The Vespers of Palermo

Front matter

THE

VESPERS OF PALERMO;

A TRAGEDY,

Act the First

THE

VESPERS OF PALERMO;

A TRAGEDY.

ACT THE FIRST.

Scene I.—A Valley, with Vineyards and Cottages.

Groups of Peasants—Procida, disguised as a Pilgrim, amongst them

1 Peasant. Ay, this was wont to be a festal time In days gone by! I can remember well The old familiar melodies that rose At break of morn, from all our purple hills, To welcome in the vintage. Never since Hath music seem'd so sweet! But the light hearts Which to those measures beat so joyously Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice Of joy thro' all the land.

2 Pea. Yes! there are sounds Of revelry within the palaces, And the fair castles of our ancient lords, Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear, From thence the peals of song and laughter rise At midnight's deepest hour.

3 Pea. Alas! we sat In happier days, so peacefully beneath The olives and the vines our fathers rear'd, Encircled by our children, whose quick steps Flew by us in the dance! The time hath been When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er The storm might gather. But this yoke of France Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily As on the crested chieftain's. We are bow'd E'en to the earth.

Pea. Child. My father, tell me when Shall the gay dance and song again resound Amidst our chesnut-woods, as in those days Of which thou 'rt wont to tell the joyous tale?

1 Pea. When there are light and reckless hearts once more In Sicily's green vales. Alas! my boy, Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl, To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside The weight of work-day care:—they meet, to speak Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts They dare not breathe aloud.

Procida. (from the back-ground.) Ay, it is well So to relieve th' o'erburden'd heart, which pants Beneath its weight of wrongs; but better far In silence to avenge them.

An old Pea. What deep voice Came with that startling tone?

1 Pea. It was our guest's,

The stranger pilgrim, who hath sojourn'd here Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him well: He hath a stately bearing, and an eye Whose glance looks thro' the heart. His mien accords Ill with such vestments. How he folds round him His pilgrim-cloak, e'en as it were a robe Of knightly ermine! That commanding step Should have been used in courts and camps to move. Mark him!

Old Pea. Nay, rather, mark him not: the times Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts A cautious lesson. What should bring him here?

A Youth. He spoke of vengeance!

Old Pea. Peace! we are beset By snares on every side, and we must learn In silence and in patience to endure. Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death.

Pro. (coming forward indignantly.)—The word is death! And what hath life for thee, That thou shouldst cling to it thus? thou abject thing! Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke, And stamp'd with servitude. What! is it life, Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice Into low fearful whispers, and to cast Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e'en then, Strangers should catch its echo?—Is there aught In this so precious, that thy furrow'd cheek Is blanch'd with terror at the passing thought Of hazarding some few and evil days, Which drag thus poorly on?

Some of the Peasants. Away, away! Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence.

Pro. Why, what is danger?—Are there deeper ills Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drain'd The cup of bitterness, till nought remains To fear or shrink from—therefore, be ye strong! Power dwelleth with despair.—Why start ye thus At words which are but echoes of the thoughts Lock'd in your secret souls?—Full well I know, There is not one amongst you, but hath nursed Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make One conflict of his life. I know thy wrongs, And thine—and thine,—but if within your breasts, There is no chord that vibrates to my voice, Then fare ye well.

A Youth. (coming forward.) No, no! say on, say on! There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here, That kindle at thy words.

Peas. If that indeed Thou hast a hope to give us.

Pro. There is hope For all who suffer with indignant thoughts Which work in silent strength. What! think ye Heaven O'erlooks th' oppressor, if he bear awhile His crested head on high?—I tell you, no! Th' avenger will not sleep. It was an hour Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king, Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn, On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less

Is justice throned above; and her good time Comes rushing on in storms: that royal blood Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth, And hath been heard. The traces of the past Fade in man's heart, but ne'er doth heaven forget.

Peas. Had we but arms and leaders, we are men Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these, What woulds't thou have us do?

