University of Virginia Library

Now wild with passions, in the wane of life,
Shaken by every gust of mental strife,
Donado's spirit flames with noxious fires;
The restless dupe of his perverse desires!
Ambition, avarice, revenge, his heart
Had sacrific'd to all, with abject art;
By all deluded in their turns to reign,
None of their joys he felt, but all their pain,
O'er Italy he sent more harden'd spies,
Who search'd thro' every city, in disguise,
To see Venusia's signal charms appear,
Or lost Lucilio's far-fam'd voice to hear:
Vain search!—Donado, by suspicion led
To scorn the rumour, Theodore had spread,
At last believed it; and in western climes
Tried to ensnare his son, by deeper crimes.

Revenge not satisfied, new passions rose,
For this rash elder never sought repose.
Blest is the man, (of high or low degree)
Whose mind, from snares of youthful folly free,
Maintains, with steady truth, maturely sage,
The moral dignity of decent age.
Far different Donado's latter days,
His vices strengthen, as his frame decays.
The cruel passions, with contagious sway,
Successive, make his restless mind their prey.
In vengeance foil'd, and striving to dispell
All thoughts of filial charms, he could not sell:
He yields himself a slave to coarse desire,
His age rekindling with untimely fire,
A vulgar wanton in those scenes has plac'd,
That once Venusia's modest beauty grac'd.

Ah kind Venusia! what keen pangs had prest
On every fibre of thy feeling breast,
Could thy pure eyes, in vision, have survey'd
Him, all whose just commands thy youth obey'd,
Him, self-reduc'd, to lowest bondage stoop!
Derision's jest! a haughty harlot's dupe!
The young Bianca, a rude boatman's child!
And, like her father, boisterously wild;
Ungrac'd with talents, beaming from the mind,
And only in licentious wiles refin'd;
But deeply skill'd in cunning's basest aims,
To waste a dotard in disgraceful flames,
And, while his mind, and health, and fortune sink,
Steal from him man's prerogative, to think.
Such were her arts to weaken, and cajole,
She drove Venusia from Donado's soul;
No more remember'd! save, in some loose hour,
He gave her gross reviling, as her dower;
Then turn'd his malediction to a prayer,
An impious vow, that Heaven her life would spare,
Not for her merits, but his wealth to save;
Wealth, that would vanish in his daughter's grave!
Hence now his wish her being to extend;
His prime possessions on her life depend.
He priz'd her now, not for her lovely self,
But as the pillar, that upheld his pelf.
Transferr'd from her, the kindness of a sire
He lavish'd, at Bianca's proud desire,
On two stout boys, the produce of her charms!
Which to the care of his paternal arms,
His guileful mistress had so fondly thrown,
He credulously clasp'd them, as his own;
Tho' truth to tell, a truth to others clear,
Their real father was a gondolier.
Uberto, whom Bianca's sov'reign sway
Had subtly station'd in Donado's pay,
A man of mighty muscles, with a mind,
Where savage passions with the gentle join'd;
To love and lucre he obedience gave;
But higher masters held him more a slave:
For these he spurn'd, when touch'd with sudden fire
From jealous fury, or vindictive ire.
It chanc'd Donado had once gall'd his pride;
Hence all his thoughts to dark revenge applied;
And signal was the punishment prepar'd:
The deed, his malice wish'd, his courage dar'd.
The wicked on each other, and with ease,
Inflict such penances, as Heaven decrees.

And now of danger the dread hour arrives,
When, if Donado had a hundred lives,
All might seem lost, in fear, his guilt prolongs
For expiation of Venusia's wrongs.

A little isle, not far from Venice, lies;
Illumin'd once by more propitious skies!
Donado's ancestors had grac'd the rock
With structures, that might stand a wat'ry shock;
But time, and the encroaching sea, conspir'd
To mar the slighted castle, once admir'd!
Now but a ruin of the spot remain'd;
Fragments of mould'ring stone, with sea weed stain'd!
Pleas'd with whate'er his island could produce,
Here still Donado, for his casual use,
Preserv'd a boat-house; and at early day,
When his rock glisten'd in the rising ray,
The old man lov'd to trace the shallows round,
And, homeward sail with all his search had found.
Bianca's father was his usual guide;
An antient fisher, vers'd in wind and tide!
It chanc'd he gave, an injur'd limb to spare,
His boat and tackle to Uberto's care;
Who on this incident most subtly built
A deep-laid project of vindictive guilt.
Proud of his strength, and pliancy of limb,
And sure his master had no power to swim,
It was his purpose, when the boat drew nigh
The lonely rock, unwatch'd by mortal eye,
To start a plank, prepar'd with secret guile,
To let Donado sink, and swimming reach his isle

