A fearful burst!-Vittoria! brood no more
In silence o'er thy sorrows, but go forth
Amidst thy vassals (yet be secret still)
And let thy breath give nurture to the spark
Thou'lt find already kindled. I move on
In shadow, yet awakening in my path
That which shall startle nations.

Fare thee well.

Vittoria. When shall we meet again?-Are we

not those

Whom most he loved on earth, and think'st thou not That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near While thus we hold communion?

Procida. Yes, I feel Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee, Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb; He shall have nobler tribute!-I must hence, But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. [Exeunt separately.

SCENE III. The Sea-Shore.

RAIMOND DI PROCIDA, CONSTANCE.

Constance. There is a shadow far within your eye, Which hath of late been deepening. You were wont Upon the clearness of your open brow

To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round
Joy like our southern sun. It is not well,

If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soul,
To hide it from affection. Why is this,
My Raimond, why is this?

Raimond.

Oh! from the dreams

Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still
A wild and stormy wakening?-They depart,
Light after light, our glorious visions fade,
The vaguely beautiful! till earth, unveil'd,
Lies pale around; and life's realities

Press on the soul, from its unfathom❜d depth
Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts,
In all their fearful strength!-'Tis ever thus,
And doubly so with me; for I awoke

With high aspirings, making it a curse

To breathe where noble minds are bow'd; as here. To breathe!-It is not breath!

Constance.

I know thy grief,

-And is't not mine? for those devoted men Doom'd with their life to expiate some wild word, Born of the social hour. Oh! I have knelt,

E'en at my brother's feet, with fruitless tears,
Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut
Against my voice; yet will I not forsake

The cause of mercy.

Raimond.

Waste not thou thy prayers,

Oh, gentle love, for them. There's little need
For Pity, though the galling chain be worn
By some few slaves the less. Let them depart!
There is a world beyond the oppressor's reach,
And thither lies their way.

Alas! I see

Constance. That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul. Raimond. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my words, From feelings hourly stung, have caught, perchance, A tone of bitterness.-Oh! when thine eyes, With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are fix'd

Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget

All else in their soft balms; and yet I came
To tell thee

Constance. What? What wouldst thou say? O speak!

Thou wouldst not leave me!

Raimond.

I have cast a cloud,

The shadow of dark thoughts and ruin'd fortunes,
O'er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone,
Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more
In the clear sunny light of youth and joy,
E'en as before we met-before we loved!
Constance. This is but mockery.-Well thou
know'st thy love

Hath given me nobler being; made my heart
A home for all the deep sublimities

Of strong affection; and I would not change
Th' exalted life I draw from that pure source,
With all its chequer'd hues of hope and fear,
Ev'n for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind!
Have I deserved this?

Raimond.

Oh! thou hast deserved
A love less fatal to thy peace than mine.
Think not 'tis mockery!-But I cannot rest
To be the scorn'd and trampled thing I am
In this degraded land. Its very skies,
That smile as if but festivals were held
Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down
With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine
For freedom's charter'd air. I would go forth
To seek my noble father; he hath been
Too long a lonely exile, and his name

Seems fading in the dim obscurity
Which gathers round my fortunes.

Constance.

Must we part?

And is it come to this? Oh! I have still
Deem'd it enough of joy with thee to share
E'en grief itself-and now-but this is vain;
Alas! too deep, too fond, is woman's love,
Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves
The treasures of her soul !

Raimond.

Oh, speak not thus !
Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold
Upon my inmost heart.—I leave thee but
To be more worthy of a love like thine.

For I have dreamt of fame!-A few short years,
And we may yet be blest.

Constance.

A few short years! Less time may well suffice for death and fate To work all change on earth!-To break the ties Which early love had form'd; and to bow down Th' elastic spirit, and to blight each flower Strewn in life's crowded path!-But be it so! Be it enough to know that happiness

Meets thee on other shores.

Raimond.

Where'er I roam,

Thou shalt be with my soul!-Thy soft low voice
Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain
Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back
Life's morning freshness.-Oh! that there should be
Things, which we love with such deep tenderness,
But, through that love, to learn how much of woe
Dwells in one hour like this!-Yet weep thou not!
We shall meet soon; and many days, dear love,
Ere I depart.

Constance. Then there's a respite still. Days!-not a day but in its course may bring Some strange vicissitude to turn aside

Th' impending blow we shrink from.-Fare thee well.

(returning)

Oh, Raimond! this is not our last farewell! Thou wouldst not so deceive me?

Raimond.

Gentlest and best beloved! we meet again.

Doubt me not,

[Exit CONSTANCE.

Raimond (after a pause.) When shall I breathe
in freedom, and give scope

To those untameable and burning thoughts,
And restless aspirations, which consume

My heart i' th' land of bondage?-Oh! with you,
Ye everlasting images of power,

And of infinity! thou blue-rolling deep,

And you, ye stars! whose beams are characters
Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced;

With you my soul finds room, and casts aside
The weight that doth oppress her.—But my thoughts
Are wandering far; there should be one to share
This awful and majestic solitude

Of sea and heaven with me.

[PROCIDA enters unobserved. It is the hour

He named, and yet he comes not.

Procida (coming forward.)

He is here.

Raimond. Now, thou mysterious stranger, thou,

whose glance

Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue

Thought, like a spirit, haunting its lone hours;

Reveal thyself; what art thou?