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 With agony, but yet, some future day, Twill soothe you to recal them. Live, my wife! Sustain thy grief, and live! this ill-starr'd girl Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, Conduct her to thy kindred, she is their's, Of their own blood—and they so lov'd thee once! Then, to their foe united, thou becam'st Less dear; for feuds and wrongs made warring sounds Of Carmagnola's and Visconti's names. But to their bosoms thou wilt now return A mourner; and the object of their hate Will be no more—Oh! there is joy in death!— And thou, my flower! that midst the din of arms, Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head Droops to the earth! Alas! the tempest's rage Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe. I feel thy burning tears upon my breast, I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim Pity from me, Matilda? Oh! thy sire Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know'st That the forsaken have a Father still, On High. Confide in him, and live to days Of peace, if not of joy; for such to thee He surely destines. Wherefore hath he poured The torrent of affliction on thy youth, If to thy future years be not reserved All his benign compassion? Live! and soothe Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms Of no ignoble consort lead thee still!— Gonzaga! take the hand which thou hast pressed Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith To guide and guard these mourners, till they join Their friends and kindred?

Gon. Rest assured, I will.

Car. I am content. And if, when this is done, Thou to the field returnest, there for me Salute my brethren; tell them that I died Guiltless; thou hast been witness of my deeds, Hast read my inmost thoughts—and know'st it well. Tell them I never, with a traitor's shame, Stain'd my bright sword. Oh! never—I myself Have been ensnar'd by treachery. Think of me