And in his mantle muffles up his face.
"Art thou not guilty? says a voice, that once
Would greet the sufferer long before they met,
And on his ear strike like a pleasant music,
“Art thou not guilty?
But all is unavailing. In that court
Groans are confessions; Patience, Fortitude,
The work of magic; and released, upheld,
For condemnation, from his Father's lips
He hears the sentence," Banishment to CANDIA.
Death if he leaves it."
And he is gone from all he loves—for ever!
His wife, his boys, and his disconsolate parents!
Gone in the dead of night-unseen of
Without a word, a look of tenderness,
To be called up, when, in his lonely hours
He would indulge in weeping.
Like a ghost,
Day after day, year after year, he haunts
An ancient rampart, that o'erhangs the sea;
Gazing on vacancy, and hourly starting
To answer to the watch-Alas, how changed
From him the mirror of the youth of Venice,
In whom the slightest thing, or whim, or chance,
Did he but wear his doublet so and so,
All followed: at whose nuptials, when at length
He won that maid at once the fairest, noblest,
A daughter of the House of Contarini,
That house as old as VENICE, now among
Its ancestors in monumental brass,
Numbering eight Doges-to convey her home,
The Bucentaur went forth, and thrice the Sun
Shone on the Chivalry, that, front to front,
And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged
To tourney in St. Mark's.
But lo, at last,
He is recalled: his heart
Leaps at the tidings. He embarks: the boat
Springs to the oar, and back again he goes,
Into that very chamber! there to lie
In his old resting-place, the bed of torture;
And thence look up (Five long, long years of grief
Have not killed either) on his wretched Síre,
Still in that seat-as though he had not left it,
Immovable, enveloped in his mantle.
But now he comes, convicted of a crime
Great by the laws of VENICE.
Brooding on what he had been,
"Twas more than he could bear.
Night and day,
what he was,
His longing fits
Thickened upon him. His desire for home
Became a madness; and, resolved to go,
If but to die, in his despair he writes
A letter to Francesco, Duke of MILAN,
Soliciting his influence with the State,
And drops it to be found.-" Would ye know all—
I have transgressed, offended wilfully;
And am prepared to suffer as I ought.
But let me, let me, if but for an instant,
Ye must consent-for all of you are sons,
Most of you husbands, fathers, let me first,
Indulge the natural feelings of a man,
And, ere I die, if such my sentence be,
Press to my heart ('tis all I ask of you)
My wife, my children- and my aged mother-
Say, is she yet alive? "
He is 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
(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 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, "submit without a murmur."
Night,
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!
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, 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.
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