Class 
 Book. 
 
POEMS 
 
OHM 
 
 TRANSLATED AND ORIGINAL 
 
 BY 
 
 J3HClalrelpii(a: 
 
 KEY & BTDDLE, 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 
 Pennsjivania. 
 
 ^^.PA 
 
 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 diflferent 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 in- 
 debted for its success in representation. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 The Sepulchres, page 13 
 
 Lake Ontario, --------22 
 
 The Prince and the Palm Tree, - - - - 24 
 
 Hacon, 26 
 
 The Forest Temple, 29 
 
 Oh ! her glance is the brightest that ever has shone, - 31 
 
 To a Waterfall, 32 
 
 The Sea Kings, 34 
 
 The waves that on the sparkling sand, - - - 36 
 
 Is this a Day of Death 1 37 
 
 Paraphrase of the one hundred and thirty-seventh Psalm, 38 
 
 The cloud vt^here sunbeams soft repose, - - - 40 
 Like southern birds, -------41 
 
 The Loss of the Anio, 42 
 
 The Guardian Genius, - - - - - - 47 
 
 Stanzas, 49 
 
 Song — the closing year, 51 
 
 Scene from Alfieri's Tragedy of Saul, - , - - 53 
 
 The Vanity of the Vulgar Great, - - - - 59 
 
 Sonnet — Rome in ruins, - 61 
 
 Fables, - - 62 
 
X INDEX. 
 
 O'er the far mountain peak on high, - - - page 65 
 
 Incantation of Hervor 66 
 
 Death, 69 
 
 Enthusiasm, 71 
 
 The Dying Poet, 74 
 
 I would I were the light winged bird, - - - 80 
 
 Midnight Thoughts, 82 
 
 Song of the Jewish Exiles, 84 
 
 The Druids' Hymn, 86 
 
 The Blind Harper, 88 
 
 The Mermaid's Song, - 90 
 
 Susquehanna, -^ 91 
 
 Romance, 94 
 
 The Death of St. Louis, 96 
 
 Complaint of Harald, 100 
 
 Echo, 102 
 
 Epigram, - - - - ib. 
 
 The Pictured Rocks, - - - - - - 103 
 
 Sunset, 107 
 
 To the Lance-fly, 108 
 
 The Division of the Earth, 109 
 
 In yonder lake of silver sheen, Ill 
 
 The Swallows, 112 
 
 Nature, 114 
 
 Lines, ..------. 116 
 
 Fragment from "Ildegonda," 117 
 
 A Life spent in Pursuit of Glory, - - - - 119 
 
 The Wish, 120 
 
 The Northern Hunter's Song, 121 
 
 From Ippolito Pindemonte — The Poet's Last Dwelling, 123 
 From mountains at the dawn of day, - - - - 125 
 
INDEX. XI 
 
 The Witches' Revel, - - - - - page 126 
 
 Song, 128 
 
 Sodus Bay, 130 
 
 Notes, - 133 
 
 Teresa Contarini— a tragedy, 137 
 
POEMS 
 
 THE SEPULCHRES.' 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF UGO FOSCOLO. 
 
 Beneath the cypress shade, or sculptured urn 
 By fond tears watered, is the sleep of death 
 Less heavy 1 — 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 1 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 thing*: 
 Change after change, unfelt, resistless, takes 
 
14 'i'Hi^ SfiPULCHRES. 
 
 Tts tribute — and o'er man, his sepulchres, 
 His being's lingerinp; traces, and the relics 
 Of earth and heaven, time in mockery treads. 
 
 Yet why hath man, from immemorial years, 
 Yearned for the illusive power fhat may retain 
 The parted spirit on life's threshold still 1 
 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 vsolemn 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 
 
THE SEPULCHRES. 15 
 
 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 1 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 1 — 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, 
 
16 THE SEPULCHRES. 
 
 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, 
 
THE SEPULCHRES. 17 
 
 Or supplicate the hero's safe return, 
 
 Who of its mast the hostile ship despoiled, 
 
 To scoop from it his own triumphal bier.^ 
 
 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, 
 
 W'ith 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 I 
 
 Yes — Pinderaonte ! 
 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* 
 Who, humbling the proud sceptres of earth's kings, 
 Stripped thence the illusive wreaths, and showed the nations 
 W^hat tears and blood defiled them — when I saw 
 His mausoleum,^ 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 
 
18 THE SEPULCHRES. 
 
 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;'^ 
 And thou the parents and sweet tongue didst give 
 To him, the chosen of Calliope,^ 
 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 vi'reck 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 INIarathon, 
 Where Athens consecrates her heroes gone. 
 The mariner since, whose white sails woo the winds 
 Before Eubcea's isle, through midnight deep 
 Hath seen the lightning flash of gleaming casques, 
 
THE SEPULCHRES. 19 
 
 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.^ 
 
 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 Rhetceum's shore 
 Where Ajax sleeps. i° 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 lauds 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, 
 
20 THE SEPULCHRES. 
 
 Who bore her royal lord the son whence sprung 
 
 Troy's ancient city and Assaracus, 
 
 The fifiy 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 Phoebus 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, 
 
THE SEPULCHRES. 21 
 
 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 Pelens. 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 hlae 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. 
 
LAKE ONTARIO. 23 
 
 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. 
 
24 
 
 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 repre- 
 sented 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 1 
 
 Across the sunlight hours of glee 
 
 Do memories of sadness come, 
 That speak of groves beyond the sea, 
 
 That whisper of a glorious home 1 
 Dost thou partake my grief, when here 
 I bathe thy stem with many a tear 1 
 
 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 PRINCE AND THE PALM TREE. 25 
 
 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 ! 
 
26 
 
 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 ; 
 
HACON. 27 
 
 When hark ! a sudden courser's tread — 
 
 Is it a foeman nigh 1 
 His ready-arm has grasped the spear — 
 
 Why falls it from his hand 1 
 Why mutely and with glance of fear 
 
 Greets he that midnight band 1 
 
 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 ball 
 
 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. — 
 
28 HACON. 
 
 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 ! 
 
29 
 
 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 1 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 
 3* 
 
30 THE FOREST TEMPLE. 
 
 In man's frail sanctuaries 1 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 1 
 
31 
 
 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. 
 
32 
 
 TO A WATERFALL.!' 
 
 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 1 i 
 
 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, i 
 
 Along a gentler way. j 
 
 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 1 
 
TO A WATERFALL. 33 
 
 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 ! 
 
34 
 
 THE SEA KINGS. 
 
 " They are rightly named Sea Kings," says the author of the Inglinga- 
 saga, " who never seek shelter under a roof, and never drain their drink- 
 ing 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. 
 
THE SEA KINGS. 35 
 
 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. 
 
36 
 
 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. 
 
37 
 
 IS THIS A DAY OF DEATH? 
 
 Is this a day of death 1 
 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 ! 
 
38 
 
 PARAPHRASE OF THE ONE HUiNDRED 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 1 
 No — hushed let every chord remain! — 
 
 Chained in a foreign land. 
 Fur ever mute — if thou depart. 
 My native Zion ! from my heart — 
 
 Be Israel's powerless hand ! 
 
PARAPHRASE. 39 
 
 God ! do thy vengeful thunders sleep 1 
 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 ! 
 
40 
 
 THE CLOUD WHERE SUNBEAMS SOFT REPOSE. l 
 
 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. 
 
4 1 
 
 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 
 
42 
 
 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. 
 
THE LOSS OF THE ANIO. 43 
 
 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; — 
 
 TibuUus breathing sighs of soft complaining — 
 
 Scipio the vulgar pomp of power disdaining — 
 
 In thy deep shades a Julius fled from fame, 
 
 Maecenas claiming from his bards a name — 
 
 A Cato pondering virtue — Brutus crime — 
 
 What say'st thou, river, with thy ceaseless chime 1 
 
 Bring'st thou the tones of Horace' burning lyre? 
 
 Or Caesar'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. 
 
44 THE LOSS OF THE ANIO. 
 
 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 proiid 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 ! 
 
THE LOSS OF THE ANIO. 45 
 
 Lo! the most speaking of the wrecks of years — 
 Weep I 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 ; 
 
46 THE LOSS or THE ANIO. 
 
 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 Cajsar, 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 ! 
 
47 
 
 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 ; 
 'T was not the wind — the bell — the reed's soft sweep — 
 
 Nor infant's voice, nor man's, in murmuring swell — 
 
 My guardian genius ! Oh I the voice was thine ! 
 
 'T was 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; 
 'T was not his tone, 't was not his step receding — 
 
 Nor lovers' echoed songs in trelliced bower; — 
 
 My guardian genius ! Oh! the voice was thine! 
 
 'T was thou, whose spirit communed still with mine ! 
 
48 THE GUARDIAN GENIUS. 
 
 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 — 
 
 'T was 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 ! 
 
 'T was 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 't is thine ! 
 
 'T is thou, whose spirit dwells and mourns with mine ! 
 
49 
 
 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 surse : 
 
50 STANZAS. 
 
 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. 
 
51 
 
 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 ! 
 
52 SONG THE CLOSING YEAR. 
 
 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 tel! 
 Where we shall bid another year farewell ? 
 
53 
 
 SCENE FROM ALFIERPS TRAGEDY OF SA\JL. 
 
 Saul, Jonathan, Michol, David. 
 
 Jonathan. 
 Come, sire beloved — give truce awliile 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 1 This 1 't is 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 1 — In the fatal air 
 A sadness broods, which heavy on my heart 
 Sinks and compels my tears. — But why weep you 1 
 
 Jonathan. 
 Great God of Israel ! is thy face withdrawn 
 Thus, from thy people's king? him, once thy servant, 
 Le&v'st thou to foes infernal 1 
 
54 SCENE FROM 
 
 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 — 't is death 1 ask. 
 
 Jonathan. 
 Now, since his vengeful wrath dissolves in grief, 
 Oh, brother I 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 ! 't is 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 I — 
 Whose searching glance hell's dark abysses own. 
 
 And yield to light their depths of myster}'' — 
 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 ; 
 
ALFIERi's tragedy of SAUL. 55 
 
 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 1 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 1 
 Ye that could once insult, defy, disdain 
 
56 SCENE FROM 
 
 Israel's despised host 1 
 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! 
 
 'T is 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, 
 
ALFIERl's TRAGEDY OF SAUL. 57 
 
 '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 't is 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 
 
08 • SCENE FROM 
 
 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 ! 
 
59 
 
 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 ! 
 
60 THE VANITY OF THE VULGAR GREAT. 
 
 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 unraoistened feet. 
 
61 
 
 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 ! 
 
62 
 
 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 — 
 
FABLES. 63 
 
 " 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 1" — he cried with glee — 
 
 "The bird that carols on yon bough 
 Can boast no rivalship with me !" 
 
64 FABLES. 
 
 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 ! 
 
