Page:The Vespers of Palermo.pdf/81



On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang O'er its dark orb.—Speak! I adjure thee, say. How hath this work been wrought?

Peace! ask me not! Why shouldst thou hear a tale to send thy blood Back on its fount?—We cannot wake them now The storm is in my soul, but they are all At rest!—Ay, sweetly may the slaughter'd babe By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men Who, midst the slain have slumber'd oft before, Making the shield their pillow, may repose Well, now their toils are done.—Is't not enough?

Merciful heaven! have such things been? And yet There is no shade come o'er the laughing sky! —I am an outcast now.

O Thou, whose ways Clouds mantle fearfully; of all the blind, But terrible, ministers that work thy wrath, How much is man the fiercest!—Others know Their limits—Yes! the earthquakes, and the storms, And the volcanoes!—He alone o'erleaps The bounds of retribution!—Couldst thou gaze, Vittoria! with thy woman's heart and eye, On such dread scenes unmoved?

Was it for me To stay th' avenging sword?—No, tho' it pierced My very soul?—"Hark, hark, what thrilling shrieks "Ring thro' the air around me!—Can'st thou not "Bid them be hush'd?—Oh! look not on me thus!