Such the base plot, his brooding malice nurst;
Now into action eager vengeance burst.
He sees the rock; yet, with a stormy mind,
Approaches nearer, than he first design'd,
To make his own escape the more secure:
Now murderous revenge seems doubly sure.
No neighb'ring boat appears; nor aught to save
His destin'd victim from a wat'ry grave.
He starts the plank, the rushing currents rise;
Donado sits, astounded with surprize:
On the boat's edge the wretch, with savage joy,
Leaps, thus insulting him, he would destroy:
“Here cool thyself old villain!—Thus a slave
Pays thee for blows, thy fretful fury gave,
Here cool thy pride, so arrogantly hot!
And boast no more of boys, whom I begot!”
These scornful taunts yet quivering on his tongue,
Far from the boat, with all his force, he sprung;
To do what oft he did, in sportive pride,
Dart like an arrow thro' the rolling tide;
Pleas'd to descend where deepest waters flow,
And diving, search the rocky cells below.
But Providence, the lord of chance and time!
Form'd of his sport the penance of his crime.
In rage, he failed to see, or to suspect,
Fragments of rock, whose broken points erect
Near to the surface of that water rose,
Where headlong, with blind force, his frame he throws;
Precipitating down with all its weight,
The massive body met immediate fate:
The shatter'd skull distain'd the tide with gore;
And soon the russian sunk, to rise no more.

Amazement, awful gratitude, and hope,
That with calamity he yet may cope,
Now rose united, in Donado's mind,
Where native courage was to quickness join'd.
The rock, with doubly providential aid,
Had crush'd his foe, and to himself display'd
A chance of 'scaping from the gulph beneath,
If, on the friendly stone, he yet may breathe.
Haply borne nearer by the sinking boat,
He grasps an oar, undaunted, tho' afloat!
And, thus supported, as the current drives,
With gentle movement at the rock arrives.
With what emotions did his bosom beat,
When first he found the crags support his feet!
He wept with joy, with penitence he wept;
For crimes yet unreveal'd his conscience kept:
Yet hopes to live, and plans of better life,
Gave him fresh ardour in his watery strife,
Tho' rising currents now around him roll'd,
Threat'ning to sweep him from his doubtful hold.
E'en on that rock, exhausted he must die,
If long unseen by charitable eye.
But 'twas the gracious will of Heaven to save
His age, endanger'd by the ruthless wave.
While, in his thoughts collected, he began
For signals of distress to form a plan,
He sees, transported with a rapid glance,
A vessel from behind his isle advance:
He shouts; and tho' unheard, he shouts yet more;
He brandishes aloft his rescued oar.
The boat a single sailor seems to guide,
Who marks the signal oar, and hurries thro' the tide:
But cautious in approach, wide-circling steers,
Before he turns to end Donado's fears.

Heavens! how the hand of God his conscience smote,
When first he knew the seaman in the boat!
It was that Lucio, whom Venusia's grasp
Had fetter'd, like an adamantine clasp,
When he was thought by that heroic wife,
Arm'd, by her father, 'gainst her husband's life,
Lucio reform'd was fill'd with joyous fire,
Thus sent by Heaven to save Venusia's sire:
His feeling heart, to honesty restor'd,
And true to mercy's God, whom he ador'd,
Glow'd with a hope, that every care beguil'd,
To reunite the father, and his child.
This prospect gives him promptitude, and art,
While now he plays the cautious seaman's part,
Safely contriving, with a friendly grace,
The ship-wreck'd noble in his skiff to place.
This duly finished, his full heart begins,
Craving Heaven's pardon for their mutual sins,
To tell the signor, how that wond'rous power
Produc'd their meeting, in so blest an hour.

It chanc'd Venusia, on her father's isle,
Had play'd in childhood; in a ruin'd pile
Heap'd a few stones, and tenderly exclaim'd:
“Venusia's chapel let this spot be nam'd!
For here I pray to every saint above,
That I may never lose my father's love.
The childish incident she chanc'd to tell,
When to this penitent she bade farewell;
Adding, “good Lucio! grant me one request!
If e'er at Venice 'tis thy lot to rest,
At such a season, (and she named this day)
Do thou, in young Venusia's chapel, pay
Thy pure devotions, at the early dawn,
And kneeling there, from all the world withdrawn,
Breathe from thy contrite soul a fervent prayer,
That mercy's God, who made thy life his care,
May turn her father's heart, as thine he turn'd,
That peace may reign, where guilty anger burn'd!”

