Marino Faliero by Lord Byron, Ernest Hartley Coleridge

Act V

Scene 1.—The Hall of the Council of Ten assembled with the additional Senators, who, on the Trials of the Conspirators for the Treason of Marino Faliero, composed what was called the Giunta,—Guards, Officers, etc., etc. Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro as Prisoners. Bertram, Lioni, and Witnesses, etc.

Ben. There now rests, after such conviction of Their manifold and manifest offences, But to pronounce on these obdurate men The sentence of the Law:—a grievous task To those who hear, and those who speak. Alas! That it should fall to me! and that my days Of office should be stigmatised through all The years of coming time, as bearing record To this most foul and complicated treason Against a just and free state, known to all The earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank; A City which has opened India's wealth To Europe; the last Roman refuge from O'erwhelming Attila; the Ocean's Queen; Proud Genoa's prouder rival! 'Tis to sap The throne of such a City, these lost men Have risked and forfeited their worthless lives— So let them die the death.

I. Ber. We are prepared; Your racks have done that for us. Let us die.

Ben. If ye have that to say which would obtain Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta Will hear you; if you have aught to confess, Now is your time,—perhaps it may avail ye.

I. Ber. We stand to hear, and not to speak.

Ben. Your crimes Are fully proved by your accomplices, And all which Circumstance can add to aid them; Yet we would hear from your own lips complete Avowal of your treason: on the verge Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth Alone can profit you on earth or Heaven— Say, then, what was your motive?

I. Ber. Justice!

Ben. What Your object?

I. Ber. Freedom!

Ben. You are brief, sir.

I. Ber. So my life grows: I Was bred a soldier, not a senator.

Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity To brave your judges to postpone the sentence?

I. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and believe me, I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon.

Ben. Is this your sole reply to the Tribunal?

I. Ber. Go, ask your racks what they have wrung from us, Or place us there again; we have still some blood left, And some slight sense of pain in these wrenched limbs: But this ye dare not do; for if we die there— And you have left us little life to spend Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already— Ye lose the public spectacle, with which You would appal your slaves to further slavery! Groans are not words, nor agony assent, Nor affirmation Truth, if Nature's sense Should overcome the soul into a lie, For a short respite—must we bear or die?

Ben. Say, who were your accomplices?

I. Ber. The Senate.

Ben. What do you mean?

I. Ber. Ask of the suffering people, Whom your patrician crimes have driven to crime.

Ben. You know the Doge?

I. Ber. I served with him at Zara In the field, when you were pleading here your way To present office; we exposed our lives, While you but hazarded the lives of others, Alike by accusation or defence; And for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, Through his great actions, and the Senate's insults.

Ben. You have held conference with him?

I. Ber. I am weary— Even wearier of your questions than your tortures: I pray you pass to judgment.

Ben. It is coming. And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what Have you to say why you should not be doomed?

Cal. I never was a man of many words, And now have few left worth the utterance.

Ben. A further application of yon engine May change your tone.

Cal. Most true, it will do so; A former application did so; but It will not change my words, or, if it did—

Ben. What then?

Cal. Will my avowal on yon rack Stand good in law?

Ben. Assuredly.

Cal. Whoe'er The culprit be whom I accuse of treason?

Ben. Without doubt, he will be brought up to trial.

Cal. And on this testimony would he perish?

Ben. So your confession be detailed and full, He will stand here in peril of his life.

Cal. Then look well to thy proud self, President! For by the Eternity which yawns before me, I swear that thou, and only thou, shall be The traitor I denounce upon that rack, If I be stretched there for the second time.

One of the Giunta. Lord President,'twere best proceed to judgment; There is no more to be drawn from these men.

Ben. Unhappy men! prepare for instant death. The nature of your crime—our law—and peril The State now stands in, leave not an hour's respite. Guards! lead them forth, and upon the balcony Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday, The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls, Let them be justified: and leave exposed Their wavering relics, in the place of judgment, To the full view of the assembled people! And Heaven have mercy on their souls!

The Giunta. Amen!

I. Ber. Signors, farewell! we shall not all again Meet in one place.

Ben. And lest they should essay To stir up the distracted multitude— Guards! let their mouths be gagged even in the act Of execution. Lead them hence!

Cal. What! must we Not even say farewell to some fond friend, Nor leave a last word with our confessor?

