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With agony, but yet, some future day,
Twill soothe you to recal them. Live, my wife!
Sustain thy grief, and live! this ill-starr'd girl
Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence,
Conduct her to thy kindred, she is their's,
Of their own blood—and they so lov'd thee once!
Then, to their foe united, thou becam'st
Less dear; for feuds and wrongs made warring sounds
Of Carmagnola's and Visconti's names.
But to their bosoms thou wilt now return
A mourner; and the object of their hate
Will be no more—Oh! there is joy in death!—
And thou, my flower! that midst the din of arms,
Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head
Droops to the earth! Alas! the tempest's rage
Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart
Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe.
I feel thy burning tears upon my breast,
I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim
Pity from me, Matilda? Oh! thy sire
Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know'st
That the forsaken have a Father still,
On High. Confide in him, and live to days
Of peace, if not of joy; for such to thee
He surely destines. Wherefore hath he poured
The torrent of affliction on thy youth,
If to thy future years be not reserved
All his benign compassion? Live! and soothe
Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms
Of no ignoble consort lead thee still!—
Gonzaga! take the hand which thou hast pressed
Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts
Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve.
Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith
To guide and guard these mourners, till they join
Their friends and kindred?

Gon. Rest assured, I will.

Car. I am content. And if, when this is done,
Thou to the field returnest, there for me
Salute my brethren; tell them that I died
Guiltless; thou hast been witness of my deeds,
Hast read my inmost thoughts—and know'st it well.
Tell them I never, with a traitor's shame,
Stain'd my bright sword. Oh! never—I myself
Have been ensnar'd by treachery. Think of me