Con. And then didst thou,
My noble Raimond! through the dreadful paths
Laid open by destruction, past the chasms,
Whose fathomless clefts, a moment’s work, had given
One burial unto thousands, rush to save
Thy trembling Constance! she who lives to bless
Thy generous love, that still the breath of heaven
Wafts gladness to her soul!
Raim. Heaven!—heaven is just!
And being so, must guard thee, sweet one! still.