65 
 
 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. 
 
66 
 
 INCANTATION OF HERVOR.'^ 
 
 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 1 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 1 
 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 ; 
 
INCANTATION OF HERVOR. 67 
 
 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. 
 1 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 — 
 
68 INCANTATION OP HERVOR. 
 
 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 — 
 
 1 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 ! 
 
69 
 
 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. 
 
70 DEATH. 
 
 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. 
 
71 
 
 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. 
 
72 ENTHUSIASM. 
 
 The lightning courses through my veins, 
 The fire that in my being reigns, 
 
 Even while 1 strive, more fiercely glows ; 
 The lava of o'erfiowing 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 ? 
 
ENTHUSIASM. 73 
 
 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 shadov/'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 ! 
 
74 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 1 
 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 ; 
 
THE DYING POET. 75 
 
 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 tlie fragile weed 
 
 On evening breezes borne. 
 
 Like is the poetto 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. 
 
 'T is 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. 
 
76 THE DYING POET. 
 
 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 tlie 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 1 't is no more. — Fame 1 — What is to the sage 
 This echo vain from age transferred to age 1 
 
 This name — the toy of centuries yet to dawn 1 
 Ye who would promise the far future's reign. 
 Hear — hear my harp's last utterings. — 'T is 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 1 
 Is this renown — a dying mortal's sigh 1 
 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 ; 
 
THE DYING POET. 77 
 
 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 1 
 The swan that sails in yon imperial sky — 
 Asks he if yet his wings, self-poised on high. 
 
 Shadow the subject plain 1 
 
 Then wherefore sing 1 — 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 fc^rew^ell hour I nought regret; 
 Nought — save the burning sighs that soar above, 
 Tlie 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 flow^er — 
 
 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, 
 
78 THE DYING POET. 
 
 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 1 
 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. 
 
THE DYING POET. 79 
 
 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 ! 
 
80 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
THE LIGHT-WINGED BIRD. 81 
 
 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. 
 
82 
 
 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 Bootes, 
 
 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 
 
MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS. 83 
 
 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 unnumhered 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 1 — 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. 
 
84 
 
 SONG OF THE JEWISH EXILES. 
 
 " Observing many Jews walking about the place, and reposing along the 
 brook Kedron in a pensive mood, tlie 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,' " 
 
 Wilsori'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. 
 
SONG OF THE JEWISH EXILES. 85 
 
 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. 
 
86 
 
 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 Oallic 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 — 
 
HYMN. 87 
 
 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. 
 
8S 
 
 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 BLIND HARPER. 89 
 
 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. 
 
90 
 
 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 I 
 
 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 deepl 
 And the pnrple 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 1 
 
 1 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. 
 
91 
 
 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, 
 
 'T were 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. 
 
92 SUSQUEHANNA. 
 
 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 1 — 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 
 
SUSQUEHANNA. 93 
 
 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 v/recks of time, and read their doom. 
 
94 
 
 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 ; 
 
ROMANCE. 95 
 
 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 ! 
 
96 
 
 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 
 
THE DEATH OP ST. LOUIS. 97 
 
 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!" 
 9 
 
98 THE DEATH OF ST. LOUIS. 
 
 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 1 
 
 Had they the joys of home and love resigned, 
 
 Once all their own, such guerdon here to find 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 And where was he, at whose beloved side 
 Thousands had rushed to fall 1 He who defied 
 The haughty Saracen, and came to free 
 The holy shrine from heathen mockery — 
 Their leader and their king 1 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 
 
THE DEATH OP ST. LOUIS. 99 
 
 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, 
 
 'T is 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 oflfered penance ! Be thy dread 
 
 Just chastisement poured only on my head ! 
 
 And save my people !" — As these accents passed 
 
 Fron 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. 
 
100 
 
 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. 
 
COMPLAINT OF HARALD. 101 
 
 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 1 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 ! 
 
 9* 
 
102 
 
 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. 
 
103 
 
 THE PICTURED R0CKS.»4 
 
 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. 
 
104 THE PICTURED ROCKS. 
 
 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 
 
THE PICTURED ROCKS. 105 
 
 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. 
 'T was 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 
 
106 THE PICTURED ROCKS. 
 
 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 
 
107 
 
 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 1 
 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. 
 
108 
 
 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, — 
 1 cannot soar like thee! 
 
109 
 
 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. 
 
 10 
 
110 THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH. 
 
 " 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!" 
 
Ill 
 
 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. 
 
112 
 
 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 yc of that land to me 1 
 
 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 ; 
 
THE SWALLOWS. 113 
 
 Listens — then weeps more bitter tears — 
 Oh ! speak ye of her love to me 1 
 
 Is my fair sister yet a bride 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 ? 
 
 10* 
 
114 
 
 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. 
 
NATURE. 115 
 
 Flow, generous wine — and snfiile, 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 '11 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. 
 
116 
 
 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. 
 
117 
 
 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. 
 
 ** 'T was 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 : 
 
118 FRAGMENT FROM 
 
 In mute embrace the undivided twain 
 
 With love on each dead feature stamped, vv^ere 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 — 't is heard no more. 
 
119 
 
 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 fronn 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 '. 
 
120 
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN. 
 
 Oh ! that in some far solitude, 
 Wliere earthly cares might ne'er intrude, 
 From man's vain pomp and friendship free. 
 My lot of joy were fixed vvith 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 ! 
 
121 
 
 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. 
 
