The Poems of Felicia Hemans

by Mrs. Hemans

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Alvar Gonzalez, Governor of Valencia.

Alphonso, Carlos, his Sons.

Hernandez, a Priest.

Abdullah, a Moorish Prince, Chief of the Army besieging Valencia.

Garcias, a Spanish Knight.

Elmina, Wife to Gonzalez.

Ximena, her Daughter.

Theresa, an attendant.

Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, &c.

[270] Advertisement by the Author.—The history of Spain records two instances of the severe and self-devoting heroism which forms the subject of the following dramatic poem. The first of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which was defended, in 1294, for Sancho King of Castile, during the rebellion of his brother Don Juan, by Guzman surnamed the Good.[271] The second is related of Alonso Lopez de Texeda, who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, maintained the city of Zamora for the children of Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of Trastamara.[272]

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished both these memorable sieges, it appeared to the author of the following pages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger colour of nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in which she has feebly attempted “to describe high passions and high actions,” by connecting a religious feeling with the patriotism and high-minded loyalty which had thus been proved “faithful unto death,” and by surrounding her ideal dramatis personæ with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this reason, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed upon Valencia del Cid as the scene to give them

“A local habitation and a name.”

[271] See Quintana’s “Vidas de Espanoles Celebres,” p. 53.

[272] See the Preface to Southey’s “Chronicle of the Cid.”

Scene I.—Room in a Palace of Valencia.—Ximena singing to a lute.

BALLAD.

“Thou hast not been with a festal throng

At the pouring of the wine;

Men bear not from the hall of song

A mien so dark as thine!

There’s blood upon thy shield,

There’s dust upon thy plume,

Thou hast brought from some disastrous field

That brow of wrath and gloom!”

“And is there blood upon my shield?

Maiden, it well may be!

We have sent the streams from our battle-field

All darken’d to the sea!

We have given the founts a stain,

Midst their woods of ancient pine;

And the ground is wet—but not with rain,

Deep dyed—but not with wine!

“The ground is wet—but not with rain—

We have been in war-array,

And the noblest blood of Christian Spain

Hath bathed her soil to-day.

I have seen the strong man die,

And the stripling meet his fate,

Where the mountain-winds go sounding by

In the Roncesvalles’ Strait.

“In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait

There are helms and lances cleft;

And they that moved at morn elate

On a bed of heath are left!

There’s many a fair young face

Which the war-steed hath gone o’er;

At many a board there is kept a place

For those that come no more!”

“Alas! for love, for woman’s breast,

If woe like this must be!

Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle-crest,

And a white plume waving free?

With his proud quick-flashing eye,

And his mien of knightly state?

Doth he come from where the swords flash’d high

In the Roncesvalles’ Strait?”

“In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait

I saw, and mark’d him well;

For nobly on his steed he sate,

When the pride of manhood fell!

But it is not youth which turns

From the field of spears again;

For the boy’s high heart too wildly burns,

Till it rests amidst the slain!”

“Thou canst not say that he lies low,

The lovely and the brave:

Oh! none could look on his joyous brow,

And think upon the grave!

Dark, dark perchance the day

Hath been with valour’s fate;

But he is on his homeward way

From the Roncesvalles’ Strait!”

“There is dust upon his joyous brow,

And o’er his graceful head;

And the war-horse will not wake him now,

Though it browse his greensward bed!

I have seen the stripling die,

And the strong man meet his fate

Where the mountain-winds go sounding by

In the Roncesvalles’ Strait!”

Elmina enters.

Elm. Your songs are not as those of other days,

Mine own Ximena! Where is now the young

And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once

Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke

Joy’s echo from all hearts?

Xim. My mother, this

Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds;

And these are not the halls wherein my voice

First pour’d those gladd’ning strains.

Elm. Alas! thy heart

(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure

Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills,

Where thy young brothers, o’er the rock and heath,

Bound in glad boyhood, e’en as torrent-streams

Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been

Within these walls thus suddenly begirt,

Thou shouldst have track’d ere now, with step as light,

Their wild-wood paths.

Xim. I would not but have shared

These hours of woe and peril, though the deep

And solemn feelings wakening at their voice

Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves,

And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush

All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild

O’ th’ summer-forest, filling earth and heaven

With its own awful music. And ’tis well!

Should not a hero’s child be train’d to hear

The trumpet’s blast unstartled, and to look

In the fix’d face of death without dismay?

Elm. Woe! woe! that aught so gentle and so young

Should thus be call’d to stand i’ the tempest’s path,

And bear the token and the hue of death

On a bright soul so soon! I had not shrunk

From mine own lot; but thou, my child, shouldst move

As a light breeze of heaven, through summer-bowers,

And not o’er foaming billows. We are fall’n

On dark and evil days!

Xim. Ay, days that wake

All to their tasks!—Youth may not loiter now

In the green walks of spring; and womanhood

Is summon’d unto conflicts, heretofore

The lot of warrior-spirits. Strength is born

In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts;

Not amidst joy.

Elm. Hast thou some secret woe

That thus thou speak’st?

Xim. What sorrow should be mine,

Unknown to thee?

Elm. Alas! the baleful air,

Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks

Through the devoted city, like a blight

Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall’n,

And wrought an early withering. Thou hast cross’d

The paths of death, and minister’d to those

O’er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye

Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still,

Deep, solemn radiance; and thy brow hath caught

A wild and high expression, which at times

Fades into desolate calmness, most unlike

What youth’s bright mien should wear. My gentle child!

I look on thee in fear!

Xim. Thou hast no cause

To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel,

And the deep tambour, and the heavy step

Of armèd men, break on our morning dreams—

When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave

Are falling round us, and we deem it much

To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest

If the good sword, in its own stormy hour,

Hath done its work upon them, ere disease

Had chill’d their fiery blood;—it is no time

For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours,

We trode the woodland mazes, when young leaves

Were whispering in the gale.—My father comes—

Oh! speak of me no more. I would not shade

His princely aspect with a thought less high

Than his proud duties claim.

Gonzalez enters.

Elm. My noble lord!

Welcome from this day’s toil! It is the hour

Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose

Unto all weary men; and wilt not thou

Free thy mail’d bosom from the corslet’s weight,

To rest at fall of eve?

Gon. There may be rest

For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell

Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath

His vine and olive he may sit at eve,

Watching his children’s sport: but unto him

Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain-height,

When heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms

—Who speaks of rest?

Xim. My father, shall I fill

The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute

Whose sounds thou lovest?

Gon. If there be strains of power

To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn

May cast off nature’s feebleness, and hold

Its proud career unshackled, dashing down

Tears and fond thoughts to earth; give voice to those!

I have need of such, Ximena!—we must hear

No melting music now!

Xim. I know all high

Heroic ditties of the elder-time,

Sung by the mountain-Christians,[273] in the holds

Of th’ everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear

The print of Freedom’s step; and all wild strains

Wherein the dark serranos[274] teach the rocks

And the pine-forests deeply to resound

The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear

The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid?

Gon. Ay, speak of him; for in that name is power,

Such as might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him!

We are his children! They that can look back

I’ th’ annals of their house on such a name,

How should they take Dishonour by the hand,

And o’er the threshold of their fathers’ halls

First lead her as a guest?

Elm. Oh, why is this?

How my heart sinks!

Gon. It must not fail thee yet,

Daughter of heroes!—thine inheritance

Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst number

In thy long line of glorious ancestry

Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made

The ground it bathed e’en as an altar, whence

High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not,

Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross,

With its victorious inspiration girt

As with a conqueror’s robe, till th’ infidel,

O’erawed, shrank back before them? Ay, the earth

Doth call them martyrs; but their agonies

Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim

Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope

Lay naught but dust. And earth doth call them martyrs!

Why, heaven but claim’d their blood, their lives, and not

The things which grew as tendrils round their hearts;

No, not their children!

Elm. Mean’st thou? know’st thou aught?—

I cannot utter it—my sons! my sons!

Is it of them? Oh! wouldst thou speak of them?

Gon. A mother’s heart divineth but too well!

Elm. Speak, I adjure thee! I can bear it all.

Where are my children?

Gon. In the Moorish camp

Whose lines have girt the city.

Xim. But they live?

—All is not lost, my mother!

Elm. Say, they live.

Gon. Elmina, still they live.

Elm. But captives! They

Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself

Bounding from cliff to cliff, amidst the wilds

Where the rock-eagle seem’d not more secure

In its rejoicing freedom! And my boys

Are captives with the Moor!—oh! how was this?

Gon. Alas! our brave Alphonso, in the pride

Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls,

With his young brother, eager to behold

The face of noble war. Thence on their way

Were the rash wanderers captured.

Elm. ’Tis enough.

—And when shall they be ransom’d?

Gon. There is ask’d

A ransom far too high.

Elm. What! have we wealth

Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons

The while wear fetters? Take thou all for them,

And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us

As ’twere a cumbrous robe! Why, thou art one,

To whose high nature pomp hath ever been

But as the plumage to a warrior’s helm,

Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me,

Thou knowst not how serenely I could take

The peasant’s lot upon me, so my heart,

Amidst its deep affections undisturb’d,

May dwell in silence.

Xim. Father! doubt thou not

But we will bind ourselves to poverty,

With glad devotedness, if this, but this,

May win them back. Distrust us not, my father!

We can bear all things.

Gon. Can ye bear disgrace?

Xim. We were not born for this.

Gon. No, thou say’st well!

Hold to that lofty faith. My wife, my child!

Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems

Torn from her secret caverns? If by them

Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring

Rejoicing to the light! But he for whom

Freedom and life may but be won with shame,

Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to fix

His steadfast look on the majestic heavens,

And proudly die!

Elm. Gonzalez, who must die?

Gon. (hurriedly.) They on whose lives a fearful price is set,

But to be paid by treason! Is’t enough?

Or must I yet seek words?

Elm. That look saith more!

Thou canst not mean——

Gon. I do! why dwells there not

Power in a glance to speak it? They must die!

They—must their names be told?—our sons must die,

Unless I yield the city!

Xim. Oh, look up!

My mother, sink not thus! Until the grave

Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope.

Elm. (in a low voice.) Whose knell was in the breeze? No, no, not theirs!

Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope?

—And there is hope! I will not be subdued—

I will not hear a whisper of despair!

For nature is all-powerful, and her breath

Moves like a quickening spirit o’er the depths

Within a father’s heart. Thou too, Gonzalez,

Wilt tell me there is hope!

Gon. (solemnly.) Hope but in Him

Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son

Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when

The bright steel quiver’d in the father’s hand

Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice

Through the still clouds and on the breathless air,

Commanding to withhold! Earth has no hope:

It rests with Him.

Elm. Thou canst not tell me this!

Thou, father of my sons, within whose hands

Doth lie thy children’s fate.

Gon. If there have been

Men in whose bosoms nature’s voice hath made

Its accents as the solitary sound

Of an o’erpowering torrent, silencing

Th’ austere and yet divine remonstrances

Whisper’d by faith and honour, lift thy hands;

And, to that Heaven which arms the brave with strength,

Pray that the father of thy sons may ne’er

Be thus found wanting!

Elm. Then their doom is seal’d!

Thou wilt not save thy children?

Gon. Hast thou cause,

Wife of my youth! to deem it lies within

The bounds of possible things, that I should link

My name to that word—traitor? They that sleep

On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine,

Died not for this!

Elm. Oh, cold and hard of heart!

Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul

Thus lightly from all human bonds can free

Its haughty flight! Men! men! too much is yours

Of vantage; ye that with a sound, a breath,

A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space

Of rooted-up affections, o’er whose void

Our yearning hearts must wither! So it is,

Dominion must be won! Nay, leave me not—

My heart is bursting, and I must be heard!

Heaven hath given power to mortal agony,

As to the elements in their hour of might

And mastery o’er creation! Who shall dare

To mock that fearful strength! I must be heard!

Give me my sons.

