PROCIDA. Oh! the forest-paths Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams Is of another and more fearful world; A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms, Wakening strange thoughts, almost too much for this, Our frail terrestrial nature. VITTORIA. Well I know All this, and more. Such scenes have been th' abodes That have to die no more!-Nay, doubt it not! Been granted to our nature, 'tis to hearts Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone, And glory of its trances !—at the hour Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth And air with infinite, viewless multitudes, I will be with thee, Procida. PROCIDA. Thy presence Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls With yet a deeper power.-Know'st thou the spot? Full well. VITTORIA. There is no scene so wild and lone In these dim woods, but I have visited Its tangled shades. PROCIDA. At midnight then we meet. [Exit PROCIDA. VITTORIA. Why should I fear?-Thou wilt be with me, thou, Th' immortal dream and shadow of my soul, In loneliness and silence; in the noon Of the wild night, and in the forest-depths, Known but to me; for whom thou giv'st the winds And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice, Till my heart faints with that o'erthrilling joy! -Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with shame, [Exit VITTORIA. SCENE III.-A Chapel, with a Monument, on which is laid a. Sword.-Moonlight. Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs I would fain hear it now. MONTALBA. Hark! while you spoke, There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze, Which ev'n like death came o'er me :-'twas a night Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, My good steed homewards.-Oh! what lovely dreams When his plumed helm is doff'd.—Hence, feeble thoughts! And were they realized? RAIMOND. MONTALBA. Youth! Ask me not, But listen!-I drew near my own fair home; At my approach, although my trampling steed Made the earth ring; yet the wide gates were thrown All open. Then my heart misgave me first, open.-Then And on the threshold of my silent hall I paused a moment, and the wind swept by With the same deep and dirge-like tone which pierced My soul e'en now.-I call'd-my struggling voice RAIMOND. And was all well? MONTALBA. Aye, well!-for death is well, And they were all at rest!—I see them yet, Can'st thou question, who? Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds, In the cold-blooded revelry of crime, But those whose yoke is on us? RAIMOND. Man of woe! What words hath pity for despair like thine? |