Act I, Scene III — The Sea-shore.
Raimond di Procida, Constance.
Con. 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?
Raim. 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.
Raim. Waste not thou thy prayers, O gentle love! for them. There’s little need For pity, though the galling chain be worn By some few slaves the less. Let them depart! There is a world beyond the oppressor’s reach, And thither lies their way.
Con. Alas! I see That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul.
Raim. Pardon, belovèd 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? Oh speak! Thou wouldst not leave me!
Raim. 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 checker’d hues of hope and fear, E’en for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind! Have I deserved this?
Raim. 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!
Raim. 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.
Raim. 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?
Raim. Doubt me not, Gentlest and best beloved! we meet again.
[Exit Constance.
Raim. (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.
Pro. (coming forward.) He is here.
Raim. 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.
Raim. 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.
Raim. Why, then, thou’rt 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 conquerers. 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, Even when its lofty aims are all reduced To the poor common privilege of breathing. --Why dost thou turn away?
Raim. What wouldst thou with me? I deem’d thee, by th’ ascendant soul which lived 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 wouldst 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, through 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.
Raim. 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 a 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----
Raim. 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 through the storm hath cheer’d him.
Raim. 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, Though 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?
Raim. 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!
Raim. 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!
Raim. Yet why so long E’en 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 I mine, Till I could hail the dayspring 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!
Raim. 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.
Raim. Can it be thus indeed? Thou pour’st new life Through all my burning veins! I am as one Awakening from a chill and deathlike 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 destined 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.
Raim. 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 through 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.
Act II, Scene I — Apartment in a Palace.
Eribert, Constance.
Con. 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 ’Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven, Whose noblest joy is pardon.
Eri. ’Tis 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, ’twere 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 stem 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. ’Twas 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, ’tis 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. O 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.
Act II, Scene II — A ruined Tower surrounded by woods.
Procida, Vittoria.
Pro. Thy vassals are prepared, then?
Vit. Yes; they wait Thy summons to their task.
Pro. Keep the flame bright, But hidden till this 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 Through 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, Waking strange thoughts almost too much for this-- Our frail terrestrial nature.
Vit. Well I know All this, and more. Such scenes have been th’ abodes Where through the silence of my soul have pass’d Voices and visions from the sphere of those That have to die no more! Nay, doubt it not! If such unearthly intercourse hath e’er Been granted to our nature, ’tis to hearts Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone, Unmadden’d could sustain the fearful joy And glory of its trances! At the hour Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth And air with infinite viewless multitudes, I will be with thee, Procida.
Pro. Thy presence Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls Of suffering and indignant men, arouse That which may strengthen our majestic cause With yet a deeper power. Know’st thou the spot?
Vit. Full well. There is no scene so wild and lone, In these dim woods, but I have visited Its tangled shades.
Pro. At midnight, then, we meet.
[Exit Procida.
Vit. Why should I fear? Thou wilt be with me--thou, Th’ immortal dream and shadow of my soul, Spirit of him I love! that meet’st me still In loneliness and silence; in the noon Of the wild night, and in the forest depths, Known but to me; for whom thou giv’st the winds And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice, Till my heart faints with that o’erthrilling joy! --Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with shame That thou art unavenged!
[Exit Vittoria.
Act II, Scene III — A Chapel, with a monument on which is laid a sword.--Moonlight.
Procida, Raimond, Montalba.
Mon. And know you not my story?
Pro. In the lands Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs Were number’d with our country’s; but their tale Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. I would fain hear it now.
Mon. Hark! while you spoke, There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze, Which even like death came o’er me. ’Twas a night Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, And swift wild shadows floating o’er the earth, Clothed with a phantom life, when, after years Of battle and captivity, I spurr’d My good steed homewards. Oh! what lovely dreams Rose on my spirit! There were tears and smiles, But all of joy! And there were bounding steps, And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love Doth twine so fondly round the warrior’s neck When his plumed helm is doff’d.--Hence, feeble thoughts! --I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were mine!
Raim. And were they realised?
Mon. Youth! ask me not, But listen! I drew near my own fair home-- There was no light along its walls, no sound Of bugle pealing from the watch-tower’s height At my approach, although my trampling steed Made the earth ring, yet the wide gates were thrown All open. Then my heart misgave me first, And on the threshold of my silent hall I paused a moment, and the wind swept by With the same deep and dirge-like tone which pierced My soul e’en now! I call’d--my struggling voice Gave utterance to my wife’s, my children’s names. They answer’d not. I roused my failing strength, And wildly rush’d within.--And they were there.
Raim. And was all well?
Mon. Ay, well!--for death is well: And they were all at rest! I see them yet, Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail’d To stay the assassin’s arm!
Raim. Oh, righteous Heaven! Who had done this?
Mon. Who!
Pro. Canst thou question, who? Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds, In the cold-blooded revelry of crime, But those whose yoke is on us?
Raim. Man of woe! What words hath pity for despair like thine?
Mon. Pity!--fond youth!--My soul disdains the grief Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies To ask a vain companionship of tears, And so to be relieved!
Pro. For woes like these There is no sympathy but vengeance.
Mon. None! Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts Might catch the spirit of the scene! Look round! We are in th’ awful presence of the dead; Within yon tomb they sleep whose gentle blood Weighs down the murderer’s soul. They sleep!--but I Am wakeful o’er their dust! I laid my sword, Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone, As on an altar; and the eternal stars, And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow, No more to wield it save in one great cause-- The vengeance of the grave! And now the hour Of that atonement comes!
[He takes the sword from the tomb.
Raim. My spirit burns! And my full heart almost to bursting swells. --Oh, for the day of battle!
Pro. Raimond, they Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must die, --But not in battle.
Raim. How, my father?
Pro. No! Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach Another lesson. But the appointed hour Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen band, Noble Montalba?
Mon. Leave me for a time, That I may calm my soul by intercourse With the still dead, before I mix with men And with their passions. I have nursed for years, In silence and in solitude, the flame Which doth consume me; and it is not used Thus to be look’d or breathed on. Procida! I would be tranquil--or appear so--ere I join your brave confederates. Through my heart There struck a pang--but it will soon have pass’d.
Pro. Remember!--in the cavern by the cross. Now follow me, my son.
[Exeunt Procida and Raimond.
Mon. (after a pause, leaning on the tomb.) Said he, “My son?” Now, why should this man’s life Go down in hope, thus resting on a son, And I be desolate? How strange a sound Was that--“my son!” I had a boy, who might Have worn as free a soul upon his brow As doth this youth. Why should the thought of him Thus haunt me? When I tread the peopled ways Of life again, I shall be pass’d each hour By fathers with their children, and I must Learn calmly to look on. Methinks ’twere now A gloomy consolation to behold All men bereft as I am! But away, Vain thoughts!--One task is left for blighted hearts, And it shall be fulfill’d.
Exit Montalba.
Scene IV.--Entrance of a Cave, surrounded by rocks and forests. A rude Cross seen among the rocks.
Procida, Raimond.
Pro. And is it thus, beneath the solemn skies Of midnight, and in solitary caves, Where the wild forest creatures make their lair-- Is’t thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold The councils of their country?
Raim. Why, such scenes In their primeval majesty, beheld Thus by faint starlight and the partial glare Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire Far deeper thoughts than pillar’d halls, wherein Statesmen hold weary vigils. Are we not O’ershadow’d by that Etna, which of old With its dread prophecies hath struck dismay Through tyrants’ hearts, and bade them seek a home In other climes? Hark! from its depths, e’en now, What hollow moans are sent!
Enter Montalba, Guido, and other Sicilians.
Pro. Welcome, my brave associates! We can share The wolf’s wild freedom here! Th’ oppressor’s haunt Is not midst rocks and caves. Are we all met?
Sicilians. All, all!
Pro. The torchlight, sway’d by every gust, But dimly shows your features.--Where is he Who from his battles had return’d to breathe Once more without a corslet, and to meet The voices and the footsteps and the smiles Blent with his dreams of home? Of that dark tale The rest is known to vengeance! Art thou here, With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair, Childless Montalba?
Mon. (advancing.) He is at thy side. Call on that desolate father in the hour When his revenge is nigh.
Pro. Thou, too, come forth, From thine own halls an exile! Dost thou make The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still, While hostile banners o’er thy rampart walls Wave their proud blazonry?
1st Sicilian. Even so. I stood Last night before my own ancestral towers An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat On my bare head. What reck’d it? There was joy Within, and revelry; the festive lamps Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs I’ th’ stranger’s tongue, made mirth. They little deem’d Who heard their melodies! But there are thoughts Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows Known to the mountain echoes. Procida! Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh.
Pro. I knew a young Sicilian--one whose heart Should be all fire. On that most guilty day When, with our martyr’d Conradin, the flower Of the land’s knighthood perish’d; he of whom I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid, Stood by the scaffold with extended arms, Calling upon his father, whose last look Turn’d full on him its parting agony. The father’s blood gush’d o’er him! and the boy Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eye, And a proud flush on his young cheek, look’d up To the bright heaven.--Doth he remember still That bitter hour?
2d Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword! --Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh.
Pro. Our band shows gallantly--but there are men Who should be with us now, had they not dared In some wild moment of festivity To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish For freedom!--and some traitor--it might be A breeze perchance--bore the forbidden sound To Eribert: so they must die--unless Fate (who at times is wayward) should select Some other victim first! But have they not Brothers or sons among us?
Gui. Look on me! I have a brother--a young high-soul’d boy, And beautiful as a sculptor’s dream, with brow That wears amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is A glorious creature! But his doom is seal’d With theirs of whom ye spoke; and I have knelt-- Ay, scorn me not! ’twas for his life--I knelt E’en at the viceroy’s feet, and he put on That heartless laugh of cold malignity We know so well, and spurn’d me. But the stain Of shame like this takes blood to wash it off, And thus it shall be cancell’d! Call on me, When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.
