Brief is the joy that swells th' oppressor's breast.
What though not yet his day of pride be flown,
Though yet heaven's vengeance spare his haughty crest,
Well hath it mark'd him—and decreed the hour,
When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power.
Are we not creatures of one hand divine?
Form'd in one mould, to one redemption born?
Kindred alike where'er our skies may shine,
Where'er our sight tint drank the vital morn?
Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine,
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn!
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth,
Who bows down spirits of immortal birth!
The third act, which passes entirely in the tent of the Count, is composed of long discourses between Carmagnola and the Venetian envoys. One of these requires him to pursue the fugitives after his victory, which he haughtily refuses to do, declaring that he will not leave the field until he has gained possession of the surrounding fortresses. Another complains that the Condottieri and the soldiers have released their prisoners, to which he replies, that it is an established military custom; and sending for the remaining four hundred captives, he gives them their liberty also. This act, which terminates with the suspicious observations of the envoys on Carmagnola's conduct, is rather barren of interest, though the episode of the younger Pergola, which we shall lay before our readers, is happily imagined. As the prisoners are departing, the Count observes the younger Pergola, and stops him.
Carmagnola.Thou art not, youth!
One to be number'd with the vulgar crowd.
Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would speak
Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest
Thou minglest, and art silent!
Pergola.Silence best,
O chief, befits the vanquish'd.
Car.Bearing up
Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art prov'd
Wortby a better star. Thy name?
Per.'Tis one
