To the same bourne. Yet call it not the same:
Their graves who fall in this day’s fight will be
As altars to their country, visited
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths,
And chanting hymns in honour of the dead:
Will mine be such?
Vittoria rushes in wildly, as if pursued.
Vit. Anselmo! art thou found!
Haste, haste, or all is lost! Perchance thy voice,
Whereby they deem heaven speaks, thy lifted cross,