Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/48



Speak not of love—it is a word with deep, Strange magic in its melancholy sound, To summon up the dead; and they should rest, At such an hour, forgotten. There are things We must throw from us, when the heart would gather Strength to fulfil its settled purposes: Therefore, no more of love!—But, if to robe This form in bridal ornaments, to smile, (I can smile yet,) at thy gay feast, and stand At th' altar by thy side; if this be deem'd Enough, it shall be done.

My fortune's star Doth rule th' ascendant still; (Apart.)—If not of love, Then pardon, lady, that I speak of joy, And with exulting heart——

There is no joy! —Who shall look thro' the far futurity, And, as the shadowy visions of events Develope on his gaze, midst their dim throng, Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, "This will bring happiness?"—Who shall do this?