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From the well-head, supplying all below;

XII.
Making the Imperial City of the East,

LUIGI
Herself, his tributary.
If we turn

He who is on his travels and loves ease,
To the black forests of the Rhine, the Danube, Ease and companionship, should hire a youth,
Where o'er each narrow glen a castle hangs, Such as thou wert, Luigi. Thee I found,
And, like the wolf that hunger'd at his door, Playing at Mora (33) on the cabin-roof
The baron lived by rapine—there we meet, With Pulcinella-crying, as in wrath,
In warlike guise, the Caravan from Venice; " Tre! Quattro! Cinque!"—'t is a game to strike
When on its march, now lost and now emerging, Fire from the coldest heart. What then from thine
A glittering file, the trumpet heard, the scout And, ere the twentieth throw, I had resolved,
Sent and recall'd—but at a city-gate

Won by thy looks. Thou wert an honest lad; All gaiety, and look'd for ere it comes ;

Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition. Winning its way with all that can attract,

Had it depended on thy will and pleasure, Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert, Thou wouldst have number'd in thy family Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlerain, At least six Doges and twelve Procurators. (34) And his brave peers, each with his visor up, But that was not to be. In thee I saw On their long lances lean and gaze awhile,

The last of a long line of Carbonari, When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed

Who in their forest, for three hundred years, The Wonders of the East! Well might they then Had lived and labor'd, cutting, charring wood; Sigh for new Conquests!

Discovering where they were, to those astray, Thus did Venice rise, By the re-echoing stroke, the crash, the fall, Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came, Or the blue wreath that travellid slowly up That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet

Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies From India, from the region of the Sun,

Led thee a way to justle in the crowd; Fragrant with spices—that a way was found, And there I found thee—by thy own prescription A channel open'd, and the golden stream

Crossing the sea to try once more a change Turn'd to enrich another. Then she felt

Of air and diet, landing and as gaily, Her strength departing, and at last she fell, Near the Dogana-on the Great Canal, Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed;

As though thou knewest where to dine and sleep She who had stood yet longer than the longest Of the Four Kingdoms-who, as in an Ark,

First didst thou practise patience in Bologna, Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks, Serving behind a Cardinal's gouty chair, Uninjured, from the Old World to the New, Laughing at jests that were no laughing matter; From the last trace of civilized life-to where Then teach the Art to others in Ferrara Light shone again, and with unclouded splendor. -At the Three Moors—as Guide, as Cicerone

Dealing out largely in exchange for pence Though many an age in the mid-sea She dwelt, Thy scraps of knowledge-through the grassy street From her retreat calmly contemplating

Leading, explaining-pointing to the bars
The changes of the Earth, herself unchanged. Of Tasso's dungeon, and the Latin verse,
Before her pass'd, as in an awful dream,

Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the door
The mightiest of the mighty. What are these, Of Ariosto.
Clothed in their purple? O'er the globe they fling

Many a year is gone
Their monstrous shadows; and, while yet we speak, Since on the Rhine we parted; yet, methinks,
Phantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream! I can recall thee to the life, Luigi;
What—but the last that styled themselves the In our long journey ever by my side,
Cæsars?

O'er rough and smooth, o'er apennine, maremma; And who in long array (look where they come ; | Thy locks jet-black, and clustering round a face Their gestures menacing so far and wide)

Open as day and full of manly daring. Wear the green turban and the heron's plume ? Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came, Who-but the Caliphs ? follow'd fast by shapes Herdsman or pedlar, monk or muleteer; As new and strange-Emperor, and King, and Czar, And few there were, that met thee not with smiles. And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride,

Mishap pass'd o'er thee like a summer-cloud. Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace Cares thou hadst none; and they, who stood to hear 'To make his greatness greater, and inscribe

thee, His name in blood-some, men of steel, steel-clad ; Caught the infection and forgot their own. Others, nor long, alas, the interval,

Nature conceived thee in her merriest mood,
In light and gay attire, with brow serene

Her happiest-not a speck was in the sky;
Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire And at thy birth the cricket chirp'd, Luigi,
Mingled with darkness; and, among the rest, Thine a perpetual voice-at every turn
Lo, one by one, passing continually,

A larum to the echo. In a clime,
Those who assume a sway beyond them all; Where all the world was gay, thou wert the gayest,
Men grey with age, each in a triple crown, And, like a babe, hush'd only by thy slumbers,
And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys Up hill and down, morning and noon and night,
That can alone, as he would signify,

Singing or talking ; singing to thyself Unlock Heaven's gate. :

When none gave ear, but to the listener talking.