 11 
 
122 THE NORTHERN HUNTEr's SONG. 
 
 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 footseps chide ! 
 While nature anew to life is born, — 
 With mirthful shout — and the sounding horn — 
 
 To the woods and the hills — away ! 
 
123 
 
 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 scothe 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 !' 
 
124 FROM TPPOLITE PINDEMONTE. 
 
 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 1 So fearful can it be 
 
 In life's warm prime to feel the spoiler's blight? 
 
 Oh ! not to those who know — to live arisfht T 
 
125 
 
 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. 
 
 'T is 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. 
 
 11 
 
126 
 
 THE WITCHES' REVEL. 
 
 On with the dance ! let the echoing earth 
 
 From the depth of its caverns resound to our mirth ! 
 
 'T is 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 I 
 
 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 ! 
 
127 
 
 Wake the loud revel ! The roar of the sea, 
 And the drowning ones' death-shriek, our music shall he ! 
 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 — 
 'T is the blithe hour of revel ! On — on with the dance ! 
 
128 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come, fill a pledge to sorrow, 
 
 The song of mirth is o'er, 
 And if there 's sunshine in our hearts, 
 
 'T will light our thenae 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 ! 
 
SONG. 129 
 
 Then grieve not that nought mortal 
 
 Endures through passing years — 
 Did life one changeless tenor keep, 
 
 'T were 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 ! 
 
130 
 
 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 
 'Fo 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 ! 
 
SODUS BAY. 131 
 
 'Twas here that memory grew — 
 'T was 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 1 — 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 1 — 
 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 1 3 . The Sepulchres. 
 
 This poem was composed by Foscolo during a temporary retire- 
 ment 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 ceme- 
 teries. 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 sepultui'e, 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 salutaiy influence over the 
 living of their veneration for the dead 5 and proves the mischievous 
 effects of that policy which would invade the sacredness of a senti- 
 ment so holy. — American Quarterly Review, Vol. xvi. page 76. 
 
 (2) Page 15. That stung the Sardanapalus of our land. 
 
 " Jl Lombardo Sardaiiapalo." The Prince Belgiojoso, severely 
 satirized in Parini's poem of " The Day." 
 
 (3) Page 17. To scoop from it Jus oivn tnumphal bier. 
 
 Nelson is said to have carried about with him, sometime before 
 his death, a cofiin 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 liis trophies. 
 
 (4) Page 17. The spot -where sleeps enshriiied that noble genius. 
 Nicole Machiavelli. 
 
 12 
 
134 NOTES. 
 
 (5) Page 17. — — tvhen I saw 
 
 His mausoleum. 
 Michel Angelo. 
 
 (6) Page 17. And his, tvho ^neath Heaveii's azure campy. 
 Galileo. 
 
 (7) Page 18, That cheered tJte Ghibelline''s indignant flight . 
 Dante. 
 
 (8) Page 18. To him, the chosen of Calliope. 
 Petrai'ch was born in exile, of Florentine parents. 
 
 (9) Page 19. And Mglt 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 en- 
 counter of spectral combatants. 
 
 (10) Page 19. And the proud siirge exult, that bore of old 
 
 Achilles'' armor to Rhetceum'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 Rhetoeum, 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 Giiardian 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, wliich 
 consists of a dialogue between Hervor and Arganttr ; but merely 
 
NOTES. 135 
 
 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. 
 
 12- 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Doge of Venice. 
 
 foscarini. 
 
 contarini. 1 
 
 LoREDANO. y Inquisitors of State. 
 
 Badoero. 3 
 
 Veniero. 
 
 ViNCENTIO. 
 
 Leonardo. 
 Steno. 
 
 Officers of the Inquisition, 
 Pascali. :^ dJ j 1 
 
 Beltramo, the Jailer, 
 Memmo, Captain of the Guard, 
 Marco. 
 Stefano. 
 
 Teresa. 
 
 FlORlLLA. 
 
 Matilda. 
 
 First Attendant. 
 
 Senators — Ckiards — Attendants., &c. 
 
 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 1 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. 
 
142 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 1 
 
 Veniero. 
 Justice ! ye misname 
 What is but cruelty. Is not your power 
 Already vast enough 1 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 1 
 
 LoREDANO. 
 
 'T is 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. 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 143 
 
 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 1 am I the " worthless flatterer" 
 Whom you would here denounce 1 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Even as you will — 
 Your conscience must reply. 
 
 Doge. 
 Nay — nay — my lords, 
 
144 TEKESA CONTAKINI. 
 
 Descend not here to brawl. Retire — and let 
 The vote be taken. 
 
 [CoNTARiNi a7id Badoero count the votes. 
 Senators of Venice, 
 Ye to the public eye should be as gods, 
 Not men thus passion moved. 
 
 Read the decree. 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Fathers ! the laws have triumphed. 
 
 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. 
 'T is well ; such is the Senate's voice. And now 
 Another duty. Summon Foscarini. 
 
 \_d 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 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 145 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 Doge. 
 That I promise. 
 
 13 
 
146 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Enough ! with lighter heart I shall now leave 
 My native city. Fare you well ! 
 
 Doge. 
 Heaven guard you. 
 
 l_Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 ^ Street. — Etiter VIncentio a7id 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! 'T was but now, 
 Even at the masque, I saw the peering eyes 
 Of that dark villain, Steno, fixed upon me. 
 Pve marked him oft — he serves the state in secret ! 
 Mine arm ached for the dagger, as I watched 
 His lowering face. 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 147 
 
 Leonardo. 
 Are you alone in fear 1 
 
 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 Signer Loredano, and another. 
 In converse, too. 
 
