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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/giacomovenetiantOObamb 
 
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 GIACOMO : 
 A VENETIAN TALE 
 
\Denetian ^ale 
 
 By 
 
 WILLIAM 
 GUSHING 
 BAMBURGH 
 
 
 i %G 
 
 New York City : 
 
 privately printed for the author 
 
 mdcccxcii 
 
 / o 
 
 
 s 
 

 
 
 copyright 
 
 Wm. Cushing Bamburgh 
 
 1892 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
GIOVANNI, 
 ROSALBA, 
 PAOLA, 
 GIACOMO, 
 
 A Venetian Duke 
 His Wife 
 Their Daughter 
 A Venetian Youth 
 
 SCENE THE FIRST. 
 ON THE LIDO. 
 
 scene the second, 
 in Giovanni's palace. 
 
I 
 
 SCENE THE FIRST 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 
 
 i 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 Thou say'st 't was done in love? 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 Aye, so 't was done ; 
 Nor is it meet that thus my lowly pride 
 In sweet remembrance of the deed I did 
 Should leave me still unconscious of my love. 
 My hope is hope for thee, nor should my love 
 E'er crave return of all I gave for thee : 
 Thou art my dream : on thee no sun has set 
 That I've not yearned should soon again arise, 
 That on thy peaceful countenance mine eyes 
 Might linger thro' an hour ere it then 
 Should set. 
 
 PAOLA. 
 
 Who art thou that to me shouldst thus 
 Rehearse thy love? What gratitude must I 
 Owe unto one on whom no eye of mine 
 Has beamed as thou dost boldly say it beamed? 
 Father, know you he a stranger is, 
 Who in some uncouth gondola hath passed 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 
 
 And peered into mine eyes when in a dream 
 I gazed up into Heaven and wondered whence 
 Our spirits go in death. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 Nay, fret not so, 
 His story is but one of many ; yet, 
 It is my will that thou shouldst grant him 
 
 court— 
 And with thy Mother — not so young as thou 
 Art now at her same age, for care had fall'n 
 More deeply, tho' the heart that now beats 
 
 time 
 With this in mine own breast, is still as true 
 And full of youth as then when flighty youths 
 And many sleek young beans were set to win 
 The tender maid that I, a stranger, held 
 Within my heart more precious than my name 
 Which still a most unsullied passport is 
 Where'er that name is known. 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 I know it not. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 Nor shalt until to-night. 'T is well some men 
 Assail the birth of men more nobly born, 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 
 
 For they have nought but chance of lowly 
 
 birth 
 And all the weight that flighty fortune bears : 
 Respect is none the less from god to god 
 Than man to man, — of Heaven it is a part : 
 For one that doth but raise an eye in scorn 
 Of true respect, doth lose the fragrance sweet 
 Of gentle manhood. Gdac'mo, come this night, 
 And if thine oar but splash thy thigh, thy tale 
 Will fill thy brain and burst ere it be fold. — 
 Farewell. 
 
 PAOLA. 
 Farewell. 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 A mortal still am I ; 
 To-night, in thy sweet presence T will feel 
 A god. {Exeunt Paola and Giovanni. .] 
 
 And ye, O Muses, from thy peak 
 Of far-away Parnassus, o'er my tongue 
 Hold sway, lest fate should cut the thread 
 
 and lose 
 Me this sweet prize. Farewell, Paola sweet, 
 Thou hast upon my heart cast such a spell, 
 I'm thine and only thine. Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 
SCENE THE SECOND 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 10 
 
 II. 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 'T was but a month ago I saw this youth, 
 Methinks, slow pass us resting on his oar. 
 He scanned our faces as one doth look 
 For some lost jewel in a dingy room. 
 
 PAOLA. 
 
 Aye, Mother ; and his look did tantalize 
 For I did look away, and still his face 
 Enlightened was with so much satisfaction 
 I fain did look again and penetrate 
 His sweet and open countenance whereon 
 No foolish madness seemed e'er could brood. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 " Father, know you he a stranger is 
 Who in some uncouth gondola hath passed 
 And looked into mine eyes — " 
 
 PAOLA. 
 
 Nay, Father; cease, 
 And mock me not ; 'twas so I spake when he 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 11 
 
 Before me stood. — Tis woman's way to build 
 A barricade of fibs for man to climb 
 Into the recess of a woman's heart ; — 
 'Tis well that here he comes ! 
 
 Enter Oiacomo. 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 Sweet grace be thine ! 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 And thine, good youth ! How luminous those 
 
 eyes! 
 'Tis strange, Giovanni, that in that noble face 
 I see resemblance unto yours when youth 
 Began to crown the life that 's with mine blent. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 Tome? 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 To thee. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 What folly ! Youth begin 
 And let no falt'ring thought trip up thy speech. 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 12 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 Torcello saw my birth — 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 Torcello? 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 Aye! 
 
 PAOLA. 
 
 Why, Father ; you do wince as if that name 
 Were part of thy great title. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 Silent be, 
 And listen to this tale. I hold belief 
 That ere this night awakes, the dead will rise 
 In such a strange, unholy fashion, we 
 Will love our guest. Proceed then, with thy 
 tale. 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 I would not have thee think me but a count 
 Of fair Torcello ! Soon my parents went 
 To Giudecca, where was born a girl 
 Upon whose joy I lived. In her sweet life 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 
 
 I sunk my life ; for her I lived, and since 
 Her loss, I've wandered beggarlike abroad 
 With all the taunts uncivil and untrue 
 That now beset Capuchin friars that roam 
 From that once pleasant island and become 
 Low grasping beggars : they deserve the curse 
 Of Pope or prelate : so at me were cast 
 Coarse taunts. That sister's saintlike visage, 
 
 blent 
 With memory, guided all my prayers ; to her 
 I made confession ; until now, my love 
 Hath sculptured in my breast an holy shrine 
 Wherein her eyes so saintlike and so rjure 
 Do counsel me. My precept she became — 
 To her I vowed my love should be so true 
 That mingled with a lover's love with mine 
 A brother's love should make it doubly shine. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 Thou dost begin so well I do bestow 
 Much praise. 
 