The monk, the nun, the holy legate mask'd !
XIII.

To-morrow came the scaffold and the heads-man;

And he died there by torch-light, bound and gagg'd, ST. MARK'S PLACE.

Whose name and crime they knew not. Underneath

Where the Archangel, turning with the wind, OVER how many tracts, vast, measureless, Blesses the City from the topinost-tower, Nothing from day to day, from year to year, His arms extended—there continually Passes, save now and then a cloud, a meteor,

Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side, A famish'd eagle ranging for his prey;

Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other; While on this spot of earth, the work of man, Horror and Mirth. Both vanish'd in one hour! How much has been transacted! Emperors, Popes, But Ocean only, when again he claims Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil, His ancient rule, shall wash away their footsteps Landing, have here perform'd their several parts, Then left the stage to others. Not a stone

Enter the Palace by the marble stairs ! In the broad pavement, but to him who has

Down which the grizzly head of old Faliero An eye, an ear for the Inanimate World,

Rollid from the block. (40) Pass onward through tho Tells of Past Ages.

Chamber,
In that temple-porch

Where, among all drawn in their ducal robes, (The brass is gone, the porphyry remains), (35) But one is wanting—where, thrown off in heat, Did Barbarossa fling his mantle off,

A short inscription on the Doge's chair And, kneeling, on his neck receive the foot Led to another on the wall yet shorter ;(41) of the proud Pontiff (36)—thus at last consoled And thou wilt track them wilt from halls of state For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shake Where kings have feasted, and the festal song On his stone pillow. In that temple-porch, Rung through the fretted roof, cedar and gold, Old as he was, so near his hundredth year,

Step into darkness; and be told, “ 'T was here,
And blind his eyes put out-did Dandolo | Trusting, deceived, assembled but to die,
Stand forth, displaying on his ducal crown

To take a long embrace and part again,
The cross just then assumed at the high altar. Carrara and his valiant sons were strangled ;
There did he stand, erect, invincible,

He firstthen they, whose only crime had been
Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears, Struggling to save their Father-Through that door
For in his prayers he had been weeping much ; So soon to cry, smiting his brow, “I'm lost !"
And now the pilgrims and the people wept Was shown, and with all courtesy, all honor,
With admiration, saying in their hearts,

The great and noble captain, Carmagnola.—(42) "Surely those aged limbs have need of rest!” That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern -There did he stand, with his old armor on, Aught as it is) leads to the dripping vaults Ere, gonfalon in hand, that stream'd aloft,

Under the flood, where light and warmth came never! As conscious of its glorious destiny,

Leads to a cover'd Bridge, the Bridge of Sighs ; So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret,

And to that fatal closet at the foot, He sail'd away, five hundred gallant ships, Lurking for prey, which, when a victim enter'd, Their lofty sides hung with emblazon'd shields, Grew less and less, contracting to a span; Following his track to Glory. He returned not; An iron door, urged onward by a screw, But of his trophies four arrived ere-long,

Forcing out life.—But let us to the roof, Snatch'd from destruction—the four steeds divine, And, when thou hast survey'd the sea, the land, That strike the ground, resounding with their feet, (37) Visit the narrow cells that cluster there, And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame As in a place of tombs. They had their tenants, Over that very portal—in the place

And each supplied with sufferings of his own. Where in an after-time Petrarch was seen

There burning suns beat unrelentingly, Sitting beside the Doge, on his right hand, Turning all things to dust, and scorching up Amid the ladies of the court of Venice,

The brain, till Reason fled, and the wild yell
Their beauty shaded from the setting sun

And wilder laugh burst out on every side,
By many-color'd hangings; while, beneath, Answering each other as in mockery!
Knights of all nations, some from merry England,(38) Few Houses of the size were better fillid;
Their lances in the rest, charged for the prize. Though many came and left it in an hour.

“ Most nights," so said the good old Nicolo Here, among other pageants, and how oft

(For three-and-thirty years his uncle kept It came, as if returning to console

The water-gate below, but seldom spoke, The least, instruct the greatest, did the Doge,

Though much was on his mind),“ most nights arrived Himself, go round, borne through the gazing crowd,

The prison-boat, that boat with many oars, Once in a chair of state, once on his bier.

And bore away as to the Lower World,
They were his first appearance, and his last.