Gon. That they may live to hide

With covering hands th’ indignant flush of shame

On their young brows, when men shall speak of him

They call’d their father! Was the oath whereby,

On th’ altar of my faith, I bound myself

With an unswerving spirit to maintain

This free and Christian city for my God

And for my king, a writing traced on sand?

That passionate tears should wash it from the earth,

Or e’en the life-drops of a bleeding heart

Efface it, as a billow sweeps away

The last light vessel’s wake? Then never more

Let man’s deep vows be trusted!—though enforced

By all th’ appeals of high remembrances,

And silent claims o’ th’ sepulchres wherein

His fathers with their stainless glory sleep,

On their good swords! Think’st thou I feel no pangs?

He that hath given me sons doth know the heart

Whose treasure he recalls. Of this no more:

’Tis vain. I tell thee that th’ inviolate Cross

Still from our ancient temples must look up

Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its foot

I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask

That I, the son of warriors—men who died

To fix it on that proud supremacy—

Should tear the sign of our victorious faith

From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor

In impious joy to trample!

Elm. Scorn me not

In mine extreme of misery! Thou art strong—

Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild;

I know not what I ask. And yet ’twere but

Anticipating fate—since it must fall,

That Cross must fall at last! There is no power,

No hope within this city of the grave,

To keep its place on high. Her sultry air

Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink

Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor

Hath bent his bow against them; for the shaft

Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark,

Than th’ arrow of the desert. Even the skies

O’erhang the desolate splendour of her domes

With an ill omen’s aspect, shaping forth,

From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and signs

Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood,

But who shall cope with famine and disease

When leagued with armèd foes? Where now the aid,

Where the long-promised lances of Castile?

We are forsaken in our utmost need—

By heaven and earth forsaken!

Gon. If this be,

(And yet I will not deem it,) we must fall

As men that in severe devotedness

Have chosen their part, and bound themselves to death,

Through high conviction that their suffering land

By the free blood of martyrdom alone

Shall call deliverance down.

Elm. Oh! I have stood

Beside thee through the beating storms of life

With the true heart of unrepining love—

As the poor peasant’s mate doth cheerily,

In the parch’d vineyard, or the harvest field,

Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat

And burden of the day. But now the hour,

The heavy hour is come, when human strength

Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust,

Owning that woe is mightier! Spare me yet

This bitter cup, my husband! Let not her,

The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn

In her unpeopled home—a broken stem,

O’er its fallen roses dying!

Gon. Urge me not,

Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found

Worthy a brave man’s love!—oh, urge me not

To guilt, which, through the midst of blinding tears,

In its own hues thou seest not! Death may scarce

Bring aught like this!

Elm. All, all thy gentle race,

The beautiful beings that around thee grew,

Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all?

She, too, thy daughter—doth her smile unmark’d

Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day?

Shadows are gathering round her: seest thou not

The misty dimness of the spoiler’s breath

Hangs o’er her beauty; and the face which made

The summer of our hearts, now doth but send,

With every glance, deep bodings through the soul,

Telling of early fate?

Gon. I see a change

Far nobler on her brow! She is as one,

Who, at the trumpet’s sudden call, hath risen

From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down

The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute

Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm,

Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost

The beam which laugh’d upon th’ awakening heart,

E’en as morn breaks o’er earth. But far within

Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source

Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch,

Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade!

The altar-flame, i’ th’ sanctuary’s recess,

Burns quenchless, being of heaven! She hath put on

Courage, and faith, and generous constancy,

Even as a breastplate. Ay! men look on her,

As she goes forth serenely to her tasks,

Binding the warrior’s wounds, and bearing fresh

Cool draughts to fever’d lips—they look on her,

Thus moving in her beautiful array

Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair

Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn

Unto their heavy toils.

Elm. And seest thou not

In that high faith and strong collectedness,

A fearful inspiration? They have cause

To tremble, who behold th’ unearthly light

Of high and, it may be, prophetic thought

Investing youth with grandeur! From the grave

It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child

Waits but a father’s hand to snatch her back

Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me;

Ximena! kneel beside me, and implore

That which a deeper, more prevailing voice

Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied,

—His children’s lives!

Xim. Alas! this may not be:

Mother!—I cannot.

[Exit Ximena.

Gon. My heroic child!

—A terrible sacrifice thou claim’st, O God!

From creatures in whose agonising hearts

Nature is strong as death!

Elm. Is ’t thus in thine?

Away! What time is given thee to resolve

On—what I cannot utter? Speak! thou know’st

Too well what I would say.

Gon. Until—ask not!

The time is brief.

Elm. Thou said’st—I heard not right——

Gon. The time is brief.

Elm. What! must we burst all ties

Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined!

And, for this task’s fulfilment, can it be

That man in his cold heartlessness, hath dared,

To number and to mete us forth the sands

Of hours, nay, moments? Why, the sentenced wretch,

He on whose soul there rests a brother’s blood

Pour’d forth in slumber, is allow’d more time

To wean his turbulent passions from the world

His presence doth pollute! It is not thus?

We must have time to school us.

Gon. We have but

To bow the head in silence, when heaven’s voice

Calls back the things we love.

Elm. Love! love!—there are soft smiles and gentle words,

And there are faces, skilful to put on

The look we trust in—and ’tis mockery all!

—A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing

The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat

The thirst that semblance kindled! There is none,

In all this cold and hollow world—no fount

Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within

A mother’s heart. It is but pride, wherewith

To his fair son the father’s eye doth turn,

Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks,

The bright glad creature springing in his path,

But as the heir of his great name—the young

And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long

Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love!

This is man’s love! What marvel!—you ne’er made

Your breast the pillow of his infancy,

While to the fulness of your heart’s glad heavings

His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair

Waved softly to your breath! You ne’er kept watch

Beside him, till the last pale star had set,

And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke

On your dim weary eye; not yours the face

Which, early faded through fond care for him,

Hung o’er his sleep, and, duly as heaven’s light,

Was there to greet his wak’ning! You ne’er smooth’d

His couch, ne’er sang him to his rosy rest;

Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours

Had learn’d soft utterance; press’d your lip to his,

When fever parch’d it; hush’d his wayward cries,

With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!

No! these are woman’s tasks!—in these her youth,

And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,

Steal from her all unmark’d! My boys! my boys!

Hath vain affection borne with all for this?

—Why were ye given me?

Gon. Is there strength in man

Thus to endure? That thou couldst read, through all

Its depths of silent agony, the heart

Thy voice of woe doth rend!

Elm. Thy heart—thy heart! Away! it feels not now!

But an hour comes to tame the mighty man

Unto the infant’s weakness; nor shall heaven

Spare you that bitter chastening! May you live

To be alone, when loneliness doth seem

Most heavy to sustain! For me, my voice

Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon

With all forgotten sounds—my quiet place

Low with my lovely ones; and we shall sleep,

Though kings lead armies o’er us—we shall sleep,

Wrapt in earth’s covering mantle! You the while

Shall sit within your vast forsaken halls,

And hear the wild and melancholy winds

Moan through their drooping banners, never more

To wave above your race. Ay, then call up

Shadows—dim phantoms from ancestral tombs,

But all, all—glorious,—conquerors, chieftains, kings,

To people that cold void! And when the strength

From your right arm hath melted, when the blast

Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more

A fiery wakening,—if at last you pine

For the glad voices and the bounding steps

Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp

Of twining arms, and all the joyous light

Of eyes that laugh’d with youth, and made your board

A place of sunshine,—when those days are come,

Then, in your utter desolation, turn

To the cold world—the smiling, faithless world,

Which hath swept past you long—and bid it quench

Your soul’s deep thirst with fame! immortal fame!

Fame to the sick of heart!—a gorgeous robe,

A crown of victory, unto him that dies

I’ th’ burning waste, for water!

Gon. This from thee!

Now the last drop of bitterness is pour’d.

Elmina—I forgive thee!

[Exit Elmina.

Aid me, Heaven!

From whom alone is power! Oh! thou hast set

Duties so stern of aspect in my path,

They almost to my startled gaze assume

The hue of things less hallow’d! Men have sunk

Unblamed beneath such trials! Doth not He

Who made us know the limits of our strength?

My wife! my sons! Away! I must not pause

To give my heart one moment’s mastery thus!

[Exit Gonzalez.

[273] Mountain-Christians, those natives of Spain who, under their prince Pelayo, took refuge amongst the mountains of the northern provinces, where they maintained their religion and liberty, whilst the rest of their country was overrun by the Moors.

[274] Serranos, mountaineers.

Scene II.—The Aisle of a Gothic Church.

Hernandez, Garcias, and Others.

Her. The rites are closed. Now, valiant men! depart,

Each to his place—I may not say, of rest—

Your faithful vigils for your sons may win

What must not be your own. Ye are as those

Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed

Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade

They may not sit. But bless’d be those who toil

For after-days! All high and holy thoughts

Be with you, warriors! through the lingering hours

Of the night-watch.

Gar. Ay, father! we have need

Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence

Our hearts against despair. Yet have I been

From youth a son of war. The stars have look’d

A thousand times upon my couch of heath,

Spread midst the wild sierras, by some stream

Whose dark-red waves look’d e’en as though their source

Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins

Of noble hearts; while many a knightly crest

Roll’d with them to the deep. And, in the years

Of my long exile and captivity,

With the fierce Arab I have watch’d beneath

The still, pale shadow of some lonely palm,

At midnight in the desert; while the wind

Swell’d with the lion’s roar, and heavily

The fearfulness and might of solitude

Press’d on my weary heart.

Her. (thoughtfully.) Thou little know’st

Of what is solitude! I tell thee, those

For whom—in earth’s remotest nook, howe’er

Divided from their path by chain on chain

Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude

Of rolling seas—there beats one human heart,

Their breathes one being, unto whom their name

Comes with a thrilling and a gladd’ning sound

Heard o’er the din of life, are not alone!

Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone;

For there is that on earth with which they hold

A brotherhood of soul! Call him alone,

Who stands shut out from this!—and let not those

Whose homes are bright with sunshine and with love,

Put on the insolence of happiness,

Glorying in that proud lot! A lonely hour

Is on its way to each, to all; for Death

Knows no companionship.

Gar. I have look’d on Death

In field, and storm, and flood. But never yet

Hath aught weigh’d down my spirit to a mood

Of sadness, dreaming o’er dark auguries,

Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things

Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth,

Omens in heaven! The summer skies put forth

No clear bright stars above us, but at times,

Catching some comet’s fiery hue of wrath,

Marshal their clouds to armies, traversing

Heaven with the rush of meteor-steeds—th’ array

Of spears and banners tossing like the pines

Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm

Doth sweep the mountains.

Her. Ay, last night I too

Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens;

And I beheld the meeting and the shock

Of those wild hosts i’ th’ air, when, as they closed,

A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles

The thunder’s path, fell o’er them. Then were flung

Through the dull glare, broad cloudy banners forth;

And chariots seem’d to whirl, and steeds to sink,

Bearing down crested warriors. But all this

Was dim and shadowy; then swift darkness rush’d

Down on th’ unearthly battle, as the deep

Swept o’er the Egyptian’s armament. I look’d,

And all that fiery field of plumes and spears

Was blotted from heaven’s face! I look’d again,

And from the brooding mass of cloud leap’d forth

One meteor-sword, which o’er the reddening sea

Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes give

Unto a rocking citadel! I beheld,

And yet my spirit sank not.

Gar. Neither deem

That mine hath blench’d. But these are sights and sounds

To awe the firmest. Know’st thou what we hear

At midnight from the walls? Were’t but the deep

Barbaric horn, or Moorish tambour’s peal,

Thence might the warrior’s heart catch impulses

Quickening its fiery currents. But our ears

Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knell

For brave men in their noon of strength cut down,

And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge

Faint swelling through the streets. Then e’en the air

Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament,

As if the viewless watchers of the land

Sigh’d on its hollow breezes! To my soul

The torrent-rush of battle, with its din

Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply,

Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe,

As the free sky’s glad music unto him

Who leaves a couch of sickness.

Her. (with solemnity.) If to plunge

In the mid waves of combat, as they bear

Chargers and spearmen onwards, and to make

A reckless bosom’s front the buoyant mark,

On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows—

If thus to dare were valour’s noblest aim,

Lightly might fame be won! But there are things,

Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch,

And courage temper’d with a holier fire.