Pro. Be vigilant; And when the signal wakes the land, arise! The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well. [Exit Procida.

1 Peas. This man should be a prophet: how he seem'd To read our hearts with his dark searching glance And aspect of command! And yet his garb Is mean as ours.

2 Peas. Speak low; I know him well. At first his voice disturb'd me like a dream Of other days; but I remember now His form, seen oft when in my youth I served Beneath the banners of our kings. 'Tis he Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long, The Count di Procida.

Peas. And is this he? Then heaven protect him! for around his steps Will many snares be set.

1 Peas. He comes not thus But with some mighty purpose; doubt it not: Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one, Whose faith, thro' many a trial, hath been proved

True to our native princes. But away! The noon-tide heat is past, and from the seas Light gales are wandering thro' the vineyards; now We may resume our toil. [Exeunt Peasants.

Scene II.—The Terrace of a Castle.

Eribert. Vittoria.

Vittoria. Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart Blighted and cold?—Th' affections of my youth Lie slumbering in the grave; their fount is closed, And all the soft and playful tenderness Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet Deep wrongs have sear'd it; all is fled from mine. Urge me no more.

Eribert. O lady! doth the flower That sleeps entomb'd thro' the long wintry storms Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring; And shall not woman's heart, from chill despair, Wake at love's voice?

Vit. Love!—make love's name thy spell, And I am strong!—the very word calls up 'From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, array'd In arms against thee!—Know'st thou whom I lov'd, While my soul's dwelling place was still on earth? One who was born for empire, and endow'd With such high gifts of princely majesty, As bow'd all hearts before him!—Was he not Brave, royal, beautiful?—And such he died;

He died!—hast thou forgotten?—And thou'rt here, Thou meet'st my glance with eyes which coldly look'd, —Coldly!—nay, rather with triumphant gaze, Upon his murder!—Desolate as I am, Yet in the mien of thine affianced bride, Oh, my lost Conradin! there should be still Somewhat of loftiness, which might o'erawe The hearts of thine assassins.

Eri. Haughty dame! If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed, Know, danger is around thee: thou hast foes That seek thy ruin, and my power alone Can shield thee from their arts.

Vit. Provençal, tell Thy tale of danger to some happy heart, Which hath its little world of loved ones round, For whom to tremble; and its tranquil joys That make earth, Paradise. I stand alone; —They that are blest may fear.

Eri. Is there not one Who ne'er commands in vain?—proud lady, bend Thy spirit to thy fate; for know that he, Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path O'er the bow'd neck of prostrate Sicily, Hath borne him to dominion; he, my king, Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon My deeds have well deserved; and who hath power Against his mandates?

Vit. Viceroy, tell thy lord, That e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land,

Souls may not all be fetter'd. Oft, ere now, Conquerors have rock'd the earth, yet fail'd to tame Unto their purposes, that restless fire, Inhabiting man's breast.—A spark bursts forth, And so they perish!—'tis the fate of those Who sport with lightning—and it may be his: —Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free.

Eri. 'Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart to bear The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again Bethink thee, lady!— Love may change—hath changed To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well. —Look to it yet!—To-morrow I return. [Exit Eribert.

Vit. To-morrow!—Some ere now have slept, and dreamt Of morrows which ne'er dawn'd—or ne'er for them; So silently their deep and still repose Hath melted into death!—Are there not balms In nature's boundless realm, to pour out sleep Like this, on me?—Yet should my spirit still Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear To his a glorious tale of his own isle, Free and avenged.—Thou should'st be now at work, In wrath, my native Etna! who dost lift Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high, Thro' the red heaven of sunset!—sleep'st thou still, With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread The glowing vales beneath?

(Procida enters disguised.)

Ha! who art thou,

Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step Dost steal upon me?

Pro. One, o'er whom hath pass'd All that can change man's aspect!—Yet not long Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness. —I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous, Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence. —Know'st thou this, lady?— (He shows a ring.