Ben. A priest is waiting in the antechamber; But, for your friends, such interviews would be Painful to them, and useless all to you.

Cal. I knew that we were gagged in life; at least All those who had not heart to risk their lives Upon their open thoughts; but still I deemed That in the last few moments, the same idle Freedom of speech accorded to the dying, Would not now be denied to us; but since——

I. Ber. Even let them have their way, brave Calendaro! What matter a few syllables? let's die Without the slightest show of favour from them; So shall our blood more readily arise To Heaven against them, and more testify To their atrocities, than could a volume Spoken or written of our dying words! They tremble at our voices—nay, they dread Our very silence—let them live in fear! Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now Address our own above!—Lead on; we are ready.

Cal. Israel, hadst thou but hearkened unto me It had not now been thus; and yon pale villain, The coward Bertram, would——

I. Ber. Peace, Calendaro! What brooks it now to ponder upon this?

Bert. Alas! I fain you died in peace with me: I did not seek this task; 'twas forced upon me: Say, you forgive me, though I never can Retrieve my own forgiveness—frown not thus!

I. Ber. I die and pardon thee!

Cal. (spitting at him). I die and scorn thee! [Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro, Guards, etc.

Ben. Now that these criminals have been disposed of, 'Tis time that we proceed to pass our sentence Upon the greatest traitor upon record In any annals, the Doge Faliero! The proofs and process are complete; the time And crime require a quick procedure: shall He now be called in to receive the award?

The Giunta. Aye, aye.

Ben. Avogadori, order that the Doge Be brought before the Council.

One of the Giunta. And the rest, When shall they be brought up?

Ben. When all the Chiefs Have been disposed of. Some have fled to Chiozza; But there are thousands in pursuit of them, And such precaution ta'en on terra firma, As well as in the islands, that we hope None will escape to utter in strange lands His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the Senate.

Ben. Doge—for such still you are, and by the law Must be considered, till the hour shall come When you must doff the Ducal Bonnet from That head, which could not wear a crown more noble Than Empires can confer, in quiet honour, But it must plot to overthrow your peers, Who made you what you are, and quench in blood A City's glory—we have laid already Before you in your chamber at full length, By the Avogadori, all the proofs Which have appeared against you; and more ample Ne'er reared their sanguinary shadows to Confront a traitor. What have you to say In your defence?

Doge. What shall I say to ye, Since my defence must be your condemnation? You are at once offenders and accusers, Judges and Executioners!—Proceed Upon your power.

Ben. Your chief accomplices Having confessed, there is no hope for you.

Doge. And who be they?

Ben. In number many; but The first now stands before you in the court, Bertram of Bergamo,—would you question him?

Doge (looking at him contemptuously). No.

Ben. And two others, Israel Bertuccio, And Philip Calendaro, have admitted Their fellowship in treason with the Doge!

Doge. And where are they?

Ben. Gone to their place, and now Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth.

Doge. Ah! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone? And the quick Cassius of the arsenal?— How did they meet their doom?

Ben. Think of your own: It is approaching. You decline to plead, then?

Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor Can recognise your legal power to try me. Show me the law!

Ben. On great emergencies, The law must be remodelled or amended: Our fathers had not fixed the punishment Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables The sentence against parricide was left In pure forgetfulness; they could not render That penal, which had neither name nor thought In their great bosoms; who would have foreseen That Nature could be filed to such a crime As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their realms? Your sin hath made us make a law which will Become a precedent 'gainst such haught traitors, As would with treason mount to tyranny; Not even contented with a sceptre, till They can convert it to a two-edged sword! Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye? What's nobler than the signory of Venice?

Doge. The signory of Venice! You betrayed me— You—you, who sit there, traitors as ye are! From my equality with you in birth, And my superiority in action, You drew me from my honourable toils In distant lands—on flood, in field, in cities— You singled me out like a victim to Stand crowned, but bound and helpless, at the altar Where you alone could minister. I knew not, I sought not, wished not, dreamed not the election, Which reached me first at Rome, and I obeyed; But found on my arrival, that, besides The jealous vigilance which always led you To mock and mar your Sovereign's best intents, You had, even in the interregnum of My journey to the capital, curtailed And mutilated the few privileges Yet left the Duke: all this I bore, and would Have borne, until my very hearth was stained By the pollution of your ribaldry, And he, the ribald, whom I see amongst you— Fit judge in such tribunal!——

Ben. (interrupting him). Michel Steno Is here in virtue of his office, as One of the Forty; "the Ten" having craved A Giunta of patricians from the Senate To aid our judgment in a trial arduous And novel as the present: he was set Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, Because the Doge, who should protect the law, Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim No punishment of others by the statutes Which he himself denies and violates!