Well may’st thou say that these are fearful times;

Therefore, be firm, be patient! There is strength,

And a fierce instinct, e’en in common souls,

To bear up manhood with a stormy joy,

When red swords meet in lightning! But our task

Is more and nobler! We have to endure,

And to keep watch, and to arouse a land,

And to defend an altar! If we fall,

So that our blood make but the millionth part

Of Spain’s great ransom, we may count it joy

To die upon her bosom, and beneath

The banner of her faith! Think but on this,

And gird your hearts with silent fortitude,

Suffering, yet hoping all things. Fare ye well.

Gar. Father, farewell.

[Exeunt Garcias and his followers

Her. These men have earthly ties

And bondage on their natures! To the cause

Of God, and Spain’s revenge, they bring but half

Their energies and hopes. But he whom heaven

Hath call’d to be th’ awakener of a land,

Should have his soul’s affections all absorb’d

In that majestic purpose, and press on

To its fulfilment—as a mountain-born

And mighty stream, with all its vassal rills,

Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not

To dally with the flowers. Hark! what quick step

Comes hurrying through the gloom, at this dead hour?

Elmina enters.

Elm. Are not all hours as one to misery? Why

Should she take note of time, for whom the day

And night have lost their blessed attributes

Of sunshine and repose?

Her. I know thy griefs;

But there are trials for the noble heart,

Wherein its own deep fountains must supply

All it can hope of comfort. Pity’s voice

Comes with vain sweetness to th’ unheeding ear

Of anguish, e’en as music heard afar

On the green shore, by him who perishes

Midst rocks and eddying waters.

Elm. Think thou not

I sought thee but for pity. I am come

For that which grief is privileged to demand

With an imperious claim, from all whose form—

Whose human form, doth seal them unto suffering!

Father! I ask thine aid.

Her. There is no aid

For thee or for thy children, but with Him

Whose presence is around us in the cloud,

As in the shining and the glorious light.

Elm. There is no aid! Art thou a man of God?

Art thou a man of sorrow?—for the world

Doth call thee such;—and hast thou not been taught

By God and sorrow—mighty as they are—

To own the claims of misery?

Her. Is there power

With me to save thy sons?—implore of heaven!

Elm. Doth not heaven work its purposes by man?

I tell thee thou canst save them! Art thou not

Gonsalez’ counsellor? Unto him thy words

Are e’en as oracles——

Her. And therefore? Speak!—

The noble daughter of Pelayo’s line

Hath naught to ask unworthy of the name

Which is a nation’s heritage. Dost thou shrink?

Elm. Have pity on me, father! I must speak

That, from the thought of which but yesterday

I had recoil’d in scorn! But this is past

Oh! we grow humble in our agonies,

And to the dust—their birthplace—bow the heads

That wore the crown of glory! I am weak—

My chastening is far more than I can bear.

Her. These are no times for weakness. On our hills

The ancient cedars, in their gather’d might,

Are battling with the tempest, and the flower

Which cannot meet its driving blast must die.

But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem

Unwont to bend or break. Lift thy proud head,

Daughter of Spain!—what wouldst thou with thy lord?

Elm. Look not upon me thus! I have no power

To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye

Off from my soul! What! am I sunk to this?

I, whose blood sprung from heroes! How my sons

Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace

On their majestic line! My sons! my sons!

—Now is all else forgotten! I had once

A babe that in the early spring-time lay

Sickening upon my bosom, till at last,

When earth’s young flowers were opening to the sun,

Death sank on his meek eyelid, and I deem’d

All sorrow light to mine! But now the fate

Of all my children seems to brood above me

In the dark thunder-clouds! Oh! I have power

And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer

And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst win

The father to relent, to save his sons!

Her. By yielding up the city?

Elm. Rather say

By meeting that which gathers close upon us,

Perchance one day the sooner! Is’t not so?

Must we not yield at last? How long shall man

Array his single breast against disease,

And famine, and the sword?

Her. How long? While He

Who shadows forth his power more gloriously

In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul,

Than in the circling heavens with all their stars,

Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad

A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate,

In the good cause, with solemn joy! How long?

—And who art thou that, in the littleness

Of thine own selfish purpose, wouldst set bounds

To the free current of all noble thought

And generous action, bidding its bright waves

Be stay’d, and flow no farther? But the Power

Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs,

To chain them in from wandering, hath assign’d

No limits unto that which man’s high strength

Shall, through its aid, achieve!

Elm. Oh! there are times,

When all that hopeless courage can achieve

But sheds a mournful beauty o’er the fate

Of those who die in vain.

Her. Who dies in vain

Upon his country’s war-fields, and within

The shadow of her altars? Feeble heart!

I tell thee that the voice of noble blood,

Thus pour’d for faith and freedom, hath a tone

Which, from the night of ages, from the gulf

Of death, shall burst, and make its high appeal

Sound unto earth and heaven! Ay, let the land,

Whose sons through centuries of woe have striven,

And perish’d by her temples, sink awhile,

Borne down in conflict! But immortal seed

Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown

On all her ancient hills, and generous hope

Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet

Bring forth a glorious harvest! Earth receives

Not one red drop from faithful hearts in vain.

Elm. Then it must be! And ye will make those lives,

Those young bright lives, an offering—to retard

Our doom one day!

Her. The mantle of that day

May wrap the fate of Spain!

Elm. What led me here?

Why did I turn to thee in my despair?

Love hath no ties upon thee; what had I

To hope from thee, thou lone and childless man?

Go to thy silent home!—there no young voice

Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring

Forth at the sound of thine! What knows thy heart?

Her. Woman! how darest thou taunt me with my woes?

Thy children, too, shall perish, and I say

It shall be well! Why takest thou thought for them?

Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life

Unto its dregs, and making night thy time

Of care yet more intense, and casting health

Unprized to melt away i’ th’ bitter cup

Thou minglest for thyself? Why, what hath earth

To pay thee back for this? Shall they not live

(If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon

All love may be forgotten? Years of thought,

Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness,

That changed not, though to change be this world’s law—

Shall they not flush thy cheek with shame, whose blood

Marks e’en like branding iron? to thy sick heart

Make death a want, as sleep to weariness?

Doth not all hope end thus? or e’en at best,

Will they not leave thee? far from thee seek room

For the o’erflowings of their fiery souls

On life’s wide ocean? Give the bounding steed

Or the wing’d bark to youth, that his free course

May be o’er hills and seas; and weep thou not

In thy forsaken home, for the bright world

Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes

No thought on thee!

Elm. Not so! it is not so!

Thou dost but torture me! My sons are kind,

And brave, and gentle.

Her. Others, too, have worn

The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee yet;

I will be calm, and thou shalt learn how earth,

The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes

Which far outweigh thine own.

Elm. It may not be!

Whose grief is like a mother’s for her sons?

Her. My son lay stretch’d upon his battle-bier,

And there were hands wrung o’er him which had caught

Their hue from his young blood!

Elm. What tale is this?

Her. Read you no records in this mien, of things

Whose traces on man’s aspect are not such

As the breeze leaves on water? Lofty birth,

War, peril, power? Affliction’s hand is strong,

If it erase the haughty characters

They grave so deep! I have not always been

That which I am. The name I bore is not

Of those which perish! I was once a chief—

A warrior—nor as now, a lonely man!

I was a father!

Elm. Then thy heart can feel!

Thou wilt have pity!

Her. Should I pity thee?

Thy sons will perish gloriously—their blood——

Elm. Their blood! my children’s blood! Thou speak’st as ’twere

Of casting down a wine-cup, in the mirth

And wantonness of feasting! My fair boys!

—Man! hast thou been a father?

Her. Let them die!

Let them die now, thy children! so thy heart

Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm’d

Within it, to the last! Nor shalt thou learn

The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust

Are framed the idols whose false glory binds

Earth’s fetter on our souls! Thou think’st it much

To mourn the early dead; but there are tear’s

Heavy with deeper anguish! We endow

Those whom we love, in our fond passionate blindness,

With power upon our souls, too absolute

To be a mortal’s trust! Within their hands

We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone

Can reach our hearts; and they are merciful,

As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us!

Ay, fear them! fear the loved! Had I but wept

O’er my son’s grave, or o’er a babe’s, where tears

Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun,

And brightening the young verdure, I might still

Have loved and trusted!

Elm. (disdainfully.) But he fell in war!

And hath not glory medicine in her cup

For the brief pangs of nature?

Her. Glory!—Peace,

And listen! By my side the stripling grew,

Last of my line. I rear’d him to take joy

I’ th’ blaze of arms, as eagles train their young

To look upon the day-king! His quick blood

Even to his boyish cheek would mantle up,

When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his eye

Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds—

—But this availeth not! Yet he was brave.

I’ve seen him clear himself a path in fight

As lightning through a forest; and his plume

Waved like a torch above the battle-storm,

The soldier’s guide, when princely crests had sunk,

And banners were struck down. Around my steps

Floated his fame, like music, and I lived

But in the lofty sound. But when my heart

In one frail ark had ventured all, when most

He seem’d to stand between my soul and heaven,

—Then came the thunder-stroke!

Elm. ’Tis ever thus!

And the unquiet and foreboding sense

That thus ’twill ever be, doth link itself

Darkly with all deep love! He died?

Her. Not so!

—Death! Death! Why, earth should be a paradise,

To make that name so fearful! Had he died,

With his young fame about him for a shroud,

I had not learn’d the might of agony

To bring proud natures low! No! he fell off—

Why do I tell thee this? what right hast thou

To learn how pass’d the glory from my house?

Yet listen! He forsook me! He, that was

As mine own soul, forsook me! trampled o’er

The ashes of his sires! ay, leagued himself

E’en with the infidel, the curse of Spain;

And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid,

Abjured his faith, his God! Now, talk of death!

Elm. Oh! I can pity thee——

Her. There’s more to hear.

I braced the corslet o’er my heart’s deep wound,

And cast my troubled spirit on the tide

Of war and high events, whose stormy waves

Might bear it up from sinking;——

Elm. And ye met

No more?

Her. Be still! We did! we met once more.

God had his own high purpose to fulfil,

Or think’st thou that the sun in his bright heaven

Had look’d upon such things? We met once more.

That was an hour to leave its lightning-mark

Sear’d upon brain and bosom! There had been

Combat on Ebro’s banks, and when the day

Sank in red clouds, it faded from a field

Still held by Moorish lances. Night closed round—

A night of sultry darkness, in the shadow

Of whose broad wing, e’en unto death, I strove

Long with a turban’d champion; but my sword

Was heavy with God’s vengeance—and prevail’d.

He fell—my heart exulted—and I stood

In gloomy triumph o’er him. Nature gave

No sign of horror, for ’twas Heaven’s decree!

He strove to speak—but I had done the work

Of wrath too well; yet in his last deep moan

A dreadful something of familiar sound

Came o’er my shuddering sense. The moon look’d forth,

And I beheld—speak not!—twas he—my son!

My boy lay dying there! He raised one glance

And knew me—for he sought with feeble hand

To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil

Sank o’er them soon. I will not have thy look

Fix’d on me thus! Away!

Elm. Thou hast seen this,

Thou hast done this—and yet thou liv’st?

Her. I live!

And know’st thou wherefore? On my soul there fell

A horror of great darkness, which shut out

All earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away

The spear and helm, and made the cloister’s shade

The home of my despair. But a deep voice

Came to me through the gloom, and sent its tones

Far through my bosom’s depths. And I awoke;

Ay, as the mountain-cedar doth shake off

Its weight of wintry snow, e’en so I shook

Despondence from my soul, and knew myself

Seal’d by that blood wherewith my hands were dyed,

And set apart, and fearfully mark’d out

Unto a mighty task! To rouse the soul

Of Spain as from the dead; and to lift up

The Cross, her sign of victory, on the hills,

Gathering her sons to battle! And my voice

Must be as freedom’s trumpet on the winds,

From Roncesvalles to the blue sea-waves

Where Calpe looks on Afric; till the land

Have fill’d her cup of vengeance! Ask me now

To yield the Christian city, that its fanes

May rear the minaret in the face of heaven!—

But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast

Ere that day come!

