Con. "When did man
"Call mercy, treason?—Take my life, but save
"My noble Raimond!
Vit. Maiden!" He must die.
E'en now the youth before his judges stands,
And they are men who, to the voice of prayer,
Are as the rock is to the murmur'd sigh
Of summer-waves; ay, tho' a father sit
On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me.
What would'st thou?
Con. Mercy!—Oh! wert thou to plead
But with a look, e'en yet he might be saved!
If thou hast ever loved—
Vit. ——If I have loved?
It is that love forbids me to relent;
I am what it hath made me.—O'er my soul
Lightning hath pass'd, and sear'd it. Could I weep,
I then might pity—but it will not be.
Con. Oh! thou wilt yet relent, for woman's heart
Was formed to suffer and to melt.
Vit. Away!
Why should I pity thee?—Thou wilt but prove
What I have known before—and yet I live!
Nature is strong, and it may all be borne—
The sick impatient yearning of the heart
For that which is not; and the weary sense
Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been
Circled by death; yes, all things may be borne!
All, save remorse.—But I will not bow down
My spirit to that dark power:—there was no guilt!
Anselmo! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt?
