Yet they had err'd, who deem'd that love had share
In aught that call'd or check'd that bitter tear;
Together rear'd beneath one parent's care,
Her father's ward had been to childhood dear,
And friendship's earliest glow had kindled here;
But when, in rising manhood, Cupid stole

Young Friendship's guise, to breathe a softer name,
He woke no echo in Genevra's soul.-

Yet she was woman,-and the boyish flame,
Her yet unhonour'd shrine's first votive fire,
She smiling chid, nor harshly bade expire.

Oh! baleful demon, call thee as we will,
Malice, Coquetry, Sport, or aught beside,
That teachest beauty with inhuman skill
To fan the very hope she seems to chide,-
To prize the victim, yet the suit deride!
Oh! cruel too, though less allied to blame,
Insidious Pity! who forbear'st to pour
Those healing waters on a hopeless flame
That rouse the shivering slave to dream no more-
Thine was the weakness of Genevra's heart,
She fear'd to wound, and left th' envenom'd dart.

Time onward roll'd: Lorenzo's passion grew
In fearful strength, with every fibre twin'd
Of a stern nature, that no medium knew,
With ev'ry working of a master mind,
With ev'ry hope of dawning life combin'd.
Pity gave place to awe; Genevra's eye
Sunk beneath passion's half terrific blaze;
She durst not with a single word destroy
The fearful fabric she had help'd to raise ;
Thus, hoping aid from unforeseen event,
She heard in silence, which he deem'd assent.

Fortune soon favour'd, as too oft she will,
When into devious paths at first we stray,
To plunge us in their mazes deeper still,
Then drag us trembling back to open day,
And strew with thorns our long repentant way.
Or fears parental for his daughter's hand,
Or cares paternal for his dow'rless ward,
Bade old Foscari to a distant land

The youth consign, in Friendship's faithful guard,
Ne'er to return till Fortune on him smiled,
And Fate, more nobly, match'd Foscari's child.

Now came the parting; since the mortal blow
Which our first erring parents taught to part,
How has that word become a word of woe;
A knell funereal to the human heart,
Which in each other's arms makes lovers start!
Lorenzo's anguish none but lovers know,
(Or plants uprooted, if perchance they feel,)
Genevra's tears by Friendship taught to flow,
Delusive served those bitter pangs to heal,
For now, if ever, she forbore to pain
The Exile, who might ne'er return again.

Blinded by love, by pity thus deceived,
The youth departed; every fibre strung
To deeds of enterprize yet unachiev'd;
Nor while Genevra to his bosom clung,
Miss'd he the vow that came not from her tongue.
His freely flow'd; by love himself he swore,

Soon to return the lovely prize to claim,

Whose thought should cheer him on that foreign shore, And goad to many a deed of loftiest fame;

By soft compassion now herself beguiled,

She thought she loved, and on the enthusiast smiled.

Oh! Absence! skill'd to lend to those we love,
A fairy charm which bids us love them more;
Errors to soften and defects remove,

No less is thine, and mellowing light to pour
On those dark shades, which most displeased before.
If on the midnight couch for one to sigh

Then tempest-tost upon th' inconstant main,
Half wet with tears to feel the opening eye
Whisper a pray'r, then sleep, and dream again;
If this be love, as the fond maiden deem'd,

Lorenzo was beloved, and, waking thus, she dream'd.

Till, like the regal orb that mocks at morn,
The puny glimmering of each vanish'd star;
Like the big thunder, which, in mutter'd scorn,
Derides the pigmy sounds of human war;

Like the huge Alps, which even though view'd from far
To fairy hillocks sink each mountain's pride.
Thus, dread enchanter! Love at length arose,
Sweeping into oblivion all beside,

Forgotten joys, and unremember'd woes,
Making the past a blank, the present Heaven,
While to the future not a thought was given.

For once 'twas his, in those despotic lands,
Where oft his sports are cruel, and where still
He makes sad havoc, pairing hearts, not hands,
A youthful bosom's wishes to fulfil,

And with a father's, blend a daughter's will.
While in Leoni's wealth, and power, and race,
Foscari, all he aim'd at, could descry,
Genevra mark'd the warrior's martial grace,
Gazed on his "lion port and eagle eye,'
Till, half adoring all the hero there,

She scarce believed such lot was hers to share.

