Scene II — A ruined Tower surrounded by woods.
Procida, Vittoria.
Pro. Thy vassals are prepared, then?
Vit. Yes; they wait
Thy summons to their task.
Pro. Keep the flame bright,
But hidden till this hour. Wouldst thou dare, lady,
To join our councils at the night’s mid watch,
In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross?
Vit. What should I shrink from?
Pro. Oh! the forest-paths
Are dim and wild, e’en when the sunshine streams
Through their high arches; but when powerful night
Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale
Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds
Of her mysterious winds; their aspect then
Is of another and more fearful world—
A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms,
Waking strange thoughts almost too much for this—
Our frail terrestrial nature.
Vit. Well I know
All this, and more. Such scenes have been th’ abodes
Where through the silence of my soul have pass’d
Voices and visions from the sphere of those
That have to die no more! Nay, doubt it not!
If such unearthly intercourse hath e’er
Been granted to our nature, ’tis to hearts
Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone,
Unmadden’d could sustain the fearful joy
And glory of its trances! At the hour
Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth
And air with infinite viewless multitudes,
I will be with thee, Procida.
Pro. Thy presence
Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls
Of suffering and indignant men, arouse
That which may strengthen our majestic cause
With yet a deeper power. Know’st thou the spot?
Vit. Full well. There is no scene so wild and lone,
In these dim woods, but I have visited
Its tangled shades.
Pro. At midnight, then, we meet.
[Exit Procida.
Vit. Why should I fear? Thou wilt be with me—thou,
Th’ immortal dream and shadow of my soul,
Spirit of him I love! that meet’st me still
In loneliness and silence; in the noon
Of the wild night, and in the forest depths,
Known but to me; for whom thou giv’st the winds
And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice,
Till my heart faints with that o’erthrilling joy!
—Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips
Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with shame
That thou art unavenged!
[Exit Vittoria.
Scene III. — A Chapel, with a monument on which is laid a sword. — Moonlight.
Procida, Raimond, Montalba.
Mon. And know you not my story?
Pro. In the lands
Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs
Were number’d with our country’s; but their tale
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear.
I would fain hear it now.
Mon. Hark! while you spoke,
There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze,
Which even like death came o’er me. ’Twas a night
Like this, of clouds contending with the moon,
A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves,
And swift wild shadows floating o’er the earth,
Clothed with a phantom life, when, after years
Of battle and captivity, I spurr’d
My good steed homewards. Oh! what lovely dreams
Rose on my spirit! There were tears and smiles,
But all of joy! And there were bounding steps,
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love
Doth twine so fondly round the warrior’s neck
When his plumed helm is doff’d.—Hence, feeble thoughts!
—I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were mine!
Raim. And were they realised?
Mon. Youth! ask me not,
But listen! I drew near my own fair home—
There was no light along its walls, no sound
Of bugle pealing from the watch-tower’s height
At my approach, although my trampling steed
Made the earth ring, yet the wide gates were thrown
All open. Then my heart misgave me first,
And on the threshold of my silent hall
I paused a moment, and the wind swept by
With the same deep and dirge-like tone which pierced
My soul e’en now! I call’d—my struggling voice
Gave utterance to my wife’s, my children’s names.
They answer’d not. I roused my failing strength,
And wildly rush’d within.—And they were there.
Raim. And was all well?
Mon. Ay, well!—for death is well:
And they were all at rest! I see them yet,
Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail’d
To stay the assassin’s arm!
Raim. Oh, righteous Heaven!
Who had done this?
Mon. Who!
Pro. Canst thou question, who?
Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds,
In the cold-blooded revelry of crime,
But those whose yoke is on us?
Raim. Man of woe!
What words hath pity for despair like thine?
Mon. Pity!—fond youth!—My soul disdains the grief
Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies
To ask a vain companionship of tears,
And so to be relieved!
Pro. For woes like these
There is no sympathy but vengeance.
Mon. None!
Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts
Might catch the spirit of the scene! Look round!
We are in th’ awful presence of the dead;
Within yon tomb they sleep whose gentle blood
Weighs down the murderer’s soul. They sleep!—but I
Am wakeful o’er their dust! I laid my sword,
Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone,
As on an altar; and the eternal stars,
And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow,
No more to wield it save in one great cause—
The vengeance of the grave! And now the hour
Of that atonement comes!
[He takes the sword from the tomb.
Raim. My spirit burns!
And my full heart almost to bursting swells.
—Oh, for the day of battle!
Pro. Raimond, they
Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must die,
—But not in battle.
Raim. How, my father?
Pro. No!
Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach
Another lesson. But the appointed hour
Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen band,
Noble Montalba?
Mon. Leave me for a time,
That I may calm my soul by intercourse
With the still dead, before I mix with men
And with their passions. I have nursed for years,
In silence and in solitude, the flame
Which doth consume me; and it is not used
Thus to be look’d or breathed on. Procida!
I would be tranquil—or appear so—ere
I join your brave confederates. Through my heart
There struck a pang—but it will soon have pass’d.
Pro. Remember!—in the cavern by the cross.
Now follow me, my son.
[Exeunt Procida and Raimond.
Mon. (after a pause, leaning on the tomb.)
Said he, “My son?” Now, why should this man’s life
Go down in hope, thus resting on a son,
And I be desolate? How strange a sound
Was that—“my son!” I had a boy, who might
Have worn as free a soul upon his brow
As doth this youth. Why should the thought of him
Thus haunt me? When I tread the peopled ways
Of life again, I shall be pass’d each hour
By fathers with their children, and I must
Learn calmly to look on. Methinks ’twere now
A gloomy consolation to behold
All men bereft as I am! But away,
Vain thoughts!—One task is left for blighted hearts,
And it shall be fulfill’d.
Exit Montalba.