Part 2 / Act 1 — Scene II.—The Terrace of a Castle.

Vit. Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart Blighted and cold?—Th’ affections of my youth Lie slumbering in the grave; their fount is closed, And all the soft and playful tenderness Which hath its home in woman’s breast, ere yet Deep wrongs have sear’d it—all is fled from mine. Urge me no more. Eri. O lady! doth the flower That sleeps entomb’d through the long wintry storms, Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring, And shall not woman’s heart, from chill despair, Wake at love’s voice? Vit. Love!—make love’s name thy spell, And I am strong!—the very word calls up From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, array’d In arms against thee! Know’st thou whom I loved, While my soul’s dwelling-place was still on earth? One who was born for empire, and endow’d With such high gifts of princely majesty, As bow’d all hearts before him! Was he not Brave, royal, beautiful? And such he died; He died!—hast thou forgotten?—And thou’rt here, Thou meet’st my glance with eyes which coldly look’d, —Coldly!—nay, rather with triumphant gaze, Upon his murder! Desolate as I am, Yet in the mien of thine affianced bride, O my lost Conradin! there should be still Somewhat of loftiness, which might o’erawe The hearts of thine assassins. Eri. Haughty dame! If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed, Know danger is around thee: thou hast foes That seek thy ruin, and my power alone Can shield thee from their arts. Vit. Provençal, tell Thy tale of danger to some happy heart Which hath its little world of loved ones round. For whom to tremble; and its tranquil joys That make earth Paradise. I stand alone; —They that are blest may fear. Eri. Is there not one Who ne’er commands in vain? Proud lady, bend Thy spirit to thy fate; for know that he, Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path, O’er the bow’d neck of prostrate Sicily, Hath borne him to dominion; he, my king, Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon My deeds have well deserved; and who hath power Against his mandates? Vit. Viceroy, tell thy lord That, e’en where chains lie heaviest on the land, Souls may not all be fetter’d. Oft, ere now, Conquerors have rock’d the earth, yet fail’d to tame Unto their purposes that restless fire Inhabiting man’s breast. A spark bursts forth, And so they perish! ’Tis the fate of those Who sport with lightning—and it may be his. Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free. Eri. ’Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart to bear The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again Bethink thee, lady! Love may change—hath changed To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well. —Look to it yet!—To-morrow I return. [Exit Eribert. Vit. To-morrow!—Some ere now have slept and dreamt Of morrows which ne’er dawn’d—or ne’er for them; So silently their deep and still repose Hath melted into death! Are there not balms In nature’s boundless realm, to pour out sleep Like this on me? Yet should my spirit still Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear To his a glorious tale of his own isle, Free and avenged.—Thou shouldst be now at work, In wrath, my native Etna! who dost lift Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high, Through the red heaven of sunset!—sleep’st thou still, With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread The glowing vales beneath? [Procida enters, disguised. Ha! who art thou, Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step Dost steal upon me? Pro. One o’er whom hath pass’d All that can change man’s aspect! Yet not long Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness. I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous, Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence. —Know’st thou this, lady? [He shows a ring. Vit. Righteous heaven! the pledge Amidst his people from the scaffold thrown By him who perish’d, and whose kingly blood E’en yet is unatoned. My heart beats high— —Oh, welcome, welcome! thou art Procida, Th’ Avenger, the Deliverer! Pro. Call me so, When my great task is done. Yet who can tell If the return’d be welcome? Many a heart Is changed since last we met. Vit. Why dost thou gaze, With such a still and solemn earnestness, Upon my alter’d mien? Pro. That I may read If to the widow’d love of Conradin, Or the proud Eribert’s triumphant bride, I now intrust my fate. Vit. Thou, Procida! That thou shouldst wrong me thus!—prolong thy gaze Till it hath found an answer. Pro. ’Tis enough. I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change Is from death’s hue to fever’s; in the wild Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye, And in thy wasted form. Ay, ’tis a deep And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace, Instead of youth’s gay bloom, the characters Of noble suffering: on thy brow the same Commanding spirit holds its native state, Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice Of Fame hath told afar, that thou shouldst wed This tyrant Eribert. Vit. And told it not A tale of insolent love repell’d with scorn— Of stern commands and fearful menaces Met with indignant courage? Procida! It was but now that haughtily I braved His sovereign’s mandate, which decrees my hand, With its fair appanage of wide domains And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon, To recompense his crimes.—I smiled—ay, smiled— In proud security; for the high of heart Have still a pathway to escape disgrace, Though it be dark and lone. Pro. Thou shalt not need To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words: I tell thee that a spirit is abroad Which will not slumber, till its path be traced By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live! It is most meet that thou shouldst live, to see The mighty expiation; for thy heart (Forgive me that I wrong’d its faith!) hath nursed A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set Deep on thy marble brow. Vit. Then thou canst tell By gazing on the wither’d rose, that there Time, or the blight, hath work’d! Ay, this is in Thy vision’s scope: but oh! the things unseen, Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass Hourly o’er that mysterious world, a mind To ruin struck by grief! Yet doth my soul, Far midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, Wherein is bright vitality. ’Tis to see His blood avenged, and his fair heritage, My beautiful native land, in glory risen, Like a warrior from his slumbers! Pro. Hear’st thou not With what a deep and ominous moan the voice Of our great mountain swells? There will be soon A fearful burst! Vittoria! brood no more In silence o’er thy sorrows, but go forth Amidst thy vassals, (yet be secret still,) And let thy breath give nurture to the spark Thou’lt find already kindled. I move on In shadow, yet awakening in my path That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. Vit. When shall we meet again?—Are we not those Whom most he loved on earth, and think’st thou not That love e’en yet shall bring his spirit near, While thus we hold communion? Pro. Yes, I feel Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee, Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb; He shall have nobler tribute!—I must hence, But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. [Exeunt separately.