Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 64, No. 398, December 1848

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.

Raim. Montalba! know,
I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice
Might yet have power among 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.

Raim. Why, then, farewell:
I leave you to your counsels. What proud hopes
This hour hath blighted! – yet, whate'er betide,
It is a noble privilege to look up
Fearless in heaven's bright face – and this is mine,
And shall be still. [Exit.

Our other extract is from a later scene in the drama, which we think very happily conceived. Raimond, accused of treachery, and condemned to die by his own father, is in chains and in prison. The day of his execution has arrived, but the Sicilians are called on to give battle before their gates; he is left alone, respited, or rather forgotten, for the present. His alternation of feeling, as he at first attempts to respond to the consolations of the priest Anselmo, and then, on hearing of the battle that is being fought for his country, breaks out into all that ardent love of glory, which was the main passion of his soul, is very admirably expressed.

Ans. But thou, my son!
Is thy young spirit mastered, and prepared
For nature's fearful and mysterious change?

Raim. Ay, father! of my brief remaining task
The least part is to die! And yet the cup
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips,
Crowned with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name
Is – glory! Oh! my soul from boyhood's morn
Hath nursed such mighty dreams! It was my hope
To leave a name, whose echo from the abyss
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds
Into the far hereafter; there to be
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb,
Murmuring – Awake, Arise! But this is past!
Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame
To sleep forgotten in the dust; but now,
Oh God! the undying record of my grave
Will be – Here sleeps a traitor! One whose crime
Was – to deem brave men might find nobler weapons
Than the cold murderer's dagger!

Ans. O my son!
Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will hang
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stained soul
Doth conjure from the dead!

Raim. Thou'rt right. I would not.
Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart,
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit
Into that still and passive fortitude
Which is but learned from suffering. Would the hour
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand!

Ans. It will not be to-day. The foe hath reached
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all
Her warrior men, are marshalled and gone forth.
Thy father leads them on.

Raim. (starting up.) They are gone forth!
my father leads them on!
All – all Palermo's youth! No! one is left,
Shut out from glory's race! They are gone forth!
Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad —
It burns upon the air! The joyous winds
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam
Of battle's roaring billows! On my sight
The vision bursts – it maddens! 'tis the flash,
The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze
Of helmets in the sun! Such things are
Even now – and I am here!

Ans. Alas, be calm!
To the same grave ye press – thou that dost pine
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule
The fortunes of the fight.

Raim. Ay, thou canst feel
The calm thou wouldst impart, for unto thee
All men alike, the warrior and the slave,
Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on
To the same bourne.

Vittoria, who had taken a leading part in the conspiracy, now rushes in, bringing the intelligence that the Sicilians are worsted – are in flight. Procida still strives —

But all in vain! The few that breast the storm,
With Guido and Montalba, by his side,
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field.

Raim. And I am here! Shall there be power, O God!
In the roused energies of fierce despair.
To burst my heart – and not to rend my chains?