Disburdening in the Canal Orfano, (43)
That drowning-place, where never net was thrown,

Summer or Winter, death the penalty;
The sea, that emblem of uncertainty,

And where a secret, once deposited,
Changed not so fast for many and many an age, Lay till the waters should give up their dead."
As this small spot. Today 't was full of maskers;
And lo, the madness of the Carnival, (39)

Yet what so gay as Venice? Every gale But broken by a cloud. The wind was hushid, Breathed heavenly music! and who flock'd not thither And the sea mirror-like. A single zephyr To celebrate her Nuptials with the Sea ?

Play'd with her tresses, and drew more and more To wear the mask, and mingle in the crowd Her veil across her bosom. With Greek, Armenian, Persian-night and day

Long I lay (There, and there only, did the hour stand still) Contemplating that face so beautiful, Pursuing through her thousand labyrinths

That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles, The Enchantress Pleasure; realizing dreams That neck but half-concealed, whiter than snow. The earliest, happiest-for a tale to catch

"T was the sweet slumber of her early age. Credulous ears, and hold young hearts in chains, I look'd and look’d, and felt a flush of joy Had only to begin, “ There lived in Venice" I would express, but cannot.

Oft I wish'd “Who were the Six we supp'd with yesternight?"(44) |Gently—by stealth-to drop asleep myself. “Kings, one and all! Thou couldst not but remark And to incline yet lower that sleep might come; The style and manner of the Six that served them." Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness.

'T was all in vain. Love would not let me rest “Who answer'd me just now?(45) Who, when I said, • 'T is nine,' turn'd round and said so solemnly, | But how delightful when at length she waked! • Signor, he died at nine!'”_"'T was the Armenian; When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil The mask that follow thee, go where thou wilt.” hat follows thee, go where thou wilt.” So rudely scatter'd, she resumed her place

| Beside me; and, as gaily as before, “But who stands there, alone among them all ?''(46) Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer, “ The Cypriot. Ministers from foreign courts Pour'd out her innocent mind! Beset his doors, long ere his hour of rising;

So, nor long since, His the Great Secret! Not the golden house Sung a Venetian: and his lay of love, (48) Of Nero, or those fabled in the East,

Dangerous and sweet, charm'd Venice. As for me As wrought by magic, half so rich as his!

(Less fortunate, if Love be Happiness)
Two dogs, coal-black, in collars of pure gold, No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm,
Walk in his footsteps—Who but his familiars? I went alone under the silent moon:
He casts no shadow, nor is seen to smile!”

Thy place, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces,

Glittering, and frost-like, and as day drew on, Such their discourse. Assembling in St. Mark's, | Melting away, an emblem of themselves. All Nations met as on enchanted ground!

Those porches (49) pass'd through which the water. What though a strange, mysterious Power was there, breeze' Moving throughout, subtle, invisible,

Plays, though no longer on the noble forms And universal as the air they breathed;

| That moved there, sable-vested and the Quay, A Power that never slumber'd, never pardon'd, Silent, grass-grown--adventurer-like I launch'd All eye, all ear, nowhere and everywhere, (47) Into the deep, ere-long discovering Entering the closet and the sanctuary,

Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas, No place of refuge for the Doge himself;

All verdure. Everywhere, from bush and brake, Most present when least thought of nothing dropt The musky odor of the serpents came; In secret, when the heart was on the lips,

Their slimy track across the woodman's path Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly

Bright in the moonshine : and, as round I went, Observed and judged-a Power, that if but glanced at Dreaming of Greece, whither the waves were gliding, In casual converse, be it where it mighi,

I listend to the venerable pines
The speaker lower'd at once his eyes, his voice, Then in close converse ; (50) and, if right I guess'de
And pointed upward, as to God in Heaven-

Delivering many a message to the Winds
What though that Power was there, he who lived thus, In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida.
Pursuing Pleasure, lived as if it were not,
But let him in the midnight-air indulge

Nor when again in Venice, when again
A word, a thought against the laws of Venice, In that strange place, so stirring and so still,
And in that hour he vanish'd from the earth! Where nothing comes to drown the human voice

But music, or the dashing of the tide,

Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica
XIV.

Sung to her lute, her signal as she sate

At her half-open window. Then, methought, THE GONDOLA.

A serenade broke silence, breathing hope

Through walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart Boy, call the Gondola ; the sun is set.

Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err, It came, and we embark'd; but instantly,

(It was before an old Palladian house,
'Though she had stept on board so light of foot, As between night and day we floated by),
So light of heart, laughing she knew not why, A Gondolier lay singing; and he sung,
Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept.