Why tell in puny strains how heroes woo,
When he, who nature's every key possest,
Long since unfolded to th' enchanted view,
Each pure recess of Desdemona's breast!
Perils with her were charms, which all the rest
That niggard fate denied the Moor, supplied.
Then here, where nature on her favourite son
Lavish'd her gifts with all a mother's pride,
What marvel if the maid were doubly won,
And love achiev'd what glory had begun?

Soon camè, (as ushering in a mournful lay,
With joy's delusive smile, erewhile I sung,)
The gorgeous pageant of that nuptial day;
Methinks, I said, a cloud of sadness hung
O'er the fair bride, and while the chapel rung
With the proud titles of the wedded pair,
Another name, unbidden, mingled there.

High swell'd her heart with more than maiden fears:
And when, escaping from their band of gold,
Pearls (which to fancy's eye still presage tears)
From her gay zone in rich profusion roll'd,
Looks were exchanged, which future sorrows told.

But what were omens in an hour like this?
The pearls were gather'd and the tears forgot,
'Mid greetings loud, and gratulating kiss,
While love will paint, and fate, relentless, blot
All those fond visions of unclouded bliss.
Yet theirs was all that mortal cup could hold,
Till Venice call'd her noblest son to arms,
And bade his slumb'ring banner be unroll'd.
Then, as he tore him from those matchless charms,
His land's dark poison wak'd in vain alarms.

He was of Italy, where love has fears
That all o'ershadow even his Heaven of smiles;
He was of Italy, where jealous ears

Too long have drunk the tale of woman's wiles;
Youth's prime was past, he fear'd unequal years
Might soon dissolve the spell which love had flung
O'er one so gay, so beautiful, so young.-
So one fell moment to the demon's power
That haunts his country, he his soul resign'd,
And to his brother's hand in evil hour
A noiseless messenger of death consign'd,—
"Cherish her faithful; faithless let her die ;"
He mutter'd brief, and fled, nor brook'd reply.

How fared the gentle widow'd one, bereaved
Of all her bosom's joy?—The dove may tell,
Who ne'er more sadly, innocently grieved―
Oh! had the pearls which from her cestus fell
Foretold these tears alone, it had been well.
But just as in an April smile she drest

Her beauteous cheek, where dew-drops still would lie,
As half abash'd, like some long-banish'd guest,
Youth's genial fire rekindled in her eye,

Sorrows arose which mock'd love's parting pain,

And tears were shed, whose fount ne'er dried again.

Yes! I have told how, unforeseen, return'd
Her ardent lover from the distant west,
With laurels crown'd, by rapid conquest earn'd,
Of ample wealth, now valueless, possest,-
Ice on his brow, but Etna in his breast!

It had been hard to meet, from eyes that beam'd
With passion once, the with'ring glance of scorn;
Yet love she fear'd, and safer thus she deem'd.
But when each virtue which life's early morn
Fondly disclosed, blighted and scathed she view'd,
Conscience would whisper, and remorse intrude.

In those same halls where childhood's sunny hours,
'Mid infant sports, they joyously beguiled,
Where o'er one task their youthful pow'rs they plied,
While, all unconscious which the favour'd child,
Upon them both one gracious parent smiled—
Ev'n there, now madden'd by his hopes reversed,
Lorenzo sought to quench a hopeless flame,
'Mid orgies wild, and revelries accurst,

In passion's wreck involving life and fame,
Of youth, wealth, talents spent, to purchase hell,
All Venice rung-To one it seem'd a knell.

Sleep fled her couch; ev'n for her bosom's lord
Scarce durst th' accustom'd orisons ascend;
Accusing fiends, and demon shapes abhorr'd,
Their cruel mockeries with the pray'r would blend,
And thank her for the ruin of a friend.
She struggled, till she heard that aged nurse
Whose hand their infant steps had often led,
On her lost darling imprecate a curse.
"Oh curse him not!" in agony she said,
"Lest thou devote a dearer, guiltier head."

