PROCIDA. Thou, too, come forth, From thine own halls an exile !-Dost thou make While hostile banners, o'er thy rampart walls, Wave their proud blazonry? FIRST SICILIAN. Even so. I stood Last night before my own ancestral towers On my bare head—what reck'd it ?-There was joy Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs, I' th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little deem'd Who heard their melodies!-but there are thoughts Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows Known to the mountain-echoes.-Procida ! Call on the outcast when revenge is nigh. PROCIDA. I knew a young Sicilian, one whose heart Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid, That father's blood gush'd o'er him!—and the boy SECOND SICILIAN. He bears a sheathless sword! -Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh. PROCIDA. Our band shows gallantly-but there are men To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish GUIDO. Look on me! I have a brother, a young high-soul'd boy, And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow A glorious creature!-But his doom is seal'd With theirs of whom you spoke; and I have knelt— We know so well, and spurn'd me.—But the stain PROCIDA. I call upon thee now! The land's high soul With most unconscious hands.-No praise be her's O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant To burst man's fetters-and they shall be burst! I have hoped, when hope seem'd frenzy ; but a power To make and rule its fortunes !—I have been A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, To aid our holy cause. The arm that strikes for freedom; speak! decree MONTALBA. Let them fall When dreaming least of peril!-When the heart, Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget That hate may smile, but sleeps not.-Hide the sword With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines Red in the festal torch-light; meet we there, PROCIDA. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words Scarce meet our ears. MONTALBA. Why, then, I thus repeat Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst forth Who first shall spare! RAIMOND. Must innocence and guilt Perish alike? MONTALBA. Who talks of innocence? When hath their hand been stay'd for innocence? Let them all perish!-Heaven will choose its own. Of peopled cities in its path-and this Is Heaven's dread justice-aye, and it is well! |