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

ACT THE THIRD.
Scene I.—Apartment in a Palace.
Eribert.Vittoria.
Vittoria. 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.
Eribert. 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 thro' the far futurity, And, as the shadowy visions of events Develope on his gaze, midst their dim throng, Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, "This will bring happiness?"—Who shall do this?
—Why, 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 but too bless'd Proving my homage thus.
Vit. Why, then, 't is 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 am 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.
Scene II.—The Sea-shore.
Procida.Raimond.
Procida. And dost thou still refuse to share the glory Of this, our daring enterprize?
Raimond. Oh, 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 't was 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 thro' the gloom Of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch, At dead of night,
Rai. (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 stern necessity, and not a crime!
Rai. 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! Oh, 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?
Rai. I would go forth, and rouse th' indignant land To generous combat. Why should freedom strike Mantled with darkness?—Is there not more strength E'en 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.
Rai. 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.
Rai. Speak! Oh speak!
Pro. How would those rescued thousands bless thy name Shouldst thou betray us!
Rai. 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 thro' 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.
Rai. And 'tis thus Youth fades from off our spirit; and the robes Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith We clothed our idols, drop!—O! 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 realize 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.
Scene III.—Gardens of a Palace.
Constance, alone.
Constance. 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!
Rai. 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!
Rai. 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! blessed 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.
Rai. 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 phantasy 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.
Rai. It may not be. Oh! 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! these blue transparent skies, And sun-beams pouring a more buoyant life Thro' each glad thrilling vein, will brightly chase All thought of evil.—Why, the very air Breathes of delight!—Thro' all its glowing realms Doth music blend with fragance, and e'en here The city's voice of jubilee is heard
Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds Of human joy!
Rai. There lie far deeper things,— Things, that may darken thought for life, beneath That city's festive semblance.—I have pass'd Thro' 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?
Rai. It was a day Of festival, like this; the city sent Up thro' 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! thro' 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!
Rai. 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?
Rai. It will not, love! That hour will bring no bridal!—Nought 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 woulds't 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.
Rai. 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 phantasies, 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.
Scene IV.—Room in the Citadel of Palermo.
Alberti.De Couci.
De Couci. Said'st thou this night?
Alberti. 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, tho' 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 Mayst 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, Tho' 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 Thro' 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 thro' the city, recklessly dispersed, Unarm'd and unprepared, my soldiers revel, E'en on the brink of fate.—I must away. [Exit De Couci.
Scene V.—A Banquetting Hall.
Provençal Nobles assembled.
1 Noble. Joy be to this fair meeting!—Who hath seen The viceroy's bride ?
2 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.
3 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?
2 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!
1 Noble. Is this Vittoria fair?
2 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.
1 Noble. Hush! they come.
Enter Eribert, Vittoria, Constance, and others.
Eribert. Welcome, my noble friends!—there must not lower One clouded brow to-day in Sicily! Behold my bride!
Nobles. Receive our homage, lady!
Vittoria. 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!
1 Noble (apart.) Mark'd you her glance?
2 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 sword's 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 blessed 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?
1 Noble, (aside.) What mean her words?
2 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.)
Mess. 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 ought 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 power shall breathe, to-night,  In the sound of the Vesper-bell!
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.)
Procida. 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 reached thee in thy mid career, Thou reveller in a nation's agonies!
(The Provençals are driven off, and 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, thro' 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 stern 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?" —Oh! 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 looked on man's last pangs, thou shouldst, by this, Be perfect how to die! [Exit Vittoria.
Raimond enters.
Raimond. 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.) Oh heaven! be merciful, As thou art just!—for he is now where nought But mercy can avail him!—It is past!
Guido enters, with his sword drawn.
Guido (to Raimond.) I've sought thee long—Why art thou lingering here? Haste, follow me!—Suspicion with thy name Joins that word—Traitor!
Rai. Traitor!——Guido?
Guido. 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!
Rai. 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 know'st me not!
Guido. Raimond di Procida! If thou art he whom once I deemed so noble— Call me thy friend no more! [Exit Guido.
Rai. (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.
END OF ACT THE THIRD.