Doge. His punishment! I rather see him there, Where he now sits, to glut him with my death, Than in the mockery of castigation, Which your foul, outward, juggling show of justice Decreed as sentence! Base as was his crime, 'Twas purity compared with your protection.

Ben. And can it be, that the great Doge of Venice, With three parts of a century of years And honours on his head, could thus allow His fury, like an angry boy's, to master All Feeling, Wisdom, Faith and Fear, on such A provocation as a young man's petulance?

Doge. A spark creates the flame—'tis the last drop Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was full Already: you oppressed the Prince and people; I would have freed both, and have failed in both: The price of such success would have been glory, Vengeance, and victory, and such a name As would have made Venetian history Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse When they were freed, and flourished ages after, And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus: Failing, I know the penalty of failure Is present infamy and death—the future Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free; Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause not; I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none; My life was staked upon a mighty hazard, And being lost, take what I would have taken! I would have stood alone amidst your tombs: Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it, As you have done upon my heart while living.

Ben. You do confess then, and admit the justice Of our Tribunal?

Doge. I confess to have failed; Fortune is female: from my youth her favours Were not withheld, the fault was mine to hope Her former smiles again at this late hour.

Ben. You do not then in aught arraign our equity?

Doge. Noble Venetians! stir me not with questions. I am resigned to the worst; but in me still Have something of the blood of brighter days, And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me Further interrogation, which boots nothing, Except to turn a trial to debate. I shall but answer that which will offend you, And please your enemies—a host already; 'Tis true, these sullen walls should yield no echo: But walls have ears—nay, more, they have tongues; and if There were no other way for Truth to o'erleap them, You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me, Yet could not bear in silence to your graves What you would hear from me of Good or Evil; The secret were too mighty for your souls: Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court A danger which would double that you escape. Such my defence would be, had I full scope To make it famous; for true words are things, And dying men's are things which long outlive, And oftentimes avenge them; bury mine, If ye would fain survive me: take this counsel, And though too oft ye make me live in wrath, Let me die calmly; you may grant me this; I deny nothing—defend nothing—nothing I ask of you, but silence for myself, And sentence from the Court!

Ben. This full admission Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering The torture to elicit the whole truth.

Doge. The torture! you have put me there already, Daily since I was Doge; but if you will Add the corporeal rack, you may: these limbs Will yield with age to crushing iron; but There's that within my heart shall strain your engines.

Officer. Noble Venetians! Duchess Faliero Requests admission to the Giunta's presence.

Ben. Say, Conscript Fathers, shall she be admitted?

One of the Giunta. She may have revelations of importance Unto the state, to justify compliance With her request.

Ben. Is this the general will?

All. It is.

Doge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice! Which would admit the wife, in the full hope That she might testify against the husband. What glory to the chaste Venetian dames! But such blasphemers 'gainst all Honour, as Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. Now, villain Steno! if this woman fail, I'll pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape, And my own violent death, and thy vile life.

Ben. Lady! this just Tribunal has resolved, Though the request be strange, to grant it, and Whatever be its purport, to accord A patient hearing with the due respect Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues: But you turn pale—ho! there, look to the Lady! Place a chair instantly.

Ang. A moment's faintness— 'Tis past; I pray you pardon me,—I sit not In presence of my Prince and of my husband, While he is on his feet.

Ben. Your pleasure, Lady?

Ang. Strange rumours, but most true, if all I hear And see be sooth, have reached me, and I come To know the worst, even at the worst; forgive The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. Is it—I cannot speak—I cannot shape The question—but you answer it ere spoken, With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows— Oh God! this is the silence of the grave!

Ben. (after a pause). Spare us, and spare thyself the repetition Of our most awful, but inexorable Duty to Heaven and man!

Ang. Yet speak; I cannot— I cannot—no—even now believe these things. Is he condemned?

Ben. Alas!

Ang. And was he guilty?

Ben. Lady! the natural distraction of Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the question Merit forgiveness; else a doubt like this Against a just and paramount tribunal Were deep offence. But question even the Doge, And if he can deny the proofs, believe him Guiltless as thy own bosom.