Pro. I call upon thee now! The land’s high soul Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature’s hues To deeper life before it. In his chains, The peasant dreams of freedom!--Ay, ’tis thus Oppression fans th’ imperishable flame With most unconscious hands. No praise be hers For what she blindly works! When slavery’s cup O’erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant To dull our senses, through each burning vein Pours fever, lending a delirious strength To burst man’s fetters. And they shall be burst! I have hoped, when hope seem’d frenzy; but a power Abides in human will, when bent with strong Unswerving energy on one great aim, To make and rule its fortunes! I have been A wanderer in the fulness of my years, A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, To aid our holy cause. And aid is near: But we must give the signal. Now, before The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye Is on our hearts--whose righteous arm befriends The arm that strikes for freedom--speak! decree The fate of our oppressors.
Mon. Let them fall When dreaming least of peril!--when the heart, Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the sword With a thick veil of myrtle; and in halls Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines Red in the festal torchlight, meet we there, And bid them welcome to the feast of death.
Pro. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words Scarce meet our ears.
Mon. Why, then, I must repeat Their import. Let th’ avenging sword burst forth In some free festal hour--and woe to him Who first shall spare!
Raim. Must innocence and guilt Perish alike?
Mon. Who talks of innocence? When hath their hand been stay’d for innocence? Let them all perish!--Heaven will choose its own. Why should their children live? The earthquake whelms Its undistinguish’d thousands, making graves Of peopled cities in its path--and this Is heaven’s dread justice--ay, and it is well! Why then should we be tender, when the skies Deal thus with man? What if the infant bleed? Is there not power to hush the mother’s pangs? What if the youthful bride perchance should fall In her triumphant beauty? Should we pause? As if death were not mercy to the pangs Which make our lives the records of our woes? Let them all perish! And if one be found Amidst our band to stay th’ avenging steel For pity, or remorse, or boyish love, Then be his doom as theirs! [A pause. Why gaze ye thus? Brethren, what means your silence!
Sicilians. Be it so! If one among us stay th’ avenging steel For love or pity, be his doom as theirs! Pledge we our faith to this!
Raim. (rushing forward indignantly.) Our faith to this! No! I but dreamt I heard it! Can it be? My countrymen, my father!--is it thus That freedom should be won? Awake!--awake To loftier thoughts! Lift up exultingly, On the crown’d heights and to the sweeping winds, Your glorious banner! Let your trumpet’s blast Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud, Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear The stranger’s yoke no longer! What is he Who carries on his practised lip a smile, Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings? That which our nature’s instinct doth recoil from, And our blood curdle at--ay, yours and mine-- A murderer! Heard ye? Shall that name with ours Go down to after days? O friends! a cause Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names Of th’ elder time as rallying-words to men-- Sounds full of might and immortality! And shall not ours be such?
Mon. Fond dreamer, peace! Fame! What is fame? Will our unconscious dust Start into thrilling rapture from the grave! At the vain breath of praise? I tell thee, youth Our souls are parch’d with agonising thirst, Which must be quench’d, though death were in the draught: We must have vengeance, for our foes have left No other joy unblighted.
Pro. O my son! The time is past for such high dreams as thine. Thou know’st not whom we deal with: knightly faith And chivalrous honour are but things whereon They cast disdainful pity. We must meet Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. And, for our names--whate’er the deeds by which We burst our bondage--is it not enough That in the chronicle of days to come, We, through a bright “For Ever,” shall be call’d The men who saved their country?
Raim. Many a land Hath bow’d beneath the yoke, and then arisen As a strong lion rending silken bonds, And on the open field, before high heaven, Won such majestic vengeance as hath made Its name a power on earth. Ay, nations own It is enough of glory to be call’d The children of the mighty, who redeem’d Their native soil--but not by means like these.
Mon. I have no children. Of Montalba’s blood Not one red drop doth circle through the veins Of aught that breathes? Why, what have I to do With far futurity? My spirit lives But in the past. Away! when thou dost stand On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree Which the warm sun revives not, then return, Strong in thy desolation: but till then, Thou art not for our purpose; we have need Of more unshrinking hearts.
Raim. Montalba! know I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice Might yet have power among you, I would say, Associates, leaders, be avenged! but yet As knights, as warriors!
Mon. Peace! have we not borne Th’ indelible taint of contumely and chains? We are not knights and warriors. Our bright crests Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. Boy! we are slaves--and our revenge shall be Deep as a slave’s disgrace.
Raim. Why, then, farewell: I leave you to your counsels. He that still Would hold his lofty nature undebased, And his name pure, were but a loiterer here.
Pro. And is it thus indeed?--dost thou forsake Our cause, my son!
Raim. O father! what proud hopes This hour hath blighted! Yet, whate’er betide, It is a noble privilege to look up Fearless in heaven’s bright face--and this is mine, And shall be still. [Exit Raimond.
Pro. He’s gone! Why, let it be! I trust our Sicily hath many a son Valiant as mine. Associates! ’tis decreed Our foes shall perish. We have but to name The hour, the scene, the signal.
Mon. It should be In the full city, when some festival Hath gather’d throngs, and lull’d infatuate hearts To brief security. Hark! is there not A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze? We are betray’d.--Who art thou?
Vittoria enters.
Pro. One alone Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil That shades thy noble brow.
[She raises her veil--the Sicilians draw back with respect.
Sicilians. Th’ affianced bride Of our lost king!
Pro. And more, Montalba; know Within this form there dwells a soul as high As warriors in their battles e’er have proved, Or patriots on the scaffold.
Vit. Valiant men! I come to ask your aid. You see me, one Whose widow’d youth hath all been consecrate To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held In token and memorial of the dead. Say, is it meet that lingering thus on earth, But to behold one great atonement made, And keep one name from fading in men’s hearts, A tyrant’s will should force me to profane Heaven’s altar with unhallow’d vows--and live Stung by the keen unutterable scorn Of my own bosom, live--another’s bride?
Sicilians. Never! oh, never! Fear not, noble lady! Worthy of Conradin!
Vit. Yet hear me still-- His bride, that Eribert’s, who notes our tears With his insulting eye of cold derision, And, could he pierce the depths where feeling works, Would number e’en our agonies as crimes. --Say, is this meet?
Gui. We deem’d these nuptials, lady, Thy willing choice; but ’tis a joy to find Thou’rt noble still. Fear not; by all our wrongs, This shall not be.
Pro. Vittoria, thou art come To ask our aid--but we have need of thine. Know, the completion of our high designs Requires--a festival; and it must be Thy bridal!
Vit. Procida!
Pro. Nay, start not thus. ’Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair With festal garlands, and to bid the song Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No--nor yet To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, Where death, not love, awaits him!
Vit. Can my soul Dissemble thus?
Pro. We have no other means Of winning our great birthright back from those Who have usurp’d it, than so lulling them Into vain confidence, that they may deem All wrongs forgot; and this may be best done By what I ask of thee.
Mon. Then we will mix With the flush’d revellers, making their gay feast The harvest of the grave.
Vit. A bridal day! --Must it be so? Then, chiefs of Sicily, I bid you to my nuptials! but be there With your bright swords unsheathed, for thus alone My guests should be adorn’d.
Pro. And let thy banquet Be soon announced; for there are noble men Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase Reprieve with other blood.
Vit. Be it then the day Preceding that appointed for their doom.
Gui. My brother! thou shalt live! Oppression boasts No gift of prophecy!--It but remains To name our signal, chiefs!
Mon. The Vesper-bell!
Pro. Even so--the Vesper-bell, whose deep-toned peal Is heard o’er land and wave. Part of our band, Wearing the guise of antic revelry, Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant, The halls of Eribert; and at the hour Devoted to the sword’s tremendous task, I follow with the rest. The Vesper-bell! That sound shall wake th’ avenger; for ’tis come, The time when power is in a voice, a breath, To burst the spell which bound us. But the night Is waning, with her stars, which one by one Warn us to part. Friends to your homes!--your homes? That name is yet to win. Away! prepare For our next meeting in Palermo’s walls. The Vesper-bell! Remember!
Sicilians. Fear us not The Vesper-bell!
[Exeunt omnes.
Act III, Scene I — Apartment in a Palace.
Eribert, Vittoria.
Vit. Speak not of love--it is a word with deep Strange magic in its melancholy sound, To summon up the dead; and they should rest, At such an hour, forgotten. There are things We must throw from us, when the heart would gather Strength to fulfil its settled purposes; Therefore, no more of love! But if to robe This form in bridal ornaments--to smile (I can smile yet) at thy gay feast, and stand At th’ altar by thy side;--if this be deem’d Enough, it shall be done.
Eri. My fortune’s star Doth rule th’ ascendant still! (Apart.)--If not of love, Then pardon, lady, that I speak of joy, And with exulting heart----
Vit. There is no joy! --Who shall look through the far futurity, And, as the shadowy visions of events Develop on his gaze, midst their dim throng, Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, “This will bring happiness?” Who shall do this? Who, thou and I, and all! There’s One, who sits In His own bright tranquillity enthroned, High o’er all storms, and looking far beyond Their thickest clouds! but we, from whose dull eyes A grain of dust hides the great sun--e’en we Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers, Of future joy and grief!
Eri. Thy words are strange. Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace To thy majestic beauty. Fair Vittoria! Oh! if my cares----
Vit. I know a day shall come Of peace to all. Ev’n from my darken’d spirit Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised, Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down Serenely to repose. Of this no more. I have a boon to ask.
Eri. Command my power, And deem it thus most honour’d.
Vit. Have I then Soar’d such an eagle pitch, as to command The mighty Eribert?--And yet ’tis meet; For I bethink me now, I should have worn A crown upon this forehead. Generous lord! Since thus you give me freedom, know, there is An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound Whose tones, o’er earth and ocean sweetly bearing A sense of deep repose, have lull’d me oft To peace--which is forgetfulness; I mean The Vesper-bell. I pray you let it be The summons to our bridal. Hear you not? To our fair bridal!
Eri. Lady, let your will Appoint each circumstance. I am too bless’d, Proving my homage thus.
