Page:Sebastian of Portugal.pdf/6

And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour
Of stern atonement?—Aye, the slumberer wakes
In gather'd strength and vengeance!—And the sense
And the remembrance of his agonies
Are in themselves as power, whose fearful path
Is like the path of ocean, when the heavens
Take off its interdict!—Wait thou the hour
Of that high impulse!

Seb.—Is it not the sun,
Whose radiant bursting through th' em battled clouds
Doth make it morn?—The hour of which thou speak'st,
Itself, with all its glory, is the work
Of some commanding nature, which doth bid
The sullen shades disperse!—Away! e'en now
The land's high hearts, the fearless and the true,
Shall know they have a leader!—Is not this
The mansion of mine own, mine earliest friend, Sylveira?

Gon.—Aye, its glittering lamps too well
Illume the stately vestibule, to leave
Our sight a moment's doubt. He ever lov'd
Such pageantries!

Seb.—His dwelling thus adorn'd
On such a night!—yet will I seek him here.
He must be faithful, and to him the first
My tale shall be reveal'd.—A sudden chill
Falls on my heart—and yet I will not wrong
My friend with vile suspicion!—He hath been
Link'd all too closely with mine inmost soul!
—And what have I to lose?

Gon.—Is their blood nought,
Who, without hope, will follow where thou lead'st,
Ev'n unto death?

Seb.—Was that a brave man's voice?
Warrior and friend! how long, then, hast thou learn'd
To hold thy blood thus dear?

Gon.—Of mine, mine own,
Think'st thou I spoke?—When all is shed for thee,
Thou'lt know me better!

Seb.—(entering the Palace)—For awhile, farewell.⁠[Exit.

Gon.—Thus princes read men's hearts!—Come, follow me,