by Lord Byron
A few brief words of truth shame the Devil’s servants
No less than Master; I have probed his soul
A moment, as the Eternal Fire, ere long,
Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me!
With death, and chains, and exile in his hand,
To scatter o’er his kind as he thinks fit;
They are his weapons, not his armour, for
I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart.
I care not for his frowns! We can but die,
And he but live, for him the very worst 320
Of destinies: each day secures him more
His tempter’s.
Jac. Fos.This is mere insanity.
Mar. It may be so; and who hath made us mad?
Lor. Let her go on; it irks not me.
Mar. That’s false!
You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph
Of cold looks upon manifold griefs! You came
To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears,
And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck
Which you have made a Prince’s son — my husband;
In short, to trample on the fallen — an office 330
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him!
How have you sped? We are wretched, Signor, as
Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us,
And how feel you?
Lor. As rocks.
Mar. By thunder blasted:
They feel not, but no less are shivered. Come,
Foscari; now let us go, and leave this felon,
The sole fit habitant of such a cell,
Which he has peopled often, but ne’er fitly
Till he himself shall brood in it alone.
Enter the .
Jac. Fos. My father!
Doge (embracing him). Jacopo! my son — my son! 340
Jac. Fos. My father still! How long it is since I
Have heard thee name my name — our name!
Doge. My boy!
Couldst thou but know — —
Jac. Fos.I rarely, sir, have murmured.
Doge. I feel too much thou hast not.
Mar. Doge, look there!
[She points to .
Doge. I see the man — what mean’st thou?
Mar. Caution!
Lor. Being
The virtue which this noble lady most[bq]
May practise, she doth well to recommend it.
Mar. Wretch! ‘tis no virtue, but the policy
Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice:
As such I recommend it, as I would 350
To one whose foot was on an adder’s path.
Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous; I have long
Known Loredano.
Lor. You may know him better.
Mar. Yes; worse he could not.
Jac. Fos.Father, let not these
Our parting hours be lost in listening to
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it,
Indeed, our last of meetings?
Doge. You behold
These white hairs!
Jac. Fos.And I feel, besides, that mine
Will never be so white. Embrace me, father!
I loved you ever — never more than now. 360
Look to my children — to your last child’s children:
Let them be all to you which he was once,
And never be to you what I am now.
May I not see them also?
Mar. No — not here.
Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any where.
Mar. I would that they beheld their father in
A place which would not mingle fear with love,
To freeze their young blood in its natural current.
They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that
Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well, 370
I know his fate may one day be their heritage,
But let it only be their heritage,
And not their present fee. Their senses, though
Alive to love, are yet awake to terror;
And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green wave
Which floats above the place where we now stand —
A cell so far below the water’s level,
Sending its pestilence through every crevice,
Might strike them: this is not their atmosphere,
However you — and you — and most of all, 380
As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano!
May breathe it without prejudice.
Jac. Fos.I had not
Reflected upon this, but acquiesce.
I shall depart, then, without meeting them?
Doge. Not so: they shall await you in my chamber.
Jac. Fos. And must I leave them — all?
Lor. You must.
Jac. Fos.Not one?
Lor. They are the State’s.
Mar. I thought they had been mine.
Lor. They are, in all maternal things.
Mar. That is,
In all things painful. If they’re sick, they will
Be left to me to tend them; should they die, 390
To me to bury and to mourn; but if
They live, they’ll make you soldiers, senators,
Slaves, exiles — what you will; or if they are
Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles!
Behold the State’s care for its sons and mothers!
Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair.
Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where the genial wind
Ne’er blows in all its blustering freedom?
Lor. ‘Twas so
When I came here. The galley floats within
A bow-shot of the “Riva di Schiavoni.” 400
Jac. Fos. Father! I pray you to precede me, and
Prepare my children to behold their father.
Doge. Be firm, my son!
Jac. Fos.I will do my endeavour.
Mar. Farewell! at least to this detested dungeon,
And him to whose good offices you owe
In part your past imprisonment.
Lor. And present
Liberation.
Doge. He speaks truth.
Jac. Fos.No doubt! but ‘tis
Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him.