Elm. I ask thee this no more,

For I am hopeless now. But yet one boon—

Hear me, by all thy woes! Thy voice hath power

Through the wide city: here I cannot rest—

Aid me to pass the gates!

Her. And wherefore?

Elm. Thou,

That wert a father, and art now—alone!

Canst thou ask “wherefore?” Ask the wretch whose sands

Have not an hour to run, whose failing limbs

Have but one earthly journey to perform,

Why, on his pathway to the place of death,

Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold

Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parch’d lip

Implores a cup of water? Why, the stroke

Which trembles o’er him in itself shall bring

Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies

Nature’s last prayer? I tell thee that the thirst

Which burns my spirit up is agony

To be endured no more! And I must look

Upon my children’s faces, I must hear

Their voices, ere they perish! But hath heaven

Decreed that they must perish? Who shall say

If in yon Moslem camp there beats no heart

Which prayers and tears may melt?

Her. There!—with the Moor!

Let him fill up the measure of his guilt!

—’Tis madness all! How wouldst thou pass th’ array

Of armèd foes?

Elm. Oh! free doth sorrow pass,

Free and unquestion’d, through a suffering world![275]

Her. This must not be. Enough of woe is laid

E’en now upon thy lord’s heroic soul,

For man to bear, unsinking. Press thou not

Too heavily th’ o’erburthen’d heart. Away!

Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers for strength

Up to heaven’s gate. Farewell!

[Exit Hernandez.

Elm. Are all men thus?

—Why, were’t not better they should fall e’en now

Than live to shut their hearts, in haughty scorn,

Against the sufferer’s pleadings? But no, no!

Who can be like this man, that slew his son,

Yet wears his life still proudly, and a soul

Untamed upon his brow?

(After a pause.) There’s one, whose arms

Have borne my children in their infancy,

And on whose knees they sported, and whose hand

Hath led them oft—a vassal of their sire’s;

And I will seek him: he may lend me aid,

When all beside pass on.

DIRGE, (heard without.)

Thou to thy rest art gone,

High heart! and what are we,

While o’er our heads the storm sweeps on,

That we should mourn for thee?

Free grave and peaceful bier

To the buried son of Spain!

To those that live, the lance and spear,

And well if not the chain!

Be theirs to weep the dead,

As they sit beneath their vines,

Whose flowery land hath borne no tread

Of spoilers o’er its shrines!

Thou hast thrown off the load

Which we must yet sustain,

And pour our blood where thine hath flow’d,

Too blest if not in vain!

We give thee holy rite,

Slow knell, and chanted strain!

—For those that fall to-morrow night,

May be left no funeral-train.

Again, when trumpets wake,

We must brace our armour on;

But a deeper note thy sleep must break—

Thou to thy rest art gone!

Happier in this than all,

That, now thy race is run,

Upon thy name no stain may fall,

Thy work hath well been done!

Elm. “Thy work hath well been done!”—so thou may’st rest!

—There is a solemn lesson in those words—

But now I may not pause.

[Exit Elmina.

[275]

“Frey geht das Unglück durch die ganze Erde.”

Schiller’s Death of Wallenstein, act iv. sc. 2.

Scene III.—A Street in the City.

Hernandez, Gonzalez.

Her. Would they not hear?

Gon. They heard, as one that stands

By the cold grave, which hath but newly closed

O’er his last friend, doth hear some passer-by

Bid him be comforted! Their hearts have died

Within them! We must perish, not as those

That fall when battle’s voice doth shake the hills,

And peal through heaven’s great arch, but silently,

And with a wasting of the spirit down,

A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark,

Which lit us on our toils! Reproach me not;

My soul is darken’d with a heavy cloud—

Yet fear not I shall yield!

Her. Breathe not the word,

Save in proud scorn! Each bitter day o’erpass’d

By slow endurance, is a triumph won

For Spain’s red Cross. And be of trusting heart!

A few brief hours, and those that turn’d away

In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice,

May crowd around their leader, and demand

To be array’d for battle. We must watch

For the swift impulse, and await its time,

As the bark waits the ocean’s. You have chosen

To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance,

When they were weary; they had cast aside

Their arms to slumber; or a knell, just then,

With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood

Creep shuddering through their veins; or they had caught

A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped forth

Strange omens from its blaze.

Gon. Alas! the cause

Lies deeper, in their misery! I have seen,

In my night’s course through this beleaguer’d city,

Things whose remembrance doth not pass away

As vapours from the mountains. There were some,

That sat beside their dead, with eyes wherein

Grief had ta’en place of sight, and shut out all

But its own ghastly object. To my voice

Some answer’d with a fierce and bitter laugh,

As men whose agonies were made to pass

The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word,

Dropt from the light of spirit. Others lay—

Why should I tell thee, father! how despair

Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down

Unto the very dust? And yet for this,

Fear not that I embrace my doom—O God!

That ’twere my doom alone!—with less of fix’d

And solemn fortitude. Lead on, prepare

The holiest rites of faith, that I by them

Once more may consecrate my sword, my life;

—But what are these? Who hath not dearer lives

Twined with his own! I shall be lonely soon—

Childless! Heaven wills it so. Let us begone.

Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat

With a less troubled motion.

[Exeunt Gonzalez and Hernandez.

Scene IV.—A Tent in the Moorish Camp.

Abdullah, Alphonso, Carlos.

Abd. These are bold words: but hast thou look’d on death,

Fair stripling? On thy cheek and sunny brow

Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course

Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced

The ibex of the mountains, if thy step

Hath climb’d some eagle’s nest, and thou hast made

His nest thy spoil, ’tis much! And fear’st thou not

The leader of the mighty?

Alph. I have been

Rear’d amongst fearless men, and midst the rocks

And the wild hills, whereon my fathers fought

And won their battles. There are glorious tales

Told of their deeds, and I have learn’d them all.

How should I fear thee, Moor?

Abd. So, thou hast seen

Fields, where the combat’s roar hath died away

Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flowers

Bloom o’er forgotten graves! But know’st thou aught

Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes fire,

And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds

Trample the life from out the mighty hearts

That ruled the storm so late?—Speak not of death

Till thou hast look’d on such.

Alph. I was not born

A shepherd’s son, to dwell with pipe and crook,

And peasant men, amidst the lowly vales;

Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears,

And crested knights! I am of princely race;

And, if my father would have heard my suit.

I tell thee, infidel, that long ere now

I should have seen how lances meet, and swords

Do the field’s work.

Abd. Boy!—know’st thou there are sights

A thousand times more fearful? Men may die

Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring

To battle-horn and tecbir.[276] But not all

So pass away in glory. There are those,

Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes,

Led forth in fetters—dost thou mark me, boy?—

To take their last look of th’ all-gladdening sun,

And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth

Unto the death of shame!—Hadst thou seen this——

Alph. (to Carlos.) Sweet brother, God is with us—fear thou not!

We have had heroes for our sires:—this man

Should not behold us tremble.

Abd. There are means

To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again

I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls,

Sue to thy sire for life!—or would’st thou die

With this thy brother?

Alph. Moslem! on the hills,

Around my father’s castle, I have heard

The mountain-peasants, as they dress’d the vines,

Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home,

Singing their ancient songs; and these were all

Of the Cid Campeador; and how his sword

Tizona[277] clear’d its way through turban’d hosts,

And captured Afric’s kings, and how he won

Valencia from the Moor.[278] I will not shame

The blood we draw from him!

[A Moorish soldier enters.

Sol. Valencia’s lord

Sends messengers, my chief.

Abd. Conduct them hither.

[The soldier goes out and re-enters with Elmina, disguised, and an attendant.

Car. (springing forward to the attendant.)

Oh! take me hence, Diego! take me hence

With thee, that I may see my mother’s face

At morning when I wake. Here dark-brow’d men

Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us.

Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind,

And well I know thou lov’st me, my Diego!

Abd. Peace, boy!—What tidings, Christian, from thy lord?

Is he grown humbler?—doth he set the lives

Of these fair nurslings at a city’s worth?

Alph. (rushing forward impatiently.) Say not he doth!—Yet wherefore art thou here?

If it be so, I could weep burning tears

For very shame! If this can be, return!

Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils,

I will but ask a war-horse and a sword,

And that beside him in the mountain-chase,

And in his halls, and at his stately feasts,

My place shall be no more! But no!—I wrong,

I wrong my father! Moor, believe it not:

He is a champion of the Cross and Spain,

Sprung from the Cid!—and I, too, I can die

As a warrior’s high-born child!

Elm. Alas, alas!

And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy?

What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst cast

Its flower away, in very scorn of heart,

Ere yet the blight be come?

Alph. That voice doth sound——

Abd. Stranger, who art thou?—this is mockery! speak!

Elm. (throwing off a mantle and helmet, and embracing her sons.)

My boys! whom I have rear’d through many hours

Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts

Untold and unimagined; let me die

With you, now I have held you to my heart,

And seen once more the faces, in whose light

My soul hath lived for years!

Car. Sweet mother! now

Thou shalt not leave us more.

Abd. Enough of this!

Woman! what seek’st thou here? How hast thou dared

To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts?

Elm. Think’st thou there dwells no courage but in breasts

That set their mail against the ringing spears,

When helmets are struck down? Thou little know’st

Of nature’s marvels. Chief! my heart is nerved

To make its way through things which warrior men,

Ay, they that master death by field or flood,

Would look on, ere they braved! I have no thought,

No sense of fear! Thou’rt mighty! but a soul

Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power

Of that one feeling pour’d through all its depths,

Than monarchs with their hosts? Am I not come

To die with these my children?

Abd. Doth thy faith

Bid thee do this, fond Christian? Hast thou not

The means to save them?

Elm. I have prayers, and tears,

And agonies!—and he, my God—the God

Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour

To bow the crested head—hath made these things

Most powerful in a world where all must learn

That one deep language, by the storm call’d forth

From the bruised reeds of earth! For thee, perchance,

Affliction’s chastening lesson hath not yet

Been laid upon thy heart; and thou may’st love

To see the creatures, by its might brought low,

Humbled before thee.

[She throws herself at his feet.

Conqueror, I can kneel!

I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself

E’en to thy feet! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves,

If this will swell thy triumph, to behold

The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased!

Do this, but spare my sons!

Alph. (attempting to raise her.) Thou shouldst not kneel

Unto this infidel! Rise, rise, my mother!

This sight doth shame our house!

Abd. Thou daring boy!

They that in arms have taught thy father’s land

How chains are worn, shall school that haughty mien

Unto another language.

Elm. Peace, my son!

Have pity on my heart! Oh, pardon, chief!

He is of noble blood. Hear, hear me yet!

Are there no lives through which the shafts of heaven

May reach your soul? He that loves aught on earth,

Dares far too much, if he be merciless!

Is it for those, whose frail mortality

Must one day strive alone with God and death,

To shut their souls against th’ appealing voice

Of nature, in her anguish? Warrior, man,

To you, too, ay, and haply with your hosts,

By thousands and ten thousands marshall’d round,

And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke

Which the lance wards not! Where shall your high heart

Find refuge then, if in the day of might

Woe hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet,

And you have pitied not?

Abd. These are vain words.

Elm. Have you no children?—fear ye not to bring

The lightning on their heads? In your own land

Doth no fond mother, from the tents beneath

Your native palms, look o’er the deserts out,

To greet your homeward step? You have not yet

Forgot so utterly her patient love—

For is not woman’s in all climes the same?—

That you should scorn my prayer! Oh heaven! his eye

Doth wear no mercy!

Abd. Then it mocks you not.

I have swept o’er the mountains of your land,

Leaving my traces, as the visitings

Of storms upon them! Shall I now be stay’d?

Know, unto me it were as light a thing,

In this my course, to quench your children’s lives,

As, journeying through a forest, to break off

The young wild branches that obstruct the way

With their green sprays and leaves.

