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From what hid stock does thy strange nature spring? 'Tis thou that mov'st the world through ev'ry part, And hold'st the vast frame close that nothing start From the due place and office first ordained, By thee were all things made and are sustained.
Oh, wilt thou not Repent thy sin, be reconciled to God, And to the bosom of the church return? JOHANNA. Thou hold'st me guilty of this heavy sin? RAIMOND. Needs must I thou didst silently confess Oh, this is hard! And thou wert really then no sorceress? JOHANNA. A sorceress! RAIMOND. And all these miracles Thou hast accomplished through the power of God And of his holy saints?
"Lieti fiori e felici." O joyous, blossoming, ever-blessed flowers! 'Mid which my queen her gracious footstep sets; O plain, that keep'st her words for amulets And hold'st her memory in thy leafy bowers! O trees, with earliest green of spring-time hours, And spring-time's pale and tender violets! O grove, so dark the proud sun only lets His blithe rays gild the outskirts of your towers!
Below, was an old temple, in the interior of which was a beautiful person, just in the act of reading the religious manuals, as she sat all alone; with this inscription: In light esteem thou hold'st the charms of the three springs for their short-liv'd fate; Thine attire of past years to lay aside thou chang'st, a Taoist dress to don; How sad, alas! of a reputed house and noble kindred the scion, Alone, behold! she sleeps under a glimmering light, an old idol for mate.
We hear gloomy tales, sometimes, of thy alpine paths in that Italy thou hold'st so cheap." "Your pardon, noble Signore, if the frankness of a mountaineer has carried me too far. I do not undervalue your Piedmont, because I love our Valais more. A country may be excellent, even though another should be better.
Thou hold'st the manes of thy son in honor; Nor wilt permit a bold adventurer To steal his name and title from the tomb, And with audacious hand usurp his rights. Thou wilt proclaim aloud to all the world That thou dost own him for no son of thine. Thou wilt not nurse a bastard's alien blood Upon thy heart, that beats so nobly; never!
Or art thou mix'd in Nature's source, An ever-operating force, Converting good to ill; An evil principle innate, Contending with our better fate, And, oh! victorious still? Howe'er it be, dispute is vain. On all without thou hold'st thy reign, Nor less on all within; Each mortal passion's fierce career, Love, hate, ambition, joy, and fear, Thou goadest into sin.
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