----

                            _Enter_ TERESA.

    TERESA.

                            Back, back--hold me not!
    For shame, my lords, to judge without a witness--
    Without one witness--and to doom your victim
    When but a woman’s words might save him!

    BADOERO.

                                             Who is’t
    That speaks so wildly?

    TERESA (_throwing back her veil_.)

                           Look--and know me, all!
    I come to tell what he would not!

    LOREDANO.

                                      The wife of Contarini!

    CONTARINI.

                                                       Sirs, I pray you,
    Heed not her words, but yield her to my keeping--
    And----

    TERESA.

      To his keeping? his--the murderer!
    Let him not touch me with his blood-stained hands!
    My lord! Oh, keep me from his grasp! I’ll tell thee
    All--all! and if my words are wild and wayward,
    They are truth! If perchance my tongue doth falter,
    ’Tis not the weakness of the conscious soul!
    Hold! hold! and hear me!

    ‘VENIERO.

                             ‘My poor child!

    ‘TERESA.

                                             ‘No child!
    ‘No child of thine! Who was’t I called father?
    ‘Not one who caused all this! Fie! fie! do fathers
    ‘Thus immolate their children? I have heard
    ‘Of pyres and axes--and of men who stood
    ‘And hewed down arms that fondly twined with theirs--
    ‘And watched the gushing stream that had its source
    ‘In their own veins! But you--you rend asunder
    ‘The hidden strings of life--and yoke the spirit
    ‘To falsehood, from whose dark and subtle fold
    ‘No force can set it free! and when ’tis done,
    ‘And the soul wears the hue of misery--
    ‘And the brain burns--ye would repent the work
    ‘Yourself have wrought!’

    CONTARINI.

                             Woman! I do command you--
    Hence!

    TERESA.

      No! we stand within no dungeon now,
    With prison walls to hear--and _him_ in chains
    To plead for you! Here reach no bribes of yours!

    LOREDANO.

    Who speaks of bribes?

    TERESA.

      They’re his! he used them, truly,
    To save the guiltless. Pshaw! what were his bribes?
    Gold--paltry gold! And mine! He claimed a price
    Nought could redeem! a perjured soul! a spirit
    Sold to perdition!

    CONTARINI.

                       Ye perceive it plainly,
    Her frenzy;--nay--harass her not!

    TERESA.

                                      Silence!
    His words would ever mingle with my words,
    To strike me dumb! But I’ve a better spirit
    That bids me speak, and clear the innocent.

    DOGE.

    Speak on--we hear thee.

    TERESA.

                            Why then--he was false,
    Who said ye heard no truth? Beseech ye, listen!
    He loved me--Foscarini;--’twas not guilt,--
    But sorrow--sorrow! _Me_ he came to meet,
    After that fatal bridal.

    CONTARINI.

                             Hear no more!

    VENIERO.

    Her tale is true, my lords!--I did compel her,
    To advance a purpose, thrice accursed, of mine,
    To wed one whom she hated;--he she loved,
    Returned upon her bridal night.--Ye saw
    Her anguish then!

    TERESA.

                      Oh yes! we met within
    The garden that adjoins the Spaniard’s palace--
    That fatal palace!--and _he_ came, to murder
    My Foscarini--sought him where he fled;
    Sought him, and found him! Then his malice wrought
    That horrid tale which has deceived you all,
    Of crime, and treason, and conspiracy;--
    Ye know it now--it blanches _you_ with fear--
    You--to whom blood’s no stranger! Can you wonder
    It maddens me?

    CONTARINI.

                   For shame--to lend an audience
    To this wild story, as if solemn truths
    Came from her lips! I tell you--she is mad!

    TERESA.

      Believe him not! nor hear him! if you do,
    Not Heaven can rescue you from his black cunning!
    ‘He’ll defy Heaven.--I am not mad--but dying!
    ‘My lord--my lord--the dying speak not falsely!’

