Pro. Now hath fate reached thee in thy mid career,
Thou reveller in a nation's agonies!
(The Provençals are driven off, and pursued by the Sicilians.
Con. (supporting Eribert.) My brother! oh! my brother!
Eri. Have I stood
A leader in the battle-fields of kings,
To perish thus at last?—Ay, by these pangs,
And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep,
Like a slow poison, thro' my curdling veins,
This should be—death!—In sooth a dull exchange
For the gay bridal feast!
Voices, (without,) Remember Conradin!—spare none, spare none!
Vit. (throwing off her bridal wreath and ornaments.)
This is proud freedom! Now my soul may cast,
In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling
To earth for ever!—And it is such joy,
As if a captive, from his dull, cold cell,
Might soar at once on charter'd wing to range
The realms of starr'd infinity!—Away!
Vain mockery of a bridal wreath! The hour
For which stern patience ne'er kept watch in vain
Is come; and I may give my bursting heart
Full and indignant scope.—Now, Eribert!
Believe in retribution! What, proud man!
Prince, ruler, conqueror! didst thou deem heaven slept?
"Or that the unseen, immortal ministers,
