Of those whose blood is claim'd, I thought for them
Who, in a darkness thicker than the night
E'er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long:
How blessed were the stroke which makes them things
Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust,
There is, at least, no bondage!—But should we
From such a scene as this, where all earth's joys
Contend for mastery, and the very sense
Of life is rapture; should we pass, I say,
At once from such excitements to the void
And silent gloom of that which doth await us—
—Were it not dreadful?
Eri. Banish such dark thoughts!
They ill beseem the hour.
Vit. There is no hour
Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe,
But they beseem it well!—Why, what a slight,
Impalpable bound is that, th' unseen, which severs
Being from death!—And who can tell how near
Its misty brink he stands?
1 Noble, (aside.) What mean her words?
2 Noble. There's some dark mystery here.
Eri. No more of this!
Pour the bright juice which Etna's glowing vines
Yield to the conquerors! And let music's voice
Dispel these ominous dreams!—Wake, harp and song!
Swell out your triumph!