Ang. Is it so? My Lord, my Sovereign, my poor father's friend, The mighty in the field, the sage in Council, Unsay the words of this man!—thou art silent!

Ben. He hath already owned to his own guilt, Nor, as thou see'st, doth he deny it now.

Ang. Aye, but he must not die! Spare his few years, Which Grief and Shame will soon cut down to days! One day of baffled crime must not efface Near sixteen lustres crowned with brave acts.

Ben. His doom must be fulfilled without remission Of time or penalty—'tis a decree.

Ang. He hath been guilty, but there may be mercy.

Ben. Not in this case with justice.

Ang. Alas! Signor, He who is only just is cruel; who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?

Ben. His punishment is safety to the State.

Ang. He was a subject, and hath served the State; He was your General, and hath saved the State; He is your Sovereign, and hath ruled the State.

One of the Council. He is a traitor, and betrayed the State.

Ang. And, but for him, there now had been no State To save or to destroy; and you, who sit There to pronounce the death of your deliverer, Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar, Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters!

One of the Council. No, Lady, there are others who would die Rather than breathe in slavery!

Ang. If there are so Within these walls, thou art not of the number: The truly brave are generous to the fallen!— Is there no hope?

Ben. Lady, it cannot be.

Ang. (turning to the Doge). Then die, Faliero! since it must be so; But with the spirit of my father's friend. Thou hast been guilty of a great offence, Half cancelled by the harshness of these men. I would have sued to them, have prayed to them. Have begged as famished mendicants for bread, Have wept as they will cry unto their God For mercy, and be answered as they answer,— Had it been fitting for thy name or mine, And if the cruelty in their cold eyes Had not announced the heartless wrath within. Then, as a Prince, address thee to thy doom!

Doge. I have lived too long not to know how to die! Thy suing to these men were but the bleating Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry Of seamen to the surge: I would not take A life eternal, granted at the hands Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanies I sought to free the groaning nations!

Michel Steno. Doge, A word with thee, and with this noble lady, Whom I have grievously offended. Would Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part, Could cancel the inexorable past! But since that cannot be, as Christians let us Say farewell, and in peace: with full contrition I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you, And give, however weak, my prayers for both.

Ang. Sage Benintende, now chief Judge of Venice, I speak to thee in answer to yon Signor. Inform the ribald Steno, that his words Ne'er weighed in mind with Loredano's daughter, Further than to create a moment's pity For such as he is: would that others had Despised him as I pity! I prefer My honour to a thousand lives, could such Be multiplied in mine, but would not have A single life of others lost for that Which nothing human can impugn—the sense Of Virtue, looking not to what is called A good name for reward, but to itself. To me the scorner's words were as the wind Unto the rock: but as there are—alas! Spirits more sensitive, on which such things Light as the Whirlwind on the waters; souls To whom Dishonour's shadow is a substance More terrible than Death, here and hereafter; Men whose vice is to start at Vice's scoffing, And who, though proof against all blandishments Of pleasure, and all pangs of Pain, are feeble When the proud name on which they pinnacled Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle Of her high aiery; let what we now Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson To wretches how they tamper in their spleen With beings of a higher order. Insects Have made the lion mad ere now; a shaft I' the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave; A wife's Dishonour was the bane of Troy; A wife's Dishonour unkinged Rome for ever; An injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, And thence to Rome, which perished for a time; An obscene gesture cost Caligula His life, while Earth yet bore his cruelties; A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish province; And Steno's lie, couched in two worthless lines, Hath decimated Venice, put in peril A Senate which hath stood eight hundred years, Discrowned a Prince, cut off his crownless head, And forged new fetters for a groaning people! Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this, If it so please him—'twere a pride fit for him! But let him not insult the last hours of Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a Hero, By the intrusion of his very prayers; Nothing of good can come from such a source, Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor ever: We leave him to himself, that lowest depth Of human baseness. Pardon is for men, And not for reptiles—we have none for Steno, And no resentment: things like him must sting, And higher beings suffer; 'tis the charter Of Life. The man who dies by the adder's fang May have the crawler crushed, but feels no anger: 'Twas the worm's nature; and some men are worms In soul, more than the living things of tombs.

Doge (to Ben.). Signor! complete that which you deem your duty.

