Over the lantern at the prow, and cried,
Turning the corner of some reverend pile,
Some school or hospital of old renown,
Though haply none were coming, none were near,
"Hasten or slacken."

But at length Night fled;
And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Pleasure.
Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like,
Cross'd me and vanish'd-lost at once among
Those hundred Isles that tower majestically,
That rise abruptly from the water-mark,
Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work
Of noblest architects. I linger'd still;

Nor struck my threshold, till the hour was come
And past, when, flitting home in the grey light,
The young Bianca found her father's door, (52)
That door so often with a trembling hand,
So often-then so lately left ajar,
Shut; and, all terror, all perplexity,
Now by her lover urged, now by her love,
Fled o'er the waters to return no more.

Turban'd, long-vested, and the cozening Jew,
In yellow hat and threadbare gaberdine,
Hurrying along. For, as the custom was,
The noblest sons and daughters of the State,
They of Patrician birth, the flower of Venice,
Whose names are written in the Book of Gold,
Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials.

At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd,
Rising and rolling on, announced their coming;
And never from the first was to be seen
Such splendor or such beauty. (54) Two and two
(The richest tapestry unroll'd before them),
First came the Brides in all their loveliness;
Each in her veil, and by two bride-maids follow'd,
Only less lovely, who behind her bore
The precious caskets that within contain'd
The dowry and the presents. On she moved,
Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand
A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-feathers.
Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, (55)

I Premi o sta.

Fell from beneath a starry diadem ;
And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone,
Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst;
A jewell'd chain, in many a winding wreath,
Wreathing her gold brocade.
Before the Churen,
That venerable Pile on the sea-brink, (56)
Another train they met, no strangers to them,
Brothers to some, and to the rest still dearer;
Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume,
And, as he walk'd, with modest dignity
Folding his scarlet mantle, his tabarro.

They join, they enter in, and, up the aisle Led by the full-voiced choir in bright procession, Range round the altar. In his vestments there

The Patriarch stands; and, while the anthem flows,
Who can look on unmoved?-mothers in secret
Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters,
Sons in the thought of making them their own;
And they-array'd in youth and innocence,
Their beauty heighten'd by their hopes and fears.

At length the rite is ending. All fall down
In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together;
And, stretching out his hands, the holy man
Proceeds to give the general benediction;
When hark, a din of voices from without,
And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle.
And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent,
And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep,
Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbarigo,
And his six brothers in their coats of steel,
Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like,
Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude,
Each with his sabre up, in act to strike;
Then, as at once recovering from the spell,
Rush forward to the altar, and as soon
Are gone again-amid no clash of arms
Bearing away the maidens and the treasures.

Where are they now?-plowing the distant waves
Standing triumphant. To the east they go,
Their sails all set, and they upon the deck
Steering for Istria; their accursed barks
(Well are they known, the galliot and the galley),(57)
Freighted with all that gives to life its value!
The richest argosies were poor to them!

Now might you see the matrons running wild Along the beach; the men half-arm'd and arming, One with a shield, one with a casque and spear; One with an axe hewing the mooring-chain Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, But on that day was drifting. In an hour Half Venice was afloat. But long before, Frantic with grief and scorning all control, The youths were gone in a light brigantine, Lying at anchor near the Arsenal; Each having sworn, and by the holy rood, To slay or to be slain.

And from the tower The watchman gives the signal. In the East A ship is seen, and making for the Port; Her flag St. Mark's.-And now she turns the point, Over the waters like a sea-bird flying!

Ha, 't is the same, 't is theirs! from stern to prow

In his old resting-place, the bed of torture;
And thence look up (five long, long years of Grief
Have not killed either) on his wretched Sire,
Still in that seat as though he had not left it,
Immovable, enveloped in his mantle.

But now he comes, convicted of a crime
Great by the laws of Venice. Night and day,
Brooding on what he had been, what he was,
T was more than he could bear. His longing fits
Thicken'd upon him. His desire for home
Became a madness; and, resolved to go,
If but to die, in his despair he writes
A letter to Francesco, Duke of Milan,
Soliciting his influence with the State,

And drops it to be found.-"Would ye know all?
I have transgress'd, offended wilfully; (63)
And am prepared to suffer as I ought.
But let me, let me, if but for an instant
(Ye must consent for all of you are sons,
Most of you husbands, fathers), let me first
Indulge the natural feelings of a man,
And, ere I die, if such my sentence be,
Press to my heart ('t is all I ask of you)
My wife, my children—and my aged mother-
Say, is she yet alive?”

He is condemn'd

To go ere set of sun, go whence he came,
A banish'd man-and for a year to breathe
The vapor of a dungeon.-But his prayer
(What could they less ?) is granted.

In a hall
Open and crowded by the common rabble,
'Twas there a trembling Wife and her four Sons
Yet young, a Mother, borne along, bedridden,
And an old Doge, mustering up all his strength,
That strength how small! assembled now to meet
One so long lost, long mourn'd, one who for them
Had braved so much-death, and yet worse than
death-

To meet him, and to part with him for ever!

Time and their heavy wrongs had changed them all; Him most! Yet when the Wife, the Mother look'd Again, 't was he himself, 't was Giacomo, Their only hope, and trust, and consolation! And all clung round him, weeping bitterly; Weeping the more, because they wept in vain.

