by Lord Byron
Of my sad predecessors in this place,
The dates of their despair, the brief words of
A grief too great for many. This stone page
Holds like an epitaph their history; 20
And the poor captive’s tale is graven on
His dungeon barrier, like the lover’s record
Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears
His own and his belovéd’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.
[He engraves his name.
Enter a Familiar of “the Ten.”
Fam. I bring you food.
Jac. Fos.I pray you set it down;
I am past hunger: but my lips are parched — 30
The water!
Fam. There.
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:
‘Twas time.
Enter Marina.
Mar. My best belovéd!
Jac. Fos. (embracing her).My true wife,
And only friend! What happiness!
Mar. We’ll part
No more.
Jac. Fos. How! would’st thou share a dungeon?
Mar. Aye,
The rack, the grave, all — any thing with thee, 40
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.
How dost thou? How are those worn limbs? Alas!
Why do I ask? Thy paleness — —
Jac. Fos.’Tis the joy
Of seeing thee again so soon, and so
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 50
The gloom of this eternal cell, which never
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare
Of the familiar’s torch, which seems akin
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!
Jac. Fos. And thine! — but I am blinded by the torch.
Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou see here?
Jac. Fos. Nothing at first; but use and time had taught me 60
Familiarity with what was darkness;
And the grey twilight of such glimmerings as
Glide through the crevices made by the winds
Was kinder to mine eyes than the full Sun,
When gorgeously o’ergilding any towers
Save those of Venice; but a moment ere
Thou earnest hither I was busy writing.
Mar. What?
Jac. Fos. My name: look, ‘tis there — recorded next
The name of him who here preceded me, —
If dungeon dates say true.
Mar. And what of him? 70
Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men’s ends; they only
Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls
Were never piled on high save o’er the dead,
Or those who soon must be so. — What of him?
Thou askest. — What of me? may soon be asked,
With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise —
Unless thou tell’st my tale.
Mar. I speak of thee!
Jac. Fos. And wherefore not? All then shall speak of me:
The tyranny of silence is not lasting,
And, though events be hidden, just men’s groans 80
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave’s!
I do not doubt my memory, but my life;
And neither do I fear.
Mar. Thy life is safe.
Jac. Fos. And liberty?
Mar. The mind should make its own!
Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound; but ‘tis a sound,
A music most impressive, but too transient:
The Mind is much, but is not all. The Mind
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death,
And torture positive, far worse than death
(If death be a deep sleep), without a groan, 90
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges
Than me; but ‘tis not all, for there are things
More woful — such as this small dungeon, where
I may breathe many years.
Mar. Alas! and this
Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is Prince.
Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me to endure it.
My doom is common; many are in dungeons,
But none like mine, so near their father’s palace;
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 100
Will stream along those moted rays of light
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford
Our only day; for, save the gaoler’s torch,
And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught
Last night in yon enormous spider’s net,
I ne’er saw aught here like a ray. Alas!
I know if mind may bear us up, or no,
For I have such, and shown it before men;
It sinks in solitude: my soul is social.
Mar. I will be with thee.
Jac. Fos.Ah! if it were so! 110
But that they never granted — nor will grant,
And I shall be alone: no men; no books —
Those lying likenesses of lying men.
I asked for even those outlines of their kind,
Which they term annals, history, what you will,
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were
Refused me, — so these walls have been my study,
More faithful pictures of Venetian story,
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is
The Hall not far from hence, which bears on high 120
Hundreds of Doges, and their deeds and dates.
Mar. I come to tell thee the result of their
Last council on thy doom.
Jac. Fos.I know it — look!
[He points to his limbs, as referring to the Question
which he had undergone.
Mar. No — no — no more of that: even they relent
From that atrocity.
Jac. Fos.What then?
Mar. That you
Return to Candia.
Jac. Fos.Then my last hope’s gone.
I could endure my dungeon, for ‘twas Venice;
I could support the torture, there was something
In my native air that buoyed my spirits up
Like a ship on the Ocean tossed by storms, 130
But proudly still bestriding the high waves,
And holding on its course; but there, afar,
In that accurséd isle of slaves and captives,
And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck,
My very soul seemed mouldering in my bosom,
And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded.
Mar. And here?
Jac. Fos.At once — by better means, as briefer.
What! would they even deny me my Sire’s sepulchre,
As
well as home and heritage?
Mar. My husband!
I have sued to accompany thee hence, 140
And not so hopelessly. This love of thine
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil
Is Passion, and not Patriotism; for me,
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect,
And the sweet freedom of the earth and air,
I would not cavil about climes or regions.
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not
A Paradise; its first inhabitants
Were wretched exiles.
Jac. Fos.Well I know how wretched!
Mar. And yet you see how, from their banishment 150
Before the Tartar into these salt isles,
Their antique energy of mind, all that
Remained of Rome for their inheritance,
Created by degrees an ocean Rome;
And shall an evil, which so often leads
To good, depress thee thus?
