Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit
Into that still and passive fortitude,
Which is but learn'd from suffering.—Would the hour
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand!
Ans. It will not be to-day. Hast thou not heard—
—But no—the rush, the trampling, and the stir
Of this great city, arming in her haste,
Pierce not these dungeon-depths.—The foe hath reach'd
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all
Her warrior-men, are marshall'd, and gone forth
In that high hope which makes realities,
To the red field. Thy father leads them on.
Rai. (starting up.) They are gone forth! my father leads them on!
All, all Palermo's youth!—No! one is left,
Shut out from glory's race!—They are gone forth!
—Ay! now the soul of battle is abroad,
It burns upon the air!—The joyous winds
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam
Of battle's roaring billows!—On my sight
The vision bursts—it maddens! 'tis the flash,
The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze
Of helmets in the sun!—The very steed
With his majestic rider glorying shares
The hour's stern joy, and waves his floating mane
As a triumphant banner!—Such things are
Even now—and I am here!
Ans. Alas, be calm!
