In our king's path!—Well hath that royal sword With an unfaltering and a lofty step, They give way, To cover him from vengeance!-Lo! they fly! Are scattered e'en as leaves upon the wind! And the vine-mountains, and Hesperian seas, Gonzalez (attempting to raise himself). Set me Come with me forth, for I must greet my king, Hernandez. Oh, blest in death! Gonzalez. Now charge once more! Is reddening all the air!-Shout forth 'Castile!' Elmina. Look on me yet! [He dies. Speak one farewell, my husband!—must thy voice (A Sound of triumphant Music is heard, and To that last home of glory. She that wears Shall thence draw strength for all things, till the Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth, (To the Castilians). Awake, I say, NOTES. [Exeunt omnes. Note 1, page 41, col. 1. MOUNTAIN Christians, those natives of Spain, who, under their prince, Pelayo, took refuge amongst the mountains of the northern provinces, where they maintained their religion and liberty, whilst the rest of their country was overrun by the Moors. Note 2, page 49, col. 1. Note 3, page 50, col. 2. Tizona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid's favourite sword, taken in battle from the Moorish A Citizen. Hush your triumphal sounds, al-king Bucar. though ye come · E'en as deliverers!-But the noble dead, And those that mourn them, claim from human hearts Note 4, page 50, col. 2. Ilow he won Valencia from the Moor, &c. Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged, and taken by the armies of different nations, rcmained in the possession of the Moors for an hundred and seventy years after the Cid's death. It was regained from them by King Don Jayme of Aragon, surnamed the Conqueror; after whose success I have ventured to suppose it governed by a descendant of the Campeador. Elmina. Ay, tis thus Note 8, page 63, col. 1. fonso, the last of that name. He sent to the Cid's tomb for the cross which that warrior was accus "La voilà, telle que la mort nous l'a faite !"-tomed to wear upon his breast when he went to Bossuet, Oraisons Funèbres. Note 9, page 66, col. 2. battle, and had it made into one for himself; "because of the faith, which he had, that through it he should obtain the victory."-Southey's Chroni This circumstance is recorded of King Don Al- cle of the Cid. The Vespers of Palermo. DRAMATIS PERSONE. COUNT DI PROCIDA. RAIMOND DI PROCIDA, his Son. GUIDO. ALBERTI. ANSELMO, a Monk. CONSTANCE, Sister to Eribert. A TRAGEDY. IN FIVE ACTS. Nobles, Soldiers, Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, f.c. &.c. SCENE-PALERMO. ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I-A VALLEY, WITH VINEYARDS AND COT TAGES. The olives and the vines our fathers reared, Peasant's Child. My father, tell me when In Sicily's green vales. Alas! my boy, The weight of work-day care:-they meet, to speak Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts They dare not breathe aloud. Procida (from the back ground). Ay, it is well Groups of Peasants—PROCIDA, disguised as a Pilgrim, So to relieve th' o'erburdened heart, which pants amongst them. Beneath its weight of wrongs; but better far First Peasant. Ay, this was wont to be a fes- In silence to avenge them! tal time In days gone by! I can remember well The old familiar melodies that rose At break of morn, from all our purple hills, Of joy through all the land. Second Peasant. Yes! there are sounds Of revelry within the palaces, And the fair castles of our ancient lords, Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear, Third Peasant. Alas! we sat An old Peasant. What deep voice Came with that startling tone? First Peasant. It was our guests, The stranger pilgrim, who hath sojourned here Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him well: He hath a stately bearing, and an eye Ill with such vestments. How he folds round him move. Mark him! Old Peasant. Nay, rather, mark him not: the times Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke, And stamped with servitude. What! is it life, Some of the Peasants. Away, away! Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drained A Youth (coming forward.) No, no! say on, say on! There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here, Peasant. If that indeed Thou hast a hope to give us. Procida. There is hope For all who suffer with indignant thoughts Peasant. Had we but arms and leaders, we are men Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these What wouldst thou have us do? Procida. Be vigilant; And when the signal wakes the land, arise! The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well. [Exit Procida. First Peasant. This man should be a prophet: how he seemed To read our hearts with his dark searching glance Second Peasant. Speak low; I know him well. Peasant. And is this he? Then Heaven protect him! for around his steps Will many snares be set. First Peasant. He comes not thus But with some mighty purpose; doubt it not: Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one, Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been proved True to our native princes. But away! The noon-tide heat is past, and from the seas Light gales are wandering through the vineyards; now We may resume our toil. [Exeunt Peasants. SCENE II.THE TERRACE OF A CASTLE. ERIBERT. VITTORIA. Vittoria. Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart Blighted and cold ?—Th' affections of my youth Lie slumbering in the grave; their fount is closed, And all the soft and playful tenderness Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet Deep wrongs have seared it; all is fled from mine. Urge me no more. Eribert. O lady! doth the flower Which work in silent strength. What! think ye That sleeps entombed through the long wintry Heaven O'erlooks th' oppressor, if he bear awhile His crested head on high ?—I tell you, no! storms Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring; Vittoria. Love!-make love's name thy spell, In arms against thee!-Knowest thou whom I loved, While my soul's dwelling-place was still on eartn? One who was born for empire, and endowed With such high gifts of princely majesty, As bowed all hearts before him!-Was he not -Coldly!-nay, rather with triumphant gaze, Eribert. Haughty dame! If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed, Vittoria. Provençal, tell Thy tale of danger to some happy heart, Eribert. Is there not one Free and avenged.—Thou should'st be now at In wrath, my native Etna! who dost lift With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread (Procida enters disguised.) Ha! who art thou, Procida. One, o'er whom hath passed -I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous, Who ne'er commands in vain ?—proud lady, bend Th' Avenger, the Deliverer! Thy spirit to thy fate; for know that he, Vittoria. Viceroy, tell thy lord, That e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land, Procida. Call me so When my great task is done. Yet who can tell Vittoria. Why dost thou gaze, Procida. That I may read If to the widowed love of Conradin, Conquerors have rocked the earth, yet failed to I now entrust my fate. tame Unto their purposes, that restless fire, The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again 'To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye 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 Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well. Commanding spirit holds its native state [Exit Eribert. Vittoria. To-morrow!-Some ere now have slept, and dreamt Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice Vittoria. And told it not Of morrows which ne'er dawned-or ne'er for them; A tale of insolent love repelled with scorni, So silently their deep and still repose Of stern commands and fearful menaces His sovereign's mandate, which decrees my hand, To recompense his crimes.—I smiled-ay, smiled- Procida. Thou shalt not need Joy, like our southern sun. It is not well, Raimond. Oh! from the dreams To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words: Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still I tell thee, that a spirit is abroad, Which will not slumber till its path be traced It is most meet that thou shouldst live, to see A wild and stormy wakening?-They depart, (Forgive me that I wronged its faith) hath nursed Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts, A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set Deep on thy marble brow. Vittoria. Then thou canst tell, By gazing on the withered rose, that there Procida. Hear'st thou not With what a deep and ominous moan, the voice That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. Whom most he loved on earth, and think'st thou not That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near Procida. Yes, I feel Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee, But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. SCENE III. THE SEA SHORE. RAIMOND DI PROCIDA. CONSTANCE. Constance. There is a shadow far within your eye, In all their fearful strength!-'Tis ever thus, To breathe where noble minds are bowed, as here. Constance. I know thy grief, -And is 't not mine?-for those devoted men Raimond. Waste not thou thy prayers, Constance. Alas! I see 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, Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget Constance. What? What wouldst thou say? Thou wouldst not leave me! The shadow of dark thoughts and ruined fortunes, Raimond. I have cast a cloud, Which hath of late been deepening. You were Hath given me nobler being; made my heart wont Upon the clearness of your open brow To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round A home for all the deep sublimities |