Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/37



Who from his battles had return'd to breathe Once more, without a corslet, and to meet The voices, and the footsteps, and the smiles, Blent with his dreams of home?—Of that dark tale The rest is known to vengeance!—Art thou here, With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair, Childless Montalba?

(advancing.) He is at thy side. Call on that desolate father, in the hour When his revenge is nigh.

Thou, too, come forth, From thine own halls an exile!—Dost thou make The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still, While hostile banners, o'er thy rampart walls, Wave their proud blazonry?

Even so. I stood Last night before my own ancestral towers An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat On my bare head—what reck'd it?—There was joy Within, and revelry; the festive lamps Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs, I 'th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little deem'd Who heard their melodies!—but there are thoughts Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows Known to the mountain-echoes.—Procida! Call on the outcast when revenge is nigh.

I knew a young Sicilian, one whose heart Should be all fire. On that most guilty day, When, with our martyr'd Conradin, the flower