Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/104



And still, whate'er betide, the light of heaven Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son! Is thy young spirit master'd, and prepared For nature's fearful and mysterious change?

Ay, father! of my brief remaining task The least part is to die?—And yet the cup Of life still mantled brightly to my lips, Crown'd with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name Is—glory!—Oh! my soul, from boyhood's morn, Hath nursed such mighty dreams!—It was my hope To leave a name, whose echo, from the abyss Of time should rise, and float upon the winds, Into the far hereafter: there to be A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb, Murmuring—awake!—Arise!—But this is past! Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame, To sleep forgotten in the dust—but now —Oh God!—the undying record of my grave Will be,—Here sleeps a traitor!—One, whose crime Was—to deem brave men might find nobler weapons Than the cold murderer's dagger!

Oh, my son, Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will hang The avenging shadows, which the blood-stain'd soul Doth conjure from the death!

Thou 'rt right. I would not. Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart,