Joy's
recollection
is no longer joy,
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still.
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still.
Byron
As her servant--
Her servant, though her chief--I would have gone
Down to my fathers with a name serene
And pure as theirs; but this has been denied me.
Would I had died at Zara!
_Ang_. There you saved
The state; then live to save her still. A day, 470
Another day like that would be the best
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you.
_Doge_. But one such day occurs within an age;
My life is little less than one, and 'tis
Enough for Fortune to have granted _once_,
That which scarce one more favoured citizen
May win in many states and years. But why
Thus speak I? Venice has forgot that day--
Then why should I remember it? --Farewell,
Sweet Angiolina! I must to my cabinet; 480
There's much for me to do--and the hour hastens. [408]
_Ang_. Remember what you were.
_Doge_. It were in vain!
Joy's recollection is no longer joy,
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still.
_Ang_. At least, whate'er may urge, let me implore
That you will take some little pause of rest:
Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid,
That it had been relief to have awaked you,
Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower
At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus. 490
An hour of rest will give you to your toils
With fitter thoughts and freshened strength.
_Doge_. I cannot--
I must not, if I could; for never was
Such reason to be watchful: yet a few--
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights,
And I shall slumber well--but where? --no matter.
Adieu, my Angiolina.
_Ang_. Let me be
An instant--yet an instant your companion!
I cannot bear to leave you thus.
_Doge_. Come then,
My gentle child--forgive me: thou wert made 500
For better fortunes than to share in mine,
Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. [dh]
When I am gone--it may be sooner than
Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring
Within--above--around, that in this city
Will make the cemeteries populous
As e'er they were by pestilence or war,--
When I _am_ nothing, let that which I _was_
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 510
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing
Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember.
Let us begone, my child--the time is pressing.
SCENE II.
Her servant, though her chief--I would have gone
Down to my fathers with a name serene
And pure as theirs; but this has been denied me.
Would I had died at Zara!
_Ang_. There you saved
The state; then live to save her still. A day, 470
Another day like that would be the best
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you.
_Doge_. But one such day occurs within an age;
My life is little less than one, and 'tis
Enough for Fortune to have granted _once_,
That which scarce one more favoured citizen
May win in many states and years. But why
Thus speak I? Venice has forgot that day--
Then why should I remember it? --Farewell,
Sweet Angiolina! I must to my cabinet; 480
There's much for me to do--and the hour hastens. [408]
_Ang_. Remember what you were.
_Doge_. It were in vain!
Joy's recollection is no longer joy,
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still.
_Ang_. At least, whate'er may urge, let me implore
That you will take some little pause of rest:
Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid,
That it had been relief to have awaked you,
Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower
At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus. 490
An hour of rest will give you to your toils
With fitter thoughts and freshened strength.
_Doge_. I cannot--
I must not, if I could; for never was
Such reason to be watchful: yet a few--
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights,
And I shall slumber well--but where? --no matter.
Adieu, my Angiolina.
_Ang_. Let me be
An instant--yet an instant your companion!
I cannot bear to leave you thus.
_Doge_. Come then,
My gentle child--forgive me: thou wert made 500
For better fortunes than to share in mine,
Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. [dh]
When I am gone--it may be sooner than
Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring
Within--above--around, that in this city
Will make the cemeteries populous
As e'er they were by pestilence or war,--
When I _am_ nothing, let that which I _was_
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 510
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing
Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember.
Let us begone, my child--the time is pressing.
SCENE II.