 ViNCENTIO. 
 
 Some double, unheard crime 
 They ponder. 
 
 Leonardo. 
 Let us go. ^Exeunt, 
 
 Enter Contarini a7id Loredano. 
 
 Contarini. 
 Chafe not at idle words. 
 
 Loredano. 
 I am not wont 
 To let them move me. In another age 
 
148 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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. 
 
 FioriJla ! 
 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, w^e 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 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 149 
 
 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 1 
 
 LoREDANO. 
 
 Ha ! and who plays 
 The treasured blossom to your miser's bower 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 LoREDANO. 
 
 I '11 join you soon. lExit Loredano, 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 He'll serve my purpose well, 
 13^ 
 
150 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 halcom , 
 
 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. 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 151 
 
 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 1 Nay — sweet monitor 
 
 Teresa. 
 I never feigned disdain. 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Nor felt it I 
 
 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. 
 
152 TERESA CONTARINL 
 
 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 eyesl 
 But wherefore talk of absence? 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 We must part. 
 
 Teresa. 
 
 Part! 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 For a time. Let it not blanch thy cheek, 
 Thougb, sooth, that hue of fear is dearer far 
 Than were ten thousand roses. 
 
 TERESa. 
 
 Has my favor 
 O'erwearied you so soon 1 
 
 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 ? [liimc 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 ray hopes — hopes that will banish 
 Intrusive fear, and clotlie the rugged peaks 
 Of wild Helvetia's Alps with smiles and flowers, 
 Breathing Elysian fragrance o'er their snows ! Exeunt. 
 
153 
 
 ACT ir. 
 
 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 I 
 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 tar, 
 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 — 
 
154 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 't were a kindly part to bid her wear it. 
 Even in her own despite. She comes. 
 
 Enter Teresa. 
 Teresa, 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 155 
 
 Oar 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 
 
156 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Thou lovest me not, as once thou didst 1 T 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— 
 ♦Whatmustltellyou? 
 
 ' Veniero. 
 » 0, that innocent look ! 
 ' Well, I '11 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 1 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 157 
 
 * Veniero. 
 ' Are mine alone 
 
 ' The lips that breathe such sounds 1 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 1 
 Did not my guest deserve regard 1 
 14 
 
158 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 CONTARINI. 159 
 
 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 1 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] 
 
160 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Steno (^presenting a paper.) 
 Would yoa behold our warrant? 
 
 Veniero {aside.) 
 'T is 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, Signers, 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 ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 161 
 
 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 '11 plead for him 
 With words of ready truth, on which shall hang 
 Conviction. If there be love of justice, 
 1 '11 rouse and arm it for my cause ! lExit. 
 
 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 '11 care for it alone. [Exeunt attendants. 
 
 You have prepared 
 The chamber for our secret guests 1 
 
 Marco. 
 'T is ready. 
 They need not fear intrusion. 
 
 Fiorilla. 
 All is right. [Exit Marco. 
 
 I am now mistress of their secret. Set me 
 14^ 
 
162 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 A woman's wit against a statesman's arts ! 
 I '11 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. 
 
 FlORlLLA. 
 
 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. 
 
 F]ORILLA. 
 
 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. 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 And what say they ? 
 
 Leonardo. 
 They join your name with Contarini's, lady, 
 And say, they shortly will be one. 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 163 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 Indeed ! 
 'Tis an impertinent tale ; — but power like his 
 Were it not worth the sharing 1 
 
 Leonardo. 
 And such grace 
 And loveliness would well become its pride. 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 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. 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 I will receive them. ^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IIL 
 
 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 ? 
 
164 TERESA CONTARINT. 
 
 Badoero. 
 We must look 
 More closely, ere we judge. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 What need we more 1 
 '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 1 
 
 Enter Teresa. 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Lady — whence come you 1 
 
 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 1 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 165 
 
 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 1 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, signers, 
 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 I 
 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. 
 
166 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 1 The guardian of the state, 
 Where he fears, punishes. 
 
 Teresa. 
 Are ye wont to doom 
 Without at least the solemn show of right 1 
 Will ye hear no defence T And, Contarini, 
 Darest thou not speak for him, who wast so late 
 His loved and honored gnest? or art thou leagued 
 In bitter compact with this scorner here 
 To rob me of his life 1 
 
 LoREDANO. 
 
 Let her begone; 
 Must she insult us 1 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? 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 167 
 
 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 Ml 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 1 
 
168 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 1 speak — and I '11 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 1 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 In truth I do. 
 Accept them — and be blest. 
 
 Teresa. 
 Is this the noble 
 So honored 1 This the haughty senator 1 
 Ready to barter in his selfishness 
 The trust he holds 1 Bearing the solemn charge — 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 169 
 
 • 
 
 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 't is 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. 
 15 
 
170 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 A dark dawn, trul}^ 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 1 
 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 1 — W^hat's this ? 
 You tremble, you are faint ! Help — ho ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 171 
 
 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. 
 'T is 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 !. 
 
J 72 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Yet will 1 sue 
 And humble me for you, to be disdained 
 By yonder fair, when I shall kneel to claim 
 My guerdon for such service 1 Shall the city 
 Know that I saved you for your daughter's love, 
 And know me spurned by herl 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 '11 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 '11 learn my truth, 
 When 't is too late. 
 
