Page:Sebastian of Portugal.pdf/6

 And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour Of stern atonement?—Aye, the slumberer wakes In gather'd strength and vengeance!—And the sense And the remembrance of his agonies Are in themselves as power, whose fearful path Is like the path of ocean, when the heavens Take off its interdict!—Wait thou the hour Of that high impulse!

Seb.—Is it not the sun, Whose radiant bursting through th' em battled clouds Doth make it morn?—The hour of which thou speak'st, Itself, with all its glory, is the work Of some commanding nature, which doth bid The sullen shades disperse!—Away! e'en now The land's high hearts, the fearless and the true, Shall know they have a leader!—Is not this The mansion of mine own, mine earliest friend, Sylveira?

Gon.—Aye, its glittering lamps too well Illume the stately vestibule, to leave Our sight a moment's doubt. He ever lov'd Such pageantries!

Seb.—His dwelling thus adorn'd On such a night!—yet will I seek him here. He must be faithful, and to him the first My tale shall be reveal'd.—A sudden chill Falls on my heart—and yet I will not wrong My friend with vile suspicion!—He hath been Link'd all too closely with mine inmost soul! —And what have I to lose?

Gon.—Is their blood nought, Who, without hope, will follow where thou lead'st, Ev'n unto death?

Seb.—Was that a brave man's voice? Warrior and friend! how long, then, hast thou learn'd To hold thy blood thus dear?

Gon.—Of mine, mine own, Think'st thou I spoke?—When all is shed for thee, Thou'lt know me better!

Seb.—(entering the Palace)—For awhile, farewell.[Exit.

Gon.—Thus princes read men's hearts!—Come, follow me,