ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.-A Prison, dimly lighted.

RAIMOND sleeping.

PROCIDA enters.

PROCIDA (gazing upon him earnestly).

Can he then sleep?-Th' o'ershadowing night hath wrapt
Earth, at her stated hours-the stars have set

Their burning watch; and all things hold their course
Of wakefulness and rest; yet hath not sleep

Sat on mine eyelids since-but this avails not!

-And thus he slumbers!" Why this mien doth seem As if its soul were but one lofty thought

Of an immortal destiny!"—his brow

Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens
Are imaged silently.-Wake, Raimond, wake!

Thy rest is deep.

RAIMOND (starting up).

My father! Wherefore here?

I am prepared to die, yet would I not

Fall by thy hand.

PROCIDA.

"Twas not for this I came.

RAIMOND.

Then wherefore?-and upon thy lofty brow

Why burns the troubled flush?

PROCIDA.

Perchance 'tis shame.

Yes! it may well be shame!-for I have striven
With nature's feebleness, and been o'erpower'd.
-Howe'er it be, 'tis not for thee to gaze,
Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains.
Arise, and follow me; but let thy step

Fall without sound on earth: I have prepared
The means for thy escape.

RAIMOND.

What! thou! the austere,

The inflexible Procida! hast thou done this,

Deeming me guilty still?

PROCIDA.

Upbraid me not!

It is even so. There have been nobler deeds

By Roman fathers done,-but I am weak.

Therefore, again I say, arise! and haste,

For the night wanes. Thy fugitive course must be

To realms beyond the deep; so let us part

In silence, and for ever.

RAIMOND.

Let him fly

Who holds no deep asylum in his breast,

Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men !

-I can sleep calmly here.

PROCIDA.

Art thou in love

With death and infamy, that so thy choice

Is made, lost boy! when freedom courts thy grasp?

RAIMOND.

Father! to set th' irrevocable seal

Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me,
There needs but flight.-What should I bear from this,
My native land?-A blighted name, to rise
And part me, with its dark remembrances,
For ever from the sunshine!—O'er my soul
Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny

Float in dim beauty through the gloom; but here,
On earth, my hopes are closed.

PROCIDA.

Thy hopes are closed!

And what were they to mine?-Thou wilt not fly!
Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn
How proudly guilt can talk !-Let fathers rear
Their offspring henceforth, as the free wild birds
Foster their young; when these can mount alone,
Dissolving nature's bonds-why should it not
Be so with us?

RAIMOND.

Oh, father!-Now I feel

What high prerogatives belong to death.
He hath a deep though voiceless eloquence,
To which I leave my cause. "His solemn veil
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues,
And in its vast, oblivious fold, for ever

Give shelter to our faults."-When I am gone,
The mists of passion which have dimm'd my name
Will melt like day-dreams; and my memory then
Will be-not what it should have been-for I

Must

pass without my fame-but yet, unstain'd As a clear morning dew-drop. Oh! the grave Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary's,

And they should be my own!

PROCIDA.

Now, by just Heaven,

I will not thus be tortured!-Were my heart
But of thy guilt or innocence assured,

I could be calm again. "But, in this wild
Suspense, this conflict and vicissitude
Of opposite feelings and convictions-What!
Hath it been mine to temper and to bend
All spirits to my purpose; have I raised
With a severe and passionless energy,
From the dread mingling of their elements,

Storms which have rock'd the earth?-And shall I

Thus fluctuate, as a feeble reed, the scorn

And plaything of the winds?"-Look on me, boy!
Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep
Its heart's dark secret close.-Oh, pitying Heaven!
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle,
And tell me which is truth.

RAIMOND.

I will not plead.

I will not call th' Omnipotent to attest

My innocence. No, father, in thy heart

I know my birthright shall be soon restored;
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed
The great absolver.

now