s' 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 identity
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.

_Jac. Fos._ Ah! you never yet
Were far away from Venice, never saw
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance,
While every furrow of the vessel's track
Seemed ploughing deep into your heart; you never 210
Saw day go down upon your native spires[bo]
So calmly with