This and much more, with eager kindness bold,
The happy Lucio to Donado told,
And blest himself, that he this morn obey'd
Her, whom e'en princes might be proud to aid;
Since his obedience thus, by Heaven's high will,
Seem'd likely all her wishes to fulfill;
For surely nature, in a father's heart,
Will fail no more to take a daughter's part,
When he perceives, that next to Heaven above,
He owes his safety to his daughter's love.

Thus Lucio kindly thought, and bravely said;
But what was his amazement, and his dread,
When, after all he utter'd, with a view
The fondness of a father to renew,
The stern Donado, with a look austere,
Shewing no outward sign of love, or fear,
Seeming not shaken in a single nerve,
With sullen dignity, and proud reserve,
Thus slowly spoke:—“Good Lucio! it is well
That to thy lot this morn's adventure fell;
To thee, well-pleased, my rescued life I owe;
Gold thou deserv'st, and gold I will bestow:
Still persevere in thy amended days!
Thou shalt not want my succour, or my praise.
But mark my order! whatsoe'er thy aim,
Mention to me no more a daughter's name!”

In silent wonder, that a father's soul
Could seem so deaf to nature's strong controul,
Lucio, tho' troubled to the heart, obey'd:
Safe to his home the signor he convey'd;
And instantly received a rich reward,
Which to his bounteous, but relentless lord,
He would have yielded gladly, with increase,
Could he have purchased so Venusia's peace.
Her peace had been the passion of his heart,
Since the affecting day, that saw them part:
This had impell'd him, with a grateful mind,
To the long task, her filial love assign'd;
And this now led him, by sure means, to send
To Theodore, that ever watchful friend!
A full description of the fateful day,
When for her sake, who taught his lips to pray,
Heaven had employ'd him, to his heart's desire,
From hideous peril to preserve her sire.
He told, whatever memory supplied,
With full simplicity, and honest pride;
And how he labour'd, by vain hope beguil'd,
To reunite the father and his child:
Then how that father fixt resolves had shewn
His angel daughter never more to own.

When Theodore first heard how Heaven display'd
Its signal mercy, in this old man's aid,
His feeling spirit deem'd it now his part,
To waken nature in a parent's heart:
He thought the sternest bosom must relent,
By mercy touch'd, so marvellously sent!
If friendship, by surprize, in joy's excess,
Brought the fond child, her rescued sire to bless.
Once he had so resolv'd:—Maturer thought
To this kind friend a cautious lesson taught
Still to conceal, with tutelary care,
The tranquil refuge of the tender pair.
But Lucio, in whose truth he can confide,
Whom with Lucilio's bounty he supplied,
He stations still at Venice, with a charge,
To send him tidings, frequent, and at large,
Of all that passes in Donado's life,
His public busines, or domestic strife!
Severely tutor'd, of one folly cur'd,
From household discord he his days secur'd,
Discarding rapidly his home's disgrace,
The false Bianca! and her infant race!
To these a settled maintenance he gave,
As misery's guardian, not as vice's slave.
Tho' self-improv'd, not free from vengeful rage,
He found not peace, the gem of virtuous age!
His every word inquietude exprest;
And dark resolves seem brooding in his breast.

Grown sick of Venice, he to Milan flies;
Secluded there, yet watch'd by friendly spies,
He fills the cautious Theodore with fear,
Lest of Manfredi's secret guests he hear,
And thirsting for Lucilio's blood, attain
The dire revenge, so long pursued in vain!
Lucilio's privacy yet unbetray'd,
Donado, by his restless humour sway'd,
Beyond th'Atlantic deem'd the long-sought pair,
And form'd wild projects of appearing there.

By various agents Theodore pursues,
The wary plan, to learn his secret views;
All who attempt to sound him, only find
A restless body, and a troubled mind,
Lab'ring, that none may penetrate the cloud,
That wraps his purpose, like a sable shroud.

But haste, my song, from guilt-distemper'd age,
In fluctuations of remorse, and rage!
Haste to that scene, where tender virtue tries
To chace the mist from melancholy's eyes!

More than a year has past, since we survey'd
The friendly valley of sequester'd shade;
And safe Venusia, in her kind employ,
To lure the lov'd recluse to social joy;
Safe, as if guarded by angelic plumes,
There still, in all her loveliness, she blooms.
Nature and love, exulting in her sight,
Have fill'd her bosom there with new delight.
An infant Venusina decks her arms,
So perfectly an image of her charms,
That, smiling in her face, the fairy-elf
Seems, by its smile, to say “I am yourself.”
And proud Lucilio having both in view,
Proclaims her infantine assertion true.