Vit. Righteous Heaven! the pledge Amidst his people from the scaffold thrown By him who perish'd, and whose kingly blood E'en yet is unatoned.—My heart beats high— —Oh, welcome, welcome! thou art Procida, Th' Avenger, the Deliverer!

Pro. Call me so When my great task is done. Yet who can tell If the return'd be welcome?—Many a heart Is changed since last we met.

Vit. Why dost thou gaze, With such a still and solemn earnestness, Upon my alter'd mien?

Pro. That I may read If to the widow'd love of Conradin, Or the proud Eribert's triumphant bride, I now entrust my fate.

Vit. Thou, Procida! That thou shouldst wrong me thus!—Prolong thy gaze Till it hath found an answer.

Pro. 'Tis enough. I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change Is from death's hue to fever's; in the wild Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye, And in thy wasted form. Ay, 'tis a deep And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace, Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters Of noble suffering;—on thy brow the same Commanding spirit holds its native state Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice Of Fame hath told afar that thou shouldst wed This tyrant, Eribert.

Vit. And told it not A tale of insolent love repell'd with scorn, Of stern commands and fearful menaces Met with indignant courage?—Procida! It was but now that haughtily I braved His sovereign's mandate, which decrees my hand, With its fair appanage of wide domains And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon, To recompense his crimes.—I smiled—ay, smiled In proud security! for the high of heart Have still a pathway to escape disgrace, Tho' it be dark and lone.

Pro. Thou shalt not need To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words: I tell thee, that a spirit is abroad, Which will not slumber till its path be traced By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live!

It is most meet that thou shouldst live, to see The mighty expiation; for thy heart (Forgive me that I wrong'd its faith) hath nursed A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set Deep on thy marble brow.

Vit. Then thou canst tell, By gazing on the wither'd rose, that there Time, or the blight, hath work'd!—Ay, this is in Thy vision's scope: but oh! the things unseen, Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass Hourly o'er that mysterious world, a mind To ruin struck by grief!—Yet doth my soul, Far, midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, Wherein is bright vitality.—'Tis to see His blood avenged, and his fair heritage, My beautiful native land, in glory risen, Like a warrior from his slumbers!

Pro. Hear'st thou not With what a deep and ominous moan, the voice Of our great mountain swells?—There will be soon A fearful burst!—Vittoria! brood no more In silence o'er thy sorrows, but go forth Amidst thy vassals, (yet be secret still) And let thy breath give nurture to the spark Thou 'lt find already kindled. I move on In shadow, yet awakening in my path That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well.

Vit. When shall we meet again?—Are we not those

Whom most he loved on earth, and think'st thou not That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near While thus we hold communion?

Pro. Yes, I feel Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee, Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb; He shall have nobler tribute!—I must hence, But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. [Exeunt separately.

Scene III.—The Sea Shore.

Raimond di Procida. Constance.

Constance. There is a shadow far within your eye, Which hath of late been deepening. You were wont Upon the clearness of your open brow To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round Joy, like our southern sun. It is not well, If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soul, To hide it from affection. Why is this. My Raimond, why is this?

Raimond. Oh! from the dreams Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still A wild and stormy wakening?—They depart, Light after light, our glorious visions fade, The vaguely beautiful! till earth, unveil'd Lies pale around; and life's realities Press on the soul, from its unfathom'd depth

Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts, In all their fearful strength!—'Tis ever thus, And doubly so with me; for I awoke With high aspirings, making it a curse To breathe where noble minds are bow'd, as here. —To breathe!—it is not breath!

Con. I know thy grief, — And is't not mine?—for those devoted men Doom'd with their life to expiate some wild word, Born of the social hour. Oh! I have knelt, E'en at my brother's feet, with fruitless tears, Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut Against my voice; yet will I not forsake The cause of mercy.