Her tale was told; old Bianca stoop'd to kiss
The burning cheek that on her bosom lay:
"Methinks," she cried, " contrition deep as this
Might melt ev'n yon stern heart in tears away.".
"Think'st thou ?-'twas even thus I had to say.
Till to that injured one, these lips have made
The poor atonement,-ah! delay'd too long;
Till at his feet these bended knees have pray'd
For Heav'n's forgiveness of our mutual wrong,
No other pray'r these guilty lips can frame,
Nor seek that pardon holy men proclaim.

"Oh! might my penitence prevail with Heaven,
His better angel once again to send,

My erring brother to my vows be given,

And the lost lover be again a friend !—

Wilt thou not, Bianca, thine assistance lend ?”
Who could refuse?-though cautious age foresaw
A thousand perils in the dubious plan-
Observant menials, custom's rigid law,
And that proud waywardness of injured man,
Which ever bids him, when his heart has bled,
On some fond heart relentless vengeance shed.

But pity triumph'd, and a place was found,
Whose sacred precincts might forbid alarm;
While, meeting thus on consecrated ground,
Religion's self might lend to grief a charm,
Virtue to rouse, and passion to disarm.
One convent-garden, then, to Venice gave
Sole taste of Nature's universal hues-

Sole spot, whose green was brighter than the wave,

Where Ev'ning, not in vain, might weep her dews ;

There, by Bianca warn'd, at dewy eve

Would a benignant friar the erring pair receive.

What were Lorenzo's thoughts, when she who oft
Had o'er his cradle breathed her vesper hymn,
In twilight sought him, and, in accents soft,
Saluted, and with anxious gaze and dim,

Explored the sun-burnt cheek, and roughen'd limb.
She told her errand ;-though the smile that curled
His lip disdainful, as the suit he heard,

Was that of Eblis o'er a ruin'd world,
Yet he denied not; for his bosom stirr'd
With many a cruel passion, deeming Heav'n
Had heard his only pray'r, and vengeance given.

In deep disguise, through many an alley's maze,
They sought the garden, hoping thus to shun
The busy multitude's inquiring gaze,
Thronging the gay canals at set of sun;

This they escaped;-yet were they mark'd by one.
Long ere the hour, Genevra at the shrine
Of penitence her soul had meekly pour'd,
And risen from the colloquy divine

With heart revived, and confidence restored.
Yet, from the first faint grating of the lock,
Her soul recoil'd, as from an earthquake shock.

Who shall describe their meeting?--they had met
Once only since his hopes were lost in air-
Had met, where hundreds meet, where eyes were set
To watch each trace of passion ling'ring there,
And courage had been gather'd from despair!
But now they met, where, save th' Omniscient eye
Of Heav'n, none witness'd; for the pitying friar,
And aged weeping nurse, though hov'ring nigh,
Felt awe, that bade them half apart retire.
Lorenzo gazed-but not unalter'd now;

Thrice the blood flush'd, and thrice forsook his brow.

She also gazed; and one brief glance reveal'd
Strange desolation-not the lapse of time,
Slow undermining many a youthful grace,
But passion's havoc, energies sublime
Prevented, wild debauch, incipient crime!
She look'd no more, nor he: but, as he stood
With face averted, and with bearing high,
A soft and silver voice his haughtier mood
Sudden invaded, while th' unbidden sigh
That was its echo, and convulsive start,
Show'd it had touch'd some chord within the heart.

"Hear me, Lorenzo! for myself I ask
Nor love extinct, nor forfeited esteem;
Mine is an humbler, and a holier task.
Forgotten be our youth's delusive dream,
And ours its mutual errors to redeem.
Yet not forgotten, ere I be forgiven !
Nor deem the suffering has alone been thine,
Not singly hearts, once dear, can thus be riven
And thy lost peace has been the wreck of mine!
If thy proud heart a victim can relieve,
Look on my faded form, and thou'lt believe!