beloved head
I poured. A mother may not curse the child
That from her nourishing breast drew life, and gave
Sweet recompense for all her travail past;
Heaven would not hear the impious vows; they fell
With quick rebound, and heavy with my tears
Down from the flaming vault!
Live! live! my son!
For I may rather bear to look on thee--
The murderer of one child--than weep for both!

DON CAESAR.
Heedless and vain, my mother, are thy prayers
For me and for thyself; I have no place
Among the living: if thine eyes may brook
The murderer's sight abhorred--I could not bear
The mute reproach of thy eternal sorrow.

ISABELLA.
Silent or loud, my son, reproach shall never
Disturb thy breast--ne'er in these halls shall sound
The voice of wailing, gently on my tears
My griefs shall flow away: the sport alike
Of pitiless fate together we will mourn,
And veil the deed of blood.

DON CAESAR (with a faltering voice, and taking her hand).
Thus it shall be,
My mother--thus with silent, gentle woe
Thy grief shall fade: but when one common tomb
The murderer and his victim closes round--
When o'er our dust one monumental stone
Is rolled--the curse shall cease--thy love no more
Unequal bless thy sons: the precious tears
Thine eyes of beauty weep shall sanctify
Alike our memories. Yes! In death are quenched
The fires of rage; and hatred owns subdued,
The mighty reconciler. Pity bends
An angel form above the funeral urn,
With weeping, dear embrace. Then to the tomb
Stay not my passage:--Oh, forbid me not,
Thus with atoning sacrifice to quell
The curse of heaven.

ISABELLA.
All Christendom is rich
In shrines of mercy, where the troubled heart
May find repose. Oh! many a heavy burden
Have sinners in Loretto's mansion laid;
And Heaven's peculiar blessing breathes around
The grave that has redeemed the world! The prayers
Of the devout are precious--fraught with store
Of grace, they win forgiveness from the skies;--
And on the soil by gory murder stained
Shall rise the purifying fane.

DON CAESAR.
We pluck
The arrow from the wound--but the torn heart
Shall ne'er be healed. Let him who can, drag on
A weary life of penance and of pain,
To cleanse the spot of everlasting guilt;--
I would not live the victim of despair;
No! I must meet with beaming eye the smile
Of happy ones, and breathe erect the air
Of liberty and joy. While yet alike
We shared thy love, then o'er my