And the fair castles of our ancient lords,

Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear,
From thence the peals of song and laughter rise
At midnight's deepest hour.

THIRD PEASANT.

Alas! we sat

In happier days, so peacefully beneath
The olives and the vines our fathers rear'd,
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps
Flew by us in the dance! The time hath been
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er
The storm might gather. But this yoke of France
Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily

As on the crested chieftain's.

E'en to the earth.

We are bow'd

PEASANT'S CHild.

My father, tell me when

Shall the gay dance and song again resound
Amidst our chesnut-woods, as in those days
Of which thou 'rt wont to tell the joyous tale?

FIRST PEASANT.

When there are light and reckless hearts once more

In Sicily's green vales. Alas! my boy,

Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl,

To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside

The weight of work-day care :-they meet, to speak

Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts

They dare not breathe aloud.

PROCIDA (from the back-ground).

Aye, it is well

So to relieve th' o'erburden'd heart, which pants

Beneath its weight of wrongs; but better far

The stranger pilgrim, who hath sojourn'd here

Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him well;
He hath a stately bearing, and an eye

Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien accords.
Ill with such vestments. How he folds round him

His pilgrim-cloak, e'en as it were a robe

Of knightly ermine! That commanding step

Should have been used in courts and camps to move.
Mark him!

OLD PEASANT.

Nay, rather, mark him not: the times

Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts

A cautious lesson. What should bring him here?

He spoke of vengeance!

A YOUTH.

OLD PEASANT.

Peace! we are beset

By snares on every side, and we must learn

In silence and in patience to endure.
Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death.

PROCIDA (coming forward indignantly.)

The word is death! And what hath life for thee,
That thou shouldst cling to it thus? thou abject thing!
Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke,

And stamp'd with servitude. What! is it life,
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast

Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e'en then,
Strangers should catch its echo?—Is there aught
In this so precious, that thy furrow'd cheek
Is blanch'd with terror at the passing thought

Of hazarding some few and evil days,
Which drag thus poorly on ?

SOME OF THE PEASANTS.

Away, away!

Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence.

PROCIDA.

Why, what is danger?-Are there deeper ills
Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drain'd
The cup of bitterness, till nought remains
To fear or shrink from-therefore, be ye strong!
Power dwelleth with despair.-Why start ye thus
At words which are but echoes of the thoughts
Lock'd in your secret souls?-Full well I know,
There is not one amongst you, but hath nursed
Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make
One conflict of his life. I know thy wrongs,
And thine-and thine,-but if within your breasts,
There is no chord that vibrates to my voice,
Then fare ye well.

A YOUTH (coming forward).

No, no! say on, say on!

There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here,

That kindle at thy words.

PEASANT.

Thou hast a hope to give us.

If that indeed

PROCIDA.

There is hope

For all who suffer with indignant thoughts
Which work in silent strength. What! think
O'erlooks th' oppressor, if he bear awhile
His crested head on high ?—I tell you, no!
Th' avenger will not sleep. It was an hour
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king,
Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn,
On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less
Is justice throned above; and her good time
Comes rushing on in storms: that royal blood
Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth,

ye

Heaven

And hath been heard. The traces of the past
Fade in man's heart, but ne'er doth Heaven forget.

PEASANT.

Had we but arms and leaders, we are men

Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these,
What wouldst thou have us do?

PROCIDA.

Be vigilant ;

And when the signal wakes the land, arise!

The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be

A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well.

[Exit PROCIDA.