BEATRICE.
Oh, she is gracious
As the sun's orient beam! Yes! I behold her;
Fond memory wakes;—and from my bosom's depths
Her godlike presence rises to my view!
I see around her snowy neck descend
The tresses of her raven hair, that shade
The form of sculptured loveliness; I see
The pale, high-thoughted brow; the darkening glance
Of her large lustrous orbs; I hear the tones
Of soul-fraught sweetness!
DON MANUEL.
'Tis herself!
BEATRICE.
This day,
Perchance had give me to her arms, and knit
Our souls in everlasting love;—such bliss
I have renounced, yes! I have lost a mother
For thee!
DON MANUEL.
Console thyself, Messina's princess
Henceforth shall call thee daughter; to her feet
I lead thee; come—she waits. What hast thou said?
BEATRICE.
Thy mother and Don Caesar's? Never! never!
DON MANUEL.
Thou shudderest! Whence this horror? Hast thou known
My mother? Speak——
BEATRICE.
O grief! O dire misfortune!
Alas! that e'er I live to see this day!
DON MANUEL.
What troubles thee? Thou know'st me, thou hast found,
In the poor stranger knight, Messina's prince!
BEATRICE.
Give me the dear unknown again! With him
On earth's remotest wilds I could be blest!
DON CAESAR (behind the scene).
Away! What rabble throng is here?