He knows this, or he had not sought to change them,
But I reproach not.
Lor. The time narrows, Signor. 410
Jac. Fos. Alas! I little thought so lingeringly
To leave abodes like this: but when I feel
That every step I take, even from this cell,
Is one away from Venice, I look back
Even on these dull damp walls, and — —
Doge. Boy! no tears.
Mar. Let them flow on: he wept not on the rack
To shame him, and they cannot shame him now.
They will relieve his heart — that too kind heart —
And I will find an hour to wipe away
Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, 420
But would not gratify yon wretch so far.
Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way.
Lor. (to the Familiar).The torch, there!
Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre,
With Loredano mourning like an heir.
Doge. My son, you are feeble; take this hand.
Jac. Fos.Alas!
Must youth support itself on age, and I
Who ought to be the prop of yours?
Lor. Take mine.
Mar. Touch it not, Foscari; ‘twill sting you. Signor,
Stand off! be sure, that if a grasp of yours
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are plunged, 430
No hand of ours would stret
ch itself to meet it.
Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you;
It could not save, but will support you ever.[Exeunt.
ACT IV
I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace.
Enter and .
Bar. And have you confidence in such a project?
Lor. I have.
Bar. ‘Tis hard upon his years.
Lor. Say rather
Kind to relieve him from the cares of State.
Bar. ‘Twill break his heart.
Lor. Age has no heart to break.
He has seen his son’s half broken, and, except
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never
Swerved.
Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, never;
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm
So desolate, that the most clamorous grief
Had nought to envy him within. Where is he? 10
Lor. In his own portion of the palace, with
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris.
Bar. Bidding farewell.
Lor. A last! as, soon, he shall
Bid to his Dukedom.
Bar. When embarks the son?
Lor. Forthwith — when this long leave is taken. ‘Tis
Time to admonish them again.
Bar. Forbear;
Retrench not from their moments.
Lor. Not I, now
We have higher business for our own. This day
Shall be the last of the old Doge’s reign,
As the first of his son’s last banishment, 20
And that is vengeance.
Bar. In my mind, too deep.
Lor. ‘Tis moderate — not even life for life, the rule
Denounced of retribution from all time;
They owe me still my father’s and my uncle’s.
Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly?
Lor. Doubtless.
Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion?
Lor. No.
Bar. But if this deposition should take place
By our united influence in the Council,
It must be done with all the deference
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 30
Lor. As much of ceremony as you will,
So that the thing be done. You may, for aught
I care, depute the Council on their knees,
(Like Barbarossa to the Pope,) to beg him
To have the courtesy to abdicate.
Bar. What if he will not?
Lor. We’ll elect another,
And make him null.
Bar. But will the laws uphold us?
Lor. What laws? — ”The Ten” are laws; and if they were not,
I will be legislator in this business.
Bar. At your own peril?
Lor. There is none, I tell you, 40
Our powers are such.
Bar. But he has twice already
Solicited permission to retire,
And twice it was refused.
Lor. The better reason
To grant it the third time.
Bar. Unasked?
Lor. It shows
The impression of his former instances:
If they were from his heart, he may be thankful:
If not, ‘twill punish his hypocrisy.
Come, they are met by this time; let us join them,
And be thou fixed in purpose for this once.
I have prepared such arguments as will not 50
Fail to move them, and to remove him: since
Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, do not
You, with your wonted scruples, teach us pause,
And all will prosper.
Bar. Could I but be certain
This is no prelude to such persecution
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son,
I would support you.
Lor. He is safe, I tell you;
His fourscore years and five may linger on
As long as he can drag them: ‘tis his throne
Alone is aimed at.
Bar. But discarded Princes 60
Are seldom long of life.
Lor. And men of eighty
More seldom still.
Bar. And why not wait these few years?
Lor. Because we have waited long enough, and he
Lived longer than enough. Hence! in to council!
[Exeunt and .
Enter and a Senator.
Sen. A summons to “the Ten!” why so?
Mem. “The Ten”
Alone can answer; they are rarely wont
To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose
By previous proclamation. We are summoned —
That is enough.
Sen. For them, but not for us;
I would know why.