 Veniero. 
 Dost doubt bim, 
 When proofs like these {pointing to his dungeon walls) con- 
 firm his tale 1 
 Or deem'st thou 
 My life not worth the purchase 1 
 
 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 1 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 173 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 I 
 
 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 1 
 These hairs are white — no matter ! they '11 be dabbled 
 "With red, full soon ! My limbs are old and weary — 
 They '11 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 ! 
 
 15* 
 
174 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Veniero. 
 Would die ! so those who prate of filial virtue 
 Talk — but shrink from the test. Off! I '11 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 I 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.'] 
 
17e5 
 
 ACT III. 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Fiorilla's house. — Enter Fiorilla and Leonardo. 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 The letter was delivered % 
 
 Leonardo. 
 'T was entrusted 
 To one who never failed me, and the messenger 
 Is even now returned. 
 
 Fiorilla. 
 Did he reveal 
 The whole to FoscariniT 
 
 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 
 
176 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 T 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 Hear me, Leonarjjo. 
 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 srnile is the sunlight 
 That banishes all gloom where'er it shines. 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 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. 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 Contarini — you may deem 
 'T was vanity — 't was pride— that bound me to him ! 
 Folly ! when all that Venice boasts of rank 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 177 
 
 And wealth were at my feet, why should I spurn 
 Such suppliance — turning to one who seemed 
 To mock my power 1 
 
 Leonardo. 
 He never offered, then, 
 His solemn vows 1 
 
 FlORlLLA. 
 
 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 uponliis 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 '11 hurl him thence 
 Or ere he gains that height ! 
 
 Leonardo. 
 Nay, lady — 
 
 FlORlLLA. 
 
 Yes! 
 'Tis you must aid me, while 1 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 
 
 FlORlLLA. 
 
 Aye — the council ! 
 And they shall hear! Yet, tell me, is not he 
 
178 TERESA CONTARTNT. 
 
 One of that fearful number who preside 
 In secret o'er the state 1 
 
 Leonardo. 
 'T is rumored so — 
 But the inquisitors' persons are unknown. 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 '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 IL 
 
 Teresa's chamber, Teresa, m 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 ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 179 
 
 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. 
 
180 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Teresa. 
 Matilda ! 
 
 Matilda. 
 Here — these flowers are fresh ; I '11 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 b)'', when riper years bestow 
 Far richer gifts, and teach him 't was a trifle 
 He prized before ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 181 
 
 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 1 or shall I sing those cheerful songs 
 That once you loved to hear 1 
 
 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 ihe chain, and purchase peace 
 16 
 
182 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Even at the price of life. — Would I could be 
 Like her ! 
 
 Matilda. 
 Teresa I 
 
 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 — 1 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. — 1 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 ! 
 
TI^ESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Matilda. 
 
 183 
 
 Talk not so strangely 
 
 Oh, sadly ! 
 
 Who conies'? 
 
 Whither ? 
 
 Remain — 
 
 Teresa. 
 Strangely! am I changed ? 
 
 Matilda. 
 
 Teresa. 
 I rejoice — I would be changed ! 
 
 [Enter two female attendants. 
 
 Attendant. 
 My lady, will you go T 
 
 Teresa. 
 
 Matilda. 
 Do you forget ] but a few moments 
 
 Attendant. 
 My lord enquires for you. The guests 
 Are even now assembled. 
 
 Teresa. 
 It is well. 
 
 I '11 follow you. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
184 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Ji 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? 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 185 
 
 ViNCENTIO. 
 
 None — of note. 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 You come 
 I augur by your garb — from some late festival? 
 
 VlNCENTIO. 
 
 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? 
 
 VlNCENTIO. 
 
 'T was not all joy. 
 If I mistake not, with the flowers that wrought 
 The bridal wreath, some leaves of bitterness 
 Were mingled. 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Ha! 
 
 VlNCENTIO. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 16* 
 
186 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 1 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 ray heart — {aloud) — The bridegroom, 
 said youl 
 
 ViNCENTIO. 
 
 Is stern and haughty — though in courtesy 
 
 Well skilled — as noble senator should be. {ironically.) 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 A senator 1 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? 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 187 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Hence ! you have basely slandered her — the fairest — 
 The truest. — No ! 't was not Teresa ! speak ! 
 You have mistaken her name 1 
 
 ViNCENTIO. 
 
 I spoke the truth — 
 Veniero's daughter. 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Well — begone and leave me ! 
 {Exit ViNCENTio. FoscARiNi puccs the scene a few moments 
 
 in silence — then suddenly stops.) 
 If this be true, I '11 seek her — I '11 confront her — 
 I '11 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. 
 
 ^ 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'? 
 
188 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 5'^our fond sire 
 Invoke your smiles to make them happy. 
 
 Teresa. 
 Sir, 
 I thank both them and you. 
 
 Veniero {to Contarini. 
 
 I pray you, Signer, 
 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 e?iters, masked, a7id remains at the back of the scene, 
 watching Teresa.) 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 189 
 
 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 ttiis 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 1 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Contaiuni. 
 ' 1 will not leave you.; 
 
 I am too proud to stand beside you. 
 
 Foscarini (i?2. a low tone.) 
 Aye! 
 She may beti'ay you too ! 
 
190 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 1 
 
 ' 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 ; 
 
 T am not ill 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Take it — -fair lady — 
 
 FoscARiNi {snatches another cup arid 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 CONTARINI. 191 
 
 Teresa. 
 'T is 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 (luildly.) 
 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 1 
 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 ! 
 