Vit. Why, then, ’tis mine To rule the glorious fortunes of the day, And I may be content. Yet much remains For thought to brood on, and I would be left Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert! (Whom I command so absolutely,) now Part we a few brief hours; and doubt not, when I’m at thy side once more, but I shall stand There--to the last!
Eri. Your smiles are troubled, lady-- May they ere long be brighter! Time will seem Slow till the Vesper-bell.
Vit. ’Tis lovers’ phrase To say--Time lags; and therefore meet for you; But with an equal pace the hours move on, Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing, Pleasure or--fate.
Eri. Be not so full of thought On such a day. Behold, the skies themselves Look on my joy with a triumphant smile Unshadow’d by a cloud.
Vit. ’Tis very meet That heaven (which loves the just) should wear a smile In honour of his fortunes. Now, my lord, Forgive me if I say farewell until Th’ appointed hour.
Eri. Lady, a brief farewell.
[Exeunt separately.
Act III, Scene II — The Sea-shore.
Procida, Raimond.
Pro. And dost thou still refuse to share the glory Of this, our daring enterprise?
Raim. O father! I, too, have dreamt of glory, and the word Hath to my soul been as a trumpet’s voice, Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds Whereby ’twas won--the high exploits, whose tale Bids the heart burn, were of another cast Than such as thou requirest.
Pro. Every deed Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim The freedom of our country; and the sword Alike is honour’d in the patriot’s hand, Searching, midst warrior hosts, the heart which gave Oppression birth, or flashing through the gloom Of the still chamber, o’er its troubled couch, At dead of night.
Raim. (turning away.) There is no path but one For noble natures.
Pro. Wouldst thou ask the man Who to the earth hath dash’d a nation’s chains, Rent as with heaven’s own lightning, by what means The glorious end was won? Go, swell th’ acclaim! Bid the deliverer, hail! and if his path, To that most bright and sovereign destiny, Hath led o’er trampled thousands, be it call’d A stem necessity, but not a crime!
Raim. Father! my soul yet kindles at the thought Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn’d, Ev’n from thy voice. The high remembrances Of other days are stirring in the heart Where thou didst plant them; and they speak of men Who needed no vain sophistry to gild Acts that would bear heaven’s light--and such be mine! O father! is it yet too late to draw The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts On our most righteous cause?
Pro. What wouldst thou do?
Raim. I would go forth, and rouse th’ indignant land To generous combat. Why should freedom strike Mantled with darkness? Is there not more strength Ev’n in the waving of her single arm Than hosts can wield against her? I would rouse That spirit whose fire doth press resistless on To its proud sphere--the stormy field of fight!
Pro. Ay! and give time and warning to the foe To gather all his might! It is too late. There is a work to be this eve begun When rings the Vesper-bell; and, long before To-morrow’s sun hath reach’d i’ th’ noonday heaven His throne of burning glory, every sound Of the Provençal tongue within our walls, As by one thunderstroke--(you are pale, my son)-- Shall be for ever silenced!
Raim. What! such sounds As falter on the lip of infancy, In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed By the fond mother as she lulls her babe? Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air Pour’d by the timid maid? Must all alike Be still’d in death? and wouldst thou tell my heart There is no crime in this?
Pro. Since thou dost feel Such horror of our purpose, in thy power Are means that might avert it.
Raim. Speak! oh speak!
Pro. How would those rescued thousands bless thy name Shouldst thou betray us!
Raim. Father! I can bear-- Ay, proudly woo--the keenest questioning Of thy soul-gifted eye, which almost seems To claim a part of heaven’s dread royalty, --The power that searches thought.
Pro. (after a pause.) Thou hast a brow Clear as the day--and yet I doubt thee, Raimond! Whether it be that I have learn’d distrust From a long look through man’s deep-folded heart; Whether my paths have been so seldom cross’d By honour and fair mercy, that they seem But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus My unaccustom’d gaze: howe’er it be-- I doubt thee! See thou waver not--take heed. Time lifts the veil from all things! [Exit Procida.
Raim. And ’tis thus Youth fades from off our spirit; and the robes Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith We clothed our idols, drop! Oh, bitter day! When, at the crushing of our glorious world, We start, and find men thus! Yet be it so! Is not my soul still powerful in itself To realise its dreams? Ay, shrinking not From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well Undaunted meet my father’s. But, away! Thou shalt be saved, sweet Constance!--Love is yet Mightier than vengeance.
[Exit Raimond.
Act III, Scene III — Gardens of a Palace.
Constance alone.
Con. There was a time when my thoughts wander’d not Beyond these fairy scenes!--when but to catch The languid fragrance of the southern breeze From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest, Dreaming of some wild legend, in the shade Of the dark laurel foliage, was enough Of happiness. How have these calm delights Fled from before one passion, as the dews, The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled By the great sun! [Raimond enters. Raimond! oh! now thou’rt come-- I read it in thy look--to say farewell For the last time--the last!
Raim. No, best beloved! I come to tell thee there is now no power To part us but in death.
Con. I have dreamt of joy, But never aught like this. Speak yet again! Say we shall part no more!
Raim. No more--if love Can strive with darker spirits; and he is strong In his immortal nature! All is changed Since last we met. My father--keep the tale Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance, From Eribert--my father is return’d: I leave thee not.
Con. Thy father! blessèd sound! Good angels be his guard! Oh! if he knew How my soul clings to thine, he could not hate Even a Provençal maid! Thy father!--now Thy soul will be at peace, and I shall see The sunny happiness of earlier days Look from thy brow once more! But how is this? Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine; And in thy look is that which ill befits A tale of joy.
Raim. A dream is on my soul. I see a slumberer, crown’d with flowers, and smiling As in delighted visions, on the brink Of a dread chasm; and this strange fantasy Hath cast so deep a shadow o’er my thoughts, I cannot but be sad.
Con. Why, let me sing One of the sweet wild strains you love so well, And this will banish it.
Raim. It may not be. O gentle Constance! go not forth to-day: Such dreams are ominous.
Con. Have you then forgot My brother’s nuptial feast? I must be one Of the gay train attending to the shrine His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy Will print earth lightly now. What fear’st thou, love? Look all around! the blue transparent skies, And sunbeams pouring a more buoyant life Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly chase All thought of evil. Why, the very air Breathes of delight! Through all its glowing realms Doth music blend with fragrance; and e’en here The city’s voice of jubilee is heard, Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds Of human joy!
Raim. There lie far deeper things-- Things that may darken thought for life, beneath That city’s festive semblance. I have pass’d Through the glad multitudes, and I have mark’d A stern intelligence in meeting eyes, Which deem’d their flash unnoticed, and a quick, Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe Its mien with carelessness; and now and then, A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out Amidst the reckless throng. O’er all is spread A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide Much from unpractised eyes; but lighter signs Have been prophetic oft.
Con. I tremble!--Raimond! What may these things portend?
Raim. It was a day Of festival like this; the city sent Up through her sunny firmament a voice Joyous as now; when, scarcely heralded By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous depths The earthquake burst; and the wide splendid scene Became one chaos of all fearful things, Till the brain whirl’d, partaking the sick motion Of rocking palaces.
Con. And then didst thou, My noble Raimond! through the dreadful paths Laid open by destruction, past the chasms, Whose fathomless clefts, a moment’s work, had given One burial unto thousands, rush to save Thy trembling Constance! she who lives to bless Thy generous love, that still the breath of heaven Wafts gladness to her soul!
Raim. Heaven!--heaven is just! And being so, must guard thee, sweet one! still. Trust none beside. Oh! the omnipotent skies Make their wrath manifest, but insidious man Doth compass those he hates with secret snares, Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad, Mask’d as a reveller. Constance! oh, by all Our tried affection, all the vows which bind Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers, Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell Doth sound for vesper prayer!
Con. And know’st thou not ’Twill be the bridal hour?
Raim. It will not, love! That hour will bring no bridal! Naught of this To human ear; but speed thou hither--fly, When evening brings that signal. Dost thou heed? This is no meeting by a lover sought To breathe fond tales, and make the twilight groves And stars attest his vows; deem thou not so, Therefore denying it! I tell thee, Constance! If thou wouldst save me from such fierce despair As falls on man, beholding all he loves Perish before him, while his strength can but Strive with his agony--thou’lt meet me then. Look on me, love!--I am not oft so moved-- Thou’lt meet me?
Con. Oh! what mean thy words? If then My steps are free,--I will. Be thou but calm.
Raim. Be calm!--there is a cold and sullen calm, And, were my wild fears made realities, It might be mine; but, in this dread suspense-- This conflict of all terrible fantasies, There is no calm. Yet fear thou not, dear love! I will watch o’er thee still. And now, farewell Until that hour!
Con. My Raimond, fare thee well.
[Exeunt.
Act III, Scene IV — Room in the Citadel of Palermo.
Alberti, De Couci.
De Cou. Saidst thou this night?
Alb. This very night--and lo! E’en now the sun declines.
De Cou. What! are they arm’d?
Alb. All arm’d, and strong in vengeance and despair.
De Cou. Doubtful and strange the tale! Why was not this reveal’d before?
Alb. Mistrust me not, my lord! That stern and jealous Procida hath kept O’er all my steps (as though he did suspect The purposes, which oft his eye hath sought To read in mine) a watch so vigilant I knew not how to warn thee, though for this Alone I mingled with his bands--to learn Their projects and their strength. Thou know’st my faith To Anjou’s house full well.
De Cou. How may we now Avert the gathering storm? The viceroy holds His bridal feast, and all is revelry. ’Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart Which kept me from these nuptials.
Alb. Thou thyself May’st yet escape, and haply of thy bands Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance Upon these rebels. ’Tis too late to dream Of saving Eribert. E’en shouldst thou rush Before him with the tidings, in his pride And confidence of soul, he would but laugh Thy tale to scorn.
De Cou. He must not die unwarn’d, Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well, And shalt not pass unguerdon’d, should I live Through the deep horrors of th’ approaching night.
Alb. Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti’s.
[Exit Alberti.
