Shall hold his festival of mutual carnage

Beneath a mother's eye!-then, foot to foot,

Close, like the Theban pair, with maddening gripe,

And fold each other in a last embrace!

Each press with vengeful thrust the dagger home,

And 'Victory!' be your shriek of death:-nor then

Shall discord rest appeased; the very flame

That lights your funeral pyre shall tower dissevered

In ruddy columns to the skies, and tell

With horrid image-'thus they lived and died!'

[She goes away; the BROTHERS stand as before.

Chorus (CAJETAN).

How have her words with soft control

Resistless calmed the tempest of my soul!

No guilt of kindred blood be mine!

Thus with uplifted hands I prey;

Think, brothers, on the awful day,

And tremble at the wrath divine!

DON CAESAR (without taking his eyes from the ground).

Thou art my elder-speak-without dishonor

I yield to thee.

DON MANUEL.

One gracious word, an instant,

My tongue is rival in the strife of love!

DON CAESAR.

I am the guiltier-weaker--

DON MANUEL.

Say not so!

Who doubts thy noble heart, knows thee not well;

The words were prouder, if thy soul were mean.

DON CAESAR.

It burns indignant at the thought of wrong-

But thou-methinks-in passion's fiercest mood,

'Twas aught but scorn that harbored in thy breast.

DON MANUEL.

Oh! had I known thy spirit thus to peace

Inclined, what thousand griefs had never torn

A mother's heart!

DON CAESAR.

I find thee just and true:

Men spoke thee proud of soul.

DON MANUEL.

The curse of greatness!

Ears ever open to the babbler's tale.

DON CAESAR.

Thou art too proud to meanness-I to falsehood!

DON MANUEL.

We are deceived, betrayed!

DON CAESAR.

The sport of frenzy!

DON MANUEL.

And said my mother true, false is the world?

DON CAESAR.

Believe her, false as air.

DON MANUEL.

Give me thy hand!

DON CAESAR.

And thine be ever next my heart!

[They stand clasping each other's hands,

and regard each other in silence.

DON MANUEL.

I gaze

Upon thy brow, and still behold my mother

In some dear lineament.

DON CAESAR.

Her image looks

From thine, and wondrous in my bosom wakes

Affection's springs.

Вы читаете The Bride of Messina (play)
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