_Raim._ Ay, father! of my brief remaining task The least part is to die! And yet the cup Of life still mantled brightly to my lips, Crowned with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name Is--glory! Oh! my soul from boyhood's morn Hath nursed such mighty dreams! It was my hope To leave a name, whose echo from the abyss Of time should rise, and float upon the winds Into the far hereafter; there to be A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb, Murmuring--Awake, Arise! But this is past! Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame To sleep _forgotten_ in the dust; but now, Oh God! the undying record of my grave Will be--Here sleeps a traitor! One whose crime Was--to deem brave men might find nobler weapons Than the cold murderer's dagger! _Ans._ O my son! Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will hang The avenging shadows, which the blood-stained soul Doth conjure from the dead! _Raim._ Thou'rt right. I would not. Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart, Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit Into that still and passive fortitude Which is but learned from suffering. Would the hour To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand! _Ans._ It will not be to-day. The foe hath reached Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all Her warrior men, are marshalled and gone forth. Thy father leads them on. _Raim._ (_starting up._) They are gone forth! my father leads them on! All--all Palermo's youth! No! _one_ is left, Shut out from glory's race! They are gone forth! Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad-- It burns upon the air! The joyous winds Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam Of battle's roaring billows! On my sight The vision bursts--it maddens! 'tis the flash, The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze Of helmets in the sun! Such things are Even now--and I am here! _Ans._ Alas, be calm! To the same grave ye press--thou that dost pine Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule The fortunes of the fight. _Raim._ Ay, _thou_ canst feel The calm thou wouldst impart, for unto thee All men alike, the warrior and the slave, Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on To the same bourne. _Vittoria_, who had taken a leading part in the conspiracy, now rushes in, bringing the intelligence that the Sicilians are worsted--are in flight. Procida still strives-- But all in vain! The few that breast the storm, With Guido and Montalba, by his side, Fight but for graves upon the battle-field. _Raim._ And I am _here_! Shall there be power, O God! In the roused energies of fierce despair. To burst my heart--and not to rend my chains?