And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait,
Even as an echo, following the sweet close
Of some divine and solemn harmony:
Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me
Of holy things, and names, in whose deep sound
Is power to bid the tempests of the heart
Sink, like a storm rebuked.
Ans. What recent grief
Darkens thy spirit thus?
Vit. I said not grief.
We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not
That which it hath been. In the flowers which wreathe
Its mantling cup there is a scent unknown,
Fraught with some strange delirium. All things now
Have changed their nature; still, I say, rejoice!
There is a cause, Anselmo!—We are free,
Free and avenged!—Yet on my soul there hangs
A darkness, heavy as th' oppressive gloom
Of midnight phantasies.—Ay, for this, too,
There is a cause.
Ans. How say'st thou, we are free?
There may have raged, within Palermo's walls,
Some brief wild tumult, but too well I know
They call the stranger, lord.
Vit. Who calls the dead
Conqueror or lord?—Hush! breathe it not aloud,
The wild winds must not hear it!—Yet, again,
I tell thee, we are free!
Ans. Thine eye hath look’d
