Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/14



'Tis enough. I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change Is from death's hue to fever's; in the wild Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye, And in thy wasted form. Ay, 'tis a deep And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace, Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters Of noble suffering;—on thy brow the same Commanding spirit holds its native state Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice Of Fame hath told afar that thou shouldst wed This tyrant, Eribert.

And told it not A tale of insolent love repell'd with scorn, Of stern commands and fearful menaces Met with indignant courage?—Procida! It was but now that haughtily I braved His sovereign's mandate, which decrees my hand, With its fair appanage of wide domains And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon, To recompense his crimes.—I smiled—ay, smiled In proud security! for the high of heart Have still a pathway to escape disgrace, Tho' it be dark and lone.

Thou shalt not need To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words: I tell thee, that a spirit is abroad, Which will not slumber till its path be traced By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live!