There is a work to be this eve begun
When rings the Vesper-bell; and, long before
To-morrow’s sun hath reach’d i’ th’ noonday heaven
His throne of burning glory, every sound
Of the Provençal tongue within our walls,
As by one thunderstroke—(you are pale, my son)—
Shall be for ever silenced!
Raim. What! such sounds
As falter on the lip of infancy,
In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed