# The Vespers of Palermo/The Vespers of Palermo, Act Two

ACT THE SECOND.
Scene I.—Apartment in a Palace.
Eribert.Constance.
Constance. Will you not hear me?—Oh! that they who need Hourly forgiveness, they who do but live, While Mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars, Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, In their vain exercise of pageant power, Hard and relentless!—Gentle brother, yet, 'T is in your choice to imitate that heaven Whose noblest joy is pardon.
Eribert.'T is too late. You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads With eloquent melody—but they must die.
Con. What, die!—for words?—for breath, which leaves no trace To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends, And is, being utter'd, gone?—Why, 't were enough For such a venial fault, to be deprived One little day of man's free heritage, Heaven's warm and sunny light! —Oh! if you deem That evil harbours in their souls, at least
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, Shall bid stern Justice wake.
Eri.I am not one Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been Where power sits crown'd and arm'd.—And, mark me, sister! To a distrustful nature it might seem Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being Suspicion holds no power.—And yet take note. —I have said, and they must die.
Con. Have you no fear?
Eri. Of what?—that heaven should fall?
Con. No!—but that earth Should arm in madness.—Brother! I have seen Dark eyes bent on you, e'en midst festal throngs, With such deep hatred settled in their glance, My heart hath died within me.
Eri.Am I then To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look?
Con. Oh! looks are no illusions, when the soul, Which may not speak in words, can find no way But theirs, to liberty!—Have not these men Brave sons, or noble brothers?
Eri.Yes! whose name It rests with me to make a word of fear, A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men.
Con. But not forgotten!—Ah! beware, beware! —Nay, look not sternly on me.—There is one Of that devoted band, who yet will need Years to be ripe for death.—He is a youth, A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek The spring-time glow is lingering. 'T was but now His mother left me, with a timid hope Just dawning in her breast;—and I—I dared To foster its faint spark.—You smile!—Oh! then He will be saved!
Eri.Nay, I but smiled to think What a fond fool is hope!—She may be taught To deem that the great sun will change his course To work her pleasure; or the tomb give back Its inmates to her arms.—In sooth, 't is strange! Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus Have mock'd the boy's sad mother—I have said, You should not thus have mock'd her!—Now, farewell. [Exit Eribert.
Con. Oh, brother! hard of heart!—for deeds like these There must be fearful chastening, if on high Justice doth hold her state.—And I must tell Yon desolate mother that her fair young son Is thus to perish!—Haply the dread tale May slay her too;—for heaven is merciful. —'Twill be a bitter task! [Exit Constance.
Scene II.—A ruined Tower, surrounded by Woods.
Procida.Vittoria.
Procida. Thy vassals are prepared then?
Vittoria. Yes, they wait Thy summons to their task.
Pro. Keep the flame bright, But hidden, till its hour.—Wouldst thou dare, lady, To join our councils at the night's mid-watch, In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross?
Vit. What should I shrink from?
Pro. Oh! The forest-paths Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams Thro' their high arches: but when powerful night Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds Of her mysterious winds; their aspect then Is of another and more fearful world; A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms, Wakening strange thoughts, almost too much for this, Our frail terrestrial nature.
Vit. Well I know All this, and more. Such scenes have been th' abodes Where thro' 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.
Scene III.—A Chapel, with a Monument, on which is laid a Sword.—Moonlight.
Procida.Raimond.Montalba.
Montalba. And know you not my story?
Procida. 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 ev'n 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!
Raimond. And were they realiz'd?
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.
Rai. 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 th' assassin's arm!
Rai. Oh, righteous heaven! Who had done this?
Mon. Who!
Pro. Can'st 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?
Rai. 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 the 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 th' 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.
Rai. 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.
Rai. How, my father!
Pro. No! Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach Another lesson.—But th' 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 breath'd on.—Procida! I would be tranquil—or appear so—ere I join your brave confederates. Thro' 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 amongst the Rocks.
Procida.Raimond.
Procida. And it is 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!
Raimond. 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 Thro' 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?
1 Sici. 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. That 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?
2 Sici. 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 amongst us?
Guido. 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 their's of whom you 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 her's For what she blindly works!—When slavery's cup O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant To dull our senses, thro' each burning vein Pours fever, lending a delirious strength To burst man's fetters—and they shall be burst! I have hoped, when hope seemed 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 banquetting, where the full wine-cup shines Red in the festal torch-light; 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 thus repeat Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst forth In some free festal hour, and woe to him Who first shall spare!
Rai. 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 chuse 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 foes? 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?
Sici. Be it so! If one amongst us stay th' avenging steel For love or pity, be his doom as theirs! Pledge we our faith to this!
Rai. (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?—Oh, friends! a cause Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names Of the 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 agonizing thirst, Which must be quench'd tho' death were in the draught: We must have vengeance, for our foes have left No other joy unblighted.
Pro. Oh! 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, thro' a bright 'For Ever,' shall be call'd The men who saved their country?
Rai. 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 thro' 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.
Rai. Montalba, know, I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice Might yet have power amongst 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.
Rai. Why, then, farewell: I leave you to your councils. 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?
Rai. Oh, 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 gathered 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.)
Sici. 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.
Vittoria. Valiant men! I come to ask your aid. Ye 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?
Sici. 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?
Guido. We deem'd these nuptials, lady, Thy willing choice; but 'tis a joy to find Thou art 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 best be done By what I ask of thee.
Mon. Then will we 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 unsheath'd, 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.
Guido. 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!
Sici. Fear us not. The Vesper-bell! [Exeunt omnes.
END OF ACT THE SECOND.