GUIDO.

Look on me!

I have a brother, a young high-soul'd boy,

And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow
That wears, amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is

A glorious creature!-But his doom is seal'd

With theirs of whom you spoke; and I have knelt—
-Aye, scorn me not! 'twas for his life-I knelt
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on
That heartless laugh of cold malignity

We know so well, and spurn'd me.-But the stain
Of shame like this, takes blood to wash it off,
And thus it shall be cancell'd !—Call on me,

When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.

PROCIDA.

I call upon thee now! The land's high soul
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues
To deeper life before it. In his chains,
The peasant dreams of freedom!-aye, 'tis thus
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame

With most unconscious hands.-No praise be her's
For what she blindly works!-When slavery's cup

O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant
To dull our senses, through each burning vein
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength

To burst man's fetters-and they shall be burst!

I have hoped, when hope seem'd frenzy ; but a power
Abides in human will, when bent with strong
Unswerving energy on one great aim,

To make and rule its fortunes!-I have been
A wanderer in the fulness of my years,

A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas,
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands,

To aid our holy cause.

And aid is near:

But we must give the signal.

Now, before

The majesty of yon pure Heaven, whose eye

Is on our hearts, whose righteous arm befriends

The arm that strikes for freedom; speak! decree
The fate of our oppressors.

MONTALBA.

Let them fall

When dreaming least of peril !-When the heart,

Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget

That hate may smile, but sleeps not.-Hide the sword

With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls

Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines

Red in the festal torch-light; meet we there,
And bid them welcome to the feast of death.

PROCIDA.

Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words

Scarce meet our ears.

MONTALBA.

Why, then, I thus repeat

Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst forth
In some free festal hour, and woe to him

Who first shall spare !

RAIMOND.

Must innocence and guilt

Perish alike?

MONTALBA.

Who talks of innocence?

When hath their hand been stay'd for innocence ?

Let them all perish!-Heaven will choose its own.
Why should their children live?—The earthquake whelms
Its undistinguish'd thousands, making graves

Of peopled cities in its path—and this

Is Heaven's dread justice-aye, and it is well!
Why then should we be tender, when the skies
Deal thus with man ?-What, if the infant bleed?
Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs?

What, if the youthful bride perchance should fall
In her triumphant beauty?-Should we pause?
As if death were not mercy to the pangs

Which make our lives the records of our foes?
Let them all perish!-And if one be found
Amidst our band, to stay th' avenging steel
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love,

Then be his doom as theirs!

[A pause.

Why gaze ye thus?

Brethren, what means your silence?

SICILIANS.

Be it so!

If one amongst us stay th' avenging steel
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs!
Pledge we our faith to this!

RAIMOND (rushing forward indignantly).

Our faith to this!

No! I but dreamt I heard it!-Can it be?

My countrymen, my father!-Is it thus

That freedom should be won?-Awake! Awake

To loftier thoughts!-Lift up, exultingly,

On the crown'd heights, and to the sweeping winds,
Your glorious banner!-Let your trumpet's blast
Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud,

Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear
The stranger's yoke no longer!-What is he
Who carries on his practised lip a smile,
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits.
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings?
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from,
And our blood curdle at-Aye, yours and mine-
A murderer!-Heard ye?-Shall that name with ours
Go down to after days?-Oh, friends! a cause
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names
Of the elder time as rallying-words to men,
Sounds full of might and immortality!

And shall not ours be such?

MONTALBA.

Fond dreamer, peace!

Fame! What is fame ?-Will our unconscious dust

Start into thrilling rapture from the grave,

At the vain breath of praise ?-I tell thee, youth,

Our souls are parch'd with agonizing thirst,

Which must be quench'd though death were in the

draught:

We must have vengeance, for our foes have left

No other joy unblighted.