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VITTORIA.

Love!-make love's name thy spell,

And I am strong!-the very word calls up

From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, array'd
In arms against thee!-Know'st thou whom I loved,
While my soul's dwelling-place was still on earth?
One who was born for empire, and endow'd
With such high gifts of princely majesty,

As bow'd all hearts before him!-Was he not
Brave, royal, beautiful?—And such he died;
He died!-hast thou forgotten?-And thou 'rt here,
Thou meet'st my glance with eyes which coldly look'd,
-Coldly!-nay, rather with triumphant gaze,
Upon his murder!-Desolate as I am,

Yet in the mien of thine affianced bride,

Oh, my lost Conradin! there should be still
Somewhat of loftiness, which might o'erawe
The hearts of thine assassins.

ERIBERT.

Haughty dame !

If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed,

Know, danger is around thee: thou hast foes

That seek thy ruin, and my power alone

Can shield thee from their arts.

VITTORIA.

Provençal, tell

Thy tale of danger to some happy heart,

Which hath its little world of loved ones round,
For whom to tremble; and its tranquil joys
That make earth, Paradise. I stand alone;
-They that are blest may fear.

ERIBERT.

Is there not one

Who ne'er commands in vain ?-proud lady, bend

Thy spirit to thy fate; for know that he,
Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path

O'er the bow'd neck of prostrate Sicily,

Hath borne him to dominion; he, my king,

Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon

My deeds have well deserved; and who hath power Against his mandates?

VITTORIA.

Viceroy, tell thy lord,

That e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land,
Souls may not all be fetter'd. Oft, ere now,

Conquerors have rock'd the earth, yet fail'd to tame
Unto their purposes, that restless fire,

Inhabiting man's breast.-A spark bursts forth,

And so they perish!-'tis the fate of those
Who sport with lightning-and it may be his.
-Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free.

ERIBERT.

'Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart to bear
The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again
Bethink thee, lady!-Love may change-hath chang'd
To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye

Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well.

-Look to it yet!-To-morrow I return.

VITTORIA.

[Exit ERIBERT.

To-morrow!-Some ere now have slept, and dreamt

Of morrows which ne'er dawn'd-or ne'er for them;
So silently their deep and still repose

Hath melted into death !—Are there not balms
In nature's boundless realm, to pour out sleep
Like this, on me?—Yet should my spirit still
Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear
To his a glorious tale of his own isle,

Free and avenged.-Thou should'st be now at work,
In wrath, my native Etna! who dost lift

Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high,

Through the red heaven of sunset !-sleep'st thou still,

With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread

The glowing vales beneath?

(PROCIDA enters disguised.)

Ha! who art thou,

Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step

Dost steal upon me?

PROCIDA.

One, o'er whom hath pass'd

All that can change man's aspect!-Yet not long
Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness.

-I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous,

Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence.
-Know'st thou this, lady?—

VITTORIA.

[He shows a ring.

Righteous Heaven! the pledge

Amidst his people from the scaffold thrown
By him who perish'd, and whose kingly blood
E'en yet is unatoned.-My heart beats high-
-Oh, welcome, welcome! thou art Procida,
Th' Avenger, the Deliverer!

PROCIDA.

Call me so

When my great task is done. Yet who can tell

If the return'd be welcome ?-Many a heart
Is changed since last we met.

VITTORIA.

Why dost thou gaze,

With such a still and solemn earnestness,

Upon my alter'd mien?

PROCIDA.

That I may read

If to the widow'd love of Conradin,

Or the proud Eribert's triumphant bride,

I now entrust my fate.

VITTORIA.

Thou, Procida!

That thou shouldst wrong me thus!—Prolong thy gaze Till it hath found an answer.

PROCIDA.

'Tis enough.

I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change
Is from death's hue to fever's; in the wild
Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye,
And in thy wasted form. Aye, 'tis a deep
And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace,
Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters
Of noble suffering;-on thy brow the same

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