Departing to the realms of day,
Each to the next, as good and fair,
Extends the zone of feminine grace,
And veil of purity:--
Oh, happy race!
What vision glads my raptured eye!
Equal in nature's blooming pride,
I see the mother and the virgin bride.

BEATRICE (awaking from her reverie).

Oh, luckless hour!
Alas! ill-fated maid!
Where shall I fly
From these rude warlike men?
Lost and betrayed!
A shudder o'er me came,
When of this race accursed--the brothers twain--
Their hands embrued with kindred gore,
I heard the dreaded name;
Oft told, their strife and serpent hate
With terror thrilled lay bosom's core:--
And now--oh, hapless fate!
I tremble, 'mid the rage of discord thrown,
Deserted and alone!

[She runs into the alcove.

Chorus (BOHEMUND).