Different Voices. Ay!-Ay! Doge. You shall not Stir in my train, at least. I enter'd here I am, but only to these gates.-Ah! [The great bell of St. Mark's tolls. Barb. The bell! Chief of the Ten. St. Mark's, which tolls for the election [The Doge takes a goblet from the Doge. I take yours, Loredano, from the Most fit for such an hour as this. Lored. Why so? Marina. My God! My God! Barb. (to Lored.) Behold! your work's Chief of the Ten. Is there then Attendant. 'Tis all over. Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his Shall be such as befits his name and nation, Say, shall it not be so? Barb. He has not had Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then? Yes. Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with him! Marina. Signors, your pardon: this is mockery. Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, A moment since, while yet it had a soul (A soul by whom you have increased your empire, And made your power as proud as was his glory), You banish'd from his palace, and tore down From his high place with such relentless coldness; And now, when he can neither know these honours, Nor would accept them if he could, you, Purpose, with idle and superfluous pomp, Doge. 'Tis said that our Venetian And not his honour. crystal has Such pure antipathy to poisons, as To burst if aught of venom touches it. Doge. Then it is false, or you are true. . Marina. You talk wildly, and Had better now be seated, nor as yet Depart. Ah! now you look as look'd my husband! Barb. He sinks!-support him!—quick— a chair-support him! Chief of the Ten. Lady, we revoke not Our purposes so readily. Marina. I know it, As far as touches torturing the living. you, Though (some, no doubt,) consign'd to powers which may Resemble that you exercise on earth. Leave him to me; you would have done 80 for His dregs of life, which you have kindly shorten'd: It is my last of duties, and may prove Doge. The bell tolls on!-let's hence-A dreary comfort in my desolation. my brain's on fire! Barb. I do beseech you, lean upon us! A sovereign should die standing. My poor Off with your arms!-That bell! [The Doge drops down and dies. Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, Chief of the Ten. Do you Though his possessions have been all consumed as one day, In the state's service, I have still my dowry, | Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done! I trust, Heaven's will be done too! The latter-like yourselves; and can face both. Wish you more funerals? Barb. Heed not her rash words; Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down. Barb. (turning to Loredano, who is writing upon his tablets) What art thou writing, With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets? Lored. (pointing to the Doge's body) That he has paid me! Chief of the Ten. owe you? What debt did he Lored. A long and just one; Nature's debt and mine. [Curtain falls. SARDANAPALUS, A TRAGEDY. TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GÖTHE. A stranger presumes to offer the homage of a literary vassal to his liege-lord, the first of existing writers, who has created the literature of his own country and illustrated that of Europe. The unworthy production which the author ventures to inscribe to him is entitled SARDANAPALUS. PREFACE. For the historical foundation of the compositions in question, the reader is referred to the Notes. The Author has in one instance attempted to preserve, and in the other to approach the unities; conceiving that with any very distant departure from them, there may be poetry, but can be no drama. He is aware of the unpopularity of this notion in present English literature; but it is not a system of his own, being merely an opinion, which, not very long ago, was the law of literature throughout the world, and is still so in the more civilized parts of it. But "Nous avons changé tout cela," and are reaping the advantages of the change. The writer is far from conceiving that any thing he can adduce by personal precept or example can at all approach his regular, or even irregular, predecessors: he is merely giving a reason why he preferred the more regular formation of a structure, however With regard to my own private feelings, feeble, to an entire abandonment of all rules as it seems that they are to stand for no-whatsoever. Where he has failed, the faithing, I shall say nothing. lure is in the architect,--and not in the art. IN publishing the Tragedies of Sardanapalus, and of The Two Foscari, I have only to repeat that they were not composed with the most remote view to the stage. On the attempt made by the Managers in a former instance, the public opinion has been already expressed. To have reach'd an empire; to an empire | We'll meet again in that the sweetest hour, When we shall gather like the stars above us, And you will form a heaven as bright as born, theirs ; Till then, let each be mistress of her time, He will bequeath none; nothing but a name, yield not Health like the chase, nor glory like the war He must be roused. Alas! there is no sound [Sound of soft music heard from within. To ronse him short of thunder. Hark! the lute, The lyre, the timbrel; the lascivious Of lulling instruments, the softening voices Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem Lo, where they come! already I perceive Who are his comrades and his council, flash And tell him what all good men tell each Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves, Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 1 Sard. My lord! my life, why answerest thou so coldly? Accompany our guests, or charm away Is to contribute to thine every wish. Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for SCENE II.—Enter SARDANAPALUS effeminate- Sardanapalus (speaking to some of his Let the pavilion over the Euphrates And bid the galley be prepared. There is We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign others. Myrrha, I would remain: I have no happiness Save in beholding thine; yet— Sard. Yet, what YET? Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier Of council; it were better I retire. Till midnight, when again we pray your Sard. But thou lookedst it; Sal. His consort's brother, minion of Ionia! Thou hast no more eyes than heart to And then reproach her with thine own Sal. To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, | And Let them flow on; she weeps for more than one, is herself the cause of bitterer tears. Thinkst thou there is no tyranny but that Whose delegated cruelty surpasses A foreign foe invade, or civil broil Beyond his palace-walls, or if he stirs Beyond them, 'tis but to some mountain palace, Till summer-heats wear down. O glorious Baal! Who built up this vast empire, and wert made A god, or at the least shinest like a god Through the long centuries of thy renown, This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril! For what? to furnish imposts for a revel, Or multiplied extortions for a minion. Sard. I understand thee-thou wouldst |