_Count._ O poor souls! Heaven knows That only for your sake is it dreadful to me. I who so long am used to look on death, And to expect it, only for your sakes Do I need courage. And you, you will not surely Take it away from me? God, when he makes Disaster fall on the innocent, he gives, too, The heart to bear it. Ah! let _yours_ be equal To your affliction now! Let us enjoy This last embrace--it likewise is Heaven's gift. Daughter, thou weepest; and thou, wife! Oh, when I chose thee mine, serenely did they days Glide on in peace; but made I thee companion Of a sad destiny. And it is this thought Embitters death to me. Would that I could not See how unhappy I have made thee! _Antonietta._ O husband Of my glad days, thou mad'st them glad! My heart,-- Yes, thou may'st read it!--I die of sorrow! Yet I could not wish that I had not been thine. _Count._ O love, I know how much I lose in thee: Make me not feel it now too much. _Matilde._ The murderers! _Count._ No, no, my sweet Matilde; let not those Fierce cries of hatred and of vengeance rise From out thine innocent soul. Nay, do not mar These moments; they are holy; the wrong's great, But pardon it, and thou shalt see in midst of ills A lofty joy remaining still. My death, The cruelest enemy could do no more Than hasten it. Oh surely men did never Discover death, for they had made it fierce And insupportable! It is from Heaven That it doth come, and Heaven accompanies it, Still with such comfort as men cannot give Nor take away. O daughter and dear wife, Hear my last words! All bitterly, I see, They fall upon your hearts. But you one day will have Some solace in remembering them together. Dear wife, live thou; conquer thy sorrow, live; Let not this poor girl utterly be orphaned. Fly from this land, and quickly; to thy kindred Take her with thee. She is their blood; to them Thou once wast dear, and when thou didst become Wife of their foe, only less dear; the cruel Reasons of state have long time made adverse The names of Carmagnola and Visconti; But thou go'st back unhappy; the sad cause Of hate is gone. Death's a great peacemaker! And thou, my tender flower, that to my arms Wast wont to come and make my spirit light, Thou bow'st thy head? Aye, aye, the tempest roars Above thee! Thou dost tremble, and thy breast Is shaken with thy sobs. Upon my face I feel thy burning tears fall down on me, And cannot wipe them from thy tender eyes. ... Thou seem'st to ask Pity of me, Matilde. Ah! thy father Can do naught for thee. But there is in heaven, There is a Father thou know'st for the forsaken; Trust him and live on tranquil if not glad. * * * * *