Elm. Are there such hearts

Amongst thy works, O God?

Abd. Kneel not to me.

Kneel to your lord! on his resolves doth hang

His children’s doom. He may be lightly won

By a few bursts of passionate tears and words.

Elm. (rising indignantly.) Speak not of noble men! He bears a soul

Stronger than love or death.

Alph. (with exultation.) I knew ’twas thus!

He could not fail!

Elm. There is no mercy, none,

On this cold earth! To strive with such a world,

Hearts should be void of love! We will go hence,

My children! we are summon’d. Lay your heads,

In their young radiant beauty, once again

To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells

Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round,

Will yet have pity, and before His face

We three will stand together! Moslem! now

Let the stroke fall at once!

Abd. ’Tis thine own will.

These might e’en yet be spared.

Elm. Thou wilt not spare!

And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew,

And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear

From their first lisping accents caught the sound

Of that word—Father—once a name of love—

Is——Men shall call him steadfast.

Abd. Hath the blast

Of sudden trumpets ne’er at dead of night,

When the land’s watchers fear’d no hostile step,

Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world,

In cities, whose heroic lords have been

Steadfast as thine?

Elm. There’s meaning in thine eye,

More than thy words.

Abd. (pointing to the city.) Look to yon towers and walls!

Think you no hearts within their limits pine,

Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared

To burst the feeble links which bind them still

Unto endurance.

Elm. Thou hast said too well.

But what of this?

Abd. Then there are those, to whom

The Prophet’s armies not as foes would pass

Yon gates, but as deliverers. Might they not

In some still hour, when weariness takes rest,

Be won to welcome us? Your children’s steps

May yet bound lightly through their father’s halls!

Alph. (indignantly.) Thou treacherous Moor!

Elm. Let me not thus be tried

Beyond all strength, O heaven!

Abd. Now, ’tis for thee,

Thou Christian mother! on thy sons to pass

The sentence—life or death! The price is set

On their young blood, and rests within thy hands.

Alph. Mother! thou tremblest!

Abd. Hath thy heart resolved?

Elm. (covering her face with her hands.)

My boy’s proud eye is on me, and the things

Which rush in stormy darkness through my soul

Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer here.

Abd. Come forth. We’ll commune elsewhere.

Car. (to his mother.) Wilt thou go?

Oh! let me follow thee!

Elm. Mine own fair child!

Now that thine eyes have pour’d once more on mine

The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice

Hath sent its gentle music through my soul,

And I have felt the twining of thine arms—

How shall I leave thee?

Abd. Leave him, as ’twere but

For a brief slumber, to behold his face

At morning, with the sun’s.

Alph. Thou hast no look

For me, my mother!

Elm. Oh! that I should live

To say, I dare not look on thee! Farewell,

My first-born, fare thee well!

Alph. Yet, yet beware!

It were a grief more heavy on thy soul,

That I should blush for thee, than o’er my grave

That thou shouldst proudly weep!

Abd. Away! we trifle here. The night wanes fast.

Come forth!

Elm. One more embrace! My sons, farewell!

[Exeunt Abdullah with Elmina and her Attendant.

Alph. Hear me yet once, my mother! Art thou gone?

But one word more!

[He rushes out, followed by Carlos.

[276] Tecbir, the war-cry of the Moors and Arabs.

[277] Tizona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid’s favourite sword, taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar.

[278] Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged and taken by the armies of different nations, remained in possession of the Moors for a hundred and seventy years after the Cid’s death. It was regained from them by King Don Jayme of Aragon, surnamed the Conqueror; after whose success I have ventured to suppose it governed by a descendant of the Campeador.

Scene V.—The Garden of a Palace in Valencia.

Ximena, Theresa.

Ther. Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove

Here through the myrtles whispering, and the limes,

And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs,

Than waits you in the city.

Xim. There are those

In their last need, and on their bed of death,—

At which no hand doth minister but mine,—

That wait me in the city. Let us hence.

Ther. You have been wont to love the music made

By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds,

Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn

From these to scenes of death?

Xim. To me the voice

Of summer, whispering through young flowers and leaves,

Now speaks too deep a language! and of all

Its dreamy and mysterious melodies,

The breathing soul is sadness! I have felt

That summons through my spirit, after which

The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds

Seem fraught with secret warnings. There is cause

That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes

Where Death is busy, taming warrior-hearts,

And pouring winter through the fiery blood,

And fettering the strong arm! For now no sigh

In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven,

No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf,

But of his angel’s silent coming bears

Some token to my soul. But naught of this

Unto my mother! These are awful hours!

And on their heavy steps afflictions crowd

With such dark pressure, there is left no room

For one grief more.

Ther. Sweet lady, talk not thus!

Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light,

There’s more of life in its clear tremulous ray

Than I have mark’d of late. Nay, go not yet;

Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip

Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring

From the transparent waters, dashing round

Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness,

O’er the pale glistening marble. ’Twill call up

Faint bloom, if but a moment’s, to your cheek.

Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing

The melody you love.

Theresa sings.

Why is the Spanish maiden’s grave

So far from her own bright land?

The sunny flowers that o’er it wave

Were sown by no kindred hand.

’Tis not the orange-bough that sends

Its breath on the sultry air,

’Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends

To the breeze of evening there!

But the rose of Sharon’s eastern bloom

By the silent dwelling fades,

And none but strangers pass the tomb

Which the palm of Judah shades.

The lowly Cross, with flowers o’ergrown,

Marks well that place of rest;

But who hath graved, on its mossy stone,

A sword, a helm, a crest?

These are the trophies of a chief,

A lord of the axe and spear!

—Some blossom pluck’d, some faded leaf,

Should grace a maiden’s bier!

Scorn not her tomb—deny not her

The honours of the brave!

O’er that forsaken sepulchre

Banner and plume might wave.

She bound the steel, in battle tried,

Her fearless heart above,

And stood with brave men side by side,

In the strength and faith of love!

That strength prevail’d—that faith was bless’d!

True was the javelin thrown,

Yet pierced it not her warrior’s breast—

She met it with her own!

And nobly won, where heroes fell

In arms for the holy shrine,

A death which saved what she loved so well,

And a grave in Palestine.

Then let the rose of Sharon spread

Its breast to the glowing air,

And the palm of Judah lift its head,

Green and immortal there!

And let yon gray stone, undefaced,

With its trophy mark the scene,

Telling the pilgrim of the waste

Where Love and Death have been.

Xim. Those notes were wont to make my heart

beat quick,

As at a voice of victory; but to-day

The spirit of the song is changed, and seems

All mournful. Oh! that, ere my early grave

Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal

Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth

Beneath my father’s banner! In that sound

Were life to you, sweet brothers!—But for me—

Come on—our tasks await us. They who know

Their hours are number’d out, have little time

To give the vague and slumberous languor way,

Which doth steal o’er them in the breath of flowers,

And whisper of soft winds.

[Elmina enters hurriedly.

Elm. The air will calm my spirit, ere yet I meet

His eye, which must be met.—Thou here, Ximena!

[She starts back on seeing Ximena.

Xim. Alas! my mother! in that hurrying step

And troubled glance I read——

Elm. (wildly.) Thou read’st it not!

Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye

The things lay glaring, which within our hearts

We treasure up for God’s? Thou read’st it not!

I say, thou canst not! There’s not one on earth

Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves have made

And kept dark places in the very breast

Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour

When the graves open!

Xim. Mother! what is this!

Alas! your eye is wandering, and your cheek

Flush’d, as with fever! To your woes the night

Hath brought no rest.

Elm. Rest!—who should rest?—not he

That holds one earthly blessing to his heart

Nearer than life! No! if this world have aught

Of bright or precious, let not him, who calls

Such things his own, take rest!—Dark spirits keep watch;

And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame,

Were as heaven’s air, the vital element

Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their souls

Made marks for human scorn! Will they bear on

With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all

Its glorious drapery? Who shall tell us this?

—Will he so bear it?

Xim. Mother! let us kneel

And blend our hearts in prayer! What else is left

To mortals when the dark hour’s might is on them?

—Leave us, Theresa.—Grief like this doth find

Its balm in solitude.

[Exit Theresa.

My mother! peace

Is heaven’s benignant answer to the cry

Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me?

Elm. Away! ’tis but for souls unstain’d, to wear

Heaven’s tranquil image on their depths.—The stream

Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm,

Reflects but clouds and lightnings!—Didst thou speak

Of peace?—’tis fled from earth! But there is joy!

Wild, troubled joy! And who shall know, my child,

It is not happiness? Why, our own hearts

Will keep the secret close! Joy, joy! if but

To leave this desolate city, with its dull

Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again

Th’ untainted mountain-air!—But hush! the trees,

The flowers, the waters, must hear naught of this!

They are full of voices, and will whisper things——

—We’ll speak of it no more.

Xim. O pitying heaven!

This grief doth shake her reason!

Elm. (starting.) Hark! a step!

’Tis—’tis thy father’s! Come away—not now—

He must not see us now!

Xim. Why should this be?

[Gonzalez enters, and detains Elmina.

Gon. Elmina, dost thou shun me? Have we not

E’en from the hopeful and the sunny time

When youth was as a glory round our brows,

Held on through life together? And is this,

When eve is gathering round us, with the gloom

Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps

Upon the darkening wild?

Elm. (coldly.) There needs not this.

Why shouldst thou think I shunn’d thee

Gon. Should the love

That shone o’er many years, th’ unfading love,

Whose only change hath been from gladdening smiles

To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength,

Thus lightly be forgotten?

Elm. Speak’st thou thus?

—I have knelt before thee with that very plea,

When it avail’d me not! But there are things

Whose very breathings from the soul erase

All record of past love, save the chill sense,

Th’ unquiet memory of its wasted faith,

And vain devotedness! Ay! they that fix

Affection’s perfect trust on aught of earth,

Have many a dream to start from!

Gon. This is but

The wildness and the bitterness of grief,

Ere yet the unsettled heart hath closed its long

Impatient conflicts with a mightier power,

Which makes all conflict vain.

——Hark! was there not

A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond

The Moorish tents, and of another tone

Than th’ Afric horn, Ximena?

Xim. O my father!

I know that horn too well.—’Tis but the wind,

Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep

And savage war-note from us, wafting it

O’er the far hills.

Gon. Alas! this woe must be!

I do not shake my spirit from its height,

So startling it with hope! But the dread hour

Shall be met bravely still. I can keep down

Yet for a little while—and heaven will ask

No more—the passionate workings of my heart

—And thine, Elmina?

Elm. ’Tis—I am prepared.

I have prepared for all.

Gon. Oh, well I knew

Thou wouldst not fail me! Not in vain my soul,

Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up

Unshaken trust.

Elm. (wildly.) Away!—thou know’st me not!

Man dares too far—his rashness would invest

This our mortality with an attribute

Too high and awful, boasting that he knows

One human heart!

Gon. These are wild words, but yet

I will not doubt thee! Hast thou not been found

Noble in all things, pouring thy soul’s light

Undimm’d o’er every trial? And, as our fates,

So must our names be, undivided!—Thine,

I’ th’ record of a warrior’s life, shall find

Its place of stainless honour. By his side——

Elm. May this be borne! How much of agony

Hath the heart room for? Speak to me in wrath

—I can endure it! But no gentle words!

No words of love! no praise! Thy sword might slay,

And be more merciful!

Gon. Wherefore art thou thus?

Elmina, my beloved!

Elm. No more of love!

—Have I not said there’s that within my heart,

Whereon it falls as living fire would fall

Upon an unclosed wound?

Gon. Nay, lift thine eyes,

That I may read their meaning!

Elm. Never more

With a free soul. What have I said?—’twas naught!

Take thou no heed! The words of wretchedness

Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the speech

Of troubled dreams?

Gon. I have seen thee in the hour

Of thy deep spirit’s joy, and when the breath

Of grief hung chilling round thee; in all change,

Bright health and drooping sickness; hope and fear;

Youth and decline; but never yet, Elmina,

Ne’er hath thine eye till now shrunk back, perturb’d

With shame or dread, from mine!