De Cou. The grovelling slave!--And yet he spoke too true! For Eribert, in blind elated joy, Will scorn the warning voice. The day wanes fast, And through the city, recklessly dispersed, Unarm’d and unprepared, my soldiers revel, E’en on the brink of fate. I must away.
[Exit De Couci.
Act III, Scene V — A Banqueting Hall.--Provençal Nobles assembled.
1st Noble. Joy be to this fair meeting! Who hath seen The viceroy’s bride?
2d Noble. I saw her as she pass’d The gazing throngs assembled in the city. ’Tis said she hath not left for years, till now, Her castle’s wood-girt solitude. ’Twill gall These proud Sicilians that her wide domains Should be the conqueror’s guerdon.
3d Noble. ’Twas their boast With what fond faith she worshipp’d still the name Of the boy Conradin. How will the slaves Brook this new triumph of their lords?
2d Noble. In sooth, It stings them to the quick. In the full streets They mix with our Provençals, and assume A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them. ’Twere worth a thousand festivals to see With what a bitter and unnatural effort They strive to smile!
1st Noble. Is this Vittoria fair?
2d Noble. Of a most noble mien; but yet her beauty Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye, In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, From which thou’lt shrink as I did.
1st Noble. Hush! they come.
Enter Eribert, Vittoria, Constance, and others.
Eri. Welcome, my noble friends!--there must not lower One clouded brow to-day in Sicily! --Behold my bride!
Nobles. Receive our homage, lady!
Vit. I bid all welcome. May the feast we offer Prove worthy of such guests!
Eri. Look on her, friends! And say if that majestic brow is not Meet for a diadem?
Vit. ’Tis well, my lord! When memory’s pictures fade--’tis kindly done To brighten their dimm’d hues!
1st Noble (apart.) Mark’d you her glance?
2d Noble (apart.) What eloquent scorn was there? Yet he, th’ elate Of heart, perceives it not.
Eri. Now to the feast! Constance, you look not joyous. I have said That all should smile to-day.
Con. Forgive me, brother; The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp At times oppresses it.
Eri. Why, how is this?
Con. Voices of woe, and prayers of agony, Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay, Since ’tis your wish. In truth, I should have been A village maid.
Eri. But being as you are, Not thus ignobly free, command your looks (They may be taught obedience) to reflect The aspect of the time.
Vit. And know, fair maid! That, if in this unskill’d, you stand alone Amidst our court of pleasure.
Eri. To the feast! Now let the red wine foam!--There should be mirth When conquerors revel! Lords of this fair isle! Your good swords’ heritage, crown each bowl, and pledge The present and the future! for they both Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride?
Vit. Yes, Eribert!--thy prophecies of joy Have taught e’en me to smile.
Eri. ’Tis well. To-day I have won a fair and almost royal bride; To-morrow let the bright sun speed his course, To waft me happiness!--my proudest foes Must die; and then my slumber shall be laid On rose-leaves, with no envious fold to mar The luxury of its visions!--Fair Vittoria, Your looks are troubled!
Vit. It is strange--but oft, Midst festal songs and garlands, o’er my soul Death comes, with some dull image! As you spoke Of those whose blood is claim’d, I thought for them Who, in a darkness thicker than the night E’er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long, How blessèd were the stroke which makes them things Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust, There is at least no bondage! But should we, From such a scene as this, where all earth’s joys Contend for mastery, and the very sense Of life is rapture--should we pass, I say, At once from such excitements to the void And silent gloom of that which doth await us-- Were it not dreadful?
Eri. Banish such dark thoughts! They ill beseem the hour.
Vit. There is no hour Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe, But they beseem it well! Why, what a slight Impalpable bound is that, th’ unseen, which severs Being from death! And who can tell how near Its misty brink he stands?
1st Noble (aside.) What mean her words?
2d Noble. There’s some dark mystery here.
Eri. No more of this! Pour the bright juice, which Etna’s glowing vines Yield to the conquerors! And let music’s voice Dispel these ominous dreams!--Wake, harp and song! Swell out your triumph!
A Messenger enters, bearing a letter.
Mes. Pardon, my good lord! But this demands----
Eri. What means thy breathless haste, And that ill-boding mien? Away! such looks Befit not hours like these.
Mes. The Lord De Couci Bade me bear this, and say, ’tis fraught with tidings Of life and death.
Vit. (hurriedly.) Is this a time for aught But revelry? My lord, these dull intrusions Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene!
Eri. (to the Messenger.) Hence! Tell the Lord De Couci, we will talk Of life and death to-morrow. [Exit Messenger. Let there be Around me none but joyous looks to-day, And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth!
A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound of music, disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, &c.
Eri. What forms are these? What means this antic triumph?
Vit. ’Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not Hear their wild music? Our Sicilian vales Have many a sweet and mirthful melody, To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe ye some strain Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily!
One of the Masquers sings.
The festal eve, o’er earth and sky, In her sunset robe looks bright, And the purple hills of Sicily With their vineyards laugh in light; From the marble cities of her plains, Glad voices mingling swell; --But with yet more loud and lofty strains, They shall hail the Vesper-bell!
Oh! sweet its tones, when the summer breeze Their cadence wafts afar, To float o’er the blue Sicilian seas, As they gleam to the first pale star! The shepherd greets them on his height, The hermit in his cell; --But a deeper voice shall breathe to-night, In the sound of the Vesper-bell!
[The bell rings.
Eri. It is the hour! Hark, hark!--my bride, our summons! The altar is prepared and crown’d with flowers, That wait----
Vit. The victim!
[A tumult heard without.
Procida and Montalba enter, with others, armed.
Pro. Strike! the hour is come!
Vit. Welcome, avengers! welcome! Now, be strong!
(The conspirators throw off their disguise, and rush with their swords drawn upon the Provençals. Eribert is wounded, and falls.)
Pro. Now hath fate reach’d thee, in thy mid career, Thou reveller in a nation’s agonies!
(The Provençals are driven off, pursued by the Sicilians.)
Con. (supporting Eribert.) My brother! oh, my brother!
Eri. Have I stood A leader in the battle-fields of kings, To perish thus at last? Ay, by these pangs, And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep, Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins, This should be--death! In sooth, a dull exchange For the gay bridal feast!
Voices (without.) Remember Conradin!--spare none!--spare none!
Vit. (throwing off her bridal wreath and ornaments.) This is proud freedom! Now my soul may cast, In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling To earth for ever! And it is such joy, As if a captive from his dull cold cell Might soar at once, on charter’d wing, to range The realms of starr’d infinity! Away! Vain mockery of a bridal wreath! The hour For which stem patience ne’er kept watch in vain Is come; and I may give my bursting heart Full and indignant scope. Now, Eribert! Believe in retribution! What! proud man! Prince, ruler, conqueror! didst thou deem heaven slept? “Or that the unseen, immortal ministers, Ranging the world to note e’en purposed crime In burning characters, had laid aside Their everlasting attributes for thee?” O blind security! He in whose dread hand The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until The trampler of this goodly earth hath reach’d His pyramid height of power; that so his fall May with more fearful oracles make pale Man’s crown’d oppressors!
Con. Oh! reproach him not! His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink Of that dim world where passion may not enter. Leave him in peace.
Voices (without.) Anjou! Anjou!--De Couci, to the rescue!
Eri. (half raising himself.) My brave Provençals! do ye combat still? And I your chief am here! Now, now I feel That death indeed is bitter!
Vit. Fare thee well! Thine eyes so oft with their insulting smile Have look’d on man’s last pangs, thou shouldst by this, Be perfect how to die! Exit Vittoria.
Raimond enters.
Raim. Away, my Constance! Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands Are scatter’d far and wide. A little while And thou shalt be in safety. Know’st thou not That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man Anselmo?--he whose hermitage is rear’d Mid some old temple’s ruins? Round the spot His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm, ’Tis hallow’d as a sanctuary wherein Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm Have spent its fury. Haste!
Con. I will not fly! While in his heart there is one throb of life, One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave The brother of my youth to perish thus, Without one kindly bosom to sustain His dying head.
Eri. The clouds are darkening round. There are strange voices ringing in mine ear That summon me--to what? But I have been Used to command!--Away! I will not die, But on the field---- [He dies.
Con. (kneeling by him.) O Heaven! be merciful As thou art just!--for he is now where naught But mercy can avail him.--It is past!
Guido enters with his sword drawn.
Gui. (to Raimond.) I’ve sought thee long--why art thou lingering here?
Haste, follow me! Suspicion with thy name Joins that word--Traitor!
Raim. Traitor!--Guido?
Gui. Yes! Hast thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms, After vain conflict with a people’s wrath, De Couci hath escaped? And there are those Who murmur that from thee the warning came Which saved him from our vengeance. But e’en yet, In the red current of Provençal blood, That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good sword, And follow me!
Raim. And thou couldst doubt me, Guido! ’Tis come to this!--Away! mistrust me still. I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. Thou knowst me not!
Gui. Raimond di Procida!-- If thou art he whom once I deem’d so noble-- Call me thy friend no more! [Exit Guido.
Raim. (after a pause.) Rise, dearest, rise! Thy duty’s task hath nobly been fulfill’d, E’en in the face of death; but all is o’er, And this is now no place where nature’s tears In quiet sanctity may freely flow. --Hark! the wild sounds that wait on fearful deeds Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar Of fast-advancing billows; and for thee I shame not thus to tremble.--Speed! oh, speed!
Exeunt.
Act IV, Scene I — A Street in Palermo.
Procida enters.
Pro. How strange and deep a stillness loads the air, As with the power of midnight! Ay, where death Hath pass’d, there should be silence. But this hush Of nature’s heart, this breathlessness of all things, Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky, With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds, Brooding in sullen masses o’er my spirit, Weighs like an omen! Wherefore should this be? Is not our task achieved--the mighty work Of our deliverance! Yes; I should be joyous: But this our feeble nature, with its quick Instinctive superstitions, will drag down Th’ ascending soul. And I have fearful bodings That treachery lurks amongst us.--Raimond! Raimond! Oh, guilt ne’er made a mien like his its garb! It cannot be!
