PROCIDA.

Oh! my son, my son!

We will not part in wrath!—the sternest hearts,
Within their proud and guarded fastnesses,

Hide something still, round which their tendrils cling
With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress
Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me!
The all which taught me that my soul was cast
In nature's mould. And I must now hold on
My desolate course alone !—Why, be it thus!
He that doth guide a nation's star, should dwell
High o'er the clouds in regal solitude,

Sufficient to himself.

RAIMOND.

Yet, on that summit,

When with her bright wings glory shadows thee,
Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath,

Yet might have soar'd as high!

PROCIDA.

No, fear thou not!

Thou 'lt be remember'd long. The canker-worm

O'th' heart is ne'er forgotten.

RAIMOND.

"Oh! not thus

I would not thus be thought of."

PROCIDA.

Let me deem

Again that thou art base !-for thy bright looks,
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth,
Then would not haunt me as th' avenging powers
Follow'd the parricide.-Farewell, farewell!

I have no tears.-Oh! thus thy mother look'd,
When, with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile,
All radiant with deep meaning, from her death-bed
She gave thee to my arms.

RAIMOND.

Now death has lost

His sting, since thou believ'st me innocent.

PROCIDA (wildly.)

Thou innocent!-Am I thy murderer then?
Away! I tell thee thou hast made my name
A scorn to men!-No! I will not forgive thee;
A traitor!-What! the blood of Procida
Filling a traitor's veins !-Let the earth drink it;

Thou wouldst receive our foes !—but they shall meet

From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold

As death can make it.-Go, prepare thy soul !

Father! yet hear me !

RAIMOND.

PROCIDA.

No! thou 'rt skill'd to make

E'en shame look fair.-Why should I linger thus ?

(Going to leave the prison he turns back for a
moment.)

If there be aught-if aught-for which thou need'st
Forgiveness-not of me, but that dread power
From whom no heart is veil'd-delay thou not
Thy prayer:-Time hurries on.

RAIMOND.

I am prepared.

PROCIDA.

'Tis well.

[Exit PROCIDA.

RAIMOND.

Men talk of torture!-Can they wreak

Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame,
Half the mind bears, and lives?-My spirit feels
Bewilder'd; on its powers this twilight gloom

Hangs like a weight of earth.-It should be morn ;

Why, then, perchance, a beam of Heaven's bright sun
Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon,

Telling of hope and mercy!

[Exit into an inner cell.

SCENE II-A Street of Palermo.

Many CITIZENS assembled.

FIRST CITIZEN.

The morning breaks; his time is almost come:

Will he be led this way?

SECOND CITIZEN.

Aye, so 'tis said,

To die before that gate through which he purposed

The foe should enter in.

THIRD CITIZEN.

"Twas a vile plot!

And yet I would my hands were pure as his

From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the sounds

I' th' air last night?

SECOND CITIZEN.

Since the great work of slaughter,

Who hath not heard them duly, at those hours

Which should be silent?

THIRD CITIZEN.

Oh! the fearful mingling,

The terrible mimicry of human voices,

In every sound which to the heart doth speak

Of woe and death.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Aye, there was woman's shrill

And piercing cry; and the low feeble wail
Of dying infants; and the half-suppress'd

Deep groan of man in his last agonies!

And now and then there swell'd upon the breeze
Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far

Than all the rest.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Of our own fate, perchance,

These awful midnight wailings may be deem'd
An ominous prophecy.-Should France regain
Her power amongst us, doubt not, we shall have
Stern reckoners to account with.-Hark!

(The sound of trumpets is heard at a distance.)