"Once thou did'st look on me, and though in scorn,
While conscience home the rankling arrow sped,
Thine eye's reproachful silence might be borne,
But not thy life's wild lawlessness, which shed
Avenging fires upon my guiltier head.
I knew thee noble once, and the sad thought
Of what thou art, and what thine ancient line,
In dreams has oft our common parent brought
To ask, Genevra, is the havoc thine?'
By thee unshriven, to scare these fiends away,
I can but weep, my lips refuse to pray.
"But I can suffer, and the meed is due-
Forgiven or unforgiven, not here I stand
A selfish suppliant; 'tis for thee I sue.
Thou! of proud Negris' line, and thus unmann'd
By wayward transfer of a woman's hand!
Thou! old Foscari's nursling, and no breeze
Of high ambition swell thy flagging sail !
Thou! son of Venice, and in worse than ease,
Content to listen to her glory's tale!
Thou! rear'd in innocence, in virtue nursed,
Both worlds despising, and of both accursed.
"Oh! by the cradle which we both have prest-
By all the joys that childhood could partake-
By the fond pressure of one mother's breast-
If not for thine, oh! for that dearer sake,
Lorenzo! I adjure thee to awake!
Life yet has years, too precious to be cast,
Like orient pearls, before yon brutal crew ;-
Life yet has joys, which memory of the past
Shall cancel, as the sunbeam drinks the dew ;-
Life yet has duties, and beyond there lie
Fields unexplored, of all unclouded sky!
"There thou and I, by sorrow purified,
Perchance may meet, and at the ordeal smile,
Foscari's pupil, and Leoni's bride,
Together float on some ethereal isle,
And brave Leoni pleased look on the while.
Here we must part; but not till thou hast bent
That haughty head in acquiescence mild,
Till that proud heart, now passion-steel'd, relent
In all the yielding softness of a child !
Methinks they do!-Oh, pitying Heaven, be thine
The miracle-the grateful wonder mine."
Yes! as some giant column first betrays
The coming earthquake's mysteries yet unfelt,
As in the last dread conflagration's blaze,
The all-enduring rocks themselves shall melt-
Lorenzo soften'd, as Genevra knelt.
One big tear roll'd where tear had never been-
One stubborn knee was bended at her side-
One pure brief kiss of peace exchanged between
The injured lover and repentant bride.
The friar approaching, blest the prostrate pair,
And Bianca knelt in ecstasy of prayer.
Oh, human joy! why art thou doom'd to be
Still tearful, and of future tears the spring?
Oh, human Hope! when shall we nearer see
Thy charms that mock us, loveliest on the wing?
Oh, human Penitence! why does thy sting
Linger so oft, when God and man have shed
Absolving unction on the guilty head?
Joy beam'd all radiant through Genevra's tears,
Hope smiled delusive on Lorenzo's years,
Meek Penitence effaced each former stain,
But Joy, and Hope, and Penitence, were vain.
The stern Anselmo, still his brother's bride
Had mark'd with keen and anxious scrutiny ;
Lorenzo's early love, and reckless pride,
Had heard, had seen, and every secret sigh
Of penitence to lingering love ascribed-
When conscience on Genevra's cheek inscribed
Its harrowing record, then he deem'd she grieved
For a lost lover; and when all relieved
By yon blest interview, her smile return'd,
He (who their meeting knew) with indignation burn'd.
Fate, cruel power, whose aid so oft is lent
To sanctify some else unhallow'd deed,
Anselmo's all-unwonted footsteps sent,
Where he beheld the nurse Lorenzo lead
Through darkling paths-of proof, what further need?
He mark'd the hour, and with Genevra's fast
Reviving charms connecting, deem'd it time
O'er these dark deeds a darker veil to cast,
And wash the stains of folly out with crime.
Fame rumour'd soon Leoni would return—
All must ere then be buried-in her urn!
In her dear lord's approaching presence blest
At a gay masque, sole revel she had graced,
Since to her widow'd heart he had been prest;
The poison'd sherbet slowly doom'd to waste
Her beauteous form, to her unconscious taste,
Came recommended by a brother's hand.
She drank, all smiling-while a sudden chill
Stole o'er the avenger, who could scarce withstand
That presage dire of unimagined ill,
Which shook even then his unrelenting soul,
And half-impell'd to drain the unfinish'd bowl.
Scarce had the insidious potion dimm'd the fire
Of one bright glance, or stolen one rose away
From her fair cheek, when Fame, her proudest lyre,
Strung to a yet unmatch'd victorious lay-
And Venice to Leoni owed the day!
The hero came-the rapt'rous city pour'd
Its thousands to the Lido; Doges there
In reverence deep their gilded galley moor'd.
Where was Genevra? Did she not repair
To that blest scene, which ev'ry pang repaid?
No-on a mortal couch, the suffering bride was laid.
VOL. XVII.
Not long the husband linger'd-as he press'd
Through glittering barks his gondola's swift way,
'Twas near that hour of midnight which first blest
Him with Genevra's hand, that very day
Of opening Carnival, so madly gay:
Now doubly so; for with his glory rung
The grand canal's deep echoes; and before
His princely palace many a minstrel sung
Joy to Leoni-He could bear no more;
Wildly he rush'd along the marble stair,
Half-shudd'ring to behold his brother there.
To the dread tale Anselmo's visage told
Words could add little, falling on an ear
Almost as that of death, unconscious cold,
Which had no more to ask, no more to hear,
Henceforth estranged alike from hope or fear.
Rooted he stood-till, by the joyous shout
Of multitudes aroused, was seen to rush,
Like some bright vision, from her chamber out
The fair Genevra ; Joy's deceitful flush
Mantling her cheek,-with ecstasy's wild cry,
She sunk into his arms, and cried, "Here let me die!"
How felt Leoni ?-Every wrong forgot,
In soul-felt pity, for a thing so fair,
So fleeting; to reverse whose hapless lot
Worlds had been given ;—while life yet linger'd there,
Even guilty, she had claim'd his tend'rest care;
But, through that night of fitful agony,
When oft life's waning lamp would nigh expire,
On him, on him alone, her glazing eye
Fond rested, while, at times, its kindling fire
Spoke love in death unconquer'd ;-could it feign?—
The doubt was madness-name it not again!
At length, such struggle past, as even to view
In guilt were fearful, blessed respite came;
Death stretch'd his leaden sceptre to subdue
Corporeal pangs, while, from the feeble frame,
Half-sever'd, brighter glow'd th' etherial flame.
It was an awful hour!-With opening dawn
Struggled the night-lamp's melancholy ray;
Even Bianca's self, to weep uncheck'd, withdrawn,
Alone, within his arms, his victim lay!
Blanch'd was the warrior's cheek! how welcome then
Had been even carnage yell, and shrieks of suffering men!
After long hours of silence, faintly broke
By dash of oars, or mirth's expiring strain,
In accents weak, yet clear, the sufferer spoke:
"I thank thee, Heav'n!" she said, "if strength remain, Conscience to lighten of its only stain."
Oh! could it be relief a tale to hear,
Of guilt and shame, from lips so young and fair,
And to a husband's heart? Yes, with the fear
Of misdirected vengeance lurking there;
Yet instinct bade him, as she spoke of stain,
Those arms withdraw, where she till then had lain.
"Brief must I be, Leoni! oh, how Youth
And all its follies shame this couch of woe!
Suffice it, I was loved, and mock'd the truth
Of one whose soul was mine, with idle show
Of answering kindness mine could never know.
He went-how unbeloved I never guess'd,
Till I saw thee. Then ask'd the voice within,
If thus to love be exquisitely blest,
How deeply, darkly do the perjured sin?'
Yet Conscience' self was kill'd, when thou wert nigh,(My soul's beloved, restrain this agony !)
"While thou wert with me, earth was heav'n above;
But thou wert summon'd, and the parting pain,
The fears of absence, all the pangs of love,
Brought him, the injured, to my thoughts again.
He came; and in his looks were proud disdain,
And stern indifference; would it had been so
Within; but there was madness, and a train
Of fearful thoughts, and revels wild to show
Recover'd freedom; while the rankling chain
Of love misplaced, with Vice's galling yoke,
Grew sadly link'd—I knelt, and both were broke!
"Leoni! dost thou blame me? We had fed
From the same cup in infancy, in youth
From the same book the self-same lesson read;
I loved him as a brother; and the truth
Of his ill-starr'd affection-nay, good sooth,
If now these jealous pangs thy bosom tear,
What hadst thou felt, had I been false to Thee?"
"And wert thou not ?-Genevra, wilt thou swear?"
"Yes! by that Heav'n where soon I hope to be."
