Nobles, Soldiers, Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, &c. &c.

SCENE-Palermo.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-A Valley with Vineyards and Cottages.
Groups of Peasants-PROCIDA, disguised as a
Pilgrim, among them.

1st Pea. Ay, this was wont to be a festal time In days gone by! I can remember well

The old familiar melodies that rose

At break of morn, from all our purple hills,

To welcome in the vintage. Never since

Hath music seem'd so sweet. But the light hearts
Which to those measures beat so joyously,

Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice
Of joy through all the land.

2d Pea.

Yes! there are sounds

Of revelry within the palaces,

And the fair castles of our ancient lords,

Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear,
From thence the peals of song and laughter rise
At midnight's deepest hour.

3d Pea.

Alas! we sat,

In happier days, so peacefully beneath
The olives and the vines our fathers rear'd,
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps
Flew by us in the dance! The time hath been
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er
The storm might gather. But this yoke of France

Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily
As on the crested chieftain's. We are bow'd
E'en to the earth.

Pea's Child. My father, tell me when
Shall the gay dance and song again resound
Amidst our chestnut-woods, as in those days
Of which thou'rt wont to tell the joyous tale?

1st Pea. When there are light and reckless hearts once more In Sicily's green vales. Alas! my boy,

Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl,

To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside

The weight of work-day care:-they meet to speak

Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts
They dare not breathe aloud.

Pro. (from the background.) Ay, it is well
So to relieve th' o'erburthen'd heart, which pants
Beneath its weight of wrong; but better far
In silence to avenge them!

An Old Pea.

What deep voice

Came with that startling tone?

1st Pea.

It was our guest's,

The stranger pilgrim who hath sojourn'd here
Since yestermorn. Good neighbors mark him well:
He hath a stately bearing, and an eye

Whose glance looks through the heart.

His mien accords

Ill with such vestments. How he folds round him

His pilgrim cloak, e'en as it were a robe

Of knightly ermine! That commanding step
Should have been used in courts and camps to move.
Mark him!

Old Pea. Nay, rather, mark him not; the times
Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts
A cautious lesson. What should bring him here?
A Youth. He spoke of vengeance!

Old Pea.

Peace! we are becer

By snares on every side, and we must learn

In silence and in patience to endure.

Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death.
Pro. (coming forward indignantly.)

And what hath life for thee,

The word is death:

That thou shouldst cling to it thus? thou abject thing?

Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke,

And stamp'd with servitude. What! is it life,
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast

Pale jealous looks around thee, lest e'en then.
Strangers should catch its echo?-Is there aught
In this so precious, that thy furrow'd cheek
Is blanch'd with terror at the passing thought
Of hazarding some few and evil days,

Which drag thus poorly on?
Some of Peas.

Away, away!