Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/71



How strange and deep a stillness loads the air, As with the power of midnight!—Ay, where death Hath pass'd, there should be silence,—But this hush Of nature's heart, this breathlessness of all things, Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky, With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds Brooding in sullen masses, o'er my spirit Weighs like an omen!—Wherefore should this be? Is not our task achieved, the mighty work Of our deliverance?—Yes; I should be joyous: But this our feeble nature, with its quick Instinctive superstitions, will drag down Th' ascending soul.—And I have fearful bodings That treachery lurks amongst us.—Raimond! Raimond! Oh! Guilt ne'er made a mien like his its garb! It cannot be!