"Then by that hell which yawns for me, 'twas I
Who murder'd thee!-Forgive me ere I die.”
He said and ere the trembling arm of death
Could make its feeble effort, aim'd the blow,
Whose kindly office bade their parting breath
Together mingle.-To the scene of woe,
Bianca, entering, found him lying low
At his Genevra's feet, with bosom bare,
The fatal sword half-buried in his breast ;-
Her hands were clasp'd in attitude of pray'r;
Her form half-raised with him she loved to rest;
Anselmo, shuddering, gave the injured dead
A mutual grave; then to a cloister fled.
Whom met he there? Who from that murd'rous hand,
After sad years, should cowl and tonsure claim?
Lorenzo!-long the bulwark of his land-
He for Genevra fought, enduring Fame.
But even, at length, the magic of her name
Grew powerless to arouse him to the strife.
His heart had twice been shipwreck'd, and the chord
Too rudely snapt, which anchors us to life.
So to his country he bequeath'd his sword,
And in the convent garden slept ere long
With her he loved, and him who did her wrong!
LISBON, IN THE YEARS 1821-22-23.*
THERE has scarcely been a good book (in English) published for a great many years back, about Portugal. Mr Murphy wrote, who was an architect, and a sad, heavy, erudite business he made of it; with nice admeasurements, and terms of art, and long quotations, as befitted his calling, from the classics. Then came a soldier or two, less tedious, because less prepense ;-but your soldier-author always leaves you in a dilemma. If he knows anything of his profession, then he crams you to the very muzzle with words, of" line," and "siege," and "fortification;" and if he knows not this, certes, he knows nothing-beyond where the bad wine used to be sold, or perhaps where Miss Somebody or other, the " Opera dancer" lived. Moreover, there be rogues in scarlet, who fill you their common-place book with an utter disregard of ordinary caution! never distinguishing, even by a marginal note, entries made drunk from those (if any) put in when sober; whereas, independent, God wot, of gin and water, there be occasions when to see, is not, of necessity, to understand. So that, military lucubrations being nearly all, except a few comments en passant, that we had, or seemed likely to have, concerning the "Peninsula' half-a-dozen remarks put down upon paper by Mr Matthews, while he had the colic, and a makeweight sheet or so thrown in by Mr Twiss, and one or two other writers, to eke out their Tours in Spain, we became quite elated when we heard, six months ago, that Providence was raising up Mrs Baillie, in "Lisbon," for our relief.
"Ladies never should meddle with politics"-this is one of the soundest truths that Lady Morgan ever uttered. But, on every other subject, they write delightfully-we like them best in the "Ramsbottom" style upon statistics. There is such a facetious facility at putting every point the wrong way always, about your female voyager; and such a devoted anxiety, no matter what the question or the
occasion, to instruct! And for freedom! Cæsar, who could have dictated four chapters, to four compositors at once! Pshaw!" France," 66 Italy," "Lisbon," they would have been out while he was thinking of titles for them!
But all this advantage is peculiar to ladies who write statistics; and fails them entirely as soon as they get to politics. (We mention this opinion of Lady Morgan's again, because she lays it down very strongly, and her experience is undoubted.) It is not that they are apt to make mistakes in such matters; because-any fact that they do mistake in one place, they usually contradict again in some other. Nor is it that their politics always run one way-the pretty creatures!-videlicet, into opposition; because the case of the tailor's wife, who was found against the stream, after she had drowned herself, poor soul! has proved that to be a natural infirmity. But what we object to about female politics, is the waste of talent which such discussion occasions-lips only kissed for talking about the preservation of constitutions, which might have been heard, upon the pickling of cucumbers, with every possible gravity and public advantage. Practical utility is our object, which is the reason why we never read any part of a parliamentary report but the division.
Let us all be great, but each in his "yocation;" on the female demesne there is room abundant to improve it, let female power first be exercised. Let the tongue of the oratress be still the terror of the cooks and housemaids; and, where the spirit of diplomacy is found, let us have an improvement on the subtlety of the wire mouse-trap.
A taste for physic-that is for giving it may always be indulged at the hazard of the neighbouring poor;-to the genius for finance, what could be a nobler object than a new arrangement of the washing-bill? Besides, Lady Holland is wrong, the legitimate duty of woman is to impede the pro
• Lisbon, in the years 1821-22-23. By Marianne Baillie. 2 vols. 8vo. Dedicated to the Earl of Chichester. Murray, London.
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