Makes hope, reality; for thou art all
My dreams had pictured thee!

RAIMOND.

Yet why so long,

Ev'n as a stranger, hast thou cross'd my paths,
One nameless and unknown?—and yet I felt
Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice.

PROCIDA.

Because I would not link thy fate with mine,
Till I could hail the day-spring of that hope
Which now is gathering round us.-Listen, youth!
Thou hast told me of a subdued, and scorn'd,
And trampled land, whose very soul is bow'd
And fashion'd to her chains: but I tell thee
Of a most generous and devoted land,
A land of kindling energies; a land
Of glorious recollections !—proudly true
To the high memory of her ancient kings,

And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast

Her alien bondage off!

RAIMOND.

And where is this?

PROCIDA.

Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily!

Her spirit is awake, and moving on,

In its deep silence mightier, to regain
Her place amongst the nations; and the hour
Of that tremendous effort is at hand.

RAIMOND.

Can it be thus indeed ?-Thou pour'st new life
Through all my burning veins !—I am as one
Awakening from a chill and death-like sleep
To the full glorious day.

PROCIDA.

Thou shalt hear more!

Thou shalt hear things which would,-which will arouse

The proud, free spirits of our ancestors

E'en from their marble rest. Yet mark me well!

Be secret!-for along my destin'd path

I yet must darkly move.-Now, follow me;

And join a band of men, in whose high hearts
There lies a nation's strength.

RAIMOND.

My noble father!

Thy words have given me all for which I pined--
An aim, a hope, a purpose!—And the blood
Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins,

As a bright fountain from its icy bonds
By the quick sun-stroke freed.

PROCIDA.

Aye, this is well!

Such natures burst men's chains!-Now, follow me.

END OF ACT THE FIRST.

[Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I-Apartment in a Palace.

ERIBERT. CONSTANCE.

CONSTANCE.

Will you not hear me?-Oh! that they who need
Hourly forgiveness, they who do but live,
While Mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars,
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus,
In their vain exercise of pageant power,
Hard and relentless!-Gentle brother, yet,
"Tis in your choice to imitate that Heaven
Whose noblest joy is pardon.

ERIBERT.

'Tis too late.

You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads

With eloquent melody-but they must die.

CONSTANCE.

What, die!-for words?-for breath, which leaves no

trace

To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends,

And is, being utter'd, gone?—Why, 'twere enough

For such a venial fault, to be deprived

One little day of man's free heritage,

Heaven's warm and sunny light!-Oh! if you deem
That evil harbours in their souls, at least

Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest,

Shall bid stern Justice wake.

ERIBERT.

I am not one

Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch

For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues

Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been

Where power sits crown'd and arm'd.-And, mark me,

sister!

To a distrustful nature it might seem

Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead

For these Sicilian rebels.

O'er my being

Suspicion holds no power. And yet take note.

-I have said, and they must die.