    DOGE.

    It must be so. We have been deceived. (_To BADOERO._) Signor,
    Will you delay the execution?

                 (_Tumult and shouts heard without._)

    BADOERO (_to_ MEMMO.)

    Whence is this tumult, sir?

    MEMMO.

                                The guards have seized
    Vincentio, him who stirred the multitude
    To factious rage without.

    CONTARINI.

                              Unheard of treason!

    LOREDANO.

      Move not, I pray you. But a moment past,
    Ye spoke, if I mistake not, of deferring
    The prisoner’s execution?

    BADOERO.

                              First secure
    That daring felon. Quell the stir without;
    That we seem not to yield grace to rebellion. [_Bell tolls._

    TERESA.

    His knell--his knell! It strikes mine too!

    BADOERO (_to_ MEMMO.)

      Begone--and stop the fatal signal! Say
    We do suspend the sentence. [_Exit_ MEMMO.

    TERESA.

                                Bless thee--just one!
    There are yet gods on earth; and those above
    Will hail thee brother for this deed!

    LOREDANO.

                                          My lords,
    One act of justice more. _Him_ I attach [_pointing to_ CONTARINI.
    Of foul conspiracy.

    CONTARINI.

    Ha!

    LOREDANO.

        Look! this pacquet--
    Letters are here, which prove alliances
    With dangerous foes.--Here we may read the boasts
    In secresy recorded--what should chance
    When Contarini should be prince in Venice,
    With no stern Senate to control his will?

    CONTARINI.

    Who aided you to frame so fair a tale?
    Methinks it needs less dubious witnesses
    To give it credence!

    LOREDANO.

                         They are ready;--one
    The lady Fiorilla! At that name
    You turn pale, Signor!

    CONTARINI.

                           Idle words I’ve whispered
    Oft in her ear--but they can never rise
    Against me!

    LOREDANO.

                No! your written words condemn you--
    ’Twas at her house you met, in conclave dark,
    To weave your treasons. Her you deemed a tool;
    But she your guilt discovered, and reveals it.

    VENIERO.

    I’ll witness to her truth: on my head too,
    Pronounce the traitor’s doom. ’Twill be too light
    To outweigh my crimes. Ye’ll hear the list anon!

_Enter_ MEMMO, _hastily_.

    MEMMO.

    My lord, the prisoner----

    CONTARINI.

                              Away! ’tis mine
    To tell thy story:--in my fall, at least
    To drag some victims with me. Ha! ye thought
    To cheat me of revenge! It is accomplished!
    Lo! on the Piazetta! where the corpse
    Of Foscarini lies! Look! from yon casement!
    My cords took heed of him! You are too tardy!
    Away--and join your lover!

       [_Attempts to stab_ TERESA, _but is disarmed by_ BADOERO.


    BADOERO.

                               Ho! the guard!
    Bear him hence! Chain the traitor!

                                           [_Exit_ CONTARINI, _guarded_.

    VENIERO.

    My daughter! my Teresa!

    TERESA.

                            He is dead!
    They murdered him, even while they talked of mercy!

    VENIERO.

    This, this is retribution! My wronged child!
    Speak--speak to me! Oh! I would barter Heaven
    But for one word!

    TERESA.

                      What means this mist, this darkness
    Around me? Who supports me?--Father!----

    VENIERO.

                                             Speak!
    Canst thou forgive me?

    TERESA.

                           Forgive? it is a sound
    To soothe the dying! Father! come thou near me!
    Stoop lower--lower--let me lean my head
    Upon thy breast--for oh! I’m weary!--weary!--
    This strange, cold sleep o’erpowers me.--If I wake not
    Before he come--bid him await me----here---- [_Dies._


                               THE END.




                          Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious punctuation errors have been fixed.

Page 99: “Fron his pale lips” changed to “From his pale lips”

Page 122: “lingering footseps” changed to “lingering footsteps”