And many thoughts; but afterwards address'd
Myself, with those about me, to create

A new home and fresh state: perhaps I could
Have borne this—though I know not.

MARINA.

Wherefore not?

It was the lot of millions, and must be

The fate of myriads more.

JACOPO FOSCARI.

Ay-we but hear

Of the survivors' toil in their new lands,

Their numbers and success; but who can number
The hearts which broke in silence of that parting,
Or after their departure; of that malady'
Which calls up green and native fields to view
From the rough deep, with such identity

To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he
Can scarcely be restrain'd from treading them?
That melody2, which out of tones and tunes
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away
From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds,

That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought,
You call this weakness!

And dies.

I say,-the

It is strength,

parent of all honest feeling.

He who loves not his country, can love nothing.

MARINA.

Obey her, then; 't is she that puts thee forth.

JACOPO FOSCARI.

Ay, there it is; 't is like a mother's curse
Upon my soul—the mark is set upon me.
The exiles you speak of went forth by nations,

Their hands upheld each other by the way,
Their tents were pitch'd together—I 'm alone.

MARINA.

You shall be so no more-I will go with thee.

JACOPO FOSCARI.

My best Marina!—and our children?

MARINA.

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

They,

As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure),
Will not be suffer'd to proceed with us.

JACOPO FOSCARI.

And canst thou leave them?

MARINA.

Yes. With many a pang.

But I can leave them, children as they are,
To teach you to be less a child. From this
Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted
By duties paramount; and 't is our first

On earth to bear.

JACOPO FOSCARI.

Have I not borne?

MARINA.

Too much

From tyrannous injustice, and enough

To teach

you not to shrink now from a lot,

Which, as compared with what you have undergone

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

Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart; you never
Saw day go down upon your native spires
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory,
And after dreaming a disturbed vision

Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not.

MARINA.

I will divide this with you.

Let us think

Of our departure from this much-loved city
(Since you must love it, as it seems), and this
Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you.
Our children will be cared for by the Doge,
And by my uncles: we must sail ere night.

I sometimes murmur for a moment; but
He could not now act otherwise. A show
Of feeling or compassion on his part
Would have but drawn upon his aged head
Suspicion from the « Ten,» and upon mine
Accumulated ills.

MARINA.

Accumulated!

What pangs are those they 've spared you?

JACOPO FOSCARI.

Venice without beholding him or you,

That of leaving

Which might have been forbidden now, as 't was
Upon my former exile.

MARINA.

That is true,

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

JACOPO FOSCARI.

Curse it not. If I am silent,

Who dares accuse my country?

MARINA.

Men and angels!

The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven,

The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons,
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects,
Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads; and
Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst thou
Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee?

JACOPO FOSCARI.

Let us address us then, since so it must be,

To our departure. Who comes here?

say

Enter LOREDANO, attended by Familiars.

LOREDANO (To the Familiars.)

But leave the torch.

Retire,

(Exeunt the two Familiars.

JACOPO FOSCARI.

Most welcome, noble signor.

I did not deem this poor place would have drawn

Such presence hither.

LOREDANO.

'Tis not the first time

I have visited these places.

MARINA.

Nor would be

The last, were all men's merits well rewarded.
Came you here to insult us, or remain

As spy upon us, or as hostage for us?

LOREDANO.

Neither are of my office, noble lady!
I am sent hither to your husband, to
Announce the «Ten's» decree.

I have inform'd him, not so gently, Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe, The indulgence of your colleagues; but he knew it. If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence!