It is enough of glory to be call'd
The children of the mighty, who redeem'd
Their native soil—but not by means like these.
Mon. I have no children.—Of Montalba's blood
Not one red drop doth circle thro' the veins
Of aught that breathes!—Why, what have I to do
With far futurity?—My spirit lives
But in the past.—Away! when thou dost stand
On this fair earth, as doth a blasted tree
Which the warm sun revives not, then return,
Strong in thy desolation: but, till then,
Thou art not for our purpose; we have need
Of more unshrinking hearts.
Rai. Montalba, know,
I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice
Might yet have power amongst you, I would say,
Associates, leaders, be avenged! but yet
As knights, as warriors!
Mon. Peace! have we not borne
Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains?
We are not knights and warriors.—Our bright crests
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth.
Boy! we are slaves—and our revenge shall be
Deep as a slave's disgrace.
Rai. Why, then, farewell:
I leave you to your councils. He that still
Would hold his lofty nature undebased,
And his name pure, were but a loiterer here.
Pro. And is it thus indeed?—dost thou forsake
Our cause, my son?