Mem. You will know why anon, 70
If you obey: and, if not, you no less
Will know why you should have obeyed.
Sen. I mean not
To oppose them, but — —
Mem. In Venice “but”‘s a traitor.
But me no “buts” unless you would pass o’er
The Bridge which few repass.
Sen. I am silent.
Mem. Why
Thus hesitate? “The Ten” have called in aid
Of their deliberation five and twenty
Patricians of the Senate — you are one,
And I another; and it seems to me
Both honoured by the choice or chance which leads us 80
To mingle with a body so august.
Sen. Most true. I say no more.
Mem. As we hope, Signor,
And all may honestly, (that is, all those
Of noble blood may,) one day hope to be
Decemvir, it is surely for the Senate’s[br]
Chosen delegates, a school of wisdom, to
Be thus admitted, though as novices,
To view the mysteries.
Sen. Let us view them: they,
No doubt, are worth it.
Mem. Being worth our lives
If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 90
Something, at least to you or me.
Sen. I sought not
A place within the sanctuary; but being
Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen,
I shall fulfil my office.
Mem. Let us not
Be latest in obeying “the Ten’s” summons.
Sen. All are not met, but I am of your thought
So far — let’s in.
Mem. The earliest are most welcome
In earnest councils — we will not be least so.[Exeunt.
Enter the , , and .
Jac. Fos. Ah, father! though I must and will depart,
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 100
That I once more return unto my home,
Howe’er remote the period. Let there be
A point of time, as beacon to my heart,
With any penalty annexed they please,
But let me still return.
Doge. Son Jacopo,
Go and obey our Country’s will: ‘tis not
For us to look beyond.
Jac. Fos.But still I must
Look back. I pray you think of me.
Doge. Alas!
You ever were my dearest offspring, when
They were more numerous, nor can be less so 110
Now you are last; but did the State demand
The exile of the disinterréd ashes
Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth,
And their desponding shades came flitting round
To impede the act, I must no less obey
A duty, paramount to every duty.
Mar. My husband! let us on: this but prolongs
Our sorrow.
Jac. Fos.But we are not summoned yet;
The galley’s sails are not unfurled: — who knows?
The wind may change.
Mar. And if it do, it will not 120
Change their hearts, or your lot: the galley’s oars
Will quickly clear the harbour.
Jac. Fos.O, ye Elements!
Where are your storms?
Mar. In human breasts. Alas!
Will nothing calm you?
Jac. Fos.Never yet did mariner
Put up to patron saint such prayers for prosperous
And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you,
Ye tutelar saints of my own city! which
Ye love not with more holy love than I,
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves,
And waken Auster, sovereign of the Tempest! 130
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore
A broken corse upon the barren Lido,
Where I may mingle with the sands which skirt
The land I love, and never shall see more!
Mar. And wish you this with me beside you?
Jac. Fos.No —
No — not for thee, too good, too kind! May’st thou
Live long to be a mother to those children
Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives
Of such support! But for myself alone,
May all the winds of Heaven howl down the Gulf, 140
And tear the vessel, till the mariners,
Appalled, turn their despairing eyes on me,
As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then
Cast me out from amongst them, as an offering
To appease the waves. The billow which destroys me
Will be more merciful than man, and bear me
Dead, but still bear me to a native grave,
From fishers’ hands, upon the desolate strand,
Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne’er received
One lacerated like the heart which then 150
Will be. — But wherefore breaks it not? why live I?
Mar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master
Such useless passion. Until now thou wert
A sufferer, but not a loud one: why
What is this to the things thou hast borne in silence —
Imprisonment and actual torture?
Jac. Fos.Double,
Triple, and tenfold torture! But you are right,
It must be borne. Father, your blessing.
Doge. Would
It could avail thee! but no less thou hast it.
Jac. Fos. Forgive — —
Doge. What?
Jac. Fos.My poor mother, for my birth, 160
And me for having lived, and you yourself
(As I forgive you), for the gift of life,
Which you bestowed upon me as my sire.
Mar. What hast thou done?
Jac. Fos.Nothing. I cannot charge
My memory with much save sorrow: but