The Works of Lord Byron

Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. Doge.

Perhaps so;
But yet subdued the world in such a state
An individual, be he richest of

Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest,
Without a name, is alike nothing, when

The policy, irrevocably tending

To one great end, must be maintained in vigor. Mar. This means that you are more a Doge than father.

Doge. It means, I am more citizen than either. If we had not for many centuries

Had thousands of such citizens, and shall,
1 trust, have still such, Venice were no city.
Mar. Accursed be the city where the laws
Would stifle nature's !

Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall?
Will the gleam let me trace them? Ah! the names
Of my sad predecessors, in this place,

The dates of their despair, the brief words of
A grief too great for many. This stone page
Holds like an epitaph their history,
And the poor captive's tale is graven on
His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record
Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears
His own and his beloved's name. Alas!
I recognize some names familiar to me,
And blighted like to mine, which I will add,
Fittest for such a chronicle as this,

Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches.
[He engraves his name

Enter a Familiar of "the Ten."

Fam. I bring you food.

Jac. Fos.

I pray you set it down;

And what shall I say

That he obey

We'll part

To Foscari from his father?

Doge.

The laws.

Mar. And nothing more? Will you not see him Ere he depart? It may be the last time. Doge. The last!-my boy!-the last time I shall

see

My last of children! Tell him I will come.

Jac. Fos. (embracing her.)
And only friend! What happiness!
Mar.
No more.

Jac. Fos. How! wouldst thou share a dungeon?
Mar.

Ay,

[Exeunt.

The rack, the grave, all-anything with thee, But the tomb last of all, for there we shall Be ignorant of each other, yet I will

Share that-all things except new separation; It is too much to have survived the first.

Then my last hope's gone.

I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice;
I could support the torture, there was something
In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms,

Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead,
Or those who soon must be so-What of him?
Thou askest.-What of me? may soon be ask'd,
With the like answer-doubt and dreadful surmise-But proudly still bestriding the high waves,
Unless thou tell'st my tale.

And holding on its course; but there, afar, In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives,

Jac. Fos. And wherefore not? All then shall And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck,

Jac. Fos. And liberty? Mar.

The mind should make its own. Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound; but 'tis a sound,

A music most impressive, but too transient:
The mind is much, but is not all. The mind
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death,
And torture positive, far worse than death,
(If death be a deep sleep,) without a groan,
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges
Than me; but 'tis not all, for there are things
More woful, such as this small dungeon, where
I may breathe many years.

Alas! and this

Mar.
Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince.
Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me to
endure it.

My doom is common, many are in dungeons,
But none like mine, so near their father's palace;
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope
Will stream along those moted rays of light
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford
Our only day; for, save the jailer's torch,
And a strange fire-fly, which was quickly caught
Last night in yon enormous spider's net,
I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas!
I know if mind may bear us up, or no,
For I have such, and shown it before men;
It sinks in solitude: my soul is social.
Mar. I will be with thee.
Jac. Fos.
Ah! if it were so!
But that they never granted-nor will grant,
And I shall be alone: no men-no books-
Those lying likenesses of lying men.

I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind,
Which they term annals, history, what you will,
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were
Refused me, so these walls have been my study,
More faithful pictures of Venetian story,
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is
The hall not far from hence, which bears on high

Well I know how wretched! Mar. And yet you see how from their banishment Before the Tartar into these salt isles, Their antique energy of mind, all that Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, Created by degrees an ocean-Rome; And shall an evil, which so often leads To good, depress thee thus ?

Jac. Fos.

Had I gone forth
From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking
Another region, with their flocks and herds;
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion,
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila
From fertile Italy, to barren islets,

I would have given some tears to my late country,
And many thoughts; but afterwards address'd
Myself, with those about me, to create
A new home and fresh state: perhaps I could
Have borne this-though I know not.

Mar.

Wherefore not!

Can scarcely be restrained from treading them?
That melody, which out of tones and tunes
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away
From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds,
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought,
And dies. You call this weakness! It is strength,
I say the parent of all honest feeling.

He who loves not his country, can love nothing.
Mar. Obey her, then: 'tis she that puts thee forth.
Jac. Fos. Ay, there it is; 'tis like a mother's curse
Upon my soul-the mark is set upon me.

The exiles you speak of went forth by nations,
Their hands upheld each other by the way,
Their tents were pitch'd together-I'm alone.
Mar. You shall be so no more-I will go with
thee.

Jac. Fos. My best Marina !—and our children?
Mar.

I fear, by the prevention of the state's
Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties

They,

From tyrannous injustice, and enough
To teach you not to shrink now from a lot,
Which, as compared with what you have undergone
Of late, is mercy.

Jac. Fos. Ah! you never yet
Were far away from Venice, never saw

And thus far I am also the state's debtor,
And shall be more so when I see us both
Floating on the free wave-away-away-
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd,
Unjust, and——

Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent,
Who dares accuse my country?
Mar.

Men and Angels
The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven,
The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons,
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and sub

jects,

Lor.
Too much I have visited these places.
Mar.
Nor would be
The last, were all men's merits well rewarded.
Came you here to insult us, or remain
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us?
Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady!
I am sent hither to your husband, to
Announce" the Ten's" decree.
Mar.

Her beautiful towers in the receding distance,
While every furrow of the vessel's track

Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart; you never Has been anticipated: it is known.

Saw day go down upon your native spires

So calmly with its gold and crimson glory,

And after dreaming a disturbed vision

Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not.
Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us think
Of our departure from this much-loved city,
(Since you must love it as it seems,) and this
Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you.
Our children will be cared for by the Doge,
And by my uncles: we must sail ere night.

Jac. Fos. That's sudden. Shall I not behold my father?