192 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Teresa. 
 Hold ! 
 What would you do 1 what have I said 1 't was nothing — 
 Indeed — 't was nothing ! 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Tell nne — whose the voice 
 That frighted you 1 
 
 Teresa. 
 No voice ! Move not — I pray you ! 
 It was an idle fancy. — Did I say 
 Some one had spoken to me 1 — 'T was not so ! 
 My brain hath coined strange tales ! 'T is cause for mirth 
 That I should think such things. 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Such eagerness 
 To screen the offender- 
 
 Teresa. 
 My lord I I am ashamed 
 To have disturbed this noble company 
 With such absurd, strange weakness. I beseech you 
 Let me retire awhile ! 
 
 Veniero. 
 Go. 
 
 lExetmt Teresa, Matilda and attenda^its. 
 
193 
 
 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 I 
 
 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. 
 Signer, 't is done. 
 17 
 
194 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Be wary — but be speedy. [Exit 'Steno. 
 Enter Fiorilla. 
 A lady ! 1 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 1 
 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 ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 195 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 • Ha! ha! 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 My bride — 
 You have not seen her ! Oh ! her gentle beauty 
 Might rival yours ! 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 Indeed ! 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 The rose perchance 
 Upon her cheek wears not a bloom so rich ; 
 Her brow may be less haughty — but 't is moulded 
 In form as perfect. 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 Gallant cavalier! 
 Why in seclusion veil such matchless charms ? 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 She seeks it. 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 She would jest ; 
 Yet plays a smile too mocking on her lips 
 For courtesy ! — Fiorilla — 
 
196 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 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! 
 
 FlORILLA. 
 
 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 I there. — 
 
 Enter Marco. 
 Farewell my lord — I '11 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 n. 
 
 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 yi his breast ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 197 
 
 But mine — why — let it fester, and grow rank, 
 And spread, and spread, till its consuming- poison 
 Hath eaten life oat ! 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, w^an 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 if, — 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 1 
 What matter if he deem me cold and proud 1 
 I must be so — to him ! 
 
 Enter Matilda. 
 17* 
 
198 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 '11 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 ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 199 
 
 Matilda. 
 He '11 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 ! ycur 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 Avord ! what claim 
 Have I to his obedience T 
 
200 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Matilda. 
 
 Dear Teresa, 
 Weigh not a fancied duty 'gainst bis 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 '11 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 1 feared is true : 
 You love me not ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 201 
 
 Teresa. 
 Hush — busy torturer ! 
 Should I be here, else 1 
 
 FoscARiNi {bitterly.) 
 Such was not your welcome 
 When last we met ! 
 
 Teresa. 
 And is all else unchanged 1 
 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 ! 
 
202 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 203 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Mine own Teresa ! 
 Let me so call you now — blanie 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 'It think on me — weep for me — 
 Wilt thou not, Foscarini 1 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Listen to me ! 
 The victim hath no duties. That forced vow 
 W'hich came not from the heart, and bears no sanction 
 Of the consenting will. Heaven did not register. 
 
 Teresa. 
 W^hat mean you 1 
 
 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. 
 
204 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Teresa. 
 Ha ! a fitting 
 Companion to your flight! a fugitive wife ! 
 Whose wifel 'T is well — peace I have lost — and you 
 Would take all that remains ! 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Forgive — forgive me ! 
 'T was but a thought of madness. It is past. 
 I '11 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 T 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 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 205 
 
 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 ihe 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 T 
 
 Foscarini. 
 'T is infamy 
 To you, if I remain ! 
 
 Teresa. 
 You shall not go. 
 "What is a name to me 1 Stay — I '11 reveal 
 All — all to Contarini; I will plead 
 Even at his feet I He 'II 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 '11 shield thee 
 With my entwining arms. They shall not strike — 
 Or if they do — mine — mine — shall be the death ! 
 18 
 
206 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Love ! love I 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 '11 not arrest me. I will never fall, 
 Trust me, by hands ignoble, while this weapon 
 Can serve me truly ! \hreaks from her, and exit. 
 
 Enter Contarini and Steno, with servants hearing 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. 
 
 \_Excunt Steno and servaiits. 
 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.) 
 
207 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Secret chamher of the Inquisitors. 
 
 Enter Badoero mid 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 ! 
 
208 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Know you with what object 
 He broke the law ] 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Know I ] and do you think 
 I would confer with traitors 1 
 
 Badoero. 
 'T is 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 1 
 
 LoREDANo {signijicantly J) 
 'T is rumoured that some fairer cause impelled him 
 Incautious into dangfer. — 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 209 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Idle falsehoods ! 
 Must we give heed to every lying breath 
 That stirs the populace 1 
 
 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. 
 
 18* 
 
210 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Is it not plain ] 
 
 Not life. 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 He confesses guilt. 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Honor I here defend- 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 arras and council— by these walls, defended 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 211 
 
 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 1 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 'T is death. 
 
 Badoero. 
 And yet 
 A further punishment. 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 What more 1 
 
 Badoero. 
 Dishonor ! 
 Who shall wipe off the stain thy execution 
 Will fix on all the kindred of thy house 1 
 
212 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 FOSCARINI. 
 
 Answer you that ! You may decree, 't is true, 
 
 My death, but with my death you will decree 
 
 Your everlasting infamy. Where'er 
 
 In future years the deed shall be remembered, 
 
 'T will 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 v/rit 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. 
 
TERESA CONTARINT. 213 
 
 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 IjEONARDo, followed hy several citizens, 
 
 ViNCENTIO. 
 
 Courage, my friends ! this way leads to his prison. 
 We '11 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 "? 
 
214 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 in. 
 