Rai. Waste not thou thy prayers, Oh, gentle love, for them. There's little need For Pity, tho' the galling chain be worn By some few slaves the less. Let them depart! There is a world beyond th' oppressor's reach, And thither lies their way.

Con. Alas! I see That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul.

Rai. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my words, From feelings hourly stung, have caught, perchance, A tone of bitterness.—Oh! when thine eyes, With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are fix'd Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget All else in their soft beams; and yet I came To tell thee—

Con. What? What wouldst thou say? O speak!—— Thou wouldst not leave me!

Rai. I have cast a cloud, The shadow of dark thoughts and ruin'd fortunes, O'er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone, Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more In the clear sunny light of youth and joy, E'en as before we met—before we loved!

Con. This is but mockery.—Well thou know’st thy love Hath given me nobler being; made my heart A home for all the deep sublimities Of strong affection; and I would not change Th' exalted life I draw from that pure source, With all its checquer'd hues of hope and fear, Ev'n for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind! Have I deserved this?

Rai. Oh! thou hast deserved A love less fatal to thy peace than mine. Think not 'tis mockery!—But I cannot rest To be the scorn'd and trampled thing I am In this degraded land. Its very skies, That smile as if but festivals were held Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine For freedom's charter'd air. I would go forth To seek my noble father; he hath been Too long a lonely exile, and his name

Seems fading in the dim obscurity Which gathers round my fortunes.

Con. Must we part? And is it come to this?—Oh! I have still Deem'd it enough of joy with thee to share E'en grief itself—and now—but this is vain; Alas! too deep, too fond, is woman's love, Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves The treasures of her soul!

Rai. Oh, speak not thus! Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold Upon my inmost heart.—I leave thee but To be more worthy of a love like thine. For I have dreamt of fame!—A few short years, And we may yet be blest.

Con. A few short years! Less time may well suffice for death and fate To work all change on earth!—To break the ties Which early love had form'd; and to bow down Th' elastic spirit, and to blight each flower Strewn in life's crowded path!—But be it so? Be it enough to know that happiness Meets thee on other shores.

Rai. Where'er I roam Thou shalt be with my soul!—Thy soft low voice Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back Life's morning freshness.—Oh! that there should be Things, which we love with such deep tenderness, But, through that love, to learn how much of woe

Dwells in one hour like this!—Yet weep thou not! We shall meet soon; and many days, dear love, Ere I depart.

Con. Then there's a respite still. Days!—not a day but in its course may bring Some strange vicissitude to turn aside Th' impending blow we shrink from.—Fare thee well. (returning. —Oh, Raimond! this is not our last farewell? Thou wouldst not so deceive me?

Rai. Doubt me not, Gentlest and best beloved! we meet again. [Exit Constance.

Rai. (After a pause.) When shall I breathe in freedom, and give scope To those untameable and burning thoughts, And restless aspirations, which consume My heart i' th' land of bondage?—Oh! with you, Ye everlasting images of power, And of infinity! thou blue-rolling deep, And you, ye stars! whose beams are characters Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced; With you my soul finds room, and casts aside The weight that doth oppress her.—But my thoughts Are wandering far; there should be one to share This awful and majestic solitude Of sea and heaven with me.

(Procida enters unobserved)

It is the hour

He named, and yet he comes not.

Procida. (Coming forward) He is here.

Rai. Now, thou mysterious stranger, thou, whose glance Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue Thought, like a spirit, haunting its lone hours; Reveal thyself; what art thou?

Pro. One, whose life Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms, With still a mighty aim.—But now the shades Of eve are gathering round me, and I come To this, my native land, that I may rest Beneath its vines in peace.

Rai. Seek'st thou for peace? This is no land of peace; unless that deep And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men's thoughts Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien With a dull hollow semblance of repose, May so be call'd.

Pro. There are such calms full oft Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been So vainly school'd by fortune, and inured To shape my course on peril's dizzy brink, That it should irk my spirit to put on Such guise of hush'd submissiveness as best May suit the troubled aspect of the times.

