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Where is our brave deliverer?-We are come
To crown Palermo's victor!

ANSELMO.

Ye come late.

The voice of human praise doth send no echo
Into the world of spirits.

(The music ceases.) PROCIDA (after a pause).

Is this dust
I look on-Raimond 'tis but sleep-a smile
On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake!
Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day!
My son, my injured son!

CONSTANCE (starting).

Art thou his father ? I know thee now.—Hence! with thy dark stern eye, And thy cold heart !- Thou canst not wake him now ! Away! he will not answer but to me, For none like me hath loved him! He is mine! Ye shall not rend him from me.

PROCIDA.

Oh! he knew Thy love, poor maid !—Shrink from me now no more ! He knew thy heart—but who shall tell him now

The depth, th’ intenseness, and the agony,
Of my suppress’d affection ?-I have learn'd
All his high worth in time-to deck his grave!
Is there not power in the strong spirit's woe
To force an answer from the viewless world
Of the departed ?—Raimond !--Speak! forgive !
Raimond ! my victor, my deliverer, hear !
Why, what a world is this !--Truth ever bursts
On the dark soul too late : And glory crowns
Th' unconscious dead! And an hour comes to break
The mightiest hearts !-My son ! my son! is this
A day of triumph ?-Aye, for thee alone!

(He throws himself upon the body of Raimond.)

[Curtain falls.

THE END.

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