Of aught that breathes? Why, what have I to do
With far futurity? My spirit lives
But in the past. Away! when thou dost stand
On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree
Which the warm sun revives not, then return,
Strong in thy desolation: but till then,
Thou art not for our purpose; we have need
Of more unshrinking hearts.
Raim. Montalba! know
I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice