Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, Child. Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?— Procida. And dost thou still refuse to share the glory Of this our daring enterprise? Raimond. Oh, father! I too, have dreamt of glory, and the word Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice, Whereby 'twas won, the high exploits, whose tale Than such as thou requirest. Proc. Every deed Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim The freedom of our country; and the sword Alike is honored in the patriot's hand, Searching, 'midst warrior hosts the heart which gave Rai. (Turning away.) There is no path but one Proc. Wouldst thou ask the man Who to the earth hath dashed a nation's chains, Rent as with heaven's own lightning, by what means To that most bright and sovereign destiny Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it called Rai. Father! my soul yet kindles at the thought E'en from thy voice.-The high remembrances Of other days are stirring in the heart Where thou didst plant them; and they speak of men Acts, that would bear heaven's light.-And such be mine! The praise and blessings of all valiant hearts Proc. What wouldst thou do? Rai. I would go forth, and rouse the indignant land Than hosts can wield against her?—I would rouse Proc. Aye! and give time and warning to the foe When rings the vesper bell! and, long before Of the provençal tongue within our walls, Rai. What! such sounds As falter on the lip of infancy In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed Proc. Since thou dost feel Such horror of our purpose, in thy power Are means that might avert it. Rai. Speak! oh speak! Proc. How would those rescued thousands bless thy name Shouldst thou betray us! Rai. Father! I can bear Aye, proudly woo-the keenest questioning Of thy soul-gifted eye; which almost seems Proc. (After a pause.) Thou hast a brow Clear as the day-and yet I doubt thee, Raimond! I doubt thee!-See thou waver not-take heed! Time lifts the veil from all things! (Exit.) Rai. Oh! bitter day, When, at the crushing of our glorious world, To realize its dreams?-Aye, shrinking not SELECTION VI. MORDENT-LENOX.-Holcraft. Mordent. We are now in private. Lenox. I am glad we are. Mor. And now, sir, I insist on a clear and explicit answer. Where may I find Joanna ? Len. Nay, sir, where may I find Joanna? Mor. Mr. Lenox, I will not be trifled with; where is she? Len. Nor will I be trifled with, Mr. Mordent: I say where is she? The contrivance was your own. I know you. The moment you set your eyes on her, you began your treacherous plots to secure her affections; and, when you found I would not resign mine at your persuasion, you put them in practice, while you treacherously pretended to secure her to me. I tell you, I know you. Mor. This will not serve, sir; it is all evasion. Len. Ay, sir, it is evasion! cunning, cruel, base evasion! and I affirm she is in your possession. Mor. Mr. Lenox, I am at this moment a determined and desperate man, and must be answered. Where is she? Len. Sir, I am as determined and desperate as yourself. and I say where is she? For you alone can tell. Mor. "Tis false! Len. (Going up to him.) He is the falsest of the false that dares whisper such a word. Mor. Hark ye, sir! I understand your meaning, and came purposely provided. (Draws a pair of pistols.) Take your choice; they are loaded. Len. Oh! with all my heart! Come, sir! Mor. (Placing himself.) Foot to foot! Len. Why don't you unlock your pistol? Len. Why do you turn it out of the line? (Pause.) I see your intention. Mordent, you are tired of life and want me to murder you. Hang it, man, that is not treating your friend like a friend. Kill me if you will, but don't make me your assassin. Mor. Nay, kill me, or tell me where I may find the wretched Joanna. Len. Fiends seize me, if I can tell you! I know not where, or what is become of her. Mor. Your behavior tells me you are sincere; and to convince you at once that I am no less so, know-she is my daughter. Len. Your daughter!-I'll seek the world through with you to find her. Forgive me! Mor. Would I could forgive myself! Len. But it seems, then, she has escaped, and is perhaps in safety. Mor. Oh! that she were! Let us retire. SELECTION VII. ALBERTO―THEODORE.—Anonymous. Alberto. Enter and fear not, trembler. Thou shalt live. Theodore. Ay, that I feared. Alb. Dost hear me, That thou shalt live. Theo. I feared so. boy? I Alb. Wouldst thou die? say, Theo. If it pleased heaven, most willingly. I know In the sun's blessed light, or feel the touch All idly babbling to the moon, or taste The morning breath of flowers. The thousand charms A thrilling pleasantness, which send a glow leaves My throne again. Reign! Reign! I have forgot Alb. Boy! boy! Cling not about me thus. Theo. Thou wilt have mercy; Thy heart is softening. All. "Tis too late. To reign, And he at liberty! I am a child I seemed to waver. this child's gentleness, For I would root out hope and fear, and plant Rest thee content. No harm shall happen thee. Theo. (Exit Alberto.) Content! Oh mockery of grief! content! Was't not enough to take away my crown, To mew me up here in a living tomb, Must bid me be content! Would I were dead! As hermits use through the long silent hours. |