Jac. Fos.Had I gone forth
From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking
Another region, with their flocks and herds;
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion,
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 160
From fertile Italy, to barren islets,
I would have given some tears to my late country
And many thoughts; but afterwards addressed
Myself, with those about me, to create
A new home and fresh state: perhaps I could
Have borne this — though I know not.
Mar. Wherefore not?
It was the lot of millions, and must be
The fate of myriads more.
Jac. Fos.Aye — we but hear
Of the survivors’ toil in their new lands,
Their numbers and success; but who can number 170
The hearts which broke in silence at 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 fevered eye, that he
Can scarcely be restrained from treading them?
That melody, 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, 180
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought,
And dies. You call this weakness! It is strength,
I say, — the parent of all honest feeling.
He who loves not his Country, can love nothing.
Mar. Obey her, then: ‘tis she that puts thee forth.
Jac. Fos. Aye, there it is; ‘tis 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 pitched together — I’m alone. 190
Mar. You shall be so no more — I will go with thee.
Jac. Fos. My best Marina! — and our children?
Mar. They,
I fear, by the prevention of the state’s
Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties
As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure),
Will not be suffered to proceed with us.
Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them?
Mar. 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 200
By duties paramount; and ‘tis our first
On earth to bear.
Jac. Fos.Have I not borne?
Mar. 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
Of late, is mercy.
Jac. Fos.Ah! you never yet
Were far away from Venice, never saw
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance,
While every furrow of the vessel’s track
Seemed ploughing deep into your heart; you never 210
Saw day go down upon your native spires[bo]
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory,
And after dreaming a disturbéd vision
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not.
Mar. 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. 220
Jac. Fos. That’s sudden. Shall I not behold my father?
Mar. You will.
Jac. Fos.Where?
Mar. Here, or in the ducal chamber —
He said not which. I would that you could bear
Your exile as he bears it.
Jac. Fos.Blame him not.
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 agéd head
Suspicion from “the Ten,” and upon mine
Accumulated ills.
Mar. Accumulated! 230
What pangs are those they have spared you?
Jac. Fos.That of leaving
Venice without beholding him or you,
Which might have been forbidden now, as ‘twas
Upon my former exile.
Mar. 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 abhorred,
Unjust, and — —
Jac. Fos.Curse it not. If I am silent,
Who dares accuse my Country?
Mar. Men and Angels! 240
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 say
Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee?
Jac. Fos. Let us address us then, since so it must be,
To our departure. Who comes here?
Enter attended by Familiars.
Lor. (to the Familiars).Retire,
But leave the torch.[Exeunt the two Familiars.
Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble Signor.
I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 250
Such presence hither.
Lor. ‘Tis not the first time
I have visited these places.
Mar. Nor would be
The last, were all men’s merits well rewarded.
Came you here to insult us, or remain[bp]
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us?
Lor. Neither are of my office, noble Lady!
I am sent hither to your husband, to
Announce “the Ten’s” decree.
Mar. That tenderness
Has been anticipated: it is known.
Lor. As how?
Mar. I have informed him, not so gently, 260
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!
The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you,
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though<
br />
Their sting is honester.
Jac. Fos.I pray you, calm you:
What can avail such words?
Mar. To let him know
That he is known.
Lor. Let the fair dame preserve
Her sex’s privilege.
Mar. I have some sons, sir,
Will one day thank you better.
Lor. You do well 270
To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know
Your sentence, then?
Jac. Fos.Return to Candia?
Lor. True —
For life.
Jac. Fos. Not long.
Lor. I said — for life.
Jac. Fos.And I
Repeat — not long.
Lor. A year’s imprisonment
In Canea — afterwards the freedom of
The whole isle.
Jac. Fos.Both the same to me: the after
Freedom as is the first imprisonment.
Is’t true my wife accompanies me?
Lor. Yes,
If she so wills it.
Mar. Who obtained that justice?
Lor. One who wars not with women.
Mar. But oppresses 280
Men: howsoever let him have my thanks
For the only boon I would have asked or taken
From him or such as he is.
Lor. He receives them
As they are offered.
Mar. May they thrive with him
So much! — no more.
Jac. Fos.Is this, sir, your whole mission?
Because we have brief time for preparation,
And you perceive your presence doth disquiet
This lady, of a house noble as yours.
Mar. Nobler!
Lor. How nobler?
Mar. As more generous!
We say the “generous steed” to express the purity 290
Of his high blood. Thus much I’ve learnt, although
Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze),
From those Venetians who have skirred the coasts
Of Egypt and her neighbour Araby:
And why not say as soon the “generous man?”
If race be aught, it is in qualities
More than in years; and mine, which is as old
As yours, is better in its product, nay —
Look not so stern — but get you back, and pore
Upon your genealogic tree’s most green 300
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there
Blush to find ancestors, who would have blushed
For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater!
Jac. Fos. Again, Marina!
Mar. Again! still, Marina.
See you not, he comes here to glut his hate
With a last look upon our misery?
Let him partake it!
Jac. Fos.That were difficult.
Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now —
Aye, he may veil beneath a marble brow
And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 310