Montalba, Guido, and other Sicilians enter.
Pro. Welcome! we meet in joy! Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming The kingly port of freemen! Who shall dare, After this proof of slavery’s dread recoil, To weave us chains again? Ye have done well.
Mon. We have done well. There needs no choral song, No shouting multitudes, to blazon forth Our stern exploits. The silence of our foes Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest, Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task Is still but half achieved, since with his bands De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless leads Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts And deeds to startle earth, are yet required To make the mighty sacrifice complete.-- Where is thy son?
Pro. I know not. Once last night He cross’d my path, and with one stroke beat down A sword just raised to smite me, and restored My own, which in that deadly strife had been Wrench’d from my grasp; but when I would have press’d him To my exulting bosom, he drew back, And with a sad, and yet a scornful smile, Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask?
Mon. It matters not. We have deep things to speak of. Know’st thou that we have traitors in our councils?
Pro. I know some voice in secret must have warn’d De Couci, or his scatter’d bands had ne’er So soon been marshall’d, and in close array Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard aught That may develop this?
Mon. The guards we set To watch the city gates, have seized, this morn, One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step, Betray’d his guilty purpose. Mark! he bore (Amidst the tumult, deeming that his flight Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him-- The fugitive Provençal. Read and judge!
Pro. Where is this messenger?
Mon. Where should he be?-- They slew him in their wrath.
Pro. Unwisely done! Give me the scrolls. [He reads. Now, if there be such things As may to death add sharpness, yet delay The pang which gives release; if there be power In execration, to call down the fires Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts But for such guilt were aimless; be they heap’d Upon the traitor’s head!--Scorn make his name Her mark for ever!
Mon. In our passionate blindness, We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil Oft on ourselves.
Pro. Whate’er fate hath of ruin Fall on his house! What! to resign again That freedom for whose sake our souls have now Engrain’d themselves in blood! Why, who is he That hath devised this treachery? To the scroll Why fix’d he not his name, so stamping it With an immortal infamy, whose brand Might warn men from him? Who should be so vile? Alberti?--In his eye is that which ever Shrinks from encountering mine!--But no! his race Is of our noblest. Oh! he could not shame That high descent! Urbino?--Conti?--No! They are too deeply pledged. There’s one name more! --I cannot utter it! Now shall I read Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot From man’s high mien its native royalty, And seal his noble forehead with the impress Of its own vile imaginings! Speak your thoughts, Montalba! Guido!--Who should this man be?
Mon. Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed last night His sword to aid our foes, and turn’d its edge Against his country’s chiefs?--He that did this, May well be deem’d for guiltier treason ripe.
Pro. And who is he?
Mon. Nay, ask thy son.
Pro. My son! What should he know of such a recreant heart? Speak, Guido! thou’rt his friend!
Gui. I would not wear The brand of such a name!
Pro. How? what means this? A flash of light breaks in upon my soul! Is it to blast me? Yet the fearful doubt Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts before, And been flung from them. Silence!--Speak not yet! I would be calm and meet the thunder-burst With a strong heart. [A pause. Now, what have I to hear? Your tidings?
Gui. Briefly, ’twas your son did thus! He hath disgraced your name.
Pro. My son did thus! Are thy words oracles, that I should search Their hidden meaning out? What did my son? I have forgot the tale. Repeat it, quick!
Gui. ’Twill burst upon thee all too soon. While we Were busy at the dark and solemn rites Of retribution; while we bathed the earth In red libations, which will consecrate The soil they mingled with to freedom’s step Through the long march of ages: ’twas his task To shield from danger a Provençal maid, Sister of him whose cold oppression stung Our hearts to madness.
Mon. What! should she be spared To keep that name from perishing on earth? --I cross’d them in their path, and raised my sword To smite her in her champion’s arms. We fought The boy disarm’d me! And I live to tell My shame, and wreak my vengeance!
Gui. Who but he Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt These scrolls reveal? Hath not the traitor still Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence, To win us from our purpose? All things seem Leagued to unmask him.
Mon. Know you not there came, E’en in the banquet’s hour, from this De Couci, One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings Of all our purposed deeds? And have we not Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves The sister of that tyrant?
Pro. There was one Who mourn’d for being childless! Let him now Feast o’er his children’s graves, and I will join The revelry!
Mon. (apart.) You shall be childless too!
Pro. Was’t you, Montalba!--Now rejoice, I say! There is no name so near you that its stains Should call the fever’d and indignant blood To your dark cheek! But I will dash to earth The weight that presses on my heart, and then Be glad as thou art.
Mon. What means this, my lord? Who hath seen gladness on Montalba’s mien?
Pro. Why, should not all be glad who have no sons To tarnish their bright name?
Mon. I am not used To bear with mockery.
Pro. Friend! By yon high heaven, I mock thee not! ’Tis a proud fate to live Alone and unallied. Why, what’s alone? A word whose sense is--free!--Ay, free from all The venom’d stings implanted in the heart By those it loves. Oh! I could laugh to think O’ th’ joy that riots in baronial halls, When the word comes--“A son is born!”--A son! They should say thus--“He that shall knit your brow To furrows, not of years--and bid your eye Quail its proud glance to tell the earth its shame, Is born, and so rejoice!” Then might we feast, And know the cause! Were it not excellent?
Mon. This is all idle. There are deeds to do: Arouse thee, Procida!
Pro. Why, am I not Calm as immortal justice! She can strike, And yet be passionless--and thus will I. I know thy meaning. Deeds to do!--’tis well. They shall be done ere thought on. Go ye forth: There is a youth who calls himself my son. His name is Raimond--in his eye is light That shows like truth--but be not ye deceived! Bear him in chains before us. We will sit To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see The strength which girds our nature. Will not this Be glorious, brave Montalba? Linger not, Ye tardy messengers! for there are things Which ask the speed of storms. [Exeunt Guido and others. Is not this well?
Mon. ’Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this proud height-- (Aside.) And then be desolate like me! My woes Will at the thought grow light.
Pro. What now remains To be prepared? There should be solemn pomp To grace a day like this. Ay, breaking hearts Require a drapery to conceal their throbs From cold inquiring eyes; and it must be Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not Explore what lies beneath.
[Exit Procida.
Mon. Now this is well! --I hate this Procida; for he hath won In all our councils that ascendency And mastery o’er bold hearts, which should have been Mine by a thousand claims. Had he the strength Of wrongs like mine? No! for that name--his country-- He strikes; my vengeance hath a deeper fount: But there’s dark joy in this!--And fate hath barr’d My soul from every other.
[Exit Montalba.
Act IV, Scene II — A Hermitage surrounded by the Ruins of an Ancient Temple.
Constance, Anselmo.
Con. ’Tis strange he comes not! Is not this the still And sultry hour of noon? He should have been Here by the daybreak. Was there not a voice? --“No! ’tis the shrill cicada, with glad life Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports Amidst them in the sun.” Hark! yet again! No! no! Forgive me, father! that I bring Earth’s restless griefs and passions, to disturb The stillness of thy holy solitude: My heart is full of care.
Ans. There is no place So hallow’d as to be unvisited By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes Lonely and still, where He that made our hearts Will speak to them in whispers? I have known Affliction too, my daughter.
Con. Hark! his step! I know it well--he comes--my Raimond, welcome!
Vittoria enters, Constance shrinks back on perceiving her.
Oh, heaven! that aspect tells a fearful tale.
Vit. (not observing her.) There is a cloud of horror on my soul; And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait, Even as an echo, following the sweet close Of some divine and solemn harmony: Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound Is power to bid the tempests of the heart Sink, like a storm rebuked.
Ans. What recent grief Darkens thy spirit thus?
Vit. I said not grief. We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not That which it hath been. In the flowers which wreathe Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown, Fraught with a strange delirium. All things now Have changed their nature: still, I say, rejoice! There is a cause, Anselmo! We are free-- Free and avenged! Yet on my soul there hangs A darkness, heavy as the oppressive gloom Of midnight fantasies. Ay, for this, too, There is a cause.
Ans. How say’st thou, we are free?-- There may have raged, within Palermo’s walls, Some brief wild tumult; but too well I know They call the stranger lord.
Vit. Who calls the dead Conqueror or lord? Hush! breathe it not aloud, The wild winds must not hear it! Yet again, I tell thee we are free!
Ans. Thine eye hath look’d On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang O’er its dark orb. Speak! I adjure thee: say, How hath this work been wrought?
Vit. Peace! ask me not! Why shouldst thou hear a tale to send thy blood Back on its fount? We cannot wake them now! The storm is in my soul, but they are all At rest!--Ay, sweetly may the slaughter’d babe By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men, Who midst the slain have slumber’d oft before, Making their shield their pillow, may repose Well, now their toils are done.--Is’t not enough?
Con. Merciful heaven! have such things been? And yet There is no shade come o’er the laughing sky! --I am an outcast now.
Ans. O Thou whose ways Clouds mantle fearfully! of all the blind But terrible ministers that work thy wrath, How much is man the fiercest! Others know Their limits--yes! the earthquakes, and the storms, And the volcanoes!--he alone o’erleaps The bounds of retribution! Couldst thou gaze, Vittoria! with thy woman’s heart and eye, On such dread scenes unmoved?
Vit. Was it for me To stay th’ avenging sword? No, though it pierced My very soul! Hark! hark! what thrilling shrieks Ring through the air around me! Canst thou not Bid them be hush’d? Oh!--look not on me thus!
Ans. Lady! thy thoughts lend sternness to the looks Which are but sad! Have all then perish’d? all? Was there no mercy!
Vit. Mercy! it hath been A word forbidden as th’ unhallow’d names Of evil powers. Yet one there was who dared To own the guilt of pity, and to aid The victims!--but in vain. Of him no more! He is a traitor, and a traitor’s death Will be his meed.
Con. (coming forward.) Oh, heaven!--his name, his name! Is it--it cannot be!