Elm. Thy glance doth search

A wounded heart too deeply.

Gon. Hast thou there

Aught to conceal?

Elm. Who hath not?

Gon. Till this hour

Thou never hadst! Yet hear me!—by the free

And unattainted fame which wraps the dust

Of thine heroic fathers——

Elm. This to me!

—Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds

Of festal music round a dying man!

Will his heart echo them? But if thy words

Were spells, to call up, with each lofty tone,

The grave’s most awful spirits, they would stand

Powerless, before my anguish!

Gon. Then, by her,

Who there looks on thee in the purity

Of her devoted youth, and o’er whose name

No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must ne’er

Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully

From the quick feeling of dishonour—Speak!

Unfold this mystery! By thy sons——

Elm. My sons!

And canst thou name them?

Gon. Proudly! Better far

They died with all the promise of their youth,

And the fair honour of their house upon them,

Than that, with manhood’s high and passionate soul

To fearful strength unfolded, they should live,

Barr’d from the lists of crested chivalry,

And pining, in the silence of a woe,

Which from the heart shuts daylight—o’er the shame

Of those who gave them birth! But thou couldst ne’er

Forget their lofty claims!

Elm. (wildly.) ’Twas but for them!

’Twas for them only! Who shall dare arraign

Madness of crime? And He who made us, knows

There are dark moments of all hearts and lives,

Which bear down reason!

Gon. Thou, whom I have loved

With such high trust as o’er our nature threw

A glory scarce allow’d—what hast thou done?

—Ximena, go thou hence!

Elm. No, no! my child!

There’s pity in thy look! All other eyes

Are full of wrath and scorn! Oh, leave me not!

Gon. That I should live to see thee thus abased!

—Yet speak! What hast thou done?

Elm. Look to the gate!

Thou’rt worn with toil—but take no rest to-night!

The western gate! Its watchers have been won—

The Christian city hath been bought and sold!—

They will admit the Moor!

Gon. They have been won!

Brave men and tried so long! Whose work was this?

Elm. Think’st thou all hearts like thine? Can mothers stand

To see their children perish?

Gon. Then the guilt

Was thine?

Elm. Shall mortal dare to call it guilt?

I tell thee, heaven, which made all holy things,

Made naught more holy than the boundless love

Which fills a mother’s heart! I say, ’tis woe

Enough, with such an aching tenderness,

To love aught earthly! and in vain! in vain!

—We are press’d down too sorely!

Gon. (in a low desponding voice.) Now my life

Is struck to worthless ashes!—In my soul

Suspicion hath ta’en root. The nobleness

Henceforth is blotted from all human brows;

And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift,

Almost like prophecy, is pour’d upon me,

To read the guilty secrets in each eye

That once look’d bright with truth!

Why, then, I have gain’d

What men call wisdom!—A new sense, to which

All tales that speak of high fidelity,

And holy courage, and proud honour, tried,

Search’d, and found steadfast, even to martyrdom,

Are food for mockery! Why should I not cast

From my thinn’d locks the wearing helm at once,

And in the heavy sickness of my soul

Throw the sword down for ever? Is there aught

In all this world of gilded hollowness,

Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things,

Worth striving for again?

Xim. Father! look up!

Turn unto me, thy child!

Gon. Thy face is fair;

And hath been unto me, in other days,

As morning to the journeyer of the deep?

But now—’tis too like hers!

Elm. (falling at his feet.) Woe, shame and woe,

Are on me in their might! Forgive! forgive!

Gon. (starting up.) Doth the Moor deem that I have part or share

Or counsel in his vileness? Stay me not!

Let go thy hold—’tis powerless on me now:

I linger here, while treason is at work!

[Exit Gonzalez.

Elm. Ximena, dost thou scorn me?

Xim. I have found

In mine own heart too much of feebleness,

Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes

But His whom naught can blind, to dare do aught

But pity thee, dear mother!

Elm. Blessings light

On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this!

Thou kind and merciful! My soul is faint—

Worn with long strife! Is there aught else to do,

Or suffer, ere we die?—Oh God! my sons!

—I have betray’d them! All their innocent blood

Is on my soul!

Xim. How shall I comfort thee?

—Oh! hark! what sounds come deepening on the wind,

So full of solemn hope!

A procession of Nuns passes across the Scene, bearing relics, and chanting.

CHANT.

A sword is on the land!

He that bears down young tree and glorious flower,

Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in power!

Where is the warrior’s hand?

Our steps are in the shadows of the grave:

Hear us, we perish!—Father, hear and save!

If, in the days of song,

The days of gladness, we have call’d on thee.

When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea,

And joyous hearts were strong;

Now that alike the feeble and the brave

Must cry, “We perish!”—Father, hear and save!

The days of song are fled!

The winds come loaded, wafting dirge-notes by;

But they that linger soon unmourn’d must die—

The dead weep not the dead!

Wilt thou forsake us midst the stormy wave?

We sink, we perish!—Father, hear and save!

Helmet and lance are dust!

Is not the strong man wither’d from our eye?

The arm struck down that held our banners high?—

Thine is our spirits’ trust!

Look through the gathering shadows of the grave!

Do we not perish?—Father, hear and save!

Hernandez enters.

Elm. Why com’st thou, man of vengeance?—

What have I

To do with thee? Am I not bow’d enough?

Thou art no mourner’s comforter!

Her. Thy lord

Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day’s task

Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart!

He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy ways

Before heaven’s altar, and in penitence

Make thy soul’s peace with God.

Elm. Till this day’s task

Be closed!—There is strange triumph in thine eyes—

Is it that I have fall’n from that high place

Whereon I stood in fame? But I can feel

A wild and bitter pride in thus being past

The power of thy dark glance! My spirit now

Is wound about by one sole mighty grief;

Thy scorn hath lost its sting. Thou may’st reproach——

Her. I come not to reproach thee. Heaven doth work

By many agencies; and in its hour

There is no insect which the summer breeze

From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may serve

Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well

As the great ocean, or th’ eternal fires

Pent in earth’s caves. Thou hast but speeded that,

Which, in th’ infatuate blindness of thy heart,

Thou wouldst have trampled o’er all holy ties

But to avert one day!

Elm. My senses fail.

Thou said’st—speak yet again—I could not catch

The meaning of thy words.

Her. E’en now thy lord

Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls

He stands in conference with the boastful Moor,

And awful strength is with him. Through the blood

Which this day must be pour’d in sacrifice

Shall Spain be free. On all her olive-hills

Shall men set up the battle-sign of fire,

And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the sense

Of vengeance wakeful in each other’s hearts

E’en with thy children’s tale!

Xim. Peace, father! peace!

Behold she sinks!—the storm hath done its work

Upon the broken reed. Oh! lend thine aid

To bear her hence.

[They lead her away.

Scene VI.—A Street in Valencia. Several Groups of Citizens and Soldiers, many of them lying on the steps of a church. Arms scattered on the ground around them.

An Old Cit. The air is sultry, as with thunder-clouds.

I left my desolate home, that I might breathe

More freely in heaven’s face, but my heart feels

With this hot gloom o’erburden’d. I have now

No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends,

Will bring the old man water from the fount,

To moisten his parch’d lip?

[A citizen goes out.

2d Cit. This wasting siege,

Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you!

’Tis sad to hear no voices through the house,

Once peopled with fair sons!

3d Cit. Why, better thus,

Than to be haunted with their famish’d cries,

E’en in your very dreams!

Old Cit. Heaven’s will be done!

These are dark times! I have not been alone

In my affliction.

3d Cit. (with bitterness.) Why, we have but this thought

Left for our gloomy comfort!—And ’tis well!

Ay, let the balance be awhile struck even

Between the noble’s palace and the hut,

Where the worn peasant sickens! They that bear

The humble dead unhonour’d to their homes,

Pass now i’ th’ streets no lordly bridal train

With its exulting music; and the wretch

Who on the marble steps of some proud hall

Flings himself down to die, in his last need

And agony of famine, doth behold

No scornful guests, with their long purple robes,

To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just!

These are the days when pomp is made to feel

Its human mould!

4th Cit. Heard you last night the sound

Of Saint Iago’s bell?—How sullenly

From the great tower it peal’d!

5th Cit. Ay, and ’tis said

No mortal hand was near when so it seem’d

To shake the midnight streets.

Old Cit. Too well I know

The sound of coming fate!—’Tis ever thus

When Death is on his way to make it night

In the Cid’s ancient house.[279] Oh! there are things

In this strange world of which we’ve all to learn

When its dark bounds are pass’d. Yon bell, untouch’d,

(Save by the hands we see not,) still doth speak—

When of that line some stately head is mark’d—

With a wild hollow peal, at dead of night,

Rocking Valencia’s towers. I’ve heard it oft,

Nor know its warning false.

4th Cit. And will our chief

Buy with the price of his fair children’s blood

A few more days of pining wretchedness

For this forsaken city?

Old Cit. Doubt it not!

—But with that ransom he may purchase still

Deliverance for the land! And yet ’tis sad

To think that such a race, with all its fame,

Should pass away! For she, his daughter too,

Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose time

To sojourn there is short.

5th Cit. Then woe for us

When she is gone! Her voice, the very sound

Of her soft step, was comfort, as she moved

Through the still house of mourning! Who like her

Shall give us hope again?

Old Cit. Be still!—she comes,

And with a mien how changed! A hurrying step,

And a flush’d cheek! What may this bode?—

Be still!

Ximena enters, with Attendants carrying a Banner.

Xim. Men of Valencia! in an hour like this,

What do ye here?

A Cit. We die!

Xim. Brave men die now

Girt for the toil, as travellers suddenly

By the dark night o’ertaken on their way!

These days require such death! It is too much

Of luxury for our wild and angry times,

To fold the mantle round us, and to sink

From life, as flowers that shut up silently,

When the sun’s heat doth scorch them! Hear ye not?

A Cit. Lady! what wouldst thou with us?

Xim. Rise and arm!

E’en now the children of your chief are led

Forth by the Moor to perish! Shall this be—

Shall the high sound of such a name be hush’d,

I’ th’ land to which for ages it hath been

A battle-word, as ’twere some passing note

Of shepherd-music? Must this work be done,

And ye lie pining here, as men in whom

The pulse which God hath made for noble thought

Can so be thrill’d no longer?

A Cit. ’Tis e’en so!

Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathed upon us,

Our hearts beat faint and low.

Xim. Are ye so poor

Of soul, my countrymen! that ye can draw

Strength from no deeper source than that which sends

The red blood mantling through the joyous veins,

And gives the fleet step wings? Why, how have age

And sensitive womanhood ere now endured,

Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud cause,

Blessing that agony? Think ye the Power

Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach

The torturer where eternal heaven had set

Bounds to his sway, was earthy, of this earth—

This dull mortality? Nay, then look on me!

Death’s touch hath mark’d me, and I stand amongst you,

As one whose place, i’ th’ sunshine of your world,

Shall soon be left to fill!—I say, the breath

Of th’ incense, floating through yon fane, shall scarce

Pass from your path before me! But even now

I’ve that within me, kindling through the dust,

Which from all time hath made high deeds its voice

And token to the nations. Look on me!

Why hath heaven pour’d forth courage, as a flame

Wasting the womanish heart, which must be still’d

Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness,

If not to shame your doubt, and your despair,

And your soul’s torpor? Yet, arise and arm!

It may not be too late.

A Cit. Why, what are we,

To cope with hosts? Thus faint, and worn, and few,

O’ernumber’d and forsaken, is’t for us

To stand against the mighty?

Xim. And for whom

Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath

From their high places, made the fearfulness,

And ever-wakeful presence of his power

To the pale startled earth most manifest,

But for the weak? Was’t for the helm’d and crown’d

That suns were stay’d at noonday?—stormy seas

As a rill parted?—mail’d archangels sent

To wither up the strength of kings with death?

—I tell you, if these marvels have been done,

’Twas for the wearied and th’ oppress’d of men.

They needed such! And generous faith hath power

By her prevailing spirit, e’en yet to work

Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those

Of the great elder-time! Be of good heart!

