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Updated: June 3, 2025
An instrumental introduction ushers in the second act. It is a musical delineation of Florestan's surroundings, sufferings, and mental anguish. The darkness is rent by shrieks of pain; harsh, hollow, and threatening sound the throbs of the kettle-drums. The parting of the curtain discloses the prisoner chained to his rocky couch.
The world throbs with such things at the moment of their doing even though condemning them later, and the part of the world then packed within the Senate-Chamber shared the universal disposition. The noise astonished Senator Harrison, and he looked around with something like resentment.
Yet, strangely enough, however eager for inspiration I might lounge about its red upholstery, however ardently aglow for inspiration I might drink expensive champagnes there, yet the supreme, immense, all-liberating thought did not come. Nor would that thought come to me to-day. Less than ever, in fact. Red circles danced before my eyes and in my veins hammered the throbs of fever.
The nature of those throbs, which a glance of your very shadow was sure to produce, even previous to the exchange of a single word between us, was entirely unknown to me. I had no experience to guide me. The effects of that intercourse which I took such pains to procure could not be foreseen.
"Go ahead, Bob, and hurry!" Webster did hurry, and Crawford had scarcely more than time to enjoy half-a-dozen exquisite throbs of agony and observe that the light through the trees, Northward, was growing brighter and brighter, when he came running back, very jubilant. "Dead as the deadest kind of a herring!" he said. "Didn't hit him where I meant to, but it answered.
The moment throbs with emotion, seeking to find full expression. Representing the high ideals of our countrymen and cherishing the spirit of our forefathers who first celebrated this festival of Thanksgiving, we are proud to have repaid a debt of gratitude to the land of Lafayette and to have lent our aid in saving civilization from destruction.
Owen Meredith describes it in a poem, every verse of which throbs with hopeless love and regret, and one of which teaches a lesson so much needed by us all that we would do well to commit to memory the last two lines, and repeat them almost hourly: "I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing!"
The sweet contralto, like the ringdove's coo, Thrilled it with brooding, fond, caressing tones, And the pale minstrel's passion lived again, Tearful and trembling as a dewy rose The wind has shaken till it fills the air With light and fragrance. Such the wondrous charm A song can borrow when the bosom throbs That lends it breath.
It was impossible to doubt it. When she no longer saw the artist, these simple words still echoed in her ear, "You see how love has inspired me!" And the throbs of her heart, as they grew deeper, seemed a pain, her heated blood revealed so many unknown forces in her being.
In 1827, being then but twenty-four years old, he writes: "I bear in youth the sad infirmities That use to undo the limb and sense of age." Four years later: "Has God on thee conferred A bodily presence mean as Paul's, Yet made thee bearer of a word Which sleepy nations as with trumpet calls?" and again, in the same year: "Leave me, Fear, thy throbs are base, Trembling for the body's sake."
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