But listen!—I drew near my own fair home;
There was no light along its walls, no sound
Of bugle pealing from the watch-tower's height
At my approach, although my trampling steed
Made the earth ring; yet the wide gates were thrown
All open.—Then my heart misgave me first,
And on the threshold of my silent hall
I paused a moment, and the wind swept by
With the same deep and dirge-like tone which pierced
My soul e'en now.—I call'd—my struggling voice
Gave utterance to my wife's, my children's, names;
They answer'd not—I roused my failing strength,
And wildly rush'd within—and they were there.
Rai. And was all well?
Mon. Ay, well!—for death is well,
And they were all at rest!—I see them yet,
Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail'd
To stay th' assassin's arm!
Rai. Oh, righteous heaven!
Who had done this?
Mon. Who!
Pro. Can'st thou question, who?
Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds,
In the cold-blooded revelry of crime,
But those whose yoke is on us?
Rai. Man of woe!
What words hath pity for despair like thine?
Mon. Pity!—fond youth!—My soul disdains the grief
Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies,
