p. 69

[Aloud, to Opas.

—Covilla— She never can be mine! yet she may be Still happy—no, Covilla, no—not happy, But more deserving happiness without it. Mine never! nor another’s—’tis enough. The tears I shed no rival can deride; In the fond intercourse, a name once cherished Will never be defended by faint smiles, Nor given up with vows of alter’d love. And is the passion of my soul at last Reduced to this? is this my happiness? This my sole comfort? this the close of all Those promises, those tears, those last adieus, And those long vigils for the morrow’s dawn.

Opas. Arouse thee! be thyself. O Sisabert, Awake to glory from these feverish dreams; The enemy is in our land—two enemies— We must quell both—shame on us, if we fail.

p. 70Sis. Incredible; a nation be subdued Peopled as ours!

p. 70

Opas. Corruption may subvert What force could never.

Sis. Traitors may.

Opas. Alas! If traitors can, the basis is but frail. I mean such traitors as the vacant world Echoes most stunningly; not fur-robed knaves Whose whispers raise the dreaming bloodhound’s ear Against benighted famished wanderers; While with remorseless guilt they undermine Palace and shed, their very father’s house, O blind! their own and children’s heritage, To leave more ample space for fearful wealth. Plunder in some most harmless guise they swathe, Call it some very meek and hallowed name, Some known and borne by their good forefathers, And own and vaunt it thus redeemed from sin. These are the plagues heaven sends o’er every land Before it sink—the portents of the street, p. 71Not of the air—lest nations should complain Of distance or of dimness in the signs, Flaring from far to Wisdom’s eye alone: These are the last! these, when the sun rides high In the forenoon of doomsday, revelling, Make men abhor the earth, arraign the skies. Ye who behold them spoil field after field, Despising them in individual strength, Not with one torrent sweeping them away Into the ocean of eternity, Arise! despach! no renovating gale, No second spring awaits you—up, begone, —If you have force and courage even for flight— The blast of dissolution is behind.

p. 71

Sis. How terrible! how true! what voice 

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