Rai. Why, then, thou art welcome, stranger! to the land Where most disguise is needful.—He were bold Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow

Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye Doth search distrustfully the brother's face; And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn From the same past, their long remembrances, Now meet in terror, or no more; lest hearts Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour, Should pour out some rash word, which roving winds Might whisper to our conquerors.—This it is, To wear a foreign yoke.

Pro. It matters not To him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit, And can suppress its workings, till endurance Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves To all extremes, and there is that in life To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, Fv'n when its lofty claims are all reduced To the poor common privilege of breathing.— Why dost thou turn away?

Rai. What would'st thou with me! I deem'd thee, by th' ascendant soul which liv'd, And made its throne on thy commanding brow, One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn So to abase its high capacities For aught on earth.—But thou art like the rest. What would'st thou with me?

Pro. I would counsel thee, Thou must do that which men—ay, valiant men,— Hourly submit to do; in the proud court, And in the stately camp, and at the board Of midnight revellers, whose flush'd mirth is all

A strife, won hardly.—Where is he, whose heart Lies bare, thro' all its foldings, to the gaze Of mortal eye?—If vengeance wait the foe, Or fate th' oppressor, 'tis in depths conceal'd Beneath a smiling surface.—Youth! I say Keep thy soul down!—Put on a mask!—'tis worn Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth And specious intercourse of life requires Its aid in every scene.

Rai. Away, dissembler! Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks, Fitted to every nature. Will the free And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey? It is because I will not clothe myself- In a vile garb of coward semblances, That now, e'en now, I struggle with my heart, To bid what most I love a long farewell, And seek my country on some distant shore, Where such things are unknown!

Pro. (exultingly.) Why, this is joy! After long conflict with the doubts and fears, And the poor subtleties of meaner minds, To meet a spirit, whose bold elastic wing Oppression hath not crush'd.—High-hearted youth! Thy father, should his footsteps e'er again Visit these shores—

Rai. My father! what of him? Speak! was he known to thee?

Pro. In distant lands

With him I've traversed many a wild, and look'd On many a danger; and the thought that thou Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy, Oft thro' the storm hath cheer'd him.

Rai. Dost thou deem That still he lives?—Oh! if it be in chains, In woe, in poverty's obscurest cell, Say but he lives—and I will track his steps E'en to earth's verge!

Pro. It may be that he lives: Tho' long his name hath ceased to be a word Familiar in man's dwellings. But its sound May yet be heard!—Raimond di Procida, —Rememberest thou thy father?

Rai. From my mind His form hath faded long, for years have pass'd Since he went forth to exile: but a vague, Yet powerful, image of deep majesty, Still dimly gathering round each thought of him, Doth claim instinctive reverence; and my love For his inspiring name hath long become Part of my being.

Pro. Raimond! doth no voice Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms That would enfold thee now?—My son! my son!

Rai. Father!—Oh God!—my father! Now I know Why my heart woke before thee!

Pro. Oh! this hour Makes hope, reality; for thou art all My dreams had pictured thee!

Rai. Yet why so long, Ev'n as a stranger, hast thou cross'd my paths, One nameless and unknown?—and yet I felt Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice.

Pro. Because I would not link thy fate with mine, Till I could hail the day-spring of that hope Which now is gathering round us.—Listen, youth! Thou hast told me of a subdued, and scorn'd, And trampled land, whose very soul is bow'd And fashion'd to her chains:—but I tell thee Of a most generous and devoted land, A land of kindling energies; a land Of glorious recollections!—proudly true To the high memory of her ancient kings, And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast Her alien bondage off!

Rai. And where is this?

Pro. Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily! Her spirit is awake, and moving on, In its deep silence mightier, to regain Her place amongst the nations; and the hour Of that tremendous effort is at hand.