Who is forsaken? He that gives the thought

A place within his breast? ’Tis not for you.

—Know ye this banner?

Cits. (murmuring to each other.) Is she not inspired?

Doth not heaven call us by her fervent voice?

Xim. Know ye this banner?

Cits. ’Tis the Cid’s.

Xim. The Cid’s!

Who breathes that name but in th’ exulting tone

Which the heart rings to? Why, the very wind,

As it swells out the noble standard’s fold,

Hath a triumphant sound! The Cid’s! it moved

Even as a sign of victory through the land,

From the free skies ne’er stooping to a foe!

Old Cit. Can ye still pause, my brethren! Oh! that youth

Through this worn frame were kindling once again!

Xim. Ye linger still? Upon this very air,

He that was born in happy hour for Spain[280]

Pour’d forth his conquering spirit! ’Twas the breeze

From your own mountains which came down to wave

This banner of his battles, as it droop’d

Above the champion’s deathbed. Nor even then

Its tale of glory closed. They made no moan

O’er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung,[281]

But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war

Told when the mighty pass’d! They wrapt him not

With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior’s form

In war-array, and on his barded[282] steed,

As for a triumph, rear’d him; marching forth

In the hush’d midnight from Valencia’s walls,

Beleaguer’d then, as now. All silently

The stately funeral moved. But who was he

That follow’d, charging on the tall white horse,

And with the solemn standard, broad and pale,

Waving in sheets of snowlight? And the cross,

The bloody cross, far-blazing from his shield,

And the fierce meteor-sword? They fled, they fled!

The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts,

Were dust in his red path. The scimitar

Was shiver’d as a reed;—for in that hour

The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spain,

Was arm’d betimes. And o’er that fiery field

The Cid’s high banner stream’d all joyously,

For still its lord was there.

Cits. (rising tumultuously.) Even unto death

Again it shall be follow’d!

Xim. Will he see

The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-light

Which from his house for ages o’er the land

Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus quench’d at once?

Will he not aid his children in the hour

Of this their utmost peril? Awful power

Is with the holy dead, and there are times

When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst!

Is it a thing forgotten how he woke

From its deep rest of old; remembering Spain

In her great danger? At the night’s mid-watch

How Leon started, when the sound was heard

That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets,

As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men,

By thousands marching through. For he had risen!

The Campeador was on his march again,

And in his arms, and follow’d by his hosts

Of shadowy spearmen. He had left the world

From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth,

And call’d his buried warriors from their sleep,

Gathering them round him to deliver Spain;

For Afric was upon her. Morning broke,

Day rush’d through clouds of battle; but at eve

Our God had triumph’d, and the rescued land

Sent up a shout of victory from the field,

That rock’d her ancient mountains.

Cits. Arm! to arms!

On to our chief! We have strength within us yet

To die with our blood roused! Now, be the word

For the Cid’s house!

[They begin to arm themselves.

Xim. Ye know his battle-song?

The old rude strain wherewith his bands went forth

To strike down Paynim swords!

[She sings.

THE CID’S BATTLE-SONG.

The Moor is on his way!

With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout,

And the horn o’er the blue seas ringing out,

He hath marshall’d his dark array!

Shout through the vine-clad land!

That her sons on all their hills may hear;

And sharpen the point of the red wolf-spear,

And the sword for the brave man’s hand!

[The Citizens join in the song, while they continue arming themselves.

Banners are in the field!

The chief must rise from his joyous board,

And turn from the feast ere the wine be pour’d,

And take up his father’s shield!

The Moor is on his way!

Let the peasant leave his olive-ground,

And the goats roam wild through the pine-woods round:

There is nobler work to-day!

Send forth the trumpet’s call!

Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down,

And the marriage-robe, and the flowery crown;

And arm in the banquet hall!

And stay the funeral-train:

Bid the chanted mass be hush’d awhile,

And the bier laid down in the holy aisle,

And the mourners girt for Spain.

[They take up the banner and follow Ximena out, their voices are heard gradually dying away at a distance.

Ere night must swords be red!

It is not an hour for knells and tears,

But for helmets braced and serried spears!

To-morrow for the dead!

The Cid is in array!

His steed is barded, his plume waves high,

His banner is up in the sunny sky—

Now, joy for the Cross to-day!

[279] It was a Spanish tradition that the great bell of the cathedral of Saragossa always tolled spontaneously before a king of Spain died.

[280] “El que en buen hora nasco;” he that was born in happy hour. An appellation given to the Cid in the ancient chronicles.

[281] For this, and the subsequent allusions to Spanish legends, see The Romances, and Chronicle of the Cid.

[282] Barded, caparisoned for battle.

Scene VII.—The walls of the city. The plains beneath, with the Moorish Camp and Army.

Gonzalez, Garcias, Hernandez.

(A wild sound of Moorish music heard from below.)

Her. What notes are these in their deep mournfulness

So strangely wild?

Gar. ’Tis the shrill melody

Of the Moor’s ancient death-song. Well I know

The rude barbaric sound; but, till this hour,

It seem’d not fearful. Now, a shuddering chill

Comes o’er me with its tones.—Lo! from yon tent

They lead the noble boys!

Her. The young, and pure,

And beautiful victims!—’Tis on things like these

We cast our hearts in wild idolatry,

Sowing the wands with hope! Yet this is well:

Thus brightly crown’d with life’s most gorgeous flowers,

And all unblemish’d, earth should offer up

Her treasures unto heaven!

Gar. (to Gonzalez.) My chief, the Moor

Hath led your children forth.

Gon. (starting.)Are my sons there?

I knew they could not perish; for yon heaven

Would ne’er behold it!—Where is he that said

I was no more a father? They look changed—

Pallid and worn, as from a prison-house!

Or is’t mine eyes see dimly? But their steps

Seem heavy, as with pain. I hear the clank—

Oh God! their limbs are fetter’d!

Abd. (coming forward beneath the walls.)

Christian! look

Once more upon thy children. There is yet

One moment for the trembling of the sword;

Their doom is still with thee.

Gon. Why should this man

So mock us with the semblance of our kind?

—Moor! Moor! thou dost too daringly provoke,

In thy bold cruelty, th’ all-judging One,

Who visits for such things! Hast thou no sense

Of thy frail nature? ’Twill be taught thee yet;

And darkly shall the anguish of my soul,

Darkly and heavily, pour itself on thine,

When thou shalt cry for mercy from the dust,

And be denied!

Abd. Nay, is it not thyself

That hast no mercy and no love within thee?

These are thy sons, the nurslings of thy house;

Speak! must they live or die?

Gon. (in violent emotion.) Is it heaven’s will

To try the dust it kindles for a day,

With infinite agony! How have I drawn

This chastening on my head! They bloom’d around me,

And my heart grew too fearless in its joy,

Glorying in their bright promise!—If we fall,

Is there no pardon for our feebleness?

Hernandez, without speaking, holds up a cross before him.

Abd. Speak!

Gon. (snatching the cross, and lifting it up.) Let the earth be shaken through its depths,

But this must triumph!

Abd. (coldly.) Be it as thou wilt.

—Unsheath the scimitar!

[To his guards.

Gar. (to Gonzalez.) Away, my chief!

This is your place no longer. There are things

No human heart, though battle-proof as yours,

Unmadden’d may sustain.

Gon. Be still! I have now

No place on earth but this!

Alph. (from beneath.) Men! give me way,

That I may speak forth once before I die!

Gar. The princely boy!—how gallantly his brow

Wears its high nature in the face of death!

Alph. Father!

Gon. My son! my son!—Mine eldest-born!

Alph. Stay but upon the ramparts! Fear thou not

—There is good courage in me. O my father!

I will not shame thee!—only let me fall

Knowing thine eye looks proudly on thy child,

So shall my heart have strength.

Gon. Would, would to God,

That I might die for thee, my noble boy!

Alphonso, my fair son!

Alph. Could I have lived,

I might have been a warrior! Now, farewell!

But look upon me still!—I will not blench

When the keen sabre flashes. Mark me well!

Mine eyelids shall not quiver as it falls,

So thou wilt look upon me!

Gar. (to Gonzalez.) Nay, my lord!

We must be gone! Thou canst not bear it!

Gon. Peace!

Who hath told thee how much man’s heart can bear?

—Lend me thine arm—my brain whirls fearfully—

How thick the shades close round! My boy! my boy!

Where art thou in this gloom?

Gar. Let us go hence!

This is a dreadful moment!

Gon. Hush!—what saidst thou?

Now let me look on him!—Dost thou see aught

Through the dull mist which wraps us?

Gar. I behold—

Oh, for a thousand Spaniards! to rush down——

Gon. Thou seest—My heart stands still to hear thee speak!

—There seems a fearful hush upon the air,

As ’twere the dead of night!

Gar. The hosts have closed

Around the spot in stillness. Through the spears,

Ranged thick and motionless, I see him not!

—But now——

Gon. He bade me keep mine eye upon him,

And all is darkness round me!—Now?

Gar. A sword,

A sword, springs upward, like a lightning burst,

Through the dark serried mass! Its cold blue glare

Is wavering to and fro—’tis vanish’d—hark!

Gon. I heard it, yes!—I heard the dull dead sound

That heavily broke the silence! Didst thou speak?

—I lost thy words—come nearer!

Gar. ’Twas—’tis past!—

The sword fell then!

Her. (with exultation.) Flow forth thou noble blood!

Fount of Spain’s ransom and deliverance, flow

Uncheck’d and brightly forth! Thou kingly stream!

Blood of our heroes! blood of martyrdom!

Which through so many warrior-hearts hast pour’d

Thy fiery currents, and hast made our hills

Free, by thine own free offering! Bathe the land,—

But there thou shalt not sink! Our very air

Shall take thy colouring, and our loaded skies

O’er th’ infidel hang dark and ominous,

With battle-hues of thee! And thy deep voice,

Rising above them to the judgment-seat,

Shall call a burst of gather’d vengeance down,

To sweep th’ oppressor from us! For thy wave

Hath made his guilt run o’er!

Gon. (endeavouring to rouse himself.) ’Tis all a dream!

There is not one—no hand on earth could harm

That fair boy’s graceful head! Why look you thus?

Abd. (pointing to Carlos.) Christian! e’en yet thou hast a son!

Gon. E’en yet!

Gar. My father! take me from these fearful men!

Wilt thou not save me, father?

Gon. (attempting to unsheath his sword.) Is the strength

From mine arm shiver’d? Garcias, follow me!

Gar. Whither, my chief?

Gon. Why, we can die as well

On yonder plain—ay, a spear’s thrust will do

The little that our misery doth require,

Sooner than e’en this anguish! Life is best

Thrown from us in such moments.

[Voices heard at a distance.

Her. Hush! what strain

Floats on the wind?

Gar. ’Tis the Cid’s battle-song!

What marvel hath been wrought?

Voices approaching heard in chorus.

The Moor is on his way!

With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout,

And the horn o’er the blue seas ringing out,

He hath marshall’d his dark array!

Ximena enters, followed by the Citizens, with the Banner.

Xim. Is it too late?—My father, these are men

Through life and death prepared to follow thee

Beneath this banner! Is their zeal too late?

—Oh! there’s a fearful history on thy brow!

What hast thou seen?

Gar. It is not all too late.

Xim. My brothers!

Her. All is well.

(To Garcias.) Hush! wouldst thou chill

That which hath sprung within them, as a flame

From th’ altar-embers mounts in sudden brightness?

I say, ’tis not too late, ye men of Spain!

On to the rescue!

Xim. Bless me, O my father!

And I will hence, to aid thee with my prayers,

Sending my spirit with thee through the storm

Lit up by flashing swords!

Gon. (falling upon her neck.) Hath aught been spared?

Am I not all bereft? Thou’rt left me still!

Mine own, my loveliest one, thou’rt left me still!

Farewell!—thy father’s blessing, and thy God’s,

Be with thee, my Ximena!

Xim. Fare thee well!

