Part 2 / Act 3 — Scene II.—The Sea-shore.

Pro. And dost thou still refuse to share the glory Of this, our daring enterprise? Raim. O father! I, too, have dreamt of glory, and the word Hath to my soul been as a trumpet’s voice, Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds Whereby ’twas won—the high exploits, whose tale Bids the heart burn, were of another cast Than such as thou requirest. Pro. Every deed Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim The freedom of our country; and the sword Alike is honour’d in the patriot’s hand, Searching, midst warrior hosts, the heart which gave Oppression birth, or flashing through the gloom Of the still chamber, o’er its troubled couch, At dead of night. Raim. (turning away.) There is no path but one For noble natures. Pro. Wouldst thou ask the man Who to the earth hath dash’d a nation’s chains, Rent as with heaven’s own lightning, by what means The glorious end was won? Go, swell th’ acclaim! Bid the deliverer, hail! and if his path, To that most bright and sovereign destiny, Hath led o’er trampled thousands, be it call’d A stem necessity, but not a crime! Raim. Father! my soul yet kindles at the thought Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn’d, Ev’n from thy voice. The high remembrances Of other days are stirring in the heart Where thou didst plant them; and they speak of men Who needed no vain sophistry to gild Acts that would bear heaven’s light—and such be mine! O father! is it yet too late to draw The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts On our most righteous cause? Pro. What wouldst thou do? Raim. I would go forth, and rouse th’ indignant land To generous combat. Why should freedom strike Mantled with darkness? Is there not more strength Ev’n in the waving of her single arm Than hosts can wield against her? I would rouse That spirit whose fire doth press resistless on To its proud sphere—the stormy field of fight! Pro. Ay! and give time and warning to the foe To gather all his might! It is too late. There is a work to be this eve begun When rings the Vesper-bell; and, long before To-morrow’s sun hath reach’d i’ th’ noonday heaven His throne of burning glory, every sound Of the Provençal tongue within our walls, As by one thunderstroke—(you are pale, my son)— Shall be for ever silenced! Raim. What! such sounds As falter on the lip of infancy, In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed By the fond mother as she lulls her babe? Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air Pour’d by the timid maid? Must all alike Be still’d in death? and wouldst thou tell my heart There is no crime in this? Pro. Since thou dost feel Such horror of our purpose, in thy power Are means that might avert it. Raim. Speak! oh speak! Pro. How would those rescued thousands bless thy name Shouldst thou betray us! Raim. Father! I can bear— Ay, proudly woo—the keenest questioning Of thy soul-gifted eye, which almost seems To claim a part of heaven’s dread royalty, —The power that searches thought. Pro. (after a pause.) Thou hast a brow Clear as the day—and yet I doubt thee, Raimond! Whether it be that I have learn’d distrust From a long look through man’s deep-folded heart; Whether my paths have been so seldom cross’d By honour and fair mercy, that they seem But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus My unaccustom’d gaze: howe’er it be— I doubt thee! See thou waver not—take heed. Time lifts the veil from all things! [Exit Procida. Raim. And ’tis thus Youth fades from off our spirit; and the robes Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith We clothed our idols, drop! Oh, bitter day! When, at the crushing of our glorious world, We start, and find men thus! Yet be it so! Is not my soul still powerful in itself To realise its dreams? Ay, shrinking not From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well Undaunted meet my father’s. But, away! Thou shalt be saved, sweet Constance!—Love is yet Mightier than vengeance. [Exit Raimond.