Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/106



To the same grave ye press,—thou that dost pine Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule The fortunes of the fight.

Ay! Thou canst feel The calm thou wouldst impart, for unto thee All men alike, the warrior and the slave, Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on To the same bourne.—Yet call it not the same! Their graves, who fall in this day's fight, will be As altars to their country, visited By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths, And chaunting hymns in honour of the dead: Will mine be such?

Anselmo! art thou found? Haste, haste, or all is lost! Perchance thy voice, Whereby they deem heaven speaks, thy lifted cross, And prophet-mien, may stay the fugitives, Or shame them back to die.

The fugitives! What words are these?—the sons of Sicily Fly not before the foe?

That I should say It is too true!

And thou—thou bleedest, lady!

Peace! heed not me, when Sicily is lost! I stood upon the walls, and watched our bands, As, with their ancient, royal banner spread, Onward they march'd. The combat was begun,