Who turn'd the tide of battle; he whose path ALBERTI is brought in wounded, and fettered. ALBERTI. Procida! PROCIDA. Be silent, traitor!-Bear him from my sight Unto your deepest dungeons. ALBERTI. In the grave A nearer home awaits me.-Yet one word Ere my voice fail-thy son— PROCIDA. Speak, speak! ALBERTI. Thy son Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait'rous plot Was mine alone. (He is led away.) PROCIDA. Attest it, earth and Heaven! My son is guiltless!-Hear it, Sicily! The blood of Procida is noble still! -My son!-He lives, he lives!-His voice shall speak Forgiveness to his sire!-His name shall cast Its brightness o'er my soul! GUIDO. Oh, day of joy! The brother of my heart is worthy still The lofty name he bears. ANSELMO enters. PROCIDA. Anselmo, welcome! In a glad hour we meet, for know, my son Is guiltless. ANSELMO. And victorious! by his arm All hath been rescued. PROCIDA. How! th' unknown ANSELMO. Thy noble Raimond! By Vittoria's hand Freed from his bondage in that awful hour Was he! PROCIDA. Now my cup Of joy too brightly mantles!-Let me press My warrior to a father's heart-and die; For life hath nought beyond!-Why comes he not? ANSELMO. Temper this proud delight. PROCIDA. What means that look? He hath not fallen? ANSELMO. He lives. PROCIDA. Away, away! Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour Atone for all his wrongs! ! [Exeunt. SCENE VII.-Garden of a Convent. RAIMOND is led in wounded, leaning on ATTENDANTS. RAIMOND. Bear me to no dull couch, but let me die In the bright face of nature !-Lift my helm, That I may look on heaven. FIRST ATTENDANT (to SECOND ATTENDANT.) On this green sunny bank, and I will call Some holy sister to his aid; but thou There need the peasant's aid. (TO RAIMOND.) [Exit SECOND Attendant. Here gentler hands Shall tend thee, warrior; for in these retreats They dwell, whose vows devote them to the care Of all that suffer. May'st thou live to bless them! [Exit FIRST ATtendant. RAIMOND. Thus have I wish'd to die!-'Twas a proud strife! Raised by deep tenderness!-Oh might the soul Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish! Is 't not her voice? CONSTANCE enters, speaking to a NUN, who turns into another path. CONSTANCE. Oh! happy they, kind sister, Whom thus ye tend; for it is theirs to fall With brave men side by side, when the roused heart Young warrior, is there aught-thou here, my Raimond! RAIMOND. Joy, be it joy, my own, my blessed love, E'en on the grave's dim verge !-yes! it is joy! |