The cheek, so snowy-tinctured, now is bronzed
With wintry storms, and summer's heat; yet still
I am, I am Rosmunda! Oh, Giovanni,
'Scaped from the wave, released from slavery,
Wilt thou deny the haven of thine arms
To the poor shipwrecked wanderer?
Giovanni.
Away!
'Tis mockery all; the grave must hold its dead,
Or tombs will gape, the denizens of earth
Be strangely mingled with the phantom forms
Of spirits. Most unnatural union;
We'll not endure it.—Darkness, the cold cave
Of ocean is thy dwelling-place, not light,
And air, and sunshine—
Rosmunda.
Oh, beloved Giovanni!
Speak not so wildly; 'tis thy living wife,
Thy lost Rosmunda: by a miracle
We both were saved. It was a happier fate