 CoNTARiNi's palace. 
 
 Enter Teresa, meeting Matilda. 
 
 Teresa. 
 
 Is he returned ? 
 
 INIatilda. 
 This instant. 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 215 
 
 Teresa. 
 He will come, 
 If that he bears ill tidings. What have I 
 To do with dread? Hush ! 't is his step. — Away ! 
 
 {Exit Matilda as Contarini enters. 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 She looks beseechingly — but dares not speak ! 
 1 '11 feast upon her pale despair ! Fair madam, 
 Your lover is condemned. 
 
 Teresa. 
 Condemned — already I 
 
 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! 
 
216 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 1 say — say — 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 That they have import 
 You will soon know. 
 
 Teresa. 
 And is your bosom steeled 
 To pity, as to truth 1 Hear me — but hear me ! 
 I '11 buy his life. — I '11 pay your price of blood ! 
 Heap vengeance on my head. I '11 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 I 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 These prayers are idle. Could they aught avail, 
 'T would be to make his fate more sure. 
 
 * Teresa 
 "Tis madness 
 ' To speak to thee of mercy ! Yet — bethink thee, 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 217 
 
 * Is there no sure and soleiTin retribution 
 
 * Striding even now, fast on thy guilty footsteps ? 
 
 * Shalt thou remain unpunished 1 Will the voice 
 
 * That from the innocent blood reeks to the sky, 
 
 * Cease to upbraid thee 1 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 '11 hear me ! if no justice dares to dwell there, 
 I '11 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 '11 blast it ! 
 I '11 blast it! not a tongue in this wide Venice 
 But shall dwell on, and scoff at your disgrace ! 
 I '11 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 ! 
 19 
 
218 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 It shall cling to you ever — with its deep 
 
 And damning blight — and none shall cancel it! 
 
 Then /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. 
 
 ^ corridor leading from the prisons. , 
 
 Enter Foscarini, fettered and guarded — the Doge, and Bel- 
 
 TRAMO. 
 
 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 ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 219 
 
 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 ! 't is not enough in darkness 
 
220 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 I well indeed had'st thou 
 
 Thy cradle 'midst the clay of thy lagnnes, 
 
 Base city, which hast borne it ! 
 
 Enter Memmo. 
 
 Memmo (Jo Doge.) 
 Sir — the council 
 Await your attendance. [^Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Grand Council Chamber. Inquisitors, Veniero, and other 
 Senators. Enter the Doge, a7id Foscarini guarded. Pas- 
 CALI stands behind among the guards* 
 
 Badoero. 
 Hath he disclosed aught 1 
 
 Doge. 
 Nothing ! 
 
 Badoero {to Foscarini.) 
 Then stand forth. 
 To our arraignment thou confessest guilt? 
 
 Foscarini. 
 I broke the laws. 
 
 Contarini. 
 Guilty ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 221 
 
 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. 
 
 'T is made 
 Already — victim to your human laws, 
 I hope acquittal there ! lExit, 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. 
 Signers — a tumult 
 Is raised among the populace. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Rebellion ? 
 
 19* 
 
222 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 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 1 
 Command his instant execution — let 
 The rabble see what tumults will avail. 
 
 Badoero. 
 Not so. Should we anticipate the hour 
 'T would 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 sol 
 
 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. 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 223 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 She cannot be admitted ; 
 She's an accomplice- 
 
 Enter Teresa. 
 
 Teresa. 
 Back, back — hold me not! 
 For shame, my lords, to j\idge without a witness — 
 Without one witness — and to doom your victim 
 Wheil but a woman's words might save him ! 
 
 Badoero. 
 • Who is 't 
 That speaks so wildly 1 
 
 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 '11 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 ! 
 
224 TERESA CONTARTNI. 
 
 ' 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 1 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 't is 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 Jmn 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 1 
 Gold — paltry gold ! And mine ! He claimed a price 
 Nought could redeem ! a perjured soul ! a spirit 
 Sold to perdition ! 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 225 
 
 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 1 Beseech ye, listen ! 
 He loved me — Foscarini ; — 't was 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 lie 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, 
 
226 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 Of crime, and treason, and conspiracy; — 
 
 Ye know it now — it blanches you with fear — 
 
 You — to whom blood's no stranger ! Can yon 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. 
 Itrnustbeso. 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 1 
 
 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 1 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 227 
 
 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 Conta- 
 Of foul conspiracy. [rini. 
 
 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 1 
 Methinks it needs less dubious witnesses 
 To give it credence I 
 
228 TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 They are ready ; — one 
 The lady Fiorillal At that name 
 You turn pale, Signer! 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Idle words I 've whispered 
 Oft in her ear — but they can never rise 
 Against me ! 
 
 LoREDANO. 
 
 No ! your written words condemn you — . 
 'T was 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 '11 witness to her truth : on my head too, 
 Pronounce the traitor's doom. 'T will be too light 
 To outweigh my crimes. Ye '11 hear the list anon ! 
 
 Enter Memmo, hastily. 
 
 Memmo. 
 My lord, the prisoner 
 
 CONTARINI. 
 
 Away ! 't is 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, hut is disarmed by Badge ro. 
 
TERESA CONTARINI. 229 
 
 Badoero. 
 Ho ! the guard ! 
 Bear him hence ! Chain the traitor ! 
 
 [Exit CoNTARiw, 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 1 Who supports me 1 — Father ! 
 
 Veniero. 
 Speak ! 
 Canst thou forgive me 1 
 
 Teresa. 
 Forgive 1 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. 
 20