Ben. Before we can proceed upon that duty, We would request the Princess to withdraw; 'Twill move her too much to be witness to it.

Ang. I know it will, and yet I must endure it, For 'tis a part of mine—I will not quit, Except by force, my husband's side—Proceed! Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear; Though my heart burst, it shall be silent.—Speak! I have that within which shall o'ermaster all.

Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, Count of Val di Marino, Senator, And some time General of the Fleet and Army, Noble Venetian, many times and oft Intrusted by the state with high employments, Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. Convict by many witnesses and proofs, And by thine own confession, of the guilt Of Treachery and Treason, yet unheard of Until this trial—the decree is Death— Thy goods are confiscate unto the State, Thy name is razed from out her records, save Upon a public day of thanksgiving For this our most miraculous deliverance, When thou art noted in our calendars With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes, And the great Enemy of man, as subject Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in snatching Our lives and country from thy wickedness. The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be painted With thine illustrious predecessors, is To be left vacant, with a death-black veil Flung over these dim words engraved beneath,— "This place is of Marino Faliero, Decapitated for his crimes."

Doge. "His crimes!" But let it be so:—it will be in vain. The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits Which glitter round it in their pictured trappings— Your delegated slaves—the people's tyrants! "Decapitated for his crimes!"—What crimes? Were it not better to record the facts, So that the contemplator might approve, Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose? When the beholder knows a Doge conspired, Let him be told the cause—it is your history.

Ben. Time must reply to that; our sons will judge Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and Cap, Thou shalt be led hence to the Giants' Staircase, Where thou and all our Princes are invested; And there, the Ducal Crown being first resumed Upon the spot where it was first assumed, Thy head shall be struck off; and Heaven have mercy Upon thy soul!

Doge. Is this the Giunta's sentence?

Ben. It is.

Doge. I can endure it.—And the time?

Ben. Must be immediate.—Make thy peace with God: Within an hour thou must be in His presence.

Doge. I am already; and my blood will rise To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it. Are all my lands confiscated?

Ben. They are; And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure, Except two thousand ducats—these dispose of.

Doge. That's harsh.—I would have fain reserved the lands Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceneda, In fief perpetual to myself and heirs, To portion them (leaving my city spoil, My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) Between my consort and my kinsmen.

Ben. These Lie under the state's ban—their Chief, thy nephew, In peril of his own life; but the Council Postpones his trial for the present. If Thou will'st a state unto thy widowed Princess, Fear not, for we will do her justice.

Ang. Signors, I share not in your spoil! From henceforth, know I am devoted unto God alone, And take my refuge in the cloister.

Doge. Come! The hour may be a hard one, but 'twill end. Have I aught else to undergo save Death?

Ben. You have nought to do, except confess and die. The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare, And both await without.—But, above all, Think not to speak unto the people; they Are now by thousands swarming at the gates, But these are closed: the Ten, the Avogadori, The Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, Alone will be beholders of thy doom, And they are ready to attend the Doge.

Doge. The Doge!

Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shalt die A Sovereign; till the moment which precedes The separation of that head and trunk, That ducal crown and head shall be united. Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning To plot with petty traitors; not so we, Who in the very punishment acknowledge The Prince. Thy vile accomplices have died The dog's death, and the wolf's; but them shall fall As falls the lion by the hunters, girt By those who feel a proud compassion for thee, And mourn even the inevitable death Provoked by thy wild wrath, and regal fierceness. Now we remit thee to thy preparation: Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be Thy guides unto the place where first we were United to thee as thy subjects, and Thy Senate; and must now be parted from thee As such for ever, on the self-same spot. Guards! form the Doge's escort to his chamber. [Exeunt.

Scene II.—The Doge's Apartment.

Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 'twere useless all To linger out the miserable minutes; But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee, And I will leave the few last grains of sand, Which yet remain of the accorded hour, Still falling—I have done with Time.

Ang. Alas! And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause; And for this funeral marriage, this black union, Which thou, compliant with my father's wish, Didst promise at his death, thou hast sealed thine own.

Doge. Not so: there was that in my spirit ever Which shaped out for itself some great reverse; The marvel is, it came not until now— And yet it was foretold me.

Ang. How foretold you?

