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

ACT THE FIFTH.
Scene I.—A Prison, dimly lighted.
Raimond sleeping. Procida enters.
Procida. (gazing upon him earnestly.) Can he then
sleep?—Th' o'ershadowing 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.
Raimond. (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.
Rai. 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.
Rai. 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.
Rai. 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?
Rai. 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?
Rai. Oh, Father!—Now I feel What high prerogatives belong to death. He hath a deep, tho' 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 dew-drop. 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.—Oh, pitying heaven! Speak to my soul with some dread oracle, And tell me which is truth.
Rai. 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. Oh! 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.
Rai. Yet, on that 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.
Rai. "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 th' 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 death-bed She gave thee to my arms.
Rai. 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!
Rai. 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.
Rai. I am prepared.
Pro. 'Tis well. [Exit Procida.
Rai. 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.
Scene II.—A Street of Palermo.
Many Citizens assembled.
1 Citizen. The morning breaks; his time is almost come: Will he be led this way?
2 Cit. Ay, so 'tis said, To die before that gate thro' which he purposed The foe should enter in.
3 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'th' air last night?
2 Cit. Since the great work of slaughter, Who hath not heard them duly, at those hours Which should be silent?
3 Cit. Oh! the fearful mingling, The terrible mimicry of human voices, In every sound which to the heart doth speak Of woe and death.
2 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.
1 Cit. Of our own fate, perchance These awful midnight wailings may be deem'd An ominous prophecy.—Should France regain Her power amongst us, doubt not, we shall have Stern reckoners to account with.—Hark! (The sound of trumpets is heard at distance.
2 Cit. 'Twas but A rushing of the breeze.
3 Cit. E'en now, 'tis said, The hostile bands approach. (The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer.
2 Cit. Again!—that sound Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells— They come, they come!
Procida enters.
Procida. The foe is at your gates; But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset: Why are ye loitering here?
Cits. 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.
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;
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?
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 seemed 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,
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.
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!
To the same grave ye press,—thou that dost pine 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,
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.
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!
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. 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.
Rai. 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!—'t 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 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.)
Scene IV.—Before the Gates of Palermo. Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates.
Voices. (without.) Montjoy! Montjoy! St. Denis for Anjou! Provençals, on!
Sic. Fly, fly, or all is lost!
(Raimond appears in the gateway, armed, and carrying a banner.)
Raimond. 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 called 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 around him. Ay, this is well!—Now follow me, and charge! (The Provençals rush in, but are repulsed by the Sicilians. [Exeunt.
Scene V.—Part of the Field of Battle.
Montalba enters wounded, and supported by Raimond, whose face is concealed by his helmet.
Raimond. Here rest thee, warrior.
Montalba. 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?
Rai. 'Twill be no music to thine ear, Montalba. Gaze—read it thus! (He lifts the visor of his helmet.
Mon. Raimond di Procida!
Rai. 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.
(The Scene closes.)
Scene VI. Another part of the Field. .
Procida.Guido.And other Sicilians.
Procida. 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.
Alberti. 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!
Guido. Oh, 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! th' 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 nought 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.
Scene VII.—Garden of a Convent.
Raimond is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants.
Raimond. Bear me to no dull couch, but let me die
In the bright face of nature!—Lift my helm,
That I may look on heaven.
1 Att. (to 2 Att.) Lay him to rest On this green sunny bank, and I will call Some holy sister to his aid; but thou Return unto the field, for high-born men There need the peasant's aid. [Exit 2 Att. (to Raimond) Here gentler hands Shall tend thee, warrior; for in these retreats They dwell, whose vows devote them to the care Of all that suffer. May'st thou live to bless them! [Exit 1 Att.
Rai. Thus have I wish'd to die!—'Twas a proud strife! My father bless'd th' unknown who rescued him, (Bless'd him, alas! because unknown!) and Guido, Beside me bravely struggling, call'd aloud, "Noble Sicilian, on!" Oh! had they deem’d
'Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurn'd Mine aid, tho' 'twas deliverance; and their looks Had fallen, like blights, upon me.—There is one, Whose eye ne'er turn'd on mine, but its blue light Grew softer, trembling thro' the dewy mist Raised by deep tenderness!—Oh might the soul Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish! —Is 't not her voice?
Constance enters, speaking to a Nun, who turns into another path.
Constance. Oh! happy they, kind sister, Whom thus ye tend; for it is theirs to fall With brave men side by side, when the roused heart Beats proudly to the last!—There are high souls Whose hope was such a death, and 'tis denied!
aught—thou here, my Raimond!
Rai. Joy, be it joy, my own, my blessed love, E'en on the grave's dim verge!—yes! it is joy! My Constance! victors have been crown'd, ere now, With the green shining laurel, when their brows Wore death's own impress—and it may be thus E'en yet, with me!—They freed me, when the foe Had half prevail'd, and I have proudly earn'd, With my heart's dearest blood, the meed to die Within thine arms.
Con. Oh! speak not thus—to die!
These wounds may yet be closed. (She attempts to bind his wounds.) Look on me, love! Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien, 'T is full of hope! and from thy kindled eye Breaks e'en unwonted light, whose ardent ray Seems born to be immortal!
Rai. 'T is e'en so! The parting soul doth gather all her fires Around her; all her glorious hopes, and dreams, And burning aspirations, to illume The shadowy dimness of th' untrodden path Which lies before her; and, encircled thus, Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares Are vain, and yet I bless them.
Con. Say, not vain; The dying look not thus. We shall not part!
Rai. I have seen death ere now, and known him wear Full many a changeful aspect.
Con. Oh! but none Radiant as thine, my warrior!—Thou wilt live! Look round thee!—all is sunshine—is not this A smiling world?
Rai. Ay, gentlest love, a world Of joyous beauty and magnificence, Almost too fair to leave!—Yet must we tame Our ardent hearts to this!—Oh, weep thou not!
There is no home for liberty, or love, Beneath these festal skies!—Be not deceived; My way lies far beyond!—I shall be soon That viewless thing which, with its mortal weeds Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust, Forgets not how to love!
Con. And must this be? Heaven, thou art merciful!—Oh! bid our souls Depart together!
Rai. Constance! there is strength Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved Nobly, for me:—Arouse it once again! Thy grief unmans me—and I fain would meet That which approaches, as a brave man yields With proud submission to a mightier foe. —It is upon me now!
Con. I will be calm. Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond, And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs, They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is A world, (ay, let us seek it!) where no blight Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there I shall be with thee soon!
Procida and Anselmo enter. Procida on seeing Raimond starts back.
Anselmo. Lift up thy head, Brave youth, exultingly! for lo! thine hour Of glory comes!—Oh! doth it come too late? E'en now the false Alberti hath confess'd
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doom'd To be th' atonement.
Rai. 'T is enough! Rejoice, Rejoice, my Constance! for I leave a name O'er which thou may'st weep proudly! (He sinks back. To thy breast Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart Hath touch'd my veins.
Con. And must thou leave me, Raimond? Alas! thine eye grows dim—its wandering glance Is full of dreams.
Rai. Haste, haste, and tell my father I was no traitor!
Procida. (rushing forward.) To that father's heart Return, forgiving all thy wrongs, return! Speak to me, Raimond!—Thou wert ever kind, And brave, and gentle! Say that all the past Shall be forgiven! That word from none but thee My lips e'er ask'd.—Speak to me once, my boy, My pride, my hope!—And is it with thee thus? Look on me yet!—Oh! must this woe be borne?
Rai. Off with this weight of chains! it is not meet For a crown'd conqueror!—Hark, the trumpet's voice! (A sound of triumphant music is heard, gradually approaching. Is 't not a thrilling call?—What drowsy spell Benumbs me thus?—Hence! I am free again! Now swell your festal strains, the field is won! Sing me to glorious dreams. (He dies.
Ans. The strife is past. There fled a noble spirit!
Con. Hush! he sleeps— Disturb him not!
Ans. Alas! this is no sleep From which the eye doth radiantly unclose: Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o'er! (The music continues approaching. Guido enters, with Citizens and Soldiers.
Guido. The shrines are deck'd, the festive torches blaze— Where is our brave deliverer?—We are come To crown Palermo's victor!
Ans. Ye come late. The voice of human praise doth send no echo Into the world of spirits.(The music ceases.
Pro. (after a pause.) Is this dust I look on—Raimond!—'tis but sleep—a smile On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake! Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day! My son, my injured son!
Con. (starting.) Art thou his father? I know thee now.—Hence! with thy dark stern eye, And thy cold heart!—Thou canst not wake him now! Away! he will not answer but to me, For none like me hath loved him! He is mine! Ye shall not rend him from me.
Pro. Oh! he knew Thy love, poor maid!—Shrink from me now no more! He knew thy heart—but who shall tell him now
The depth, th' intenseness, and the agony, Of my suppress'd affection?—I have learn'd All his high worth in time—to deck his grave! Is there not power in the strong spirit's woe
To force an answer from the viewless world Of the departed?—Raimond!—Speak! forgive! Raimond! my victor, my deliverer, hear! Why, what a world is this!—Truth ever bursts On the dark soul too late: And glory crowns Th' unconscious dead! And an hour comes to break The mightiest hearts!—My son! my son! is this A day of triumph?—Ay, for thee alone! (He throws himself upon the body of Raimond.
[Curtain falls.
THE END.
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES Northumberland-court.