Vit. (starting.) Thou here, pale girl! I deem’d thee with the dead! How hast thou ’scaped The snare! Who saved thee, last of all thy race! Was it not he of whom I spake e’en now, Raimond di Procida?
Con. It is enough: Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink. Must he too die?
Vit. Is it e’en so? Why then, Live on--thou hast the arrow at thy heart! “Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes--” I mean not to betray thee. Thou may’st live! Why should Death bring thee his oblivious balms! He visits but the happy. Didst thou ask If Raimond too must die? It is as sure As that his blood is on thy head, for thou Didst win him to this treason.
Con. When did men Call mercy treason? Take my life, but save My noble Raimond!
Vit. Maiden! he must die. E’en now the youth before his judges stands; And they are men who, to the voice of prayer, Are as the rock is to the murmur’d sigh Of summer-waves!--ay, though a father sit On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me. What wouldst thou?
Con. Mercy!--Oh! wert thou to plead But with a look, e’en yet he might be saved! If thou hast ever loved----
Vit. If I have loved? It is that love forbids me to relent. I am what it hath made me. O’er my soul Lightning hath pass’d and sear’d it. Could I weep I then might pity--but it will not be.
Con. Oh, thou wilt yet relent! for woman’s heart Was form’d to suffer and to melt.
Vit. Away! Why should I pity thee? Thou wilt but prove What I have known before--and yet I live! Nature is strong, and it may all be borne-- The sick impatient yearning of the heart For that which is not; and the weary sense Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been Circled by death; yes, all things may be borne! All, save remorse. But I will not bow down My spirit to that dark power; there was no guilt!-- Anselmo! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt?
Ans. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience quicken thought, Lending reproachful voices to a breeze, Keen lightning to a look.
Vit. Leave me in peace! Is’t not enough that I should have a sense Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark, And of unearthly whispers, haunting me With dread suggestions, but that thy cold words, Old man, should gall me, too? Must all conspire Against me?----O thou beautiful spirit! wont To shine upon my dreams with looks of love, Where art thou vanish’d? Was it not the thought Of thee which urged me to the fearful task, And wilt thou now forsake me? I must seek The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance, Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths; --Here I but meet despair!
[Exit Vittoria.
Ans. (to Constance.) Despair not thou, My daughter! He that purifies the heart With grief will lend it strength.
Con. (endeavouring to rouse herself.) Did she not say That some one was to die?
Ans. I tell thee not Thy pangs are vain--for nature will have way. Earth must have tears: yet in a heart like thine, Faith may not yield its place.
Con. Have I not heard Some fearful tale?--Who said that there should rest Blood on my soul? What blood? I never bore Hatred, kind father! unto aught that breathes: Raimond doth know it well. Raimond!--High heaven! It bursts upon me now! And he must die! For my sake--e’en for mine!
Ans. Her words were strange, And her proud mind seem’d half to frenzy wrought; --Perchance this may not be.
Con. It must not be. Why do I linger here? [She rises to depart.
Ans. Where wouldst thou go?
Con. To give their stern and unrelenting hearts A victim in his stead.
Ans. Stay! wouldst thou rush On certain death?
Con. I may not falter now. --Is not the life of woman all bound up In her affections? What hath she to do In this bleak world alone? It may be well For man on his triumphal course to move, Uncumber’d by soft bonds; but we were born For love and grief.
Ans. Thou fair and gentle thing, Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak Of tenderness or homage! how shouldst thou Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, Or face the King of Terrors?
Con. There is strength Deep-bedded in our hearts, of which we reck But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent Before her gems are found?--Oh! now I feel Worthy the generous love which hath not shunn’d To look on death for me! My heart hath given Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith As high in its devotion.
[Exit Constance.
Ans. She is gone! Is it to perish?--God of mercy! lend Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save This pure and lofty creature! I will follow-- But her young footstep and heroic heart Will bear her to destruction, faster far Than I can track her path.
[Exit Anselmo.
Act IV, Scene III — Hall of a Public Building.
Procida, Montalba, Guido, and others, seated as on a Tribunal.
Pro. The morn lower’d darkly; but the sun hath now, With fierce and angry splendour, through the clouds Burst forth, as if impatient to behold This our high triumph.--Lead the prisoner in.
Raimond is brought in, fettered and guarded.
Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here! --Is this man guilty?--Look on him, Montalba!
Mon. Be firm. Should justice falter at a look?
Pro. No, thou say’st well. Her eyes are filleted, Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself-- But no! I will not breathe a traitor’s name-- Speak! thou art arraign’d of treason.
Raim. I arraign You, before whom I stand, of darker guilt, In the bright face of heaven; and your own hearts Give echo to the charge. Your very looks Have ta’en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink, With a perturb’d and haggard wildness, back From the too-searching light. Why, what hath wrought This change on noble brows? There is a voice With a deep answer, rising from the blood Your hands have coldly shed! Ye are of those From whom just men recoil with curdling veins, All thrill’d by life’s abhorrent consciousness, And sensitive feeling of a murderer’s presence. --Away! come down from your tribunal seat, Put off your robes of state, and let your mien Be pale and humbled; for ye bear about you That which repugnant earth doth sicken at, More than the pestilence. That I should live To see my father shrink!
Pro. Montalba, speak! There’s something chokes my voice--but fear me not.
Mon. If we must plead to vindicate our acts, Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear, Most eloquent youth! What answer canst thou make To this our charge of treason?
Raim. I will plead That cause before a mightier judgment-throne, Where mercy is not guilt. But here I feel Too buoyantly the glory and the joy Of my free spirit’s whiteness; for e’en now The embodied hideousness of crime doth seem Before me glaring out. Why, I saw thee, Thy foot upon an aged warrior’s breast, Trampling out nature’s last convulsive heavings. And thou, thy sword--O valiant chief!--is yet Red from the noble stroke which pierced at once A mother and the babe, whose little life Was from her bosom drawn!--Immortal deeds For bards to hymn!
Gui. (aside.) I look upon his mien, And waver. Can it be? My boyish heart Deem’d him so noble once! Away, weak thoughts! Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine, From his proud glance?
Pro. O thou dissembler! thou, So skill’d to clothe with virtue’s generous flush The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy, That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce Believe thee guilty!--look on me, and say Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, And forge new fetters for th’ indignant land? Whose was this treachery? [Shows him papers. Who hath promised here (Belike to appease the manès of the dead) At midnight to unfold Palermo’s gates, And welcome in the foe? Who hath done this, But thou--a tyrant’s friend?
Raim. Who hath done this? Father!--if I may call thee by that name-- Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles Were masks that hid their daggers. There, perchance, May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me, I know but this--there needs no deep research To prove the truth that murderers may be traitors, Even to each other.
Pro. (to Montalba.) His unaltering cheek Still vividly doth hold its natural hue, And his eye quails not! Is this innocence?
Mon. No! ’tis th’ unshrinking hardihood of crime. --Thou bear’st a gallant mien. But where is she Whom thou hast barter’d fame and life to save, The fair Provençal maid? What! know’st thou not That this alone were guilt, to death allied? Was’t not our law that he who spared a foe (And is she not of that detested race?) Should thenceforth be amongst us as a foe? --Where hast thou borne her? speak!
Raim. That Heaven, whose eye Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, Is with her: she is safe.
Pro. And by that word Thy doom is seal’d. Oh, God! that I had died Before this bitter hour, in the full strength And glory of my heart!
Constance enters, and rushes to Raimond.
Con. Oh! art thou found? --But yet, to find thee thus! Chains, chains for thee! My brave, my noble love! Off with these bonds; Let him be free as air: for I am come To be your victim now.
Raim. Death has no pang More keen than this. Oh! wherefore art thou here I could have died so calmly, deeming thee Saved, and at peace.
Con. At peace!--And thou hast thought Thus poorly of my love! But woman’s breast Hath strength to suffer too. Thy father sits On this tribunal; Raimond, which is he?
Raim. My father! who hath lull’d thy gentle heart With that false hope? Beloved! gaze around-- See if thine eye can trace a father’s soul In the dark looks bent on us.
[Constance, after earnestly examining the countenances of the Judges, falls at the feet of Procida.
Con. Thou art he! Nay, turn thou not away! for I beheld Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist Pass o’er thy troubled eye; and then I knew Thou wert his father! Spare him! take my life! In truth, a worthless sacrifice for his, But yet mine all. Oh! he hath still to run A long bright race of glory.
Raim. Constance, peace! I look upon thee, and my failing heart Is as a broken reed.
Con. (still addressing Procida.) Oh, yet relent! If ’twas his crime to rescue me--behold I come to be the atonement! Let him live To crown thine age with honour. In thy heart There’s a deep conflict; but great Nature pleads With an o’ermastering voice, and thou wilt yield! --Thou art his father!
Pro. (after a pause.) Maiden, thou’rt deceived! I am as calm as that dead pause of nature Ere the full thunder bursts. A judge is not Father or friend. Who calls this man my son? --My son! Ay! thus his mother proudly smiled-- But she was noble! Traitors stand alone, Loosed from all ties. Why should I trifle thus? --Bear her away!
Raim. (starting forward.) And whither?
Mon. Unto death. Why should she live, when all her race have perish’d?
Con. (sinking into the arms of Raimond.)
Raimond, farewell! Oh! when thy star hath risen To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved! I died for thee.
Raim. High Heaven! thou see’st these things, And yet endurest them! Shalt thou die for me, Purest and loveliest being?--but our fate May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold-- Her deep blue eyes are closed: should this be death --If thus, there yet were mercy! Father, father! Is thy heart human?
Pro. Bear her hence, I say! Why must my soul be torn?
Anselmo enters holding a Crucifix.
Ans. Now, by this sign Of heaven’s prevailing love! ye shall not harm One ringlet of her head. How! is there not Enough of blood upon your burthen’d souls? Will not the visions of your midnight couch Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap Crime upon crime? Be ye content: your dreams, Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep, E’en though this maid be spared! Constance, look up! Thou shalt not die.
Raim. Oh! death e’en now hath veil’d The light of her soft beauty. Wake my love! Wake at my voice!
