The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains.—Beautiful!
I linger yet with Nature, for the night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,

I learned the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering,-upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;
The trees which grew along the broken

arches

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the

stars

Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watchdog bayed beyond the Tiber; and More near from out the Caesars' palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,

Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time worn

breach

Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot. Where the Cæsars dwelt, And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst

A grove which springs through levelled battlements,

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;-
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection,
While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan

halls,

As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries,
Leaving that beautiful which was still so,
And making that which was not, till the
place

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er

With silent worship of the great of old,— The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule

Our spirits from their urns.

40

ACT V.-Scene 3.

MARINO FALIERO.

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!

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' Vicegerent,

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,

50

60

Have made thee last and worst of peopled 70

ACT I.-Scene 1.

SALEMENES, SARDANAPALUS, MYRRHA.

Sal. (Solus.) He hath wronged his queen, but still he is her lord;

Ile hath wronged my sister, still he is my brother;

He hath wronged his people, still he is their sovereign,

And I must be his friend as well as subject;
He must not perish thus. I will not see
The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years
Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale;
He must be roused. In his effeminate heart
There is a careless courage which corruption
Has not all quenched, and latent energies,
Repressed by circumstance, but not destroyed-
Steeped, but not drowned, in deep voluptuous-

ness.

He must be roused. Alas! there is no sound
To rouse him short of thunder.-Hark! the lute,
The lyre, the timbrel; the lascivious tinklings
Of lulling instruments, the softening voices
Of women, and of beings less than women,
Must chime in to the echo of his revel,
While the great King of all we know of earth
Lolls crowned with roses, and his diadem
Lies negligently by to be caught up

By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it.
Lo, where they come-

By the god Baal! The man would make me tyrant.

Sal.
So thou art.
Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that
Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice,

The negligence, the apathy, the evils
Of sensual sloth-produce ten thousand tyrants,
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses

The worst acts of one energetic master.

Sar. Come, I'm indulgent, as thou knowest, patient,

As thou hast often proved-speak out, what moves thee? Sal. Thy peril.

Sar.

Sal.

Say on.

Thus, then: all the nations; For they are many, whom thy father left In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. Sar. 'Gainst me! What would the slaves? Sal. A king. Sar.

Am I then?

Sal.

And what

In their eyes a nothing; but In mine a man who might be something still.

Sar. I understand thee-thou would'st have

me go

Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars
Which the Chaldeans read-the restless slaves
Deserve that I should curse them with their
wishes,

And lead them forth to glory!

[Semiramis-á woman only-led

These our Assyrians to the solar shores Of Ganges.

Sar. 'Tis most true. And how returned?
Sal. Why, like a man—a hero; baffled, but
Not vanquished. With but twenty guards, she
made

Good her retreat to Bactria.
Sar.
And how many
Left she behind in India to the vultures?

Sal. Our annals say not.
Sar.
Then I will say for them-
That she had better woven within her palace
Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards
100 Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens,

And wolves, and men-the fiercer of the three-
Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory?
Then let me live in ignominy ever!

Sal. I would but have recalled thee from thy
dream;

Better by me awakened than rebellion.
Sar. Who should rebel? or why? what
cause? pretext?]

Sa'. I only echo thee the voice of empires, Which he who long neglects not long will govern.

Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they murmur

110 Because I have not shed their blood, nor led

120

them

To dry into the desert's dust by myriads,

Or whiten with their bones the banks of
Ganges;

Nor decimated them with savage laws,
Nor sweated them to build up pyramids,
Or Babylonian walls.

Sal.
Yet these are trophies
More worthy of a people and their prince
Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and con-
cubines,

And lavished treasures, and contemnèd virtues. Sar. Or for my trophies I have founded cities:

There's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built
In one day-what could that blood-loving
beldame,

My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis,
Do more, except destroy them?

Sal.

'Tis most true, I own thy merit in those founded cities, Built for a whim, recorded with a verse, Which shames both them and thee to coming ages.

Sar. Shame me! by Baal, the cities, though well built,

130 Are not more goodly than the verse! Say what

Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of life or rule,

But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief record.

Why, those few lines contain the history
Of all things human: hear-'Sardanapalus,
The King, and son of Anacyndaraxes,
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus.
Eat, drink, and love; the rest's not worth a
fillip.'

Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription,
For a king to put up before his subjects!

Sar. O, thou would'st have me doubtless 140 set up edicts,

'Obey the King-contribute to his treasureRecruit his phalanx - spill your blood at

Open. How feel you? Jac. Fos.

to the window.) There, sir, 'tis

Like a boy-O, Venice!

Guard. And your limbs?

Jac. Fos. Limbs! how often have they borne me

Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimmed

The gondola along in childish race,

And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst
My gay competitors, noble as I,

Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of
strength;

While the fair populace of crowding beauties,
Plebeian as patrician, cheered us on

20 With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible,

And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands, Even to the goal!- How many a time have I

Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more

The loftier they uplifted me; and oft,
In wantonness of spirit, plunging down
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen
By those above, till they waxed fearful;
then

Returning with my grasp full of such tokens As showed that I had searched the deep: exulting,

With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep The long-suspended breath, again I spurned The foam which broke around me, and

pursued

My track like a sea-bird.—I was a boy then. Guard. Be a man now! there never was more need

Of manhood's strength.

Jac. Fos. (Looking from the lattice.) My beautiful, my own,

My only Venice-this is breath! Thy breeze, Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my

face!

Jac. Fos. Once-twice before: both times they exiled

me.

Guard. And the third time will slay you.
Jac. Fos.
Let them do so,

So I be buried in my birth-place: better
Be ashes here, than aught that lives else-

where.