THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. My Constance! victors have been crown'd, ere now, Con. 67 [She attempts to bind his wounds. Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien, Raim, The shadowy dimness of the untrodden path Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares Say not vain ; Con. Raim. I have seen death ere now, and known him wear Con. Oh! but none Radiant as thine, my warrior!-Thou wilt live! Look round thee !-all is sunshine-is not this A smiling world? Raim. Ay, gentlest love, a world Of joyous beauty and magnificence, Almost too fair to leave!-Yet must we tame Our ardent hearts to this!-Oh, weep thou not! Beneath these festal skies!--Be not deceived; My way lies far beyond!-I shall be soon That viewless thing, which, with its mortal weeds Con. And must this be? Heaven, thou art merciful!-Oh! bid our souls Raim. Constance there is strength Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved Thy grief unmans me--and I fain would meet I will be calm. Con. PROCIDA and ANSELMO enter. PROCIDA, on seeing RAIMOND starts back. Áns. Lift up thy head, Brave youth, exultingly! for lo! thine hour Raim. 'Tis enough! Rejoice Rejoice, my Constance! for I leave a name O'er which thou may'st weep proudly! Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart Hath touch'd my veins. [He sinks back. To thy breast Con. And must thou leave me, Raimond? Alas! thine eye grows dim--its wandering glance Is full of dreams. Raim. I was no traitor! Haste, haste, and tell my father Pro. (rushing forward.) To that father's heart Speak to me, Raimond!--Thou wert ever kind, Raim. Off with this weight of chains! it is not meet [A sound of triumphant music is heard gradually Is't not a thrilling call ?-- What drowsy spell Ans. There fled a noble spirit! Disturb him not! Ans. [He dics. The strife is past. Hush! he sleeps- Alas! this is no sleep From which the eye doth radiantly unclose! Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o'er! GUIDO enters Gui. The shrines are deck'd, the festive torches blaze- THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. Where is our brave deliverer?-We are come Ans. Ye came too late. The voice of human praise doth send no echo Pro. (after a pause.) Is this dust. 69 [The music ceases. I look on-Raimond ?-'tis but sleep-a smile Con. (starting.) Art thou his father? I know thee now.-Hence! with thy dark stern eye, For none like me hath loved him! He is mine! Pro. Oh! he knew Thy love, poor maid!-Shrink from me now no more! We throws himself upon the body of RAIMOND. Curtain falls. ANNOTATION. ON "THE VESPERS OF PALERMO,” "The Vespers of Palermo was the earliest of the dramatic productions of our author. The period in which the scene is laid, is sufficiently known from the title of the play. The whole is full of life and action. The same high strain of moral propriety marks this piece as all others of her writings. The hero is an enthusiast for glory, for liberty, and for virtue; and on his courage, his forbearance, the integrity of his love, making the firmness of his patriotism appear doubtful, rests the interest of the plot. It is worthy of remark, that some of its best parts have already found their way into an excellent selection of pieces for schools, and thus contribute to give lessons of morality to those who are most susceptible of the interest of tragedy. "It may not be so generally remembered that the same historical event was made the subject of a French tragedy, about the same time that the English one was written, and by a poet now of very great popularity in France. We hesitate not to give the preference to Mrs. Hemans, for invention and interest, accurate delineation of character, and adherence to probability. Both the tragedies are written in a style of finished elegance."-PROFESSOR NORTON in the North American Review, 1827. SONGS OF THE CID. The following ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the "wild and wonderful" traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and the ancient poem of the Cid. THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE. WITH Sixty knights in his gallant train, To march o'er field, and to watch in tent, Through his olive woods the morn-breeze play'd, The pennons were spread, and the band array'd, Then a dim tear swell'd to the warrior's eye, But the trumpet blew with its note of cheer, HIS DEATHBED. THE CID'S DEATHBED. It was an hour of grief and fear Within Valencia's walls, When the blue Spring-heaven lay still and clear There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes, And steps of hurrying feet, Where the Zambra's3 notes were wont to rise It was an hour of fear and grief, On bright Valencia's shore, For death was busy with her chief, The noble Campeador. The Moor-king's barks were on the deep, With sounds and signs of war, For the Cid was passing to his sleep, In the silent Alcazar. No moan was heard through the towers of state, No weeper's aspect seen, But by the couch Ximena sate, With pale but steadfast mien,4 Stillness was round the leader's bed, And feeble grew the conquering hand, He had fought the battles of the land, What said the ruler of the field? The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield "Raise ye no cry, and let no moan Be made when I depart ; The Moor must hear no dirge's tone, Be ye of mighty heart! "Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain From your walls ring far and shrill; And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain Shall grant you victory still. "And gird my form with mail-array, And set me on my steed, ກ |