Nobles, Soldiers, Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, &c. &c.

SCENE-PALERMO.

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THE VESPERS OF PALERMO:

A TRAGEDY.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.-A Valley, with Vineyards and Cottages.

Groups of Peasants-PROCIDA, disguised as a Pilgrim, amongst them.

First Peas. Aye, this was wont to be festal time In days gone by! I can remember well

The old familiar melodies that rose

But the light hearts so joyously

At break of morn, from all our purple hills,
To welcome in the vintage. Never since
Hath music seem'd so sweet!
Which to those measures beat
Are tamed to stillness now.
Of joy through all the land.

There is no voice

Second Peas. Yes! there are sounds

Of revelry within the palaces,

And the fair castles of our ancient lords,

Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear
From thence the peals of song and laughter rise
At midnight's deepest hour.

Third Peas. Alas! we sat

In happier days, so peacefully beneath
The olives and the vines our fathers rear'd,
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps
Flew by us in the dance! The time hath been
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er

The storm might gather. But this yoke of France
Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily

As on the crested chieftain's.

E'en to the earth.

We are bow'd

Peas.'s Child. My father, tell me when
Shall the gay dance and song again resound
Amidst our chestnut-woods, as in those days

Of which thou'rt wont to tell the joyous tale?

First Peas. When there are light and reckless hearts once more In Sicily's green vales. Alas! my boy,

Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl,

To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside

The weight of work-day care :-they meet, to speak

Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts
They dare not breathe aloud.

Pro. (from the back-ground). Aye, it is well
So to relieve th' o'erburden'd heart, which pants
Beneath its weight of wrongs; but better far
In silence to avenge them.

An old Peas. What deep voice
Came with that startling tone?

First Peas. It was our guest's,

The stranger pilgrim, who hath sojourn'd here

Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him well;

He hath a stately bearing, and an eye

Whose glance looks through the heart.

His mien accords

Ill with such vestments. How he folds round him
His pilgrim-cloak, e'en as it were a robe

Of knightly ermine! That commanding step

Should have been used in courts and camps to move.
Mark him!

Old Peas. Nay, rather, mark him not: the times
Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts
A cautious lesson. What should bring him here?
A Youth. He spoke of vengeance!

Old Peas. Peace! we are beset

By snares on every side, and we must learn

In silence and in patience to endure.

Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death.

Pro. (coming forward indignantly). The word is death! And what hath life for thee,

That thou shouldst cling to it thus? thou abject thing!

Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke,

And stamp'd with servitude.

What! is it life,

Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast

Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e'en then,

Strangers should catch its echo?—Is there aught
In this so precious, that thy furrow'd cheek
Is blanch'd with terror at the passing thought
Of hazarding some few and evil days,
Which drag thus poorly on?

Some of the Peas. Away, away!

Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence.

Pro. Why, what is danger?-Are there deeper ills
Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drain'd
The cup of bitterness, till nought remains

To fear or shrink from-therefore, be ye strong!
Power dwelleth with despair.-Why start ye thus
At words which are but echoes of the thoughts
Lock'd in your secret souls?-Full well I know,
There is not one amongst you, but hath nursed
Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make
One conflict of his life. I know thy wrongs,
And thine-and thine,-but if within your breasts,
There is no chord that vibrates to my voice,
Then fare ye well.

A youth (coming forward). No, no! say on, say on!
There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here,

That kindle at thy words.

Peas. If that indeed

Thou hast a hope to give us.

Pro. There is hope

For all who suffer with indignant thoughts

Which work in silent strength. What! think ye Heaven
O'erlooks th' oppressor, if he bear awhile
His crested head on high?—I tell you, no!
Th' avenger will not sleep. It was an hour
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king,
Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn,
On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less
Is justice throned above; and her good time
Comes rushing on in storms: that royal blood
Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth,

And hath been heard. The traces of the past
Fade in man's heart, but ne'er doth Heaven forget.
Peas. Had we but arms and leaders, we are men
Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these,
What wouldst thou have us do?

Peas. Be vigilant ;

And when the signal wakes the land, arise!

The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be

A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well.

[Exit PROCIDA.

First Peas. This man should be a prophet: how he seem'd

To read our hearts with his dark searching glance
And aspect of command! And yet his garb
Is mean as ours.

Second Peas. Speak low; I know him well.
At first his voice disturb'd me like a dream
Of other days; but I remember now

His form, seen oft when in my youth I served
Beneath the banners of our kings. 'Tis he

Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long,
The Count di Procida.

Peas. And is this he?

Then Heaven protect him! for around his steps
Will many snares be set.

First Peas. He comes not thus

But with some mighty purpose; doubt it not:
Perchance to bring us freedom.

He is one

Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been proved
True to our native princes. But away!

The noon-tide heat is past, and from the seas

Light gales are wandering through the vineyards; now
We may resume our toil.

[Exeunt PEASANTS.

Vit. Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart
Blighted and cold?-Th' affections of my youth
Lie slumbering in the grave; their fount is closed,
And all the soft and playful tenderness

Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet
Deep wrongs have sear'd it; all is fled from mine.
Urge me no more.

Erib. O lady! doth the flower

That sleeps entomb'd through the long wintry storms
Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring;

And shall not woman's heart, from chill despair,

Wake at love's voice?

Vit. Love!-make love's name thy spell,

And I am strong!-the very word calls up

From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, array'd
In arms against thee!-Know'st thou whom I loved,
While my soul's dwelling place was still on earth?
One who was born for empire, and endow'd
With such high gifts of princely majesty,