Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, _and_ Carmagnola. _Ant._ My husband! _Mat._ O my father! _Ant._ Is it thus That thou returnest? and is this the hour Desired so long! _Car._ O ye afflicted ones! Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. Long have my thoughts been used to look on Death, And calmly wait his time. For you alone My soul hath need of firmness; will ye, then, Deprive me of its aid? When the Most High On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows The courage to sustain them. Oh! let yours Equal your sorrows! Let us yet find joy In this embrace: ’tis still a gift of heaven. Thou weep’st, my child! and thou, beloved wife! Ah! when I made thee mine, thy days flow’d on In peace and gladness; I united thee To my disastrous fate, and now the thought Embitters death! Oh! that I had not seen The woes I cause thee! _Ant._ Husband of my youth! Of my bright days, thou who didst make them bright, Read thou my heart! the pangs of death are there, And yet e’en now--I would not but be thine. _Car._ Full well I know how much I lose in thee; Oh! make me not too deeply feel it now. _Mat._ The homicides! _Car._ No, sweet Matilda, no! Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb These moments--they are sacred. Yes! my wrongs Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess, That, e’en midst all the fulness of our woe, High, holy joy remains. Death! death!--our foes, Our most relentless foes, can only speed Th’ inevitable hour. Oh! man hath not Invented death for man; it would be _then_ Madd’ning and insupportable: from heaven ’Tis sent, and heaven doth temper all its pangs With such blest comfort as no mortal power Can give or take away. My wife! my child! Hear my last words--they wring your bosoms now With agony, but yet, some future day, ’Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife! Sustain thy grief, and live! this ill-starr’d girl Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, Conduct her to thy kindred: she is theirs, Of their own blood--and they so loved thee once! Then, to their foe united, thou becamest Less dear; for feuds and wrongs made warring sounds Of Carmagnola’s and Visconti’s names. But to their bosoms thou wilt now return A mourner; and the object of their hate Will be no more.--Oh! there is joy in death!-- And thou, my flower! that, midst the din of arms, Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head Droops to the earth! Alas! the tempest’s rage Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe. I feel thy burning tears upon my breast-- I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim Pity from me, Matilda? Oh! thy sire Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know’st That the forsaken have a Father still