I met in private and public carriages of all descriptions. You are, indeed, a wandering nation, par eminence. I am persuaded that, between Dover and London, I saw twice as many persons as will be found at any time in the road between Paris and Geneva; though the latter journey is at least four times longer than the former. As I approached London, I endeavoured to discover the dome of St. Paul's. It was at last pointed out to me, but it was so enveloped in a cloud of smoke, that with difficulty I perceived its mighty top. In driving over Westminster-bridge, I lamented, that a nearer view of the river was impeded by the lofty parapets; but what I did see excited my admiration. In entering the town, I confess I was disappointed. After traversing a shabby street, formed almost entirely of shops, I perceived, it is true, a handsome opening to the left, the striking feature of which is the Abbey; but its ancient magnificence seems little to accord with the modern garden adjoining it, and still less with the low and jetty buildings which we passed in approaching it. Evening was coming in at the moment of my arrival, and a dense and yellow fog threw a gloom on all around. The convenience, however, of your trottoirs, for which it is curious that we, who do not generally possess the advantage, have invented the only appropriate name, did not escape my notice. On these trottoirs crowds of well-dressed pedestrians of both sexes were hastening to their respective avocations, in spite of the unfavourable state of the atmosphere, and of the approaching night.--Nor did I fail to remark the numberless elegant carriages and loaded carts, which impeded our way when we came to Charing-Cross, while the richness and variety of the shops, which were just lighted, dazzled my eyes, and distracted my attention. But more of all this hereafter. I have, for the present, taken up my quarters at Brunet's, in Leicester-square; for though I hope, by and by, so to accustom myself to your usages as to feel perfectly at my ease in an English hotel, I think, for the moment, I shall be more satisfied at the house of a countryman, where I shall be able to command all those conveniences which early habit has rendered indispensable. For my next letter, I flatter myself I shall find a more interesting topic than that of soups and waiters, to which this has been necessarily confined. Adieu, SONG. And believe me ever your's, THERE's not a look of those dear eyes And, more than all my days, I prize There's not a tone of that soft voice Until it shall again rejoice My fond, attentive ear. There's not a wish you e'er express'd Nor can this anxious bosom rest Till I'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, But dare I hope that you can feel AMELIA OPIE. FOSCARI. ACT I.-SCENE I. MILAN. An Apartment in the Palace of SFORZA. Enter SFORZA and CONTARINO. [AUG. Contarino. 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 Contarino. But why distract Your mind with these suggestions? These well suit 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, 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 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 At whose bank Flowers gush forth, and the dark green-cloth'd moss 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, Contarino. Pausing there, T' inhale the balmy fragrance of the breeze, 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 proceedSforza. Well, Sir, speak on. Contarino. A voice, then, broke On my attentive ear. Sforza. How-what-who Who could have dar'd thus to profane my groves Contarino. My Lord, I fear Sforza. Speak quickly, Sir, for I- Contarino. The Princess Julia, In conversation with some stranger, and, 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 Contarino. He is her equal! Sforza. How,-do you insult me? He is the son of Foscari. Sforza. Thank ye, heavens! I thank ye for this opportunity Of crushing his vile race!-A glorious prospect And gladden'd ire. Now, in my artful nets This youth I will entangle, and then dart Shall lure this rash adventurer to his doom, Contarino. Well I knew his face, For I was at his father's oft when last 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, Contarino. I did, my lord, Gonzaga said, "I will not fail thee," said the princess," then." Mark that thou meet'st me, then, beside the tow'r, steal on them and be auditors Of their love-converse. Then will I determine Contarino. I will be there, my Lord. SCENE II-A Street in Milan. PISANI and VITELLI meeting. [Exeunt, separately. 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, 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 A something worse than torture. Pisani. (laughing). What, Vitelli ? Poor jealous soul! art thou at last, then, struck? I thought you boasted yesterday you were Vitelli. Truce to thy sneers Pisani: what care I for prince or princess? For her, Pisani. I have too My grounds for slight, which I shall ne'er forget; And tripp'd away to where Gonzaga stood; When on my knees I woo'd 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 We are not gallants of the rank that [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 Lov'd of Mark Anthony. Gonzaga. I fear them not; Vicenti. But they have yet the will---O They are too weak to do me injury. Let my entreaties now prevail upon you To hasten back to Venice, and your father, Whose aged eyes are almost blind with weeping Gonzaga. My good Vicenti, Thinkest thou this absence from my home delights me, Eur. Mag. Vol. 82. R |