Unnerved, unsettled in his mind from long And exquisite pain, he sobs aloud and cries Kissing the old Man's cheek, "Help me, my Father! Let me, I pray thee, live once more among you: Let me go home."-"My Son," returns the Doge, Mastering awhile his grief, "if I may still Call thee my Son, if thou art innocent, As I would fain believe," but, as he speaks, He falls, "submit without a murmur."

Night, That to the World brought revelry, to them Brought only food for sorrow. Giacomo Embark'd-to die; sent to an early grave For thee, Erizzo, whose death-bed confession, "He is most innocent! "T was I who did it!" Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that sail'd Swift as the winds with his recall to Honor, Bore back a lifeless corse. Generous as brave,

Affection, kindness, the sweet offices
Of love and duty, were to him as needful
As was his daily bread;-and to become
A byword in the meanest mouths of Venice,
Bringing a stain on those who gave him life,
On those, alas, now worse than fatherless-
To be proclaim'd a ruffian, a night-stabber,
He on whom none before had breathed reproach-
He lived but to disprove it. That hope lost,
Death follow'd. From the hour he went, he spoke
not;

And in his dungeon, when he laid him down,
He sunk to rise no more. Oh, if there be
Justice in Heaven, and we are assured there is,
A day must come of ample Retribution!

Then was thy cup, old Man, full to o'erflowing. But thou wert yet alive; and there was one, The soul and spring of all that Enmity, Who would not leave thee; fastening on thy flank, Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied;

One of a name illustrious as thine own!
One of the Ten! one of the Invisible Three! (64)
"T was Loredano.

When the whelps were gone,
He would dislodge the Lion from his den;
And, leading on the pack he long had led,
The miserable pack that ever howl'd
Against fallen Greatness, moved that Foscari
Be Doge no longer; urging his great age,
His incapacity and nothingness;
Calling a Father's sorrows in his chamber
Neglect of duty, anger, contumacy.

"I am most willing to retire," said Foscari: But I have sworn, and cannot of myself. Do with me as ye please."

He was deposed, He, who had reign'd so long and gloriously; His ducal bonnet taken from his brow, His robes stript off, his ring, that ancient symbol, Broken before him. But now nothing moved The meekness of his soul. All things alike! Among the six that came with the decree, Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired His name. "I am the son of Marco Memmo." "Ah," he replied, "thy father was my friend."

And now he goes. "It is the hour and past. I have no business here."-" But wilt thou not Avoid the gazing crowd? That way is private." "No! as I enter'd, so will I retire." And, leaning on his staff, he left the Palace, His residence for four-and-thirty years, By the same staircase he came up in splendor, The staircase of the Giants. Turning round, When in the court below, he stopt and said

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor-
That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child-her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride of an indulgent Father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,

Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial Feast, When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting. Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, "Tis but to make a trial of our love!" And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guess'd, But that she was not!

Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived and long might you have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find-he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When on an idle day, a day of search

'Mid the old lumber in the Gallery,

When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fasten'd her down for ever!

XIX.

BOLOGNA.

"Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day
Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought
Miraculous cures he and his stage were gone;
And he who, when the crisis of his tale
Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear,
Sent round his cap; and he who thrumm'd his wire
And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain
Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries,'
So well portray'd and by a son of thine,
Whose voice had swell'd the hubbub in his youth,
Were hush'd, Bologna; silence in the streets,
The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs'
And soon a courier, posting as from far,
Housing and holster, boot and belted coat
And doublet, stain'd with many a various soil,
Stopt and alighted. "T was where hangs aloft
That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming
All who arrive there, all perhaps save those
Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell,
Those on a pilgrimage: and now approach'd
Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding,
Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade

As the sky changes. To the gate they came;
And, ere the man had half his story done,
Mine host received the Master-one long used
To sojourn among strangers, everywhere
(Go where he would, along the wildest track)
Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost,
And leaving footsteps to be traced by those
Who love the haunts of Genius; one who saw,
Observed, nor shunn'd the busy scenes of life,
But mingled not, and, 'mid the din, the stir,
Lived as a separate Spirit.

Much had pass'd
Since last we parted; and those five short years-
Much had they told! His clustering locks were turn'd
Grey; nor did aught recall the Youth that swam
From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice,

Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought
Flash'd lightning-like, nor linger'd on the way,
Waiting for words. Far, far into the night
We sate, conversing-no unwelcome hour,
The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose,
Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine.

Well I remember how the golden sun
Fill'd with its beams the unfathomable gulfs,
As on we travell'd, and along the ridge,

By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
"Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"
Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perish'd-save a wedding-ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"Ginevra."

There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Flattering with joy, the happiest of the happy;

His motley household came-Not last nor least,
Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea

Of Venice, had so ably, zealously
Served, and, at parting, flung his oar away
To follow through the world; who without stain
Had worn so long that honorable badge,

1 See the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Carracci. He was of very humble origin; and, to correct his brother's vanity, once sent him a portrait of their father, the tailor, threading his needle.

2 The principal gondolier, il fante di poppa, was almost always in the confidence of his master, and employed on occasions that required judgment and address.