What, if the youthful bride perchance should fall
In her triumphant beauty?-Should we pause?
As if death were not mercy to the pangs
Which make our lives the records of our foes?
Let them all perish!-And if one be found
Amidst our band, to stay th' avenging steel
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love,

Then be his doom as theirs!

Why gaze ye thus ?

Brethren, what means your silence?

SICILIANS.

Be it so!

[A pause.

If one amongst us stay th' avenging steel
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs!
Pledge we our faith to this!

RAIMOND (rushing forward indignantly).

Our faith to this!

No! I but dreamt I heard it!-Can it be?

My countrymen, my father!-Is it thus

That freedom should be won?-Awake! Awake

To loftier thoughts!-Lift up, exultingly,

On the crown'd heights, and to the sweeping winds,
Your glorious banner!-Let your trumpet's blast
Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud,

Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear
The stranger's yoke no longer!-What is he
Who carries on his practised lip a smile,
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings?
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from,
And our blood curdle at-Aye, yours and mine-
A murderer!-Heard ye?-Shall that name with ours
Go down to after days?-Oh, friends! a cause
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names
Of the elder time as rallying-words to men,
Sounds full of might and immortality!

And shall not ours be such?

MONTALBA.

Fond dreamer, peace!

Fame! What is fame ?-Will our unconscious dust

Start into thrilling rapture from the grave,

At the vain breath of praise ?-I tell thee, youth,

Our souls are parch'd with agonizing thirst,

Which must be quench'd though death were in the

draught:

We must have vengeance, for our foes have left

No other joy unblighted.

PROCIDA.

Oh! my son,

The time is past for such high dreams as thine.
Thou know'st not whom we deal with. Knightly faith
And chivalrous honour, are but things whereon
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge.
And, for our names-whate'er the deeds, by which
We burst our bondage-is it not enough

That in the chronicle of days to come,

We, through a bright For Ever,' shall be call'd
The men who saved their country?

RAIMOND.

Many a land

Hath bow'd beneath the yoke, and then arisen,
As a strong lion rending silken bonds,

And on the open field, before high Heaven,
Won such majestic vengeance, as hath made
Its name a power on earth.-Aye, nations own
It is enough of glory to be call'd

The children of the mighty, who redeem'd
Their native soil-but not by means like these.

MONTALBA.

I have no children.-Of Montalba's blood

Not one red drop doth circle through the veins
Of aught that breathes !-Why, what have I to do
With far futurity?-My spirit lives

But in the past.-Away! when thou dost stand

On this fair earth, as doth a blasted tree
Which the warm sun revives not, then return,
Strong in thy desolation: but, till then,

Thou art not for our purpose; we have need
Of more unshrinking hearts.

RAIMOND.

Montalba, know,

I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice
Might yet have power amongst you, I would say,
Associates, leaders, be avenged! but yet

As knights, as warriors!

MONTALBA.

Peace! have we not borne

Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains?

We are not knights and warriors.-Our bright crests Have been defiled and trampled to the earth.

Boy! we are slaves-and our revenge shall be

Deep as a slave's disgrace.

RAIMOND.

Why, then, farewell:

I leave you to your counsels. He that still
Would hold his lofty nature undebased,

And his name pure, were but a loiterer here.

PROCIDA.

And is it thus indeed?-dost thou forsake

Our cause, my son ?

RAIMOND.

Oh, father! what proud hopes

This hour hath blighted !—yet, whate'er betide,

It is a noble privilege to look up

Fearless in heaven's bright face-and this is mine,

And shall be still.

PROCIDA.

[Exit RAIMOND.

He's gone!-Why, let it be!

I trust our Sicily hath many a son

Valiant as mine.-Associates! 'tis decreed

Our foes shall perish. We have but to name

The hour, the scene, the signal.

MONTALBA.

It should be

In the full city, when some festival

Hath gathered throngs, and lull'd infatuate hearts

To brief security. Hark! is there not