and affection, and the
composition is full of the peculiar stuff of the poet's own mind.
The exulting sadness with which Jacopo Foscari looks in the first
scene from the window, on the Adriatic, is Byron himself recalling
his enjoyment of the sea.

How many a time have I
Cloven with arm still lustier, heart more daring,
The wave all roughen'd: with a swimmer's stroke
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair,
And laughing from my lip th' audacious brine
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup.

The whole passage, both prelude and remainder, glows with the
delicious recollections of laying and revelling in the summer waves.
But the exile's feeling is no less beautifully given and appropriate
to the author's condition, far more so, indeed, than to that of
Jacopo Foscari.

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
From fertile Italy to barren islets,
I would have given some tears to my late country,
And many thoughts; but afterward address'd
Myself to those about me, to create
A new home and first state.

What follows is still more pathetic:

Ay--we but hear
Of the survivors' toil in their new lands,
Their numbers and success; but who can number
The hearts which broke in silence of that parting,
Or after their departure; of that malady {291a}
Which calls up green and native fields to view
From the rough deep with such identity
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he
Can scarcely be restrained from treading them?
That melody {291b} which out of tones and tunes
Collects such pastime for the ling'ring sorrow
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away
From his snow-canopy of cliffs and clouds,
That he feeds on the sweet but poisonous thought
And dies.--You call this weakness! It is strength,
I say--the parent of all honest feeling:
He who loves not his country can love nothing.

MARINA

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

JACOPO FOSCARI

Ay, 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 pitch'd together--I'm alone--
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
Seem'd ploughing