ACT V.
Scene I.—A Prison dimly lighted.
Raimond sleeping. Procida enters.
Pro. (gazing upon him earnestly.) Can he
Then sleep? Th’ overshadowing 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.
Raim. (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.
Raim. 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.
Raim. 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.
Raim. 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?
Raim. 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?
Raim. O father! now I feel
What high prerogatives belong to Death.
He hath a deep though 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 dewdrop. 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.—O pitying Heaven!
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle,
And tell me which is truth.
Raim. 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. O 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.
Raim. Yet, on the 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.
Raim. “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 the 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 deathbed
She gave thee to my arms.
Raim. 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!
Raim. 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.
Raim. I am prepared.
Pro. ’Tis well.
[Exit Procida.
Raim. 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.
1st Cit. The morning breaks; his time is almost come:
Will he be led this way?
2d Cit. Ay, so ’tis said
To die before that gate through which he purposed
The foe should enter in!
3d 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’ the air last night!
2d Cit. Since the great work of slaughter,
Who hath not heard them duly at those hours
Which should be silent?
3d Cit. Oh! the fearful mingling,
The terrible mimicry of human voices,
In every sound, which to the heart doth speak
Of woe and death.
2d 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.
1st Cit. Of our own fate, perchance,
These awful midnight wailings may be deem’d
An ominous prophecy. Should France regain
Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have
Stern reckoners to account with.—Hark!
[The sound of trumpets heard at a distance.
2d Cit. ’Twas but
A rushing of the breeze.
3d Cit. E’en now, ’tis said,
The hostile bands approach.
[The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer.
2d Cit. Again! that sound
Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells—
They come, they come!
Procida enters.
Pro. The foe is at your gates;
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset.
Why are ye loitering here?
Cit. 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.
Raim. And Constance then is safe! Heaven bless thee, father!
Good angels bear such comfort.
Ans. I have found
A safe asylum for thine honour’d love,
Where she may dwell until serener days,
With Saint Rosalia’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.”
Raim. 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?
Raim. 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?
Raim. 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 dead!
Raim. 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.
Raim. (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.
Raim. 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 chanting hymns in honour of the dead:
Will mine be such?
Vittoria rushes in wildly, as if pursued.
Vit. 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 watch’d 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.
Raim. His country’s curse
Rest on the slave for ever!
Vit. Then distrust,
E’en of their noble 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, through the city gates
They rush, as if all Etna’s burning streams
Pursued their wingèd steps!
Raim. 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.
Raim. 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 fane 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. (to Raimond.) Away!
Bright is the hour which brings thee 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. O lady! we obey.
[They take off Raimond’s chains. He springs up exultingly.
Raim. 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! It 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 reunite!
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.
Scene IV.—Before the Gates of Palermo.
Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates.
Voices, (without.) Montjoy! Montjoy! St Denis for Anjou!
Provençals, on!
Sicilians. Fly, fly, or all is lost!
Raimond appears in the gateway armed, and carrying a banner.
Raim. 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 call’d 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 round 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.
Raim. Here rest thee, warrior.
Mon. 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?
Raim. ’Twill be no music to thine ear, Montalba.
Gaze—read it thus!
[He lifts the visor of his helmet.
Mon. Raimond di Procida!
Raim. 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.
Scene VI.—Another part of the Field.
Procida, Guido, and other Sicilians.
Pro. 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.
Alb. 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!
Gui. O 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!—the 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 naught 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.
Raim. 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.
1st Att. (to 2d Attendant.) 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 2d Attendant.
(To Raim.) Here gentle 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 1st Attendant.
Raim. 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 him 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, though ’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 through 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.
Con. 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!
[She approaches Raimond.
Young warrior, is there aught——Thou here, my Raimond!
Thou here—and thus! Oh! is this joy or woe?
Raim. 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—
’Tis full of hope! and from thy kindled eye
Breaks e’en unwonted light, whose ardent ray
Seems born to be immortal!
Raim. ’Tis 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 the 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!
Raim. 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?
Raim. 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!
Raim. 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.
Ans. Lift up thy head,
Brave youth, excitingly! 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.
Raim. ’Tis 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.
Raim. Haste, haste, and tell my father
I was no traitor!
Pro. (rushing forward.) To thy 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 it is with thee thus?
Look on me yet!—Oh! must this woe be borne?
Raim. 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 to me 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.
Gui. 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 too 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 a 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. There comes an hour 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.