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THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.

My Constance! victors have been crown'd, ere now,
With the green shinning laurel, when their brows
Wore death's own impress-and it may be thus
E'en yet, with me!-They freed me, when the foe
Had half prevail'd, and I have proudly earn'd,
With my heart's dearest blood, the meed to die
Within thine arms.

Con.
Oh! speak not thus-to die!
These wounds may yet be closed.

67

[She attempts to bind his wounds.
Look on me, love!

Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien,
"Tis full of hope! and from thy kindled eye
Breaks e'en unwonted light, whose ardent ray
Seems born to be immortal!

Raim,
'Tis e'en so!
The parting soul doth gather all her fires
Around her; all her glorious hopes, and dreams,
And burning aspirations, to illume

The shadowy dimness of the untrodden path
Which lies before her; and encircled thus,
Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence

Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares
Are vain and yet I bless them.

Say not vain

;

Con.
The dying look not thus. We shall not part!

Raim. I have seen death ere now, and known him wear
Full many a changeful aspect.

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!
There is no home for liberty, or love,

Beneath these festal skies!--Be not deceived;

My way lies far beyond!-I shall be soon

That viewless thing, which, with its mortal weeds
Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust,
Forgets not how to love!

Con.

And must this be?

Heaven, thou art merciful!-Oh! bid our souls
Depart together!

Raim.

Constance there is strength

Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved
Nobly, for me :--Arouse it once again!

Thy grief unmans me--and I fain would meet
That which approaches, as a brave man yields
With proud submission to a mightier foe.
It is upon me now!

I will be calm.

Con.
Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond,
And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs,
They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is
A world, (ay, let us seek it!) where no blight
Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there
I shall be with thee soon!

PROCIDA and ANSELMO enter. PROCIDA, on seeing RAIMOND starts back.

Áns.

Lift up thy head,

Brave youth, exultingly! for lo! thine hour
Of glory comes!--Oh! doth it come too late?
E'en now the false Alberti hath confess'd
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doom'd
To be th' atonement.

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
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs, return!

Speak to me, Raimond!--Thou wert ever kind,
And brave, and gentle! Say that all the past
Shall be forgiven! That word from none but thee
My lips e'er ask'd.--Speak to me once, my boy,
My pride, my hope!--And is it with thee thus?
Look on me yet!--Oh! must this woe be borne ?

Raim. Off with this weight of chains! it is not meet
For a crown'd conqueror!--Hark! the trumpet's voice!

[A sound of triumphant music is heard gradually
approaching.

Is't not a thrilling call ?-- What drowsy spell
Benumbs me thus?--Hence! I am free again!
Now swell your festal strains--the field is won!
Sing me to glorious dreams.

Ans.

There fled a noble spirit!
Con.

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!
[The music continues approaching.
with Citizens and Soldiers.

GUIDO enters

Gui. The shrines are deck'd, the festive torches blaze-

THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.

Where is our brave deliverer?-We are come
To crown Palermo's victor!

Ans.

Ye came too late.

The voice of human praise doth send no echo
Into the world of spirits.

Pro. (after a pause.) Is this dust.

69

[The music ceases.

I look on-Raimond ?-'tis but sleep-a smile
On his pale check sits proudly. Raimond, wake!
Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day!
My son, my injured son!

Con. (starting.)

Art thou his father?

I know thee now.-Hence! with thy dark stern eye,
And thy cold heart! Thou canst not wake him now!
Away! he will not answer but to me,

For none like me hath loved him! He is mine!
Ye shall not rend him from me.

Pro.

Oh! he knew

Thy love, poor maid!-Shrink from me now no more!
He knew thy heart-but who shall tell him now
The depth, the intenseness, and the agony
Of my suppress'd affection ?-I have learn'd
All his high worth in time to deck his grave!
Is there not power in the strong spirit's woe
To force an answer from the viewless world
Of the departed?-Raimond!-Speak! forgive!
Raimond my victor, my deliverer, hear!
-Why, what a world is this!-Truth ever bursts
On the dark soul too late and glory crowns
Th' unconscious dead! An hour comes to break
The mightiest hearts!-My son! my son! is this
A day of triumph!-Ay, for thee alone!

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,
Went forth the Campeador of Spain;
For wild sierras and plains afar,
He left the lands of his own Bivar.1

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent,
From his home in good Castile he went;
To the wasting siege and the battle's van,
-For the noble Cid was a banish'd man!

Through his olive woods the morn-breeze play'd,
And his native streams wild music made,
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay,
When for march and combat he took his way.
With a thoughtful spirit his way he took,
And he turned his steed for a parting look,
For a parting look at his own fair towers;
-Oh! the exile's heart hath weary hours!

The pennons were spread, and the band array'd,
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stay'd;
It was but a moment-the halls were lone,
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.
There was not a steed in the empty stall,
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall,
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door,
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.2

Then a dim tear swell'd to the warrior's eye,
As the voice of his native groves went by;
And he said-" My foemen their wish have won-
Now the will of God be in all things done!"

But the trumpet blew with its note of cheer,
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear,
And the fields of his glory lay distant far,
-He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar!

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
Above her marble halls.

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes,

And steps of hurrying feet,

Where the Zambra's3 notes were wont to rise
Along the sunny street,

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,
Warriors stood mournful nigh,
And banners, o'er his glorious head,
Were drooping heavily.

And feeble grew the conquering hand,
And cold the valiant breast;

He had fought the battles of the land,
And his hour was come to rest.

What said the ruler of the field?
-His voice is faint and low;

The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield
Hath louder accents now.

"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,

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