The angry lords, with all expedient haste: SHAKESPERE. LIONI AND BERTRAM.-MARINO FALIERO. The Selections from Lord Byron's later works are inserted by the kind permission of John Murray, Esq. Lioni. Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour? Bert. A boon, my noble patron; you have granted Many to your poor client Bertram; add This one, and make him happy. Lioni. Thou hast known me From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee Raised a rash hand against one of our order? I would not slay—but then, I must not save thee! Bert. I come To save patrician blood, and not to shed it! And thereunto I must be speedy, for Each minute lost may lose a life; since Time Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged sword, And is about to take, instead of sand, The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass! Go not thou forth to-morrow! Lioni. Wherefore not What means this menace? Bert. Do not seek its meaning, But do as I implore thee;—stir not forth, The groans of men—the clash of arms—the sound Lioni. Again, what does this mean ? Bert. Again I tell thee, ask not; but by all Descendants worthy both of them and thee— Lioni. I am, indeed, already lost in wonder; Bert. I cannot answer this. Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning? Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle threats, The cause of which I know not: at the hour Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not Be found among the absent. Bert. Say not so; Once more, art thou determin'd to go forth? Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which shall impede me! Bert. Then heaven have mercy on thy soul! Farewell! [Going. Lioni. Stay-there is more in this than my own safety, Which makes me call thee back; we must not part thus: Bertram, I have known thee long. Bert. From childhood, signor, You have been my protector: in the days Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft; His son's scarce less than foster-brother; years Oh God! the difference 'twixt those hours and this! I would have saved you: when to manhood's growth Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the senate? Lioni, I know that there are angry spirits Bert. Rather shame and sorrow light K Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life! Lioni. Some villains have been tampering with thee, Bertram; This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts; Some wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection : As vice and villany would put thee to: Confess confide in me-thou know'st my nature- And keep the house like a sick girl? Bert. Nay, question me no further;-minutes fly, Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor! Can lie the honour in a league of murder? Bert. A league is still a compact, and more binding He whose domestic treason plants the poniard I could have wound my soul up to all things Save this. Thou must not die! and think how dear Thy life is, when I risk so many lives! Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty The assassin thou miscall'st me;-once, once more, I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! Lioni. It is in vain-this moment I go forth. Bert. Then perish Venice rather than my friend! ensnare-betray-destroy I will disclose O what a villain I become for thee! Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the state's! Speak-pause not-all rewards, all pledges for Thy safety and thy welfare; wealth such as The state accords her worthiest servants; nay So that thou art sincere and penitent. Bert. I have thought again: it must not be-I love theeThou knowest it- that I stand here is the proof, Not least, though last; but having done my duty By thee, I now must do it by my country! BYRON. LOCHIEL AND WIZARD.-LOCHIEL'S WARNING. Wiz. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day O weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead : Loch. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, Wiz. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death-shot of foeman outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; |