That tenderness

Lor. As how? Mar. I have inform'd him, not so gently, Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe, The indulgence of your colleagues; but he knew it. If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence. The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though Their sting is honester.

Jac. Fos.

I pray you, calm you: What can avail such words? Mar.

That he is known.

Lor.

Her sex's privilege. Mar.

To let him know

Let the fair dame preserve

I have some sons, sir,
Will one day thank you better.
Lor.

To nurse them wisely.
Your sentence, then?
Jac. Fos.
Lor.
For life.

You do well Foscari-you know

Return to Candia?

True

The whole isle.

Jac. Fos.

How have you sped? We are wretched, signor, as Both the same to me: the after Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire

Mar.
As more generous !
We say the "generous steed" to express the purity
Of his high blood. Thus much I've learnt, although
Venetian, (who see few steeds save of bronze,)
From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts
Of Egypt, and her neighbor Araby:

And why not say as soon the " generous man?"
If race be aught, it is in qualities
More than in years; and mine, which is as old
As yours, is better in its product, nay-
Look not so stern-but get you back, and pore
Upon your genealogic trees most green
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there
Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd
For such a son-thou cold inveterate hater!
Jac. Fos. Again, Marina!
Mar.

Again! still, Marina.
See you not, he comes here to glut his hate

With a last look upon our misery?

Let him partake it!

Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now-
Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow

And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it.
A few brief words of truth shame the devil's servants
No less than master; I have probed his soul
A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long,
Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me!
With death, and chains, and exile in his hand
To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit:
They are his weapons, not his armor, for
I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart.
I care not for his frowns! We can but die,
And he but live, for him the very worst

Of destinies each day secures him more
His tempter's.

Jac. Fos. This is mere insanity.

You may know him better
Mar. Yes; worse he could not.
Jac. Fos.

Father, let not these
Our parting hours be lost in listening to
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it-is it,
Indeed, our last of meetings?

Doge.

These white hairs!

Jac. Fos.

You behold

And I feel, besides, that mine
Will never be so white. Embrace me, father!
I loved you ever-never more than now.
Look to my children-to your last child's children
Let them be all to you which he was once,
And never be to you what I am now.
May I not see them also?

Mar.

No-not here.

Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any

where.

Mar. I would that they beheld their father in
A place which would not mingle fear with love,
To freeze their young blood in its natural current
They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that
Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well,
I know his fate may one day be their heritage,

Mar. It may be so; and who hath made us mad? But let it only be their heritage,
Lor. Let her go on; it irks not me.
Mar.
That's false!
You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph
Of cold looks upon manifold griefs! You came
To be sued to in vain-to mark our tears,
And hoard our groans-to gaze upon the wreck
Which you have made a prince's son-my husband;
In short, to trample on the fallen-an office
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him!

And not their present fee. Their senses, though
Alive to love. are yet awake to terror;
And these rile damps, too, and yon thick green wave
Which floats above the place where we now stand→→
A cell so far below the water's level,
Sending its pestilence through every crevice,
Might strike them: this is not their atmosphere,
However you-and you-and, most of all,
As worthiest you, sir, noble Loredano!

In all things painful. If they're sick, they will
Be left to me to tend them; should they die,
To me to bury and to mourn; but if
They live, they'll make you soldiers, senators,
Slaves, exiles-what you will; or if they are
Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles!
Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers!

Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair.
Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where the
genial wind

Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom?
Lor.

SCENE I.

A Hall in the Ducal Palace.
Enter LOREDANO and BARBARIGO.

Bar. And have you confidence in such a project?
Lor. I have.

'Twas so Swerved.

When I came here. The galley floats within
A bow-shot of the "Riva di Schiavoni."

Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, never;
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm

Jac. Fos. Father! I pray you to precede me, and So desolate, that the most clamorous grief
Prepare my children to behold their father.

Doge. Be firm, my son !

The time narrows, signor.

Jac. Fos. Alas! I little thought so lingeringly
To leave abodes like this: but when I feel
That every step I take, even from this cell,
Is one away from Venice, I look back
Even on these dull damp walls, and—
Doge.

Boy! no tears.

Mar. Let them flow on: he wept not on the rack
To shame him, and they cannot shame him now.
They will relieve his heart-that too kind heart-
And I will find an hour to wipe away
Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now,
But would not gratify yon wretch so far:
Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way.
Lor. (to the Familiar.)

Had nought to envy him within. Where is he?
Lor. In his own portion of the palace, with
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris.

Time to admonish them again.
Bar.

Forbear;

Not I, now

Retrench not from their moments.
Lor.

We have higher business for our own. This day
Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign,

As the first of his son's last banishment,
And that is vengeance.

In my mind, too deep.

Bar.
Lor. "Tis moderate-not even life for life, the rule
Denounced of retribution from all time;
They owe me still my father's and my uncle's.
Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly ?
Lor.
Doubtless.
Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion ?
Lor.
No.
Bar. But if this deposition should take place
By our united influence in the Council,
It must be done with all the deference
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds.
Lor. As much of ceremony as you will,
So that the thing be done. You may, for aught
I care, depute the Council on their knees,
Alas! (Like Barbarossa to the Pope,) to beg him
To have the courtesy to abdicate.

The torch, there!

Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre,
With Loredano mourning like an heir.

Doge. My son, you are feeble; take this hand.
Jac. Fos.

Must youth support itself on age, and I
Who ought to be the prop of yours?

Lor.

Take me.

Mar. Touch it not, Foscari; 'twill sting you.
Signor,

Stand off! be sure, that if a grasp of yours
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are
plunged,

« Anterior Continuar »

Livros

The Works of Lord Byron: Embracing His Suppressed Poems, and a Sketch of His ...