 PAOLA 
 
 Hold, F 
 A shame 
 
 .TAU.L.A. 
 
 Hold, Father ; you do interrupt ; — 
 it is his speech should thus be maimed. 
 
GLACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 14 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 At San Lazarro was I schooled ; in art 
 
 'T was Tintoretto I did emulate, 
 
 For in the East, Palladio's church doth stand 
 
 A sentinel o'er the Lido and the isles 
 
 That seem to float upon the river tides 
 
 Which heave and fall as doth a mother's breast. 
 
 But as perfume doth leave the zephyr sweet 
 
 So art did from my life evaporate : 
 
 No teacher schooled me, but the spirit came 
 
 And ebbed and all I learnt I either saw 
 
 Or felt with all the cruelty of a life 
 
 Well blest in laziness and in hunger's wit. 
 
 In wild seclusion the Euganian Hills 
 
 Have sheltered me, and gazing up to Heaven 
 
 Have I oft wondered were my father there 
 
 So gently tender and so fondly proud — 
 
 Blest by the presence of that sister drowned 
 
 When I myself was saved. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 How came it so ? 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 I know not. Many an hour have I spent 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 15 
 
 Slow wandering 'mongst the tombs of San 
 
 Michele 
 There searching for the name of him I called 
 My father, tho' his face would seem to me 
 So like to all Venetians I would fain 
 Have met him in the glare of noonday sun 
 And turned me from him. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 His death was not 
 Unlike thy sister's, then? 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 Methinks the same. 
 'T was thus : Giudecca held in bondage knights 
 And factious nobles whose allegiance blent 
 With such stern hatred for Venetian powers, 
 That Venice was to them a state forbidden. 
 My father, one such night, though bolder far 
 Than such as choked with hearts up in their 
 
 throats, 
 Did not consent to stay and languish there 
 But in a boat disguis'd did strive to reach 
 Fair Venice. As we sped with muffled oar, 
 A sentinel stove in our bow ; we 'gan to sink, 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 
 
 Paola cried, and clung to me for help ; — 
 I swam with boyish strength ; there on my back 
 I bore the life that unto me was all in all ; 
 Then suddenly her weight slipped off, and I 
 In agony swam toward the shore, — was saved, 
 But saved an orphan, mourning at the age 
 When children know no woe. I roamed about 
 An heir to that enforced seclusion whence 
 My parents strove to 'scape, but instead 
 Did win that freedom which cold death doth 
 grant. 
 
 (Giacomo turns and addresses Paola.) 
 
 A year or more agone, I saw thy face 
 And formed of it the image of my hope, 
 A hope that from a nameless youth's warm 
 
 heart 
 Hath filled his brain with dreams of lighter life. 
 Before King Carnival blew his jolly horn 
 I followed thee to this fair palace gate. 
 In this sped year I've paused many times : 
 Methought I was some Servite friar lean 
 Who from Calle Fallier descended oft 
 To gather from the poor such small stipend 
 Of bread or wood as he was wont to beg 
 Against the winter's cold and gnawing want, 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 
 
 Thy face has blest so many hours of dread 
 And pain and misery that I do crave 
 Thy pardon if thou dost not upon me look 
 With favor. 
 
 So yestere'en did come when I 
 In seemly distance lounged behind thy boat 
 Unwittingly waiting for the grave mishap 
 That plunged thee into water ne'er so warm 
 But that the summer's sun might make it 
 
 warm; 
 You call me brave, 't was but a natural course. 
 I will not try your patience any more, 
 But unto this good man I would remind 
 That when true love outweighs the love of 
 
 gold, 
 And honest love will grant an honest name 
 The weight of true nobility, I will crave 
 The hand of her who is my saint. My tale 
 Doth end. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 Thy tale is not half told. T is well 
 I now must grant my praise ; and, too, I grant 
 At once this saint who evermore shalt bless 
 And sweeten life for thee. 
 
GIACOMO : A VENETIAN TALE 18 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 My bride ! 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 Not so ! 
 Thy sister that was drowned has come to life, 
 And I your Father am, and this your Mother ; — 
 Death took us not, it was for you we mourned. 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 My son? 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 Thy son ! 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 It seemeth but a dream ! 
 
 GIACOMO. 
 
 No bride ? Alas ! I am so stupefied 
 
 I know not whence this blow has fallen. Thou 
 
 My sister? Thou, my Mother? Thou,— O 
 
 Mother, 
 Thus let me on thy tender bosom rest. 
 
G1AC0M0 : A VENETIAN TALE 
 
 No bride ? Alas, it is a grief so grave ; 
 And yet, all life begins anew, and thou 
 Dear Sister, to me slialt be so dear that I 
 Will call thee sweetheart mine. So kiss I thee. 
 No bride? Alas, I understand it not. 
 
 PAOLA. 
 That bride must in thy Sister be forgot. 
 
 February, 1892. 
 
Oiaconto: H 
 IDenetian Znlc 
 
 By 
 
 WILLIAM 
 CUSHING 
 BAMBURGH 
 
 New York City : 
 
 peivately printed for the author 
 
 mdcccxcii 
 
C 32 89 ■■«*■ 
 

 
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