Indulge the natural feelings of a man,
And, ere I die, if such my sentence be,
Press to my heart ('tis all I ask of you)
My wife, my children-and my aged mother-
Say, is she yet alive ?"
He is condemned
To go ere set of sun, go whence he came,
A banished man-and for a year to breathe
The vapour of a dungeon.-But his prayer
(What could they less ?) is granted.
Open and crowded by the common rabble,
'Twas there a trembling Wife and her four Sons
Yet young, a Mother, borne along, bedridden,
And an old Doge, mustering up all his strength,
That strength how small, assembled now to meet
One so long lost, long mourned, one who for them
Had braved so much-death, and yet worse than death—
To meet him, and to part with him for ever!
Time and their heavy wrongs had changed them all, Him most! Yet when the Wife, the Mother looked Again, 'twas he himself, 'twas Giacomo,
Their only hope, and trust, and consolation!
And all clung round him, weeping bitterly;
Weeping the more, because they wept in vain.
Unnerved, unsettled in his mind from long
And exquisite pain, he sobs aloud and cries,
Kissing the old Man's cheek, "Help me, my Father i
Let me, I pray thee, live once more among you:
Let me go home !"-" My Son," returns the Doge,
Mastering awhile his grief, "if I may still
Call thee my Son, if thou art innocent,
As I would fain believe;" but as he speaks,
He falls, "submit without a murmur."
That to the World brought revelry, to them
Brought only food for sorrow: Giacomo
Embarked-to die, sent to an early grave
For thee, Erizzo, whose death-bed confession,
"He is most innocent! "Twas I who did it !"
Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that sailed
Swift as the winds with his recall to honour,
Bore back a lifeless corpse. Generous as brave,
Affection, kindness, the sweet offices
Of love and duty were to him as needful
As was his daily bread ;-and to become
A by-word in the meanest mouths of Venice,
Bringing a stain on those who gave him life,
On those, alas, now worse than fatherless-
To be proclaimed a ruffian, a night-stabber,
He on whom none before had breathed reproach—
He lived but to disprove it. That hope lost,
Death followed. From the hour he went, he spoke not;
And in his dungeon, when he laid him down,
He sunk to rise no more. Oh, if there be
Justice in heaven, and we are assured there is,
A day must come of ample Retribution!
Then was thy cup, old Man, full to o'erflowing,
But thou wert yet alive; and there was one,
The soul and spring of all that enmity,
Who would not leave thee; fastening on thy flank,
Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied;
One of a name illustrious as thine own!
One of the Ten! one of the Invisible Three! 'Twas Loredano.
When the whelps were gone
He would dislodge the Lion from his den;
And, leading on the pack he long had led,
The miserable pack that ever howled
Against fallen greatness, moved that Foscari
Be Doge no longer; urging his great age,
His incapacity and nothingness;
Calling a Father's sorrows in his chamber
Neglect of duty, anger, contumacy.
"I am most willing to retire," said Foscari:
"But I have sworn, and cannot of myself.
"Do with me as ye please."
He was deposed
He, who had reigned so long and gloriously;
His ducal bonnet taken from his brow,
His robes stript off, his ring, that ancient symbol,
Broken before him. But now nothing moved
The meekness of his soul. All things alike.
Among the six that came with the decree,
Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired
His name.
"I am the son of Marco Memmo."
"Ah," he replied, "thy father was my friend."
And now he goes. It is the hour and past.
"I have no business here." But wilt thou not
Avoid the gazing crowd? That way is private.
"No! as I entered, so will I retire."
And leaning on his staff, he left the palace,
His residence for four and thirty years,
By the same staircase he came up in splendour-
The staircase of the giants. Turning round,
When in the court below, he stopt and said,
"My merits brought me hither; I depart,
Driven by the malice of my enemies."
Then through the crowd withdrew, poor as he came,
And in his gondola went off, unfollowed
But by the sighs of them that dared not speak.
This journey was his last. When the bell rung
Next day, announcing a new Doge to Venice,
It rung his knell.
But whence the deadly hate
That caused all this-the hate of Loredano?
It was a legacy his father left him,
Who, but for Foscari, had reigned in Venice,
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag,
Gathered and grew! Nothing but turned to venom!
In vain did Foscari sue for peace, for friendship,
Offering in marriage his fair Isabel:
He changed not; with a dreadful piety,
Studying revenge; listening alone to those
Who talked of vengeance; grasping by the hand
Those in their zeal (and none, alas, were wanting)
Who came to tell him of another wrong,
Done or imagined. When his father died,
'Twas whispered in his ear, " He died by poison."
He wrote it on the tomb, ('tis there in marble,)
And in his leger-book, among the debtors,
Entered the name, "Francesco Foscari ;"
And added, "For the murder of my father:"
Leaving a blank to be filled up hereafter.
When Foscari's noble heart at length gave way,
He took the volume from the shelf again
Calmly, and with his pen filled up the blank,-
Inscribing, "He has paid me."
If ever you should come to Modena,
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the ORSINI,
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you,-but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not I pray you,
And look awhile upon a picture there.
"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by ZAMPIERI-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
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