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I met in private and public carriages we, who do not generally possess of all descriptions. You are, indeed, the advantage, have invented the a wandering nation, par eminence. only appropriate name, did not esI am persuaded that, between Dover cape my notice. On these trottoirs and London, I saw twice as many crowds of well-dressed pedestrians persons as will be found at any time of both sexes were hastening to in the road between Paris and Gene their respective avocations, in spite va; though the latter journey is at of the unfavourable state of the least four times longer than the atmosphere, and of the approaching former.
night.--Nor did I fail to remark the As I approached London, I en numberless elegant carriages and deavoured to discover the dome of loaded carts, which impeded our way St. Paul's. It was at last pointed when we came to Charing-Cross, out to me, but it was so enveloped while the richness and variety of the in a cloud of smoke, that with dif shops, which were just lighted, dazficulty I perceived its mighty top. zled my eyes, and distracted my In driving over Westminster-bridge, attention. I lamented, that a nearer view of But more of all this hereafter. the river was impeded by the lofty I have, for the present, taken up parapets; but what I did see ex
my quarters at Brunet's, in Leicescited my admiration. In entering ter-square; for though I hope, by the town, I confess I was disap and by, so to accustom myself to pointed. After traversing a shabby your usages as to feel perfectly at street, formed almost entirely of my ease in an English hotel, I think, shops, I perceived, it is true, a hand for the moment, I shall be more some opening to the left, the striking satisfied at the house of a countryfeature of which is the Abbey; but man, where I shall be able to comits ancient magnificence seems little mand all those conveniences which to accord with the modern garden early habit has rendered indispensaadjoining it, and still less with the ble. For my next letter, I Hatter low and jetty buildings which we myself I shall find a more interestpassed in approaching it. Evening ing topic than that of soups and was coming in at the moment of my waiters, to which this has been nearrival, and a dense and yellow fog cessarily confined. Adieu, threw a gloom on all around. The And believe me ever your's, convenience, however, of your trot
Le MARQUIS DE VERMONT. toirs, for which it is curious that
There's not a look of those dear eyes
That I shall e'er forget!
And, 'more than all my days, I prize
The day when first we met.
There's not a tone of that soft voice
But I shall ever hear,
Until it shall again rejoice
My fond, attentive ear.
There's not a wish you e'er express'd
But I would fain fulfil;
Nor can this anxious bosom rest
Till l've obey'd your will.
There's not a foe you've ever known,
But has my anger fired;
There's not a friend you've joy'd to own,
But, fondly, I've admired.
If signs like these true love reveal,
You mine distinctly see ;
But dare I hope that you can feel
A Aame like this for me?
Conlarino. Why sits that cloud of sadness on your brow?
My royal Prince, why shrouds its august front
Heart-breaking care, and melancholy gloom?
Sure, if there ever was a time for mirth,
That time is now, when universal Peace
Spreads high her olive-branch, and Janus' gates
Now clos'd imprison war and tumult's clang.
No more the earth bemoans her slaughter'd sons,
As erst in Pyrrha's time, but harmless sports
The leopard with the kid, and Ocean's goddess,
Imperial Venice, waves her flag to us
As a kind welcoming.
Sforza. Venice, sayst thou
Oh, how I hate that name! To me it sounds
As the enchanter's spell, whose circle's bound
Enchains the mighty; or, as that fell plant,
The Upas-tree, which withers all around,
And poisons vegetation's kindly powers,
Blighting Ambition's buds.
Contarino. But why distract
Your mind with these suggestions? These well suit
The battle's onset, and the busy field,
Where high the faulchion waves, and the red sword
Is glutted with the slain. But now they come,
Like the arch enemy, to our parents' bow'rs,
To taint the joys of Eden.
Sforza. Think not, friend,
My mind is like the giddy multitude's,
Or that the name of peace is as a charm
To sooth its fiery heat: let others choose
Such maiden softness, and to souls like mine,
Be the bright lance for sport, and the loud drum
For music, and the cannon's louder roar;
The chargers' back for rest.
Contarino. And such, indeed,
Was ever thy soul's bent, my Prince, but I
Came hither on another errand-
Sforza. What is that?
Contarino. Returning from the palace yesternight,
Musing upon the actions of the day,
Thinking on state affairs, my steps I bent
Past that sequester'd olive-grove, which grows
In yon fair garden, by the side of which
A splashing jets its silvery spray;
At whose bank
Flowers gush forth, and the dark green-cloth'd moss
Spreads its soft mantle o’er the moisten'd earth ;
There you may note it well. My Lord, there is
A ruin'd turret, o'er whose mouldering sides
The kissing ivy creeps.
Sforza. "I know it well:
A calm retreat, but it I've never visited,
Save when vexatious cares have troubled me,
And my perturbed soul has sought for rest.
Proceed, my Contarino.
Contarino. Pausing there,
T'inhale the balmy fragrance of the breeze,
Cool'd by the fountain's waters.—There, methought,
I heard å tender sigh.
Sforza. A sigh, indeed -
A whisper of the wind !-And was that all ?
Contarino. I started back, for in that lonely place,
I know not how, I felt afraid, for I
Have heard that spirits —
Sforza. Pshaw !- And was that all?
Contarino. My Lord, if you'll allow me to proceed-
Sforza. Well, Sir, speak on.
Contarino. A voice, then, broke
On my attentive ear.
Who could have dar'd thus to profane my groves
With their unhallow'd converse ?-Whose was the-
Contarino. My Lord, I fear-
Sforza. Speak quickly, Sir, for 1-
Contarino.“ It was the voice of -
Conturino. The Princess Julia,
In conversation with some stranger, and,
As I perceiv'd, a man.
Sforza. A man!
Contarino. Yes, such, my Liege,
In amorous conference; and kisses sweet
Were interchang'd between.
Sforza. Knew'st thou the man?
Contarino. I did, my Liege: 'twas young Gonzaga, Now tarrying in your court.
Sforaz. But art thou sure? I scarce can credit
Contarino. Believe it, Prince ;
I would, indeed, 'twere false !
Sforza. Then curse upon her!
So young, yet so deceitful, I did think
That not a thought could enter in her mind
But I could fathom it. Were he her equal,
I could have pardon'd her.
Contariuo." He is her equal!
Sforza. How,—do you insult me ?
Contarino. No, my Lord:
He is the son of Foscari.
Sforza. Thank ye, heavens !
I thank ye for this opportunity
Of crushing his vile race !-A glorious prospect
Just opens my mind, of sated vengeance,
And gladden'd ire. Now, in my artful nets
This youth I will entangle, and then dart
Upon him as the tiger seeks his prey.
Julia, I pardon thee ...Thy love-sick folly
Shall lure this rash adventurer to his doom,
For hate is all to me. My daughter,
Dear as she is, is but an atom small,
When measur'd with revenge. Now Foscari
Have at thy hated branch.—But stop my friend;
How art thou certain this young man is such
As thou dost call him?
Contarino. Well I knew his face,
For I was at his father's oft when last
Commission'd in my embassage to Venice.
A servant who deserted him, my prince,
Inform’d me all.—That having heard at home
Of your fair daughter's beauty and sweet face,
He straight became enamour'd, and procured
Her miniature, with which his heated mind
Daily consoled itself, till ardent passion
No longer bearing to remain content
With the mere picture, when at bright Milan
Was the original, incited him
To leave his father, and set out, unknown,
Upon his pilgrimage to the fair saint,
To whom his heart was pledg'd; and hither came,
That idol to adore. While his old father,
Unable to discover where he fled,
Was left to weep for his lov'd son's return.
Sforza. Didst thou not gather from their stolen talk,
When they appointed to hold conference
Contarino. I did, my lord, Gonzaga said,
“ You will not fail me, dearest, at this hour
“ To-morrow even-when the myrtle throws
“ It's sweets around, and gondola soft gliding
“ Adown the stream like to a fairy voice,
• Leaves as it goes a melancholy sound,
“ Gentler by distance-and with dying fall,
Diminishing away–when nought is heard
“ But the soft voice of music gently moving
“ Over the surface of the trembling wave,
“ Calling thee to remember love and me.”
“ I will not fail thee," said the princess, " then."
Sforza. Ha! is it so ? then they shall have, by heaven,
A witness little look'd for, Contarino.
Mark that thou meet'st me, then, beside the tow'r,
Embroidered with wild flowers, where unperceiv'd
steal on them and be auditor's
Of their love-converse, -Then will I determine
How I shall lead this youth to his destruction ;
Contarino. I will be there, my
Lord. [Exeunt, separately.
Scene II.-A Street in Milan.
Pisani and VITELLI meeting.
Pisani. Hail to thee, friend! Methinks thy looks to-day
Are not so blithe as heretofore-what news
From Venus' busy court hath anger'd thee?
Thy looks, so full of sweet placidity,
Have grown as ireful as the Gorgon's sconce,
As gloomy as the night.
Vitelli.' By heaven's bright face,
And Julia's too, thou hast not augur'd ill;
For unaccustom'd as I am to brook
The scornful airs of beauty, I did feel
Last night, when at the ball, the flippant princess
Did leave me for her minion Gonzaga,
A something worse than torture.
Pisani. Plaughing). What, Vitelli ?
Poor jealous soul! art thou at last, then, struck ?
I thought you boasted yesterday you were
Impregnable to Cupid's shafts, and that
The little urchin ne'er should have the pow'r
To wound thee.-Ha! ha!
Vitelli. Truce to thy sneers
Pisani : what care I for prince or princess ?
But so perceiv'd, so flagrant an affront,
Is ne'er to be forgiv'n-it is pride,
Not Cupid, that has wounded me.
I deem her but a foil to set me off ;
A kind of puppet to my will and pleasure :
And think of her no more.
Pisani. I have too
My grounds for slight, which I shall ne'er forget ;
'Twas but the other day she left my talk,
And tripp'd away to where Gonzaga stood;
When on my knees I wood her haughty glance,
And pour'd my studied diction in her ear;
Such and so great affront I ne'er receiv'd.
Vitelli. But why should we ourselves disquiet thus ?
Let us cast off the galling marks of scorn,
And tear them from our minds, leaving them all
To Cupid's warmer votaries.
Enter GONZAGA and VICENTI.
Gonzaga. Good even, Signiors.
Pisani. Ha! good Sirs !
How have you borne the labours of the night?
at length recruited ?
Vicenti. What, good sirs ?
Call ye the sprightly dance, the merry quip,
And Cupid's sports, a labour ? you, in truth,
Must have but craven hearts.
Pisani. Excuse us, sirs;
We are not gallants of the rank that you
Ladies' monopolists. We are obliged
To come in for the second course, while you,
Love's standard-bearers, ever carry off
The foremost place of glory—but we will not
Disturb your converse by our presence longer.
[Exeunt Pisani and VITELLI,
Gonzaga. There go two courtiers, true as ever wore
Their ensigns on their brow-two precious fools,
Who love their own dear selves too well to need
The armour that repels the darts of love.
Vicenti. Weak as they are, my lord, they've yet the pow'r
To harm your purposes ; for the fell asp,
Small as it was, could wound the beauteous breast
Lou'd of Mark Anthony.
Gonzaga. I fear them not;
They are too weak to do me injury.
Vicenti. But they have yet the will--O my dear prince,
entreaties now prevail upon you
To hasten back to Venice, and your father,
Whose aged eyes are almost blind with weeping
For his dear son; and ere his sorrow kills him,
To light his face with joy.
Gonzaga. My good Vicenti,
Thinkest thou this absence from my home delights me,
But as it suits my love ?---Wer't not for Julia,
My father ne'er should mourn his absent son;
Eur. Mag. Vol. 82.