be like the place--father--my hair will stand on end
with horror.

VERRINA. And yet 'tis cheerfulness itself to the gloom that enwraps my
soul. Follow me to yon churchyard, where corruption preys on the
mouldering remnants of mortality, and death holds his fearful banquet--
where shrieks of damned souls delight the listening fiends, and sorrow
weeps her fruitless tears into the never-filling urn. Follow me, my son,
to where the condition of this world is changed; and God throws off his
attributes of mercy--there will I speak to thee in agony, and thou shalt
hear with despair.

BOURGOGNINO. Hear! what? I conjure you, father.

VERRINA. Youth! I fear. Youth, thy blood is warm and crimson--thy
heart is soft and tender--such natures are alive to human kindness--this
warmth of feeling melts my obdurate wisdom. If the frost of age or
sorrow's leaden pressure had chilled the springtide vigor of thy spirits
--if black congealed blood had closed the avenues of thy heart against
the approaches of humanity--then would thy mind be attuned to the
language of my grief, and thou wouldst look with admiration on my
project.

BOURGOGNINO. I will hear it, and embrace it as my own.

VERRINA. Not so, my son--Verrina will not wound thy heart with it. O
Scipio, heavy burdens lie on me. A thought more dark and horrible than
night, too vast to be contained within the breast of man! Mark me--my
hand alone shall execute the deed; but my mind cannot alone support the
weight of it. If I were proud, Scipio, I might say greatness unshared is
torture. It was a burden to the Deity himself, and he created angels to
partake his counsels. Hear, Scipio!

BOURGOGNINO. My soul devours thy words.

VERRINA. Hear! But answer nothing--nothing, young man! Observe me--not
a word--Fiesco must die.

BOURGOGNINO (struck with astonishment). Die! Fiesco!

VERRINA. Die--I thank thee, God, 'tis out at last--Fiesco must die. My
son--die by my hand. Now, go. There are deeds too high for human
judgment. They appeal alone to heaven's tribunal. Such a one is this.
Go! I neither ask thy blame nor approbation. I know my inward
struggles, and that's enough. But hear! These thoughts might weary out
thy mind even to madness. Hear! Didst thou observe yesterday with what
pride he viewed his greatness reflected from our wondering countenances?
The man whose smiles deceived all Italy, will he endure equals in Genoa?
Go! 'Tis certain that Fiesco will overthrow the tyrant. 'Ti