Doge. Long years ago—so long, they are a doubt In memory, and yet they live in annals: When I was in my youth, and served the Senate And Signory as Podesta and Captain Of the town of Treviso, on a day Of festival, the sluggish Bishop who Conveyed the Host aroused my rash young anger, By strange delay, and arrogant reply To my reproof: I raised my hand and smote him, Until he reeled beneath his holy burthen; And as he rose from earth again, he raised His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards Heaven. Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from him, He turned to me, and said, "The Hour will come When he thou hast o'erthrown shall overthrow thee: The Glory shall depart from out thy house, The Wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul, And in thy best maturity of Mind A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee; Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease In other men, or mellow into virtues; And Majesty which decks all other heads, Shall crown to leave thee headless; honours shall But prove to thee the heralds of Destruction, And hoary hairs of Shame, and both of Death, But not such death as fits an agéd man." Thus saying, he passed on.—That Hour is come.

Ang. And with this warning couldst thou not have striven To avert the fatal moment, and atone, By penitence, for that which thou hadst done?

Doge. I own the words went to my heart, so much That I remembered them amid the maze Of Life, as if they formed a spectral voice, Which shook me in a supernatural dream; And I repented; but 'twas not for me To pull in resolution: what must be I could not change, and would not fear.—Nay more, Thou can'st not have forgot, what all remember, That on my day of landing here as Doge, On my return from Rome, a mist of such Unwonted density went on before The Bucentaur, like the columnar cloud Which ushered Israel out of Egypt, till The pilot was misled, and disembarked us Between the Pillars of Saint Mark's, where 'tis The custom of the state to put to death Its criminals, instead of touching at The Riva della Paglia, as the wont is,— So that all Venice shuddered at the omen.

Ang. Ah! little boots it now to recollect Such things.

Doge. And yet I find a comfort in The thought, that these things are the work of Fate; For I would rather yield to Gods than men, Or cling to any creed of destiny, Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom I know to be as worthless as the dust, And weak as worthless, more than instruments Of an o'er-ruling Power; they in themselves Were all incapable—they could not be Vistors of him who oft had conquered for them.

Ang. Employ the minutes left in aspirations Of a more healing nature, and in peace Even with these wretches take thy flight to Heaven.

Doge. I am at peace: the peace of certainty That a sure Hour will come, when their sons' sons, And this proud city, and these azure waters, And all which makes them eminent and bright, Shall be a desolation and a curse, A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel.

Ang. Speak not thus now: the surge of Passion still Sweeps o'er thee to the last; thou dost deceive Thyself, and canst not injure them—be calmer.

Doge. I stand within Eternity, and see Into Eternity, and I behold— Aye, palpable as I see thy sweet face For the last time—the days which I denounce Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, And they who are indwellers.

Guard (coming forward). Doge of Venice, The Ten are in attendance on your Highness.

Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina!—one embrace— Forgive the old man who hath been to thee A fond but fatal husband—love my memory— I would not ask so much for me still living, But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, Glory, and Wealth, and Power, and Fame, and Name, Which generally leave some flowers to bloom Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even A little love, or friendship, or esteem, No, not enough to extract an epitaph From ostentatious kinsmen; in one hour I have uprooted all my former life, And outlived everything, except thy heart, The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft With unimpaired but not a clamorous grief Still keep——Thou turn'st so pale!—Alas! she faints, She has no breath, no pulse!—Guards! lend your aid— I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better, Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. When she shakes off this temporary death, I shall be with the Eternal.—Call her women— One look!—how cold her hand!—as cold as mine Shall be ere she recovers.—Gently tend her, And take my last thanks—I am ready now.

Scene III.—The Court of the Ducal Palace; the outer gates are shut against the people.—The Doge enters in his ducal robes, in procession with the Council of Ten and other Patricians, attended by the Guards, till they arrive at the top of the "Giants' Staircase" (where the Doges took the oaths); the Executioner is stationed there with his sword.—On arriving, a Chief of the Ten takes off the ducal cap from the Doge's head.

Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and at last I am again Marino Faliero: 'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment, Here was I crowned, and here, bear witness, Heaven! With how much more contentment I resign That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, Than I received the fatal ornament.

One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero!

Doge. 'Tis with age, then.

Ben. Faliero! hast thou aught further to commend, Compatible with justice, to the Senate?

Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy, My consort to their justice; for methinks My death, and such a death, might settle all Between the State and me.

Ben. They shall be cared for; Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime.

