What a grace Lives in thy soft surprise and modest silence! Yes! gentle humbleness is beauty's crown-- The beautiful forever hid, and shrinking From its own lustre: but thy spirit needs Repose, for aught of strange--e'en sudden joy-- Is terror-fraught. I leave thee. [Turning to the Chorus. From this hour She is your mistress, and my bride; so teach her With honors due to entertain the pomp Of queenly state. I will return with speed, And lead her home as fits Messina's princess. [He goes away. BEATRICE and the Chorus. Chorus (BOHEMUND). Fair maiden--hail to thee Thou lovely queen! Thine is the crown, and thine the victory! Of heroes to a distant age, The blooming mother thou shalt shine, Preserver of this kingly line. (ROGER). And thrice I bid thee hail, Thou happy fair! Sent in auspicious hour to bless This favored race--the god's peculiar care. Here twine the immortal wreaths of fame And evermore, from sire to son, Rolls on the sceptered sway, To heirs of old renown, a race of deathless name! (BOHEMUND). The household gods exultingly Thy coming wait; The ancient, honored sires, That on the portals frown sedate, Shall smile for thee! There blooming Hebe shall thy steps attend; And golden victory, that sits By Jove's eternal throne, with waving plumes For conquest ever spread, To welcome thee from heaven descend. (ROGER.) Ne'er from this queenly, bright array The crown of beauty fades, Departing to the realms of day, Each to the next, as good and fair, Extends the zone of feminine grace, And veil of purity:-- Oh, happy race! What vision glads my raptured eye! Equal in nature's blooming pride, I see the mother and the virgin bride. BEATRICE (awaking from her reverie). Oh, luckless hour! Alas! ill-fated maid! Where shall I fly From these rude warlike men? Lost and betrayed! A shudder o'er me came, When of this race accursed--the brothers twain-- Their hands embrued with kindred gore, I heard the dreaded name; Oft told, their strife and serpent hate With terror thrilled lay bosom's core:-- And now--oh, hapless fate! I tremble, 'mid the rage of discord thrown, Deserted and alone! [She runs into the alcove. Chorus (BOHEMUND). Son of the immortal deities, And blest is he, the lord of power; His every joy the world can give; Of all that mortals prize He culls the flower. (ROGER). For him from ocean's azure caves The diver bears each pearl of purest ray; Whate'er from nature's boundless field Or toil or art has won, Obsequious at his feet we lay; His choice is ever free; We bow to chance, and fortune's blind decree. (BOHEMUND.)