Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/43



It is enough of glory to be call'd The children of the mighty, who redeem'd Their native soil—but not by means like these.

I have no children.—Of Montalba's blood Not one red drop doth circle thro' the veins Of aught that breathes!—Why, what have I to do With far futurity?—My spirit lives But in the past.—Away! when thou dost stand On this fair earth, as doth a blasted tree Which the warm sun revives not, then return, Strong in thy desolation: but, till then, Thou art not for our purpose; we have need Of more unshrinking hearts.

Montalba, know, I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice Might yet have power amongst you, I would say, Associates, leaders, be avenged! but yet As knights, as warriors!

Peace! have we not borne Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains? We are not knights and warriors.—Our bright crests Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. Boy! we are slaves—and our revenge shall be Deep as a slave's disgrace.

Why, then, farewell: I leave you to your councils. He that still Would hold his lofty nature undebased, And his name pure, were but a loiterer here.

And is it thus indeed?—dost thou forsake Our cause, my son?