In woe, in poverty’s obscurest cell,
Say but he lives—and I will track his steps
E’en to earth’s verge!
Pro. It may be that he lives,
Though long his name hath ceased to be a word
Familiar in man’s dwellings. But its sound
May yet be heard! Raimond di Procida,
Rememberest thou thy father?
Raim. From my mind
His form hath faded long, for years have pass’d