Doge. Unheard of! aye, there's not a history But shows a thousand crowned conspirators Against the people; but to set them free, One Sovereign only died, and one is dying.

Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause?

Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice— Agis and Faliero!

Ben. Hast thou more To utter or to do?

Doge. May I speak?

Ben. Thou may'st; But recollect the people are without, Beyond the compass of the human voice.

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, Of which I grow a portion, not to man. Ye Elements! in which to be resolved I hasten, let my voice be as a Spirit Upon you! Ye blue waves! which bore my banner. Ye winds! which fluttered o'er as if you loved it, And filled my swelling sails as they were wafted To many a triumph! Thou, my native earth, Which I have bled for! and thou, foreign earth, Which drank this willing blood from many a wound! Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but Reek up to Heaven! Ye skies, which will receive it! Thou Sun! which shinest on these things, and Thou! Who kindlest and who quenchest suns!—Attest! I am not innocent—but are these guiltless? I perish, but not unavenged; far ages Float up from the abyss of Time to be, And show these eyes, before they close, the doom Of this proud City, and I leave my curse On her and hers for ever!—-- Yes, the hours Are silently engendering of the day, When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield, Unto a bastard Attila, without Shedding so much blood in her last defence, As these old veins, oft drained in shielding her, Shall pour in sacrifice.—She shall be bought And sold, and be an appanage to those Who shall despise her!—She shall stoop to be A province for an Empire, petty town In lieu of Capital, with slaves for senates, Beggars for nobles, panders for a people! Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his; When thy patricians beg their bitter bread In narrow streets, and in their shameful need Make their nobility a plea for pity; Then, when the few who still retain a wreck Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent, Even in the Palace where they swayed as Sovereigns, Even in the Palace where they slew their Sovereign, Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung From an adulteress boastful of her guilt With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph To the third spurious generation;—when Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, Slaves turned o'er to the vanquished by the victors, Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, And scorned even by the vicious for such vices As in the monstrous grasp of their conception Defy all codes to image or to name them; Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom, All thine inheritance shall be her shame Entailed on thy less virtuous daughters, grown A wider proverb for worse prostitution;— When all the ills of conquered states shall cling thee, Vice without splendour, Sin without relief Even from the gloss of Love to smooth it o'er, But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude, Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, Depraving Nature's frailty to an art;— When these and more are heavy on thee, when Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without Pleasure, Youth without Honour, Age without respect, Meanness and Weakness, and a sense of woe 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not murmur, Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts, Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, Amidst thy many murders, think of mine! Thou den of drunkards with the blood of Princes! Gehenna of the waters! thou Sea-Sodom! Thus I devote thee to the Infernal Gods! Thee and thy serpent seed! [Here the Doge turns and addresses the Executioner. Slave, do thine office! Strike as I struck the foe! Strike as I would Have struck those tyrants! Strike deep as my curse! Strike—and but once!

Scene IV.—The Piazza and Piazzetta of St. Mark's.—The people in crowds gathered round the grated gates of the Ducal Palace, which are shut.

First Citizen. I have gained the Gate, and can discern the Ten, Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the Doge.

Second Cit. I cannot reach thee with mine utmost effort. How is it? let us hear at least, since sight Is thus prohibited unto the people, Except the occupiers of those bars.

First Cit. One has approached the Doge, and now they strip The ducal bonnet from his head—and now He raises his keen eyes to Heaven; I see Them glitter, and his lips move—Hush! hush!—no, 'Twas but a murmur—Curse upon the distance! His words are inarticulate, but the voice Swells up like muttered thunder; would we could But gather a sole sentence!

Second Cit. Hush! we perhaps may catch the sound.

First Cit. 'Tis vain. I cannot hear him.—How his hoary hair Streams on the wind like foam upon the wave! Now—now—he kneels—and now they form a circle Round him, and all is hidden—but I see The lifted sword in air——Ah! hark! it falls!

Third Cit. Then they have murdered him who would have freed us.

Fourth Cit. He was a kind man to the commons ever.

Fifth Cit. Wisely they did to keep their portals barred. Would we had known the work they were preparing Ere we were summoned here—we would have brought Weapons, and forced them!

Sixth Cit. Are you sure he's dead?

First Cit. I saw the sword fall—Lo! what have we here?

"Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor!"

"The gory head rolls down the Giants' Steps!"

Previous: Act IV