538 BYRON’S

Jac. Fos. My father still! How long it is since IHave heard thee name my name—oar name !

Doge. My boy!

Couldst thou but know-

Jac. Fos. . 1 rarely, sir, have murmur’d.

Doge. I feel too much thou hast not.

Mar. Doge, look there !

[She points to Loredano.Doge. I see the man—wliat meau'st thou ?

Mar. Caution!

Lor. . Being

The virtue which this noble lady mostMay practise, she doth well to recommend it-.

Mar. Wretch! ’tis no virtue, but the policyOf those who fain must deal perforce with vice:.As such I recommend it, as I wouldTo one whoso foot was on an adder’s path.

Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous : I have longKnown Loredano.

Dor. ... . You may know him better.

Mar. Yes: u'or.yc he could not.

Jac. Fos. Father, let not these

Our parting hours be lost in listening toReproaches , 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 bo so white. Embrace me, father!

I loved you ever—never more than now.

Look to my children—to your last child’s chil-dren ; . .

Let them be all to you which he was once,

And never be to yen vvliat 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 inA pluoe.whieh wouldnot mipgle fear with love,

To freeze their young blood in its natural cur-rent.

They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not thatTlieir sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well,

I knew his fate may one da^' be tlieir 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 nowstand—

A coll so far below the water’s level,

Sending its pestilence through every crevice,Might strike them ; this.is not tlieir atmosphere,However you, and you, and most of all,

As worthiest— 1 you, sir, noble Loredano !

May breathe it without prejudice.

Jac. Fos. I have not

Reflected upon this, but acquiesce.

I shall depart, then, without meeting them ?

Doge. Not so, they shall await you in my cham-ber.

Jac. Fos, And must I leave them all?

Lor. You must.

Jac.Fo3. Notone?

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

WORKS.

Be left to me to tend them ; should they die,

For me to bury and to mourn ; but ifThey live, they’ll make you soldiers, senators^Slaves, exiles—what you will; or if they areFemales with portions, brides and bribes fornobles!

Behold.thestate’s care for its sons and mothers 1Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair*.Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where thegenial wind

Ne’er blows in all its blustering freedom ?

Lor. ’Twasso

When I came here. The galley floats withinA bow-shot of the “ Rivadi Schiavoni.”

Jac. Fos. Father! I pray you to precede me,and

Prepare my children to behold their father.,Doge., Be firm, my son!

Jac. Fa's. ' I will do my endeavour.

Mar. Farewell! at least to this detested dun-geon, .

And him to whose good offices you oweIn 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 changethem.

But I reproach not.

Lor. The time harrows, signor.

Jac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so linger-ingly 4

To leave abodes like this : but when I feelThat 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 1 .

Mar. Let them flow on: he wept not on therack

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 awayThose tears, or ad(Lmy own. I could weep now,But would hot gratify yon wretch so far.

Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way.

Lor. (to the Familar.) The torch, there - !

Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre,With Loredano mourning like ah heir.

Doge. My son, you are feeble, take this hand.Jac. 'Fos. Alas!

Must youth support itself on age, and IWho ought to be the prop of yours r ? '

Lor. Take mine.

Mar. Touch it not, Foscari; ’twill sting you.Signor, i

Stand off! be sure'that if’a “grasp of* yoursWould raise us from the gulf wherein we areplunged,

No hand of ours would stretch itself temneet it.Come, Foscari, take the hand Ole altar ga/Ve you;It could not save, but will support you ever.

[Ea'eiult.

ACT IV.

.SCENE I.

A Hall in the Ducal Palace.

Enter LOREDANO Vmd"BARBARIGO , -Bar. And have you confidence in such a'project?Lor. I have.