"But I have sworn, and cannot of myself.

Do with me as ye please."

He was deposed,

He, who had reigned so long and gloriously;

His ducal bonnet taken from his brow,

His robes stript off, his ring, that ancient symbol,

Broken before him. But now nothing moved

The meekness of his soul. All things alike!
Among the six that came with the decree,

FOSCARI saw one he knew not, and inquired
"I am the son of MARCO MEMMO."

His name.

"Ah,” he replied, "thy father was my friend."

And now he goes. "It is the hour and past.

I have no business here."-" But wilt thou not

Avoid the gazing crowd? That way is private."

"No! as I entered, so will I retire."

And, leaning on his staff, he left the Palace,

His residence for four-and-thirty years,

By the same staircase he came up in splendour, The staircase of the Giants. Turning round,

When in the court below, he stopt and said,

66

'My merits brought me hither. I depart,

Driven by the malice of my Enemies."

Then thro' the crowd withdrew, poor as he came,

And in his gondola went off, unfollowed

But by the sighs of them that dared not speak.

This journey was his last. When the bell rung, Next day, announcing a new Doge to VENICE, It rung his knell.

But whence the deadly hate

That caused all this-the hate of LOREDANO?

It was a legacy his Father left him,

Who, but for FOSCARI, had reigned in Venice,
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag,

Gathered and grew! Nothing but turned to venom!

In vain did FoSCARI sue for peace, for friendship,

Offering in marriage his fair Isabel.

He changed not; with a dreadful piety,

Studying revenge; listening alone to those

Who talked of vengeance; grasping by the hand Those in their zeal (and none, alas, were wanting)

Who came to tell him of another Wrong,

Done or imagined. When his father died,

"Twas whispered in his ear, "He died by poison!"

He wrote it on the tomb ('tis there in marble)
And in his ledger-book-among his debtors-
Entered the name, "FRANCESCO FOSCARI."
And added "For the murder of my Father."
Leaving a blank-to be filled up hereafter.
When FOSCARI's noble heart at length gave way,

He took the volume from the shelf again

Calmly, and with his pen filled up the blank,

Inscribing, "He has paid me."

XVII.

THERE is, within three leagues and less of PADUA,

(The Paduan student knows it, honours it)

A lonely tomb-stone in a mountain-churchyard;

And I arrived there as the sun declined

Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe

Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds

Singing their farewell-song-the very song

They sung the night that tomb received a tenant; When, as alive, clothed in his Canon's habit,

And, slowly winding down the narrow path,