Heaven form'd Venusia, both in mind and heart
Nobly to fill a mother's arduous part,
To feel its anxious cares, its joyous rights,
And of its duties make her prime delights:
When first in this dear character array'd,
Thus to the father of the world she pray'd:

HYMN.

Good Heaven! must life, to purest hearts, remain
A quick vicissitude of joy and pain?
Must every fount of bliss be ting'd with grief?
Her infant, solitude's most sweet relief!
This baby-beauty, to Venusia grows
A source of pain, beyond a mother's throes.
The parent deem'd her child of sov'reign use,
To aid her to restore the lov'd recluse.
To him an invitation she addrest,
To visit Venusina on her breast;
The resolute recluse still urg'd his vow,
That could not such sweet intercourse allow;
Yet begg'd her nurse, (a servant of his own,
Whose long-tried sense and secrecy were known,)
Might to his chamber bring his little guest,
Some peaceful night, before he sunk to rest,
That he might, from society apart,
So bless the child, and fold it to his heart.
The tender parent, pleas'd with his desire,
Complied.—In all Manfredi could require,
Her grateful spirit was most quick to show
The fondest zeal to mitigate his woe.
The darling infant he devoutly kist;
With blessings then, scarce audible, dismist.
The nurse obedient, as she closed the door,
Hearing him kneel, in anguish, on the floor,
Sent instant aid; a good old priest serene,
The sole physician of this secret scene!
Who found his heart convuls'd, in nature's strife,
And throbbing with such pangs, as threaten'd life.
The child had raised, within his feeling brain,
Too keen remembrance of past grief, and pain,
That agoniz'd his soul.—Devotion's balm
Restor'd, by slow degrees, a patient calm;
Tho' all the powers of life appear'd deprest
By the convulsive torture of his breast,
And melancholy built her baleful sway
On stronger signs of premature decay.
Hence the good priest, with a benignant care,
Gently implores Venusia, to beware,
Lest her kind zeal may, unawares, inflame,
Grief, unextinguish'd in Manfredi's frame.
The tender fair, whose heart is pity's throne,
With ease forgives all errors, but her own,
Severe in self-reproach! she ponders still
How to compensate unintended ill,
And with the priest, good old Anselmo's, leave
To teach their mournful guardian less to grieve,
Within the spacious ante-room, that leads
To the dark chamber, where his grief he feeds,
The kind musicians breathe melodious prayers,
To soothe his troubled mind with pious airs.
Friendship and faith inspir'd the notes sublime,
With which Lucilio grac'd his monitory rhyme.

HYMN.

Often they mix'd, their friendly wish to gain,
A note more sprightly with a solemn strain:
Venusia, with his dark despair to cope,
Thus sung the tender praise of virtuous hope.

SONG.

The verse, and melody, her heart inspir'd,
Partly produc'd the blessing, she desir'd:
Her friend no longer draws reluctant breath,
In deep despondency, that covets death;
“He owns a wish to see his penance end;
But to that period can his life extend?
Too weak, and too unworthy to behold
Times, by Venusia, cheerfully foretold!”
That lovely prophetess, in billets kind,
Tried all her power, to re-exalt his mind;
And ventur'd to predict, “a day will shine,
When good Manfredi may, in Pity's Shrine,
Embrace his wards, as children of his heart,
And take, in all their joys, a father's part.”—
Yet oft the prophetess herself appears
Exchanging all her sanguine hopes for fears.

Tyrannic melancholy! none can tell
The dread dominion of thy darkest spell:
Man, as thy dupe, thou direst imp of earth!
O'er-rates his weakness, and denies his worth.
How blest is friendship, when from thy controul
Her bold attempts can free the virtuous soul!
But neither art, nor science, can declare,
How best she may succeed, to burst thy snare;
Sometimes to thwart thee, in thy gloomy will,
Seems, yet is not, a triumph over ill:
Sometimes, to humour all thy dark caprice,
Gives to thy slave a salutary peace.

Manfredi's anxious friends resolv'd to try
All charms, that in the sphere of music lie.
And hence Venusia, when they next attend,
To soothe, with melody, their unseen friend,
Sings to indulge, with tenderness sedate,
His shadowy fancy of approaching fate.

SONG.

Stretch'd on depression's voluntary bed,
Manfredi heard, and to himself he said.
“Venusia! blest Venusia! come the time
To clasp thee, as my child, without a crime!
For even thus, tho' bound on torture's wheel,
The prey of many fears! e'en thus I feel,
Thou hast the power, by thy melodious breath,
Power to irradiate life, or sweeten death.