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 And he is with us. E'en from this delay I augur well. A council held so long Must be to give us peace. He will be ours, Perhaps for years, our own.

Mat. O mother! thus My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, And days in all the sickness of suspense Our anxious love hath pass'd. It is full time That each sad moment, at each rumour'd tale, Each idle murmur of the people's voice, We should no longer tremble; that no more This thought should haunt our souls—E'en now, perchance, He for whom thus your hearts are yearning—dies!

Ant. Oh! fearful thought!—but vain and distant now! Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief. Hast thou forgot the day, when, proudly led In triumph midst the noble and the brave, Thy glorious father to the temple bore The banners won in battle from his foes?

Mat. A day to be remember'd!

Ant. By his side Each seem'd inferior. Every breath of air Swell'd with his echoing name; and we, the while, Stationed on high, and sever'd from the throng, Gaz'd on that one who drew the gaze of all, While with the tide of rapture half o'erwhelm'd, Our hearts beat high, and whisper'd—"We are his."

Mat. Moments of joy!

Ant. What have we done, my child, To merit such? Heaven, for so high a fate, Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow Inscribed a lofty name, a name so bright, That he to whom thou bear'st the gift, whate'er His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark For envy is the glory of our lot! And we should weigh its joys against these hours Of fear and sorrow.

Mat. They are pass'd e'en now. Hark! 'twas the sound of oars!—it swells—'tis hush’d! The gates unclose—O mother! I behold A warrior clad in mail—he comes, 'tis he!

Ant. Whom should it be if not himself?—my husband! (She comes forward.)

Ant. Gonzaga!—Where is he we look'd for? Where?