Rai. Can it be thus indeed?—Thou pour'st new life Thro' all my burning veins!—I am as one Awakening from a chill and death-like sleep To the full glorious day.

Pro. Thou shalt hear more! Thou shalt hear things which would,—which will arouse The proud, free spirits of our ancestors E'en from their marble rest. Yet mark me well!

Be secret!—for along my destin'd path I yet must darkly move.—Now, follow me; And join a band of men, in whose high hearts There lies a nation's strength.

Rai. My noble father! Thy words have given me all for which I pined— An aim, a hope, a purpose!—And the blood Doth rush in warmer currents thro' my veins, As a bright fountain from its icy bonds By the quick sun-stroke freed.

Pro. Ay, this is well! Such natures burst men's chains!—Now, follow me. [Exeunt.

END OF ACT THE FIRST.

Act the Second

ACT THE SECOND.

Scene I.—Apartment in a Palace.

Eribert. Constance.

Constance. Will you not hear me?—Oh! that they who need Hourly forgiveness, they who do but live, While Mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars, Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, In their vain exercise of pageant power, Hard and relentless!—Gentle brother, yet, 'T is in your choice to imitate that heaven Whose noblest joy is pardon.

Eribert. 'T is too late. You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads With eloquent melody—but they must die.

Con. What, die!—for words?—for breath, which leaves no trace To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends, And is, being utter'd, gone?—Why, 't were enough For such a venial fault, to be deprived One little day of man's free heritage, Heaven's warm and sunny light! —Oh! if you deem That evil harbours in their souls, at least

Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, Shall bid stern Justice wake.

Eri. I am not one Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been Where power sits crown'd and arm'd.—And, mark me, sister! To a distrustful nature it might seem Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being Suspicion holds no power.—And yet take note. —I have said, and they must die.

Con. Have you no fear?

Eri. Of what?—that heaven should fall?

Con. No!—but that earth Should arm in madness.—Brother! I have seen Dark eyes bent on you, e'en midst festal throngs, With such deep hatred settled in their glance, My heart hath died within me.

Eri. Am I then To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look?

Con. Oh! looks are no illusions, when the soul, Which may not speak in words, can find no way But theirs, to liberty!—Have not these men Brave sons, or noble brothers?

Eri. Yes! whose name It rests with me to make a word of fear, A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men.

Con. But not forgotten!—Ah! beware, beware! —Nay, look not sternly on me.—There is one Of that devoted band, who yet will need Years to be ripe for death.—He is a youth, A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek The spring-time glow is lingering. 'T was but now His mother left me, with a timid hope Just dawning in her breast;—and I—I dared To foster its faint spark.—You smile!—Oh! then He will be saved!

Eri. Nay, I but smiled to think What a fond fool is hope!—She may be taught To deem that the great sun will change his course To work her pleasure; or the tomb give back Its inmates to her arms.—In sooth, 't is strange! Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus Have mock'd the boy's sad mother—I have said, You should not thus have mock'd her!—Now, farewell. [Exit Eribert.

Con. Oh, brother! hard of heart!—for deeds like these There must be fearful chastening, if on high Justice doth hold her state.—And I must tell Yon desolate mother that her fair young son Is thus to perish!—Haply the dread tale May slay her too;—for heaven is merciful. —'Twill be a bitter task! [Exit Constance.

Scene II.—A ruined Tower, surrounded by Woods.

Procida. Vittoria.

Procida. Thy vassals are prepared then?

Vittoria. Yes, they wait Thy summons to their task.

Pro. Keep the flame bright, But hidden, till its hour.—Wouldst thou dare, lady, To join our councils at the night's mid-watch, In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross?

Vit. What should I shrink from?

Pro. Oh! The forest-paths Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams Thro' their high arches: but when powerful night Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds Of her mysterious winds; their aspect then Is of another and more fearful world; A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms, Wakening strange thoughts, almost too much for this, Our frail terrestrial nature.