Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/80



And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait, Even as an echo, following the sweet close Of some divine and solemn harmony: Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me Of holy things, and names, in whose deep sound Is power to bid the tempests of the heart Sink, like a storm rebuked.

What recent grief Darkens thy spirit thus?

I said not grief. We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not That which it hath been. In the flowers which wreathe Its mantling cup there is a scent unknown, Fraught with some strange delirium. All things now Have changed their nature; still, I say, rejoice! There is a cause, Anselmo!—We are free, Free and avenged!—Yet on my soul there hangs A darkness, heavy as th' oppressive gloom Of midnight phantasies.—Ay, for this, too, There is a cause.

How say'st thou, we are free? There may have raged, within Palermo's walls, Some brief wild tumult, but too well I know They call the stranger, lord.

Who calls the dead Conqueror or lord?—Hush! breathe it not aloud, The wild winds must not hear it!—Yet, again, I tell thee, we are free!

Thine eye hath look’d