Poems, translated and original

_A street, faintly lighted._ _Enter_ FOSCARINI.

Foscarini. Once more in Venice! How my native air Takes from these limbs their weariness! What were The breezes of the rugged Alps, to this, So bland--so wooing? All, in loveliness The same--the same! The Lagune, brightly clear, Yet mirrors in its depths the marble domes That rise above it--lordly towers--where shine A thousand torches, like so many stars Gleaming through clouds of silver. From afar, The surge-like tone of multitudes, the hum Of glad, familiar voices, and the wild Faint music of the happy gondolier, Float up in blended murmurs. Queen of cities! Goddess of ocean! with the beauty crowned Of Aphrodite from her parent deep! If thine Ausonian heaven denies the strength That nerves a mountain race of sterner mould, It gives thee charms whose very softness wins All hearts to worship!

_Enter_ VINCENTIO.

By this light--Vincentio? Whence come you, signor?

Vincentio. Foscarini?

Foscarini. Aye! What news are stirring?

Vincentio. None--of note.

Foscarini. You come I augur by your garb--from some late festival?

Vincentio. A bridal. One of our first citizens To-night doth wed his daughter--and assembles The prime of Venice. Light, and flowers, and smiles, Soon wearied me--who am not wont to toy My hours away in mirth.

Foscarini. Then, splenetic, You left the joyous scene?

Vincentio. ’Twas not all joy. If I mistake not, with the flowers that wrought The bridal wreath, some leaves of bitterness Were mingled.

Foscarini. Ha!

Vincentio. The bridegroom rich and noble-- The father proud and pleased--the guests all smiling-- But the mute bride!--I could not see her face, But in her drooping form, like a bowed lily-- Her passive mien, and strange unconsciousness, I read far more than bashfulness.

Foscarini. Indeed!

Vincentio. Before the altar she might have been deemed A life like statue. From her veiled lips Her words came slow and solemn, as the oracle Speaks from its cloudy shrine.--Oh! much I fear The fathers of our city are grown stern, And sacrifice to gold and foul ambition Treasures of youthful love.

FOSCARINI (_aside_.)

I dare not utter The doubt that’s at my heart--(_aloud_)--The bridegroom, said you?

Vincentio. Is stern and haughty--though in courtesy Well skilled--as noble senator should be. (_ironically._)

Foscarini. A senator? his name----

Vincentio. ’Tis Contarini-- A synonyme for all that’s merciful! (_sneeringly._)

Foscarini. The bride?

Vincentio. Teresa--daughter to----

Foscarini. No more! Or I shall stop your breath! begone!

Vincentio. What’s this?

Foscarini. Hence! you have basely slandered her--the fairest-- The truest.--No! ’twas not Teresa! speak! You have mistaken her name?

Vincentio. I spoke the truth-- Veniero’s daughter.

Foscarini. Well--begone and leave me!

(_Exit_ VINCENTIO. FOSCARINI _paces the scene a few moments in silence--then suddenly stops_.)

If this be true, I’ll seek her--I’ll confront her-- I’ll blast her sight--and drag her from his arms. E’en at their bridal feast inflict the penalty Of guile like hers. Away. [_Exit._