As in the time when Venice was herself, (51)
From time to time I waked her ; but the boat Of Tancred and Erminia. On our oars
Rock’a her to sleep again.
The moon was up,

1 See Note.

We rested; and the verse was verse divine ! Fell from beneath a starry diadem;
We could not err-Perhaps he was the last And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone,
For none took up the strain, none answer'd him; Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst;
And when he ceased, he left upon my ear

A jewell'd chain, in many a winding wreath,
A something like the dying voice of Venice. Wreathing her gold brocade.

Before the Churcn, The moon went down; and nothing now was seen That venerable Pile on the sea-brink, (56) Sare here and there the lamp of a Madonna,

Another train they met, no strangers to them, Glimmering—or heard, but when he spoke, who Brothers to some, and to the rest still dearer ; stood

Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume, Over the lantern at the prow, and cried,

And, as he walk'd, with modest dignity
Turning the corner of some reverend pile,

Folding his scarlet mantle, his tabarro.
Some school or hospital of old renown,
Though haply none were coming, none were near,

| They join, they enter in, and, up the aisle
“ Hasten or slacken."
But at length Night fled;

Led by the full-voiced choir in bright procession,

Range round the altar. In his vestments there And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Pleasure.

The Patriarch stands; and, while the anthem flows, Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like,

Who can look on unmoved ?-mothers in secret Cross'd me and vanish'd-lost at once among

Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters, Those hundred Isles that tower majestically,

Sons in the thought of making them their own; That rise abruptly from the water-mark,

And they-array'd in youth and innocence, Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work

Their beauty heighten'd by their hopes and fears. Of noblest architects. I linger'd still; Nor struck my threshold, till the hour was come

At length the rite is ending. All fall down And past, when, flitting home in the grey light,

In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together; The young Bianca found her father's door, (52)

And, stretching out his hands, the holy man That door 90 often with a trembling hand,

Proceeds to give the general benediction; So often—then so lately left ajar,

When hark, a din of voices from without, Shut; and, all terror, all perplexity,

And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle Now by her lover urged, now by her love,

And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent,
Fled o'er the waters to return no more.

And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep,
XV.

Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbarigo,

And his six brothers in their coats of steel,
THE BRIDES OF VENICE.

Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like,
It was St. Mary's Eve, (53) and all pour'd forth

Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude, As to some grand solemnity. The fisher

Each with his sabre up, in act to strike; Came from his islet, bringing o'er the waves

Then, as at once recovering from the spell, His wife and little one; the husbandman

Rush forward to the altar, and as soon From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta,

Are gone again-amid no clash of arms Crowding the common ferry. All arrived ;

Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. And in his straw the prisoner turn'd and listen'd,

Where are they now?-plowing the distant waves So great the stir in Venice. Old and young Throng'd her three hundred bridges; the grave

Their sails all set, and they upon the deck

Standing triumphant. To the east they go,
Tark,
Turban'd, long-vested, and the cozening Jew,

Steering for Istria; their accursed barks
In yellow hat and threadbare gaberdine,

(Well are they known, the galliot and the galley),(57)

Freighted with all that gives to life its value!
Hurrying along. For, as the custom was,
The noblest sons and daughters of the State,

The richest argosies were poor to them!
They of Patrician birth, the flower of Venice,

Now might you see the matrons running wild Whose names are written in the Book of Gold,

Along the beach ; the men half-arm'd and arming, Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials.

One with a shield, one with a casque and spear; At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd,

One with an axe hewing the mooring-chain Rising and rolling on, announced their coming;

Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, And never from the first was to be seen

But on that day was drifting. In an hour Such splendor or such beauty. (54) Two and two

Half Venice was afloat. But long before, (The richest tapestry unroll'd before them),

Frantic with grief and scorning all control,
First came the Brides in all their loveliness;

The youths were gone in a light brigantine,
Each in her veil, and by two bride-maids follow'd, Lying at anchor near the Arsenal;
Only less lovely, who behind her bore

Each having sworn, and by the holy rood,
The precious caskets that within contain'd

To slay or to be slain. l'he dowry and the presents. On she moved,

And from the tower Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand

The watchman gives the signal. In the East A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-feathers.

A ship is seen, and making for the Port; Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, (55)

Her flag St. Mark's.-And now she turns the point

Over the waters like a sea-bird flying!
I Premi o sta.
Ha, 't is the same, 't is theirs! from stern to prow

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Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, re- 'T is Foscari, the Doge. And there is one, storing

A young man, lying at his feet, stretch'd out All that was lost.

