University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Youth.
He spoke of vengeance!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pro.
There is hope
For all who suffer with indignant thoughts
Which work in silent strength. What! think ye Heaven
O'erlooks th'oppressor, if he bear awhile
His crested head on high?—I tell you, no!
Th'avenger will not sleep. It was an hour
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king,
Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn,
On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less
Is justice throned above; and her good time
Comes rushing on in storms: that royal blood
Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth,
And hath been heard. The traces of the past
Fade in man's heart, but ne'er doth heaven forget.

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

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

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

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

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

1 Peas.
He comes not thus
But with some mighty purpose; doubt it not:
Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one,
Whose faith, thro' many a trial, hath been proved
True to our native princes. But away!
The noon-tide heat is past, and from the seas
Light gales are wandering thro' the vineyards; now
We may resume our toil.

[Exeunt Peasants.