Pro. Anselmo, lead her hence, And let her live, but never meet my sight. --Begone! my heart will burst.
Raim. One last embrace! --Again life’s rose is opening on her cheek; Yet must we part. So love is crush’d on earth! But there are brighter worlds!--Farewell, farewell!
[He gives her to the care of Anselmo.
Con. (slowly recovering.) There was a voice which call’d me. Am I not A spirit freed from earth? Have I not pass’d The bitterness of death?
Ans. Oh, haste away!
Con. Yes! Raimond calls me. He too is released From his cold bondage. We are free at last, And all is well. Away!
[She is led out by Anselmo.
Raim. The pang is o’er, And I have but to die.
Mon. Now, Procida, Comes thy great task. Wake! summon to thine aid All thy deep soul’s commanding energies; For thou--a chief among us--must pronounce The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee.
Pro. Ha! ha! Men’s hearts should be of softer mould Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom Their children then with an unfaltering voice, And we must tremble thus! Is it not said That nature grows degenerate, earth being now So full of days?
Mon. Rouse up thy mighty heart.
Pro. Ay, thou say’st right. There yet are souls which tower As landmarks to mankind. Well, what’s the task? --There is a man to be condemn’d, you say? Is he then guilty?
All. Thus we deem of him, With one accord.
Pro. And hath he naught to plead?
Raim. Naught but a soul unstain’d.
Pro. Why, that is little. Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems them, And conscience may be sear’d. But for this sentence! --Was’t not the penalty imposed on man, E’en from creation’s dawn, that he must die? --It was: thus making guilt a sacrifice Unto eternal justice; and we but Obey heaven’s mandate when we cast dark souls To th’ elements from among us. Be it so! Such be his doom! I have said. Ay, now my heart Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press Its gaspings down. Off! let me breathe in freedom! --Mountains are on my breast! [He sinks back.
Mon. Guards, bear the prisoner Back to his dungeon.
Raim. Father! oh, look up; Thou art my father still!
Gui. (leaving the tribunal, throws himself on the neck of Raimond.) Oh! Raimond, Raimond! If it should be that I have wrong’d thee, say Thou dost forgive me.
Raim. Friend of my young days, So may all-pitying heaven!
[Raimond is led out.
Pro. Whose voice was that? Where is he?--gone? Now I may breathe once more In the free air of heaven. Let us away.
[Exeunt omnes.
Act V, Scene I — A Prison dimly lighted.
Raimond sleeping. Procida enters.
Pro. (gazing upon him earnestly.) Can he Then sleep? Th’ overshadowing night hath wrapt Earth at her stated hours; the stars have set Their burning watch; and all things hold their course Of wakefulness and rest; yet hath not sleep Sat on mine eyelids since--but this avails not! And thus he slumbers! “Why, this mien doth seem As if its soul were but one lofty thought Of an immortal destiny!”--his brow Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens Are imaged silently. Wake, Raimond! wake! Thy rest is deep.
Raim. (starting up.) My father! Wherefore here? I am prepared to die, yet would I not Fall by thy hand.
Pro. ’Twas not for this I came.
Raim. Then wherefore? and upon thy lofty brow Why burns the troubled flush?
Pro. Perchance ’tis shame. Yes, it may well be shame!--for I have striven With nature’s feebleness, and been o’erpower’d. --Howe’er it be, ’tis not for thee to gaze, Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains. Arise, and follow me; but let thy step Fall without sound on earth: I have prepared The means for thy escape.
Raim. What! thou! the austere, The inflexible Procida! hast thou done this, Deeming me guilty still!
Pro. Upbraid me not! It is even so. There have been nobler deeds By Roman fathers done,--but I am weak. Therefore, again I say, arise! and haste, For the night wanes. Thy fugitive course must be To realms beyond the deep; so let us part In silence, and for ever.
Raim. Let him fly Who holds no deep asylum in his breast Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men; --I can sleep calmly here.
Pro. Art thou in love With death and infamy, that so thy choice Is made, lost boy! when freedom courts thy grasp?
Raim. Father! to set th’ irrevocable seal Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me, There needs but flight. What should I bear from this, My native land?--A blighted name, to rise And part me, with its dark remembrances, For ever from the sunshine! O’er my soul Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny Float in dim beauty through the gloom; but here On earth, my hopes are closed.
Pro. Thy hopes are closed! And what were they to mine?--Thou wilt not fly! Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn How proudly guilt can talk! Let fathers rear Their offspring henceforth, as the free wild birds Foster their young: when these can mount alone, Dissolving nature’s bonds, why should it not Be so with us?
Raim. O father! now I feel What high prerogatives belong to Death. He hath a deep though voiceless eloquence, To which I leave my cause. “His solemn veil Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues, And in its vast oblivious folds, for ever Give shelter to our faults.” When I am gone, The mists of passion which have dimm’d my name Will melt like day-dreams; and my memory then Will be--not what it should have been--for I Must pass without my fame--but yet unstain’d As a clear morning dewdrop. Oh! the grave Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary’s, And they should be my own!
Pro. Now, by just Heaven, I will not thus be tortured!--Were my heart But of thy guilt or innocence assured, I could be calm again. “But in this wild Suspense--this conflict and vicissitude Of opposite feelings and convictions----What! Hath it been mine to temper and to bend All spirits to my purpose? have I raised With a severe and passionless energy, From the dread mingling of their elements, Storms which have rock’d the earth?--and shall I now Thus fluctuate as a feeble reed, the scorn And plaything of the winds?” Look on me, boy! Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep Its heart’s dark secret close.--O pitying Heaven! Speak to my soul with some dread oracle, And tell me which is truth.
Raim. I will not plead. I will not call th’ Omnipotent to attest My innocence. No, father! in thy heart I know my birthright shall be soon restored; Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed The great absolver.
Pro. O my son! my son! We will not part in wrath! The sternest hearts, Within their proud and guarded fastnesses, Hide something still, round which their tendrils cling With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me! The all which taught me that my soul was cast In nature’s mould. And I must now hold on My desolate course alone! Why, be it thus! He that doth guide a nation’s star, should dwell High o’er the clouds, in regal solitude, Sufficient to himself.
Raim. Yet, on the summit, When with her bright wings glory shadows thee, Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath, Yet might have soar’d as high!
Pro. No, fear thou not! Thou’lt be remember’d long. The canker-worm O’ th’ heart is ne’er forgotten.
Raim. “Oh! not thus-- I would not thus be thought of.”
Pro. Let me deem Again that thou art base!--for thy bright looks, Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth, Then would not haunt me as the avenging powers Follow’d the parricide. Farewell, farewell! I have no tears. Oh! thus thy mother look’d, When, with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile, All radiant with deep meaning, from her deathbed She gave thee to my arms.
Raim. Now death has lost His sting, since thou believ’st me innocent!
Pro. (wildly.) Thou innocent!--Am I thy murderer, then? Away! I tell thee thou hast made my name A scorn to men! No! I will not forgive thee; A traitor! What! the blood of Procida Filling a traitor’s veins? Let the earth drink it. Thou wouldst receive our foes!--but they shall meet From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold As death can make it. Go, prepare thy soul!
Raim. Father! yet hear me!
Pro. No! thou’rt skill’d to make E’en shame look fair. Why should I linger thus?
[Going to leave the prison, he turns back for a moment.
If there be aught--if aught--for which thou need’st Forgiveness--not of me, but that dread Power From whom no heart is veil’d--delay thou not Thy prayer,--time hurries on.
Raim. I am prepared.
Pro. ’Tis well.
[Exit Procida.
Raim. Men talk of torture!--Can they wreak Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame, Half the mind bears--and lives? My spirit feels Bewilder’d; on its powers this twilight gloom Hangs like a weight of earth.--It should be morn; Why, then, perchance, a beam of heaven’s bright sun Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon, Telling of hope and mercy!
[Exit into an inner cell.
Act V, Scene II — A Street of Palermo.
Many Citizens assembled.
1st Cit. The morning breaks; his time is almost come: Will he be led this way?
2d Cit. Ay, so ’tis said To die before that gate through which he purposed The foe should enter in!
3d Cit. ’Twas a vile plot! And yet I would my hands were pure as his From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the sounds I’ the air last night!
2d Cit. Since the great work of slaughter, Who hath not heard them duly at those hours Which should be silent?
3d Cit. Oh! the fearful mingling, The terrible mimicry of human voices, In every sound, which to the heart doth speak Of woe and death.
2d Cit. Ay, there was woman’s shrill And piercing cry; and the low feeble wail Of dying infants; and the half-suppress’d Deep groan of man in his last agonies! And, now and then, there swell’d upon the breeze Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far Than all the rest.
1st Cit. Of our own fate, perchance, These awful midnight wailings may be deem’d An ominous prophecy. Should France regain Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have Stern reckoners to account with.--Hark!
[The sound of trumpets heard at a distance.
2d Cit. ’Twas but A rushing of the breeze.
3d Cit. E’en now, ’tis said, The hostile bands approach.
[The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer.
2d Cit. Again! that sound Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells-- They come, they come!
Procida enters.
Pro. The foe is at your gates; But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset. Why are ye loitering here?
Cit. My lord, we came--
Pro. Think ye I know not wherefore?--’twas to see A fellow-being die! Ay, ’tis a sight Man loves to look on; and the tenderest hearts Recoil, and yet withdraw not from the scene. For this ye came. What! is our nature fierce, Or is there that in mortal agony From which the soul, exulting in its strength, Doth learn immortal lessons? Hence, and arm! Ere the night-dews descend, ye will have seen Enough of death--for this must be a day Of battle! ’Tis the hour which troubled souls Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings Which bear them up! Arm! arm! ’tis for your homes, And all that lends them loveliness--Away!
[Exeunt.
Act V, Scene III — Prison of Raimond
Raimond, Anselmo.
Raim. And Constance then is safe! Heaven bless thee, father! Good angels bear such comfort.
