(One of the Masquers sings.)
The festal eve, o'er earth and sky,
In her sunset robe, looks bright,
And the purple hills of Sicily,
With their vineyards, laugh in light;
From the marble cities of her plains
Glad voices mingling swell;
—But with yet more loud and lofty strains,
They shall hail the Vesper-bell!
Oh! sweet its tones, when the summer breeze
Their cadence wafts afar,
To float o'er the blue Sicilian seas,
As they gleam to the first pale star!
The shepherd greets them on his height,
The hermit in his cell;
—But a deeper power shall breathe, to-night,
In the sound of the Vesper-bell!
Eri. —It is the hour!—Hark, hark!—my bride, our summons!
The altar is prepared and crown'd with flowers
That wait—
Vit. The victim! (A tumult heard without.)
(Procida and Montalba enter, with others, armed.)
Procida. Strike! the hour is come!
Vit. Welcome, avengers, welcome! Now, be strong!
(The Conspirators throw off their disguise, and
rush, with their swords drawn, upon the
Provençals. Eribert is wounded, and falls.
