OLD PEASANT.

Nay, rather, mark him not: the times

Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts

A cautious lesson. What should bring him here?

He spoke of vengeance!

A YOUTH.

OLD PEASANT.

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.

PROCIDA (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 PEASANTS.

Away, away!

Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence.

PROCIDA.

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.

PEASANT.

Thou hast a hope to give us.

If that indeed

PROCIDA.

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.

PEASANT.

Had we but arms and leaders, we are men

Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these,
What wouldst thou have us do?

PROCIDA.

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 PEASANT.

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 PEASANT.

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.

PEASANT.

And is this he?

Then Heaven protect him! for around his steps

Will many snares be set.

FIRST PEASANT.

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.

SCENE II.-The Terrace of a Castle.

ERIBERT. VITTORIA.

VITTORIA.

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.

ERIBERT.

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?