 | Foscari |  |
PROLOGUE.
SPOKEN BY MR. SERLE.For riches famed of yore, and once as free
As her own element, the bounding sea,
Fair Venice now, fall'n from her “palmy state,”
Broods o'er her palace-city desolate;
Each mart deserted, each Palladian hall
Vacant and ruinous proclaims her fall.
Yet still one triumph of her ancient fame
Gilds her decay, and lingers round her name;
'Tis that beneath the proud Venetian dome
The Tragic Muse hath fix'd her favourite home;
'Tis that her very name makes young hearts glow
With deep remembrance of some glorious woe.
There Shylock whetted his relentless knife;
There poor Othello won his murdered wife;
There Pierre, stout traitor, the awed State defied;
There Jaffier lov'd, and Belvidera died.
And there the immortal Bard, who all too soon
Fell in the blaze of Fame's effulgent noon,
Lamented Bryon! twice a tale hath told
Of princely anguish in the days of old:
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With vengeful hate by their stern doom expired;
And his severer fate, condemned to try
His guiltless son, the good Doge Foscari.
That tale of woe, but with an humbler flight
And weaker wing, our Authoress of to-night
Hath brought before ye. Deem not of it worse
That 'tis a theme made sacred by his verse.
Ere his bold Tragedy burst into day,
Her trembling hand had closed this woman's play.
A different track she follows—Oh! forgive
Her errors ye, who bid the Drama live!
To your indulgence she commends her cause,
And hopes, yet dares not ask, your kind applause.
| Foscari | |