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.

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.

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”