And still towards Death, a thing which comes as much
Without our act or choice as birth, so that

Methinks we must have sinned in some old world,
And this is Hell: the best is, that it is not

Eternal.

Mar. These are things we cannot judge
On earth.

Doge. And how then shall we judge each other,
Who are all earth, and I, who am called upon
To judge my son? I have administered

My country faithfully-victoriously—

I dare them to the proof, the chart of what
She was and is: my reign has doubled realms;
And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice

Has left, or is about to
Mar. And Foscari ?

So I be left with him.

Doge.

leave, me single.

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I do not think of such things,

You shall be so;

Thus much they cannot well deny.
Mar.

They should, I will fly with him.

And if

That can ne'er be.

I know not, reck not

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To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman

Any where, where we might respire unfettered,

And live nor girt by spies, nor liable

To edicts of inquisitors of state.

Doge. What, wouldst thou have a renegade for

husband,

And turn him into traitor?

Mar.

He is none !

The Country is the traitress, which thrusts forth
Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny

Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem
None rebels except subjects? The Prince who
Neglects or violates his trust is more

A brigand than the robber-chief.

Doge.

Charge me with such a breach of faith.

Mar.

I cannot

No; thou

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Observ'st, obey'st such laws as make old Draco's
A code of mercy by comparison.

Doge. I found the law; I did not make it. Were I A subject, still I might find parts and portions

Fit for amendment; but as Prince, I never

Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter
Left by our fathers.

Mar.

The ruin of their children?

Doge.

Did they make it for

Under such laws, Venice

401

Has risen to what she is a state to rival

In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add,
In glory (for we have had Roman spirits
Amongst us), all that history has bequeathed
Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, when
The people swayed by Senates.

Mar.

Groaned under the stern Oligarchs.

Doge.

Rather say,

Perhaps so;

But yet subdued the World: in such a state
An individual, be he richest of

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

The policy, irrevocably tending

To one great end, must be maintained in vigour.

410

Mar. This means that you are more a Doge than

father.

Doge. It means, I am more citizen than either.

If we had not for many centuries

Had thousands of such citizens, and shall,

I trust, have still such, Venice were no city.
Mar. Accurséd be the city where the laws
Would stifle Nature's !

Doge.

Had I as many sons

As I have years, I would have given them all,
Not without feeling, but I would have given them
To the State's service, to fulfil her wishes,

On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be,

As it, alas! has been, to ostracism,

Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse
She might decree.

420

Mar.

And this is Patriotism?

To me it seems the worst barbarity.

Let me seek out my husband: the sage "Ten,"
With all its jealousy, will hardly war

So far with a weak woman as deny me
A moment's access to his dungeon.
Doge.

So far take on myself, as order that
You may be admitted.

Mar.

I'll

And what shall I say

To Foscari from his father?

430

Doge.

The laws.

Mar.

That he obey

And nothing more? Will you not see him

Ere he depart? It may be the last time.

Doge. The last !-my boy !-the last time I shall see My last of children! Tell him I will come.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.-The prison of JACOPO FOSCARI.

Jac. Fos. (solus). No light, save yon faint gleam which shows me walls

Which never echoed but to Sorrow's sounds,1

The sigh of long imprisonment, the step
Of feet on which the iron clanked the groan
Of Death, the imprecation of Despair!

And yet for this I have returned to Venice,

With some faint hope, 'tis true, that Time, which wears

The marble down, had worn away the hate

Of men's hearts; but I knew them not, and here
Must I consume my own, which never beat
For Venice but with such a yearning as

The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling
High in the air on her return to greet
Her callow brood. What letters are these which

ΙΟ

[Approaching the wall.

Are scrawled along the inexorable wall?

Will the gleam let me trace them? Ah! the names
Of my sad predecessors in this place,1

The dates of their despair, the brief words of
A grief too great for many. This stone page
Holds like an epitaph their history;

And the poor captive's tale is graven on
His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record
Upon the bark of some tall tree,2 which bears
His own and his beloved's name.

Alas!

I recognise some names familiar to me,
And blighted like to mine, which I will add,
Fittest for such a chronicle as this,

Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches."

20

[He engraves his name.

Enter a Familiar of "the Ten."

Fam. I bring you food.

Jac. Fos.

I pray you set it down;

30

I am past hunger: but my lips are parched

i. Which never can be read but, as 'twas written,
By wretched beings.-[MS.]

1. [For inscriptions on the walls of the Pozzi, see note 1 to Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto IV., Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 465-467. Hobhouse transferred these "scratchings" to his pocket-books, and thence to his Historical Notes; but even as prison inscriptions they lack both point and style.]

2. [Compare

"Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she."

As You Like It, act iii. sc. 2, lines 9, 10.]

Jac. Fos. (after drinking). I thank you: I am better. Fam. I am commanded to inform you that Your further trial is postponed.

Jac. Fos.

Till when?

Fam. I know not.-It is also in my orders

That

your illustrious lady be admitted.

Jac. Fos. Ah! they relent, then-I had ceased to hope it:

Jac. Fos. How! would'st thou share a dungeon?
Mar.

The rack, the grave, all-any thing with thee,

But the tomb last of all, for there we shall

Be ignorant of each other, yet I will

Share that all things except new separation;

It is too much to have survived the first.

Aye,

How dost thou? How are those worn limbs ? Alas! Why do I ask? Thy paleness

Jac. Fos.

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so

'Tis the joy

Without expectancy, has sent the blood
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine,
For thou art pale too, my Marina !

Mar.

'Tis

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akini
To darkness more than light, by lending to
The dungeon vapours its bituminous smoke,
Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes-
No, not thine eyes-they sparkle-how they sparkle!

i. Of the familiar's torch, which seems to love
Darkness far more than light.-[MS.]

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