But thou wert yet alive; and there was one,
The soul and spring of all that enmity,
Who would not leave thee; fastening on thy flank,
Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied;
One of a name illustrious as thine own!
One of the Ten! one of the Invisible Three! 'Twas Loredano.
When the whelps were gone
He would dislodge the Lion from his den;
And, leading on the pack he long had led,
The miserable pack that ever howled
Against fallen greatness, moved that Foscari
Be Doge no longer; urging his great age,
His incapacity and nothingness;
Calling a Father's sorrows in his chamber
Neglect of duty, anger, contumacy.
"I am most willing to retire," said Foscari:
"But I have sworn, and cannot of myself.
"Do with me as ye please."
He, who had reigned so long and gloriously;
His ducal bonnet taken from his brow,
His robes stript off, his ring, that ancient symbol,
Broken before him. But now nothing moved
The meekness of his soul. All things alike.
Among the six that came with the decree,
Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired
His name. "I am the son of Marco Memmo."
"Ah," he replied, "thy father was my friend."
And now he goes. It is the hour and past.
"I have no business here." But wilt thou not
Avoid the gazing crowd? That way is private.
"No! as I entered, so will I retire."
And leaning on his staff, he left the palace,
His residence for four and thirty years,
By the same staircase he came up in splendour--
The staircase of the giants. Turning round,
When in the court below, he stopt and said,
"My merits brought me hither; I depart,
Driven by the malice of my enemies."
Then through the crowd withdrew, poor as he came,
And in his gondola went off, unfollowed
But by the sighs of them that dared not speak.
This journey was his last. When the bell rung
Next day, announcing a new Doge to Venice,
It rung his knell.
But whence the deadly hate
That caused all this-the hate of Loredano?
It was a legacy his father left him,
Who, but for Foscari, had reigned in Venice,
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag,
Gathered and grew! Nothing but turned to venom !
In vain did Foscari sue for peace, for friendship,
Offering in marriage his fair Isabel:
He changed not; with a dreadful piety,
Studying revenge; listening alone to those
Who talked of vengeance; grasping by the hand
Those in their zeal (and none, alas, were wanting)
Who came to tell him of another wrong,
Done or imagined. When his father died,
'Twas whispered in his ear, " He died by poison."
He wrote it on the tomb, ('tis there in marble,)
And in his leger-book, among the debtors,
Entered the name, "Francesco Foscari ;"
And added, “For the murder of my father:"
Leaving a blank to be filled up hereafter.
When Foscari's noble heart at length gave way,
He took the volume from the shelf again
Calmly, and with his pen filled up the blank,-
Inscribing," He has paid me."
If ever you should come to Modena,
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the ORSINI.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you,-but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not I pray you,
And look awhile upon a picture there.
"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by ZAMPIERI-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said, “Beware!" her vest of gold, Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody.
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent,
With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ.
A chest that came from Venice and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor—
That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child-her name GENEVRA,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, FRANCESCO DORIA,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum,
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting,
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""Tis but to make a trial of our love !"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to he found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not!
Weary of his life, FRANCESCO flew to VENICE, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk! Orsini lived and long might you have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find, he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile, Silent and tenantless ;-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the gallery.
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