To the same grave ye press,—thou that dost pine
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule
The fortunes of the fight.
Rai. Ay! Thou canst feel
The calm thou wouldst impart, for unto thee
All men alike, the warrior and the slave,
Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on
To the same bourne.—Yet call it not the same!
Their graves, who fall in this day's fight, will be
As altars to their country, visited
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths,
And chaunting hymns in honour of the dead:
Will mine be such?
Vittoria rushes in wildly, as if pursued.
Vittoria. Anselmo! art thou found?
Haste, haste, or all is lost! Perchance thy voice,
Whereby they deem heaven speaks, thy lifted cross,
And prophet-mien, may stay the fugitives,
Or shame them back to die.
Ans. The fugitives!
What words are these?—the sons of Sicily
Fly not before the foe?
Vit. That I should say
It is too true!
Ans. And thou—thou bleedest, lady!
Vit. Peace! heed not me, when Sicily is lost!
I stood upon the walls, and watched our bands,
As, with their ancient, royal banner spread,
Onward they march'd. The combat was begun,