Ans. I have found A safe asylum for thine honour’d love, Where she may dwell until serener days, With Saint Rosalia’s gentlest daughters--those Whose hallow’d office is to tend the bed Of pain and death, and soothe the parting soul With their soft hymns: and therefore are they call’d “Sisters of Mercy.”
Raim. Oh! that name, my Constance! Befits thee well. E’en in our happiest days, There was a depth of tender pensiveness Far in thine eyes’ dark azure, speaking ever Of pity and mild grief. Is she at peace?
Ans. Alas! what should I say?
Raim. Why did I ask, Knowing the deep and full devotedness Of her young heart’s affections? Oh! the thought Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams, Which should have been so tranquil!--and her soul, Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love, Even unto death will sicken.
Ans. All that faith Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes; And still, whate’er betide, the light of heaven Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son! Is thy young spirit master’d, and prepared For nature’s fearful and mysterious change?
Raim. Ay, father! of my brief remaining task The least part is to die! And yet the cup Of life still mantled brightly to my lips, Crown’d with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name Is--glory! Oh! my soul, from boyhood’s morn, Hath nursed such mighty dreams! It was my hope To leave a name, whose echo from the abyss Of time should rise, and float upon the winds Into the far hereafter; there to be A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb, Murmuring--Awake!--Arise! But this is past! Erewhile, and it had seem’d enough of shame To sleep forgotten in the dust; but now-- Oh, God!--the undying record of my grave Will be--Here sleeps a traitor!--One, whose crime, Was--to deem brave men might find nobler weapons Than the cold murderer’s dagger!
Ans. Oh! my son, Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change Thy lot for theirs, o’er whose dark dreams will hang The avenging shadows, which the blood-stain’d soul Doth conjure from the dead!
Raim. Thou’rt right. I would not. Yet ’tis a weary task to school the heart, Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit Into that still and passive fortitude, Which is but learn’d from suffering. Would the hour To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand!
Ans. It will not be to-day. Hast thou not heard --But no--the rush, the trampling, and the stir Of this great city, arming in her haste, Pierce not these dungeon-depths. The foe hath reach’d Our gates, and all Palermo’s youth, and all Her warrior men, are marshall’d, and gone forth, In that high hope which makes realities, To the red field. Thy father leads them on.
Raim. (starting up.) They are gone forth! my father leads them on! All--all Palermo’s youth! No! one is left, Shut out from glory’s race! They are gone forth! Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad-- It burns upon the air! The joyous winds Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam Of battle’s roaring billows! On my sight The vision bursts--it maddens! ’tis the flash, The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze Of helmets in the sun! The very steed With his majestic rider glorying shares The hour’s stern joy, and waves his floating mane As a triumphant banner! Such things are Even now--and I am here!
Ans. Alas, be calm! To the same grave ye press,--thou that dost pine Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule The fortunes of the fight.
Raim. Ay! Thou canst feel The calm thou wouldst impart; for unto thee All men alike, the warrior and the slave, Seem, as thou say’st, but pilgrims, pressing on To the same bourne. Yet call it not the same: Their graves who fall in this day’s fight will be As altars to their country, visited By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths, And chanting hymns in honour of the dead: Will mine be such?
Vittoria rushes in wildly, as if pursued.
Vit. Anselmo! art thou found! Haste, haste, or all is lost! Perchance thy voice, Whereby they deem heaven speaks, thy lifted cross, And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives, Or shame them back to die.
Ans. The fugitives! What words are these? The sons of Sicily Fly not before the foe?
Vit. That I should say It is too true!
Ans. And thou--thou bleedest, lady!
Vit. Peace! heed not me when Sicily is lost! I stood upon the walls, and watch’d our bands, As, with their ancient royal banner spread, Onward they march’d. The combat was begun, The fiery impulse given, and valiant men Had seal’d their freedom with their blood--when, lo! That false Alberti led his recreant vassals To join th’ invader’s host.
Raim. His country’s curse Rest on the slave for ever!
Vit. Then distrust, E’en of their noble leaders, and dismay, That swift contagion, on Palermo’s bands Came like a deadly blight. They fled!--Oh shame! E’en now they fly! Ay, through the city gates They rush, as if all Etna’s burning streams Pursued their wingèd steps!
Raim. Thou hast not named Their chief--Di Procida--he doth not fly?
Vit. No! like a kingly lion in the toils, Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives: But all in vain! The few that breast the storm, With Guido and Montalba, by his side, Fight but for graves upon the battle-field.
Raim. And I am here! Shall there be power, O God! In the roused energies of fierce despair, To burst my heart--and not to rend my chains? Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt To set the strong man free!
Vit. (after gazing upon him earnestly.) Why, ’twere a deed Worthy the fane and blessing of all time, To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida! Thou art no traitor!--from thy kindled brow Looks out thy lofty soul! Arise! go forth! And rouse the noble heart of Sicily Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste; Unbind him! Let my spirit still prevail, Ere I depart--for the strong hand of death Is on me now. [She sinks back against a pillar.
Ans. Oh, heaven! the life-blood streams Fast from thy heart--thy troubled eyes grow dim. Who hath done this?
Vit. Before the gates I stood, And in the name of him, the loved and lost, With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe, Fraught with my summons to his viewless home, Came the fleet shaft which pierced me.
Ans. Yet, oh yet, It may not be too late. Help, help!
Vit. (to Raimond.) Away! Bright is the hour which brings thee liberty!
Attendants enter.
Haste, be those fetters riven! Unbar the gates, And set the captive free! (The Attendants seem to hesitate.) Know ye not her Who should have worn your country’s diadem?
Att. O lady! we obey.
[They take off Raimond’s chains. He springs up exultingly.
Raim. Is this no dream? Mount, eagle! thou art free! Shall I then die Not midst the mockery of insulting crowds, But on the field of banners, where the brave Are striving for an immortality? It is e’en so! Now for bright arms of proof, A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e’en yet My father may be saved!
Vit. Away, be strong! And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm, Be--Conradin. [He rushes out. Oh! for one hour of life, To hear that name blent with th’ exulting shout Of victory! It will not be! A mightier power Doth summon me away.
Ans. To purer worlds Raise thy last thoughts in hope.
Vit. Yes! he is there, All glorious in his beauty!--Conradin! Death parted us, and death shall reunite! He will not stay--it is all darkness now! Night gathers o’er my spirit.
[She dies.
Ans. She is gone! It is an awful hour which stills the heart That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, heaven!
[He kneels beside her.
Act V, Scene IV — Before the Gates of Palermo.
Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates.
Voices, (without.) Montjoy! Montjoy! St Denis for Anjou! Provençals, on!
Sicilians. Fly, fly, or all is lost!
Raimond appears in the gateway armed, and carrying a banner.
Raim. Back, back, I say! ye men of Sicily! All is not lost! Oh! shame! A few brave hearts In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts Against the rush of thousands, and sustain’d, And made the shock recoil. Ay, man, free man, Still to be call’d so, hath achieved such deeds As heaven and earth have marvell’d at; and souls, Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come, Shall burn to hear, transmitting brightly thus Freedom from race to race! Back! or prepare Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your very shrines, To bleed and die in vain! Turn!--follow me! “Conradin, Conradin!”--for Sicily His spirit fights! Remember “Conradin!” [They begin to rally round him. Ay, this is well!--Now, follow me, and charge!
[_The Provençals rush in, but are repulsed by the Sicilians. _--Exeunt.
Act V, Scene V — Part of the Field of Battle.
Montalba enters wounded, and supported by Raimond, whose face is concealed by his helmet.
Raim. Here rest thee, warrior.
Mon. Rest! ay, death is rest, And such will soon be mine. But, thanks to thee, I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian! These lips are all unused to soothing words, Or I should bless the valour which hath won, For my last hour, the proud free solitude Wherewith my soul would gird itself. Thy name?
Raim. ’Twill be no music to thine ear, Montalba. Gaze--read it thus! [He lifts the visor of his helmet.
Mon. Raimond di Procida!
Raim. Thou hast pursued me with a bitter hate: But fare thee well! Heaven’s peace be with thy soul! I must away. One glorious effort more, And this proud field is won. [Exit Raimond.
Mon. Am I thus humbled? How my heart sinks within me! But ’tis Death (And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued My towering nature thus. Yet is he welcome! That youth--’twas in his pride he rescued me! I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved His fearless scorn. Ha! ha! but he shall fail To melt me into womanish feebleness. There I still baffle him--the grave shall seal My lips for ever--mortal shall not hear Montalba say--“forgive!” [He dies.
Act V, Scene VI — Another part of the Field.
Procida, Guido, and other Sicilians.
Pro. The day is ours; but he, the brave unknown, Who turn’d the tide of battle--he whose path Was victory--who hath seen him?
Alberti is brought in wounded and fettered.
Alb. Procida!
Pro. Be silent, traitor! Bear him from my sight, Unto your deepest dungeons.
Alb. In the grave A nearer home awaits me. Yet one word Ere my voice fail--thy son----
Pro. Speak, speak!
Alb. Thy son Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait’rous plot Was mine alone. [He is led away.
Pro. Attest it, earth and heaven! My son is guiltless! Hear it, Sicily! The blood of Procida is noble still! My son! He lives, he lives! His voice shall speak Forgiveness to his sire! His name shall cast Its brightness o’er my soul!
Gui. O day of joy! The brother of my heart is worthy still The lofty name he bears!
Anselmo enters.
Pro. Anselmo, welcome! In a glad hour we meet; for know, my son Is guiltless.
Ans. And victorious! By his arm All hath been rescued.
Pro. How!--the unknown----
Ans. Was he! Thy noble Raimond!--by Vittoria’s hand Freed from his bondage, in that awful hour When all was flight and terror.
Pro. Now my cup Of joy too brightly mantles! Let me press My warrior to a father’s heart--and die; For life hath naught beyond. Why comes he not? Anselmo, lead me to my valiant boy!
Ans. Temper this proud delight.
Pro. What means that look? He hath not fallen?
Ans. He lives.
Pro. Away, away! Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour Atone for all his wrongs! [Exeunt.