Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/46



With festal garlands, and to bid the song Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No—nor yet To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, Where death, not love, awaits him!

Can my soul Dissemble thus?

We have no other means Of winning our great birthright back from those Who have usurp'd it, than so lulling them Into vain confidence, that they may deem All wrongs forgot; and this may best be done By what I ask of thee.

Then will we mix With the flush'd revellers, making their gay feast The harvest of the grave.

A bridal day! —Must it be so?—Then, chiefs of Sicily, I bid you to my nuptials! but be there With your bright swords unsheath'd, for thus alone My guests should be adorn'd.

And let thy banquet Be soon announced, for there are noble men Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase Reprieve with other blood.

Be it then the day Preceding that appointed for their doom.

My brother, thou shalt live!—Oppression boasts No gift of prophecy!—It but remains To name our signal, chiefs!