Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/65



Pardon, my good lord! But this demands——

What means thy breathless haste? And that ill-boding mien?—Away! such looks Befit not hours like these.

The Lord De Couci Bade me bear this, and say, 'tis fraught with tidings Of life and death.

(hurriedly.) Is this a time for ought But revelry?—My lord, these dull intrusions Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene!

(to the Messenger) Hence! tell the Lord De Couci we will talk Of life and death to-morrow. [Exit Messenger. Let there be Around me none but joyous looks to-day, And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth!

What forms are these?—What means this antic triumph?

'Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not Hear their wild music? Our Sicilian vales Have many a sweet and mirthful melody, To which the glad heart bounds.—Breathe ye some strain Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily!