Things, which we love with such deep tenderness, CONSTANCE. Then there's a respite still. Days!-not a day but in its course may bring Some strange vicissitude to turn aside Th' impending blow we shrink from.-Fare thee well. -Oh, Raimond! this is not our last farewell? Thou wouldst not so deceive me? RAIMOND. (returning) Gentlest and best beloved! we meet again. Doubt me not, [Exit CONSTANCE. RAIMOND (after a pause). When shall I breathe in freedom, and give scope To those untameable and burning thoughts, And restless aspirations, which consume My heart i' th' land of bondage?—Oh! with you, Ye everlasting images of power, And of infinity! thou blue-rolling deep, And you, ye stars! whose beams are characters With you my soul finds room, and casts aside Of sea and heaven with me. (PROCIDA enters unobserved.) It is the hour He named, and yet he comes not. PROCIDA (coming forward). He is here. RAIMOND. Now, thou mysterious stranger, thou, whose glance Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue Thought, like a spirit, haunting its lone hours; Reveal thyself; what art thou? PROCIDA. One, whose life Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms, With still a mighty aim.-But now the shades Of eve are gathering round me, and I come RAIMOND. Seek'st thou for peace? This is no land of peace; unless that deep And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men's thoughts Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien With a dull hollow semblance of repose, May so be call'd. PROCIDA. There are such calms full oft Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been RAIMOND. Why, then, thou art welcome, stranger! to the land Doth search distrustfully the brother's face; Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour, Should pour out some rash word, which roving winds To wear a foreign yoke. PROCIDA. It matters not To him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit, To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, To the poor common privilege of breathing.— RAIMOND. What wouldst thou with me? I deem'd thee, by th' ascendant soul which lived, For aught on earth.-But thou art like the rest. PROCIDA. I would counsel thee. Thou must do that which men- -aye, valiant men,— Hourly submit to do; in the proud court, And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey ? It is because I will not clothe myself In a vile garb of coward semblances, That now, e'en now, I struggle with my heart, And seek my country on some distant shore, |