Marino Faliero (Act 5 Scene 2)

Scene II.—The Doge's Apartment.                  The DOGE as Prisoner, and the DUCHESS attending him. Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 'twere useless all To linger out the miserable minutes; But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee, And I will leave the few last grains of sand, Which yet remain of the accorded hour, Still falling—I have done with Time. Ang. Alas! And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause; And for this funeral marriage, this black union, Which thou, compliant with my father's wish, Didst promise at his death, thou hast sealed thine own. Doge. Not so: there was that in my spirit ever Which shaped out for itself some great reverse; The marvel is, it came not until now— And yet it was foretold me. Ang. How foretold you? Doge. Long years ago—so long, they are a doubt In memory, and yet they live in annals: When I was in my youth, and served the Senate And Signory as Podesta and Captain Of the town of Treviso, on a day Of festival, the sluggish Bishop who Conveyed the Host aroused my rash young anger, By strange delay, and arrogant reply To my reproof: I raised my hand and smote him, Until he reeled beneath his holy burthen; And as he rose from earth again, he raised His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards Heaven. Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from him, He turned to me, and said, "The Hour will come When he thou hast o'erthrown shall overthrow thee: The Glory shall depart from out thy house, The Wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul, And in thy best maturity of Mind A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee; Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease In other men, or mellow into virtues; And Majesty which decks all other heads, Shall crown to leave thee headless; honours shall But prove to thee the heralds of Destruction, And hoary hairs of Shame, and both of Death, But not such death as fits an agéd man." Thus saying, he passed on.—That Hour is come. Ang. And with this warning couldst thou not have striven To avert the fatal moment, and atone, By penitence, for that which thou hadst done? Doge. I own the words went to my heart, so much That I remembered them amid the maze Of Life, as if they formed a spectral voice, Which shook me in a supernatural dream; And I repented; but 'twas not for me To pull in resolution: what must be I could not change, and would not fear.—Nay more, Thou can'st not have forgot, what all remember, That on my day of landing here as Doge, On my return from Rome, a mist of such Unwonted density went on before The Bucentaur, like the columnar cloud Which ushered Israel out of Egypt, till The pilot was misled, and disembarked us Between the Pillars of Saint Mark's, where 'tis The custom of the state to put to death Its criminals, instead of touching at The Riva della Paglia, as the won't is,— So that all Venice shuddered at the omen. Ang. Ah! little boots it now to recollect Such things. Doge. And yet I find a comfort in The thought, that these things are the work of Fate; For I would rather yield to Gods than men, Or cling to any creed of destiny, Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom I know to be as worthless as the dust, And weak as worthless, more than instruments Of an o'er-ruling Power; they in themselves Were all incapable—they could not be Vistors of him who oft had conquered for them. Ang. Employ the minutes left in aspirations Of a more healing nature, and in peace Even with these wretches take thy flight to Heaven. Doge. I am at peace: the peace of certainty That a sure Hour will come, when their sons' sons, And this proud city, and these azure waters, And all which makes them eminent and bright, Shall be a desolation and a curse, A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel. Ang. Speak not thus now: the surge of Passion still Sweeps o'er thee to the last; thou dost deceive Thyself, and canst not injure them—be calmer. Doge. I stand within Eternity, and see Into Eternity, and I behold— Aye, palpable as I see thy sweet face For the last time—the days which I denounce Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, And they who are indwellers. Guard (coming forward). Doge of Venice, The Ten are in attendance on your Highness. Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina!—one embrace— Forgive the old man who hath been to thee A fond but fatal husband—love my memory— I would not ask so much for me still living, But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, Glory, and Wealth, and Power, and Fame, and Name, Which generally leave some flowers to bloom Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even A little love, or friendship, or esteem, No, not enough to extract an epitaph From ostentatious kinsmen; in one hour I have uprooted all my former life, And outlived everything, except thy heart, The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft With unimpaired but not a clamorous grief Still keep——Thou turn'st so pale!—Alas! she faints, She has no breath, no pulse!—Guards! lend your aid— I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better, Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. When she shakes off this temporary death, I shall be with the Eternal.—Call her women— One look!—how cold her hand!—as cold as mine Shall be ere she recovers.—Gently tend her, And take my last thanks—I am ready now.          [The Attendants of ANGIOLINA enter, and surround their Mistress, who has fainted.—Exeunt the DOGE, Guards, etc., etc.