In torture. 'Tis his son, his only one; Coasting, with narrow search, "T is Giacomo, the blessing of his age, Friuli-like a tiger in his spring,

(Say, has he lived for this ?) accused of murder, They had surprised the Corsairs where they lay The murder of the Senator Donato. Sharing the spoil in blind security

Last night the proofs, if proofs they are, were dropt
And casting lots-had slain them, one and all, Into the lion's mouth, the mouth of brass,
All to the last, and flung them far and wide That gapes and gorges; and the Doge himself
Into the sea, their proper element;

Must sit and look on a beloved Son
Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long Suffering the Question.
Had hush'd the babes of Venice, and who yet,

Twice, to die in peace Breathing a little, in his look retain'd

To save a falling house, and turn the hearts The fierceness of his soul.

Of his fell Adversaries, those who now,

Thus were the Brides Like hell-hounds in full cry, are running down Lost and recover'd; and what now remain'd His last of four, twice did he ask their leave But to give thanks? Twelve breast-plates and twelve To lay aside the Crown, and they refused him, crowns,

An oath exacting, never more to ask it ; Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offerings And there he sits, a spectacle of woe, Of the young victors to their Patron-Saint,

By them, his rivals in the State, compellid,
Vow'd on the field of battle, were ere-long

Such the refinement of their cruelty,
Laid at his feet ;(59) and to preserve for ever To keep the place he sigh'd for.
The memory of a day so full of change,

Once again
From joy to grief, from grief to joy again,

The screw is turn'd; and, as it turns, the Son Through many an age, as oft as it came round, Looks up, and, in a faint and broken accent, T was held religiously with all observance. Murmurs “My Father!" The old man shrinks back The Doge resign'd his crimson for pure ermine; | And in his mantle muffles up his face. And through the city in a stately barge (59) “Art thou not guilty ?" says a voice, that once Of gold, were borne, with songs and symphonies, Would greet the Sufferer long before they met, Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were And on his ear strike like a pleasant music In bridal white with bridal ornaments,

“ Art thou not guilty!"_" No! Indeed I am not !** Each in her glittering veil; and on the deck, But all is unavailing. In that Court As on a burnish'd throne, they glided by ;

Groans are confessions; Patience, Fortitude, No window or balcony but adornid

The work of Magic; and, released, upheld, With hangings of rich texture, not a roof

For Condemnation, from his Father's lips But cover'd with beholders, and the air

He hears the sentence, “ Banishment to Candia: Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars Death, if he leaves it.” Moving in concert with the harmony,

And the bark sets sail; Through the Rialto (60) to the Ducal Palace And he is gone from all he loves-for ever! And at a banquet there, served with due honor, His wife, his boys, and his disconsolate parents! Sate representing, in the eyes of all,

Gone in the dead of night-unseen of any-
Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears, Without a word, a look of tenderness,
Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice. To be call'd up, when, in his lonely hours

He would indulge in weeping.
XVI.

Like a ghost,
Day after day, year after year, he haunts
FOSCARI.

An ancient rampart, that o'erhangs the sea ; Let us lift up the curtain, and observe,

Gazing on vacancy, and hourly starting What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh, To answer to the watch - Alas, how changed And now a groan, is heard. Then all is still. From him, the mirror of the Youth of Venice, Twenty are sitting as in judgment there ; (61) In whom the slightest thing, or whim or chance, Men who have served their country, and grown grey Did he but wear his doublet so and so, In governments and distant embassies,

All follow'd ; at whose nuptials, when at length Men eminent alike in war and peace;

He won that maid at once the farrest, noblosi, (62) Such as in effigy shall long adorn

IA daughter of the House of Contarini, The walls of Venice-to show what she has been! That House as old as Venice, now among Their garb is black, and black the arras is,

Its ancestors in monumental brass And sad the general aspect. Yet their looks Numbering eight Doges—to convey her home, Are calm, are cheerful; nothing there like grief, The Bucentaur went forth; and thrice the Sun Nothing or harsh or cruel. Still that noise,

Shone on the Chivalry, that, front to front, That low and dismal moaning.

And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged

Half withdrawn, |To tournay in St. Mark's. A little to the left, sits one in crimson,

But lo, at last, A venerable man, fourscore and upward.

Messengers come. He is recall'd: his heart Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrow'd brow. Leaps at the tidings. He embarks : the boat His hands are clench’d; his eyes half-shut and glazed; Springs to the oar, and back again he goesHis shrunk and wither'd limbs rigid as marble. Into that very Chamber! there to lie

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