Part 2 / Act 1 — Scene IV.—A Prison.

They must have heard it now.—Oh! that at least I might have died far from them! Though their hearts Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour, The solemn hour of nature’s parting pangs Had then been past. It meets us darkly now, And we must drain its draught of bitterness Together, drop by drop. O ye wide fields, Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms! O proud delights of danger! Battle-cries, And thou, my war-steed! and ye trumpet-notes Kindling the soul! Midst your tumultuous joys Death seem’d all beautiful.—And must I then, With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate Be dragg’d, e’en as a felon, on the winds Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints? And Marco! hath he not betray’d me too? Vile doubt! That I could cast it from my soul Before I die!—But no! What boots it now Thus to look back on life with eye that turns To linger where my footstep may not tread? Now, Philip! thou wilt triumph! Be it so! I too have proved such vain and impious joys, And know their value now. But oh! again To see those loved ones, and to hear the last, Last accents of their voices! By those arms Once more to be encircled, and from thence To tear myself for ever!—Hark! they come!— O God of mercy, from thy throne look down In pity on their woes!