On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang
O'er its dark orb.—Speak! I adjure thee, say.
How hath this work been wrought?
Vit. Peace! ask me not!
Why shouldst thou hear a tale to send thy blood
Back on its fount?—We cannot wake them now
The storm is in my soul, but they are all
At rest!—Ay, sweetly may the slaughter'd babe
By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men
Who, midst the slain have slumber'd oft before,
Making the shield their pillow, may repose
Well, now their toils are done.—Is't not enough?
Con. Merciful heaven! have such things been? And yet
There is no shade come o'er the laughing sky!
—I am an outcast now.
Ans. O Thou, whose ways
Clouds mantle fearfully; of all the blind,
But terrible, ministers that work thy wrath,
How much is man the fiercest!—Others know
Their limits—Yes! the earthquakes, and the storms,
And the volcanoes!—He alone o'erleaps
The bounds of retribution!—Couldst thou gaze,
Vittoria! with thy woman's heart and eye,
On such dread scenes unmoved?
Vit. Was it for me
To stay th' avenging sword?—No, tho' it pierced
My very soul?—"Hark, hark, what thrilling shrieks
"Ring thro' the air around me!—Can'st thou not
"Bid them be hush'd?—Oh! look not on me thus!
