The Works of Lord Byron Volume V Part 40

To darkness more than light, by lending to The dungeon vapours its bituminous smoke, Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes-- No, not thine eyes--they sparkle--how they sparkle!

_Jac. Fos._ And thine!--but I am blinded by the torch.

_Mar._ As I had been without it. Couldst thou see here?

_Jac. Fos._ Nothing at first; but use and time had taught me 60 Familiarity with what was darkness; And the grey twilight of such glimmerings as Glide through the crevices made by the winds Was kinder to mine eyes than the full Sun, When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers Save those of Venice; but a moment ere Thou earnest hither I was busy writing.

_Mar._ What?

_Jac. Fos._ My name: look, 'tis there--recorded next The name of him who here preceded me,-- If dungeon dates say true.

_Mar._ And what of him? 70

_Jac. Fos._ These walls are silent of men's ends; they only Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, Or those who soon must be so.--_What of him?_ Thou askest.--What of me? may soon be asked, With the like answer--doubt and dreadful surmise-- Unless thou tell'st my tale.

_Mar._ _I speak_ of thee!

_Jac. Fos._ And wherefore not? All then shall speak of me: The tyranny of silence is not lasting, And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 80 Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's!

I do not _doubt_ my memory, but my life; And neither do I fear.

_Mar._ Thy life is safe.

_Jac. Fos._ And liberty?

_Mar._ The mind should make its own!

_Jac. Fos._ That has a n.o.ble sound; but 'tis a sound, A music most impressive, but too transient: The Mind is much, but is not all. The Mind Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, And torture positive, far worse than death (If death be a deep sleep), without a groan, 90 Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges Than me; but 'tis not all, for there are things More woful--such as this small dungeon, where I may breathe many years.

_Mar._ Alas! and this Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is Prince.

_Jac. Fos._ That thought would scarcely aid me to endure it.

My doom is common; many are in dungeons, But none like mine, so near their father's palace; But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 100 Will stream along those moted rays of light Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford Our only day; for, save the gaoler's torch, And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught Last night in yon enormous spider's net, I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas!

I know if mind may bear us up, or no, For I have such, and shown it before men; It sinks in solitude: my soul is social.

_Mar._ I will be with thee.

_Jac. Fos._ Ah! if it were so! 110 But _that_ they never granted--nor will grant, And I shall be alone: no men; no books-- Those lying likenesses of lying men.

I asked for even those outlines of their kind, Which they term annals, history, what you will, Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were Refused me,--so these walls have been my study, More faithful pictures of Venetian story, With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is The Hall not far from hence, which bears on high 120 Hundreds of Doges, and their deeds and dates.

_Mar._ I come to tell thee the result of their Last council on thy doom.

_Jac. Fos._ I know it--look!

[_He points to his limbs, as referring to the Question which he had undergone_.

_Mar._ No--no--no more of that: even they relent From that atrocity.

_Jac. Fos._ What then?

_Mar._ That you Return to Candia.

_Jac. Fos._ Then my last hope's gone.

I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice; I could support the torture, there was something In my native air that buoyed my spirits up Like a s.h.i.+p on the Ocean tossed by storms, 130 But proudly still bestriding[61] the high waves, And holding on its course; but _there_, afar, In that accursed isle of slaves and captives, And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck, My very soul seemed mouldering in my bosom, And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded.

_Mar._ And _here_?

_Jac. Fos._ At once--by better means, as briefer.[bm]

What! would they even deny me my Sire's sepulchre, As well as home and heritage?

_Mar._ My husband!

I have sued to accompany thee hence, 140 And not so hopelessly. This love of thine For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil Is Pa.s.sion, and not Patriotism; for me, So I could see thee with a quiet aspect, And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, I would not cavil about climes or regions.

This crowd of palaces and prisons is not A Paradise; its first inhabitants Were wretched exiles.

_Jac. Fos._ Well I know _how_ wretched!

_Mar._ And yet you see how, from their banishment 150 Before the Tartar into these salt isles, Their antique energy of mind, all that Remained of Rome for their inheritance, Created by degrees an ocean Rome;[62]

And shall an evil, which so often leads To good, depress thee thus?

_Jac. Fos._ Had I gone forth From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking Another region, with their flocks and herds; Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion, Or like our fathers, driven by Attila[63] 160 From fertile Italy, to barren islets, I would have given some tears to my late country And many thoughts; but afterwards addressed Myself, with those about me, to create A new home and fresh state: perhaps I could Have borne this--though I know not.

_Mar._ Wherefore not?

It was the lot of millions, and must be The fate of myriads more.

_Jac. Fos._ Aye--we but hear Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, Their numbers and success; but who can number 170 The hearts which broke in silence at that parting, Or after their departure; of that malady[64]

Which calls up green and native fields to view From the rough deep, with such ident.i.ty To the poor exile's fevered eye, that he Can scarcely be restrained from treading them?

That melody,[65] which out of tones and tunes[bn]

Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow Of the sad mountaineer, when far away From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds, 180 That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, And dies.[66] You call this _weakness_! It is strength, I say,--the parent of all honest feeling.

He who loves not his Country, can love nothing.

_Mar._ Obey her, then: 'tis she that puts thee forth.

_Jac. Fos._ Aye, there it is; 'tis like a mother's curse Upon my soul--the mark is set upon me.

The exiles you speak of went forth by nations, Their hands upheld each other by the way, Their tents were pitched together--I'm alone. 190

_Mar._ You shall be so no more--I will go with thee.

_Jac. Fos._ My best Marina!--and our children?

_Mar._ They, I fear, by the prevention of the state's Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure), Will not be suffered to proceed with us.

_Jac. Fos._ And canst thou leave them?

_Mar._ Yes--with many a pang!

But--I _can_ leave them, children as they are, To teach you to be less a child. From this Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 200 By duties paramount; and 'tis our first On earth to bear.

_Jac. Fos._ Have I not borne?

_Mar._ Too much From tyrannous injustice, and enough To teach you not to shrink now from a lot, Which, as compared with what you have undergone Of late, is mercy.