 | The Vespers of Palermo |  |
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Scene III.
—Prison of Raimond.Raimond. Anselmo.
Raimond.
And Constance then is safe!—Heaven bless thee, father;
Good angels bear such comfort.
Anselmo.
I have found
A safe asylum for thine honour'd love,
Where she may dwell until serener days,
With Saint Rosolia'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.”
Rai.
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,
Rai.
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;
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Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son!
Is thy young spirit master'd, and prepared
For nature's fearful and mysterious change?
Rai.
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 death!
Rai.
Thou'rt right. I would not.
Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart,
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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.
Rai.
(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!
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Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule
The fortunes of the fight.
Rai.
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 chaunting hymns in honour of the dead:
Will mine be such?
Vittoria rushes in wildly, as if pursued.
Vittoria.
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 watched our bands,
As, with their ancient, royal banner spread,
Onward they march'd. The combat was begun.
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Had seal'd their freedom with their blood—when lo!
That false Alberti led his recreant vassals
To join th'invader's host.
Rai.
His country's curse
Rest on the slave for ever!
Vit.
Then distrust
E'en of their nobler 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, thro' the city gates
They rush, as if all Etna's burning streams
Pursued their winged steps!
Rai.
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.
Rai.
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 fame and blessing of all time,
To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida!
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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.
Away!
Bright is the hour which brings me 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.
Oh, lady, we obey.
(They take off Raimond's chains. He springs up exultingly.
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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!—'twill 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 re-unite!
—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.
(The scene closes.)
| The Vespers of Palermo | |