If, ere thy steps turn homeward from the field,

The voice is hush’d that still hath welcomed thee,

Think of me in thy victory!

Her. Peace! no more!

This is no time to melt our nature down

To a soft stream of tears! Be of strong heart!

Give me the banner! Swell the song again!

Cits. Ere night must swords be red!

It is not an hour for knells and tears,

But for helmets braced and serried spears!

To-morrow for the dead!

[Exeunt omnes.

Scene VIII.—Before the Altar of a Church.

Elmina rises from the steps of the Altar.

Elm. The clouds are fearful that o’erhang thy ways,

O thou mysterious heaven! It cannot be

That I have drawn the vials of thy wrath

To burst upon me, through the lifting up

Of a proud heart elate in happiness!

No! in my day’s full noon, for me life’s flowers

But wreath’d a cup of trembling; and the love,

The boundless love, my spirit was form’d to bear,

Hath ever, in its place of silence, been

A trouble and a shadow, tinging thought

With hues too deep for joy! I never look’d

On my fair children, in their buoyant mirth

Or sunny sleep, when all the gentle air

Seem’d glowing with their quiet blessedness,

But o’er my soul there came a shuddering sense

Of earth, and its pale changes; e’en like that

Which vaguely mingles with our glorious dreams—

A restless and disturbing consciousness

That the bright things must fade! How have I shrunk

From the dull murmur of th’ unquiet voice,

With its low tokens of mortality,

Till my heart fainted midst their smiles!—their smiles!

Where are those glad looks now?—Could they go down

With all their joyous light, that seem’d not earth’s,

To the cold grave? My children!—righteous heaven!

There floats a dark remembrance o’er my brain

Of one who told me, with relentless eye,

That this should be the hour!

Ximena enters.

Xim. They are gone forth

Unto the rescue!—strong in heart and hope,

Faithful, though few!—My mother, let thy prayers

Call on the land’s good saints to lift once more

The sword and cross that sweep the field for Spain,

As in old battle; so thine arms e’en yet

May clasp thy sons! For me, my part is done!

The flame which dimly might have linger’d yet

A little while, hath gather’d all its rays

Brightly to sink at once. And it is well!

The shadows are around me: to thy heart

Fold me, that I may die.

Elm. My child! what dream

Is on thy soul? Even now thine aspect wears

Life’s brightest inspiration!

Xim. Death’s!

Elm. Away!

Thine eye hath starry clearness; and thy cheek

Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue,

Than tinged its earliest flower!

Xim. It well may be!

There are far deeper and far warmer hues

Than those which draw their colouring from the founts

Of youth, or health, or hope.

Elm. Nay, speak not thus!

There’s that about thee shining which would send

E’en through my heart a sunny glow of joy,

Were’t not for these sad words. The dim cold air

And solemn light, which wrap these tombs and shrines

As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up

With a young spirit of ethereal hope

Caught from thy mien!—Oh no! this is not death!

Xim. Why should not He, whose touch dissolves our chain,

Put on his robes of beauty when he comes

As a deliverer? He hath many forms—

They should not all be fearful! If his call

Be but our gathering to that distant land,

For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst,

Why should not its prophetic sense be borne

Into the heart’s deep stillness, with a breath

Of summer-winds, a voice of melody,

Solemn, yet lovely! Mother, I depart!—

Be it thy comfort, in the after-days,

That thou hast seen me thus!

Elm. Distract me not

With such wild fears! Can I bear on with life

When thou art gone?—thy voice, thy step, thy smile,

Pass’d from my path! Alas! even now thine eye

Is changed—thy cheek is fading!

Xim. Ay, the clouds

Of the dim hour are gathering o’er my sight;

And yet I fear not, for the God of Help

Comes in that quiet darkness! It may soothe

Thy woes, my mother! if I tell thee now

With what glad calmness I behold the veil

Falling between me and the world, wherein

My heart so ill hath rested.

Elm. Thine!

Xim. Rejoice

For her that, when the garland of her life

Was blighted, and the springs of hope were dried,

Received her summons hence; and had no time,

Bearing the canker at th’ impatient heart,

To wither; sorrowing for that gift of heaven,

Which lent one moment of existence light

That dimm’d the rest for ever!

Elm. How is this?

My child, what mean’st thou?

Xim. Mother! I have loved,

And been beloved! The sunbeam of an hour,

Which gave life’s hidden treasures to mine eye,

As they lay shining in their secret founts,

Went out and left them colourless. ’Tis past—

And what remains on earth? The rainbow mist

Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my sight

Is clear’d to look on all things as they are!—

But this is far too mournful! Life’s dark gift

Hath fall’n too early and too cold upon me!—

Therefore I would go hence!

Elm. And thou hast loved

Unknown——

Xim. Oh! pardon, pardon that I veil’d

My thoughts from thee! But thou hadst woes enough,

And mine came o’er me when thy soul had need

Of more than mortal strength! For I had scarce

Given the deep consciousness that I was loved

A treasure’s place within my secret heart,

When earth’s brief joy went from me!

’Twas at morn

I saw the warriors to their field go forth,

And he—my chosen—was there amongst the rest,

With his young, glorious brow! I look’d again:

The strife grew dark beneath me—but his plume

Waved free above the lances. Yet again—

It had gone down! and steeds were trampling o’er

The spot to which mine eyes were riveted,

Till blinded by th’ intenseness of their gaze!—

And then—at last—I hurried to the gate,

And met him there!—I met him!—on his shield,

And with his cloven helm, and shiver’d sword,

And dark hair steep’d in blood! They bore him past:

Mother!—I saw his face! Oh! such a death

Works fearful changes on the fair of earth,

The pride of woman’s eye!

Elm. Sweet daughter, peace!

Wake not the dark remembrance; for thy frame—

Xim. There will be peace ere long. I shut my heart,

Even as a tomb, o’er that lone silent grief,

That I might spare it thee!—But now the hour

Is come, when that, which would have pierced thy soul,

Shall be its healing balm. Oh! weep thou not,

Save with a gentle sorrow!

Elm. Must it be?

Art thou indeed to leave me?

Xim. (exultingly.) Be thou glad!

I say, rejoice above thy favour’d child!

Joy, for the soldier when his field is fought,

Joy, for the peasant when his vintage-task

Is closed at eve!—But most of all for her,

Who, when her life had changed its glittering robes

For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling

So heavily around the journeyers on,

Cast down its weight—and slept!

Elm. Alas! thine eye

Is wandering—yet how brightly! Is this death!

Or some high wondrous vision? Speak, my child!

How is it with thee now?

Xim. (wildly.) I see it still!

’Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high,

My father’s banner! Hear’st thou not a sound?

The trumpet of Castile! Praise, praise to heaven!

—Now may the weary rest!—Be still!—Who calls

The night so fearful?——

[She dies.

Elm. No! she is not dead!

Ximena!—speak to me! Oh yet a tone

From that sweet voice, that I may gather in

One more remembrance of its lovely sound,

Ere the deep silence fall! What, is all hush’d?—

No, no!—it cannot be! How should we bear

The dark misgivings of our souls, if heaven

Left not such beings with us? But is this

Her wonted look?—too sad a quiet lies

On its dim fearful beauty! Speak, Ximena!

Speak! My heart dies within me! She is gone,

With all her blessed smiles! My child! my child!

Where art thou?—Where is that which answer’d me,

From thy soft-shining eyes?—Hush! doth she move?

One light lock seem’d to tremble on her brow,

As a pulse throbb’d beneath;—’twas but the voice

Of my despair that stirr’d it! She is gone!

[She throws herself on the body.

Gonzalez enters wounded.

Elm. (rising as he approaches.) I must not now be scorn’d!—No, not a look.

A whisper of reproach! Behold my woe!—

Thou canst not scorn me now!

Gon. Hast thou heard all?

Elm. Thy daughter on my bosom laid her head,

And pass’d away to rest! Behold her there,

Even such as death hath made her![283]

Gon. (bending over Ximena’s body.) Thou art gone

A little while before me, O my child!

Why should the traveller weep to part with those,

That scarce an hour will reach their promised land,

Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away,

And spread his couch beside them?

Elm. Must it be

Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair

Had its bright place amongst us! Is this all

Left for the years to come? We will not stay!

Earth’s chain each hour grows weaker.

Gon. (still gazing upon Ximena.) And thou’rt laid

To slumber in the shadow, blessed child!

Of a yet stainless altar, and beside

A sainted warrior’s tomb! Oh, fitting place

For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul

Back unto him that gave it! And thy cheek

Yet smiles in its bright paleness!

Elm. Hadst thou seen

The look with which she pass’d!

Gon. (still bending over her.) Why, ’tis almost

Like joy to view thy beautiful repose!

The faded image of that perfect calm

Floats, e’en as long-forgotten music, back

Into my weary heart! No dark wild spot

On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands

That quench’d young life by violence! We’ve seen

Too much of horror, in one crowded hour,

To weep for aught so gently gather’d hence!

—Oh! man leaves other traces!

Elm. (suddenly starting.) It returns

On my bewilder’d soul? Went ye not forth

Unto the rescue? And thou’rt here alone!

—Where are my sons?

Gon. (solemnly.) We were too late!

Elm. Too late!

Hast thou naught else to tell me?

Gon. I brought back

From that last field the banner of my sires,

And my own death-wound.

Elm. Thine!

Gon. Another hour

Shall hush its throbs for ever. I go hence,

And with me——

Elm. No! Man could not lift his hands—

Where hast thou left thy sons?

Gon. I have no sons.

Elm. What hast thou said?

Gon. That now there lives not one

To wear the glory of mine ancient house,

When I am gone to rest.

Elm.(throwing herself on the ground, and speaking in a low hurried voice.)

In one brief hour, all gone!—and such a death!

I see their blood gush forth!—their graceful heads!

—Take the dark vision from me, O my God!

And such a death for them! I was not there!

They were but mine in beauty and in joy,

Not in that mortal anguish! All, all gone!—

Why should I struggle more?—What is this Power,

Against whose might, on all sides pressing us,

We strive with fierce impatience, which but lays

Our own frail spirits prostrate?

(After a long pause.) Now I know

Thy hand, my God!—and they are soonest crush’d

That most withstand it! I resist no more.

[She rises.

A light, a light springs up from grief and death,

Which with its solemn radiance doth reveal

Why we have thus been tried!

Gon. Then I may still

Fix my last look on thee, in holy love,

Parting, but yet with hope!

Elm. (falling at his feet.) Canst thou forgive?

Oh, I have driven the arrow to thy heart,

That should have buried it within mine own,

And borne the pang in silence! I have cast

Thy life’s fair honour, in my wild despair,

As an unvalued gem upon the waves,

Whence thou hast snatch’d it back, to bear from earth,

All stainless, on thy breast. Well hast thou done—

But I—canst thou forgive?

Gon. Within this hour

I’ve stood upon that verge whence mortals fall,

And learn’d how ’tis with one whose sight grows dim,

And whose foot trembles on the gulf’s dark side.

Death purifies all feeling: we will part

In pity and in love.

Elm. Death! And thou too

Art on thy way! Oh, joy for thee, high heart!

Glory and joy for thee! The day is closed,

And well and nobly hast thou borne thyself

Through its long battle-toils, though many swords

Have enter’d thine own soul! But on my head

Recoil the fierce invokings of despair,

And I am left far distanced in the race,

The lonely one of earth! Ay, this is just.

I am not worthy that upon my breast

In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield

Thy spirit unto God!

Gon. Thou art! thou art!

Oh! a life’s love, a heart’s long faithfulness,

Even in the presence of eternal things,

Wearing their chasten’d beauty all undimm’d,

Assert their lofty claims; and these are not

For one dark hour to cancel! We are here,

Before that altar which received the vows

Of our unbroken youth; and meet it is

For such a witness, in the sight of heaven,

And in the face of death, whose shadowy arm

Comes dim between us, to record th’ exchange

Of our tried hearts’ forgiveness. Who are they,

That in one path have journey’d, needing not

Forgiveness at its close?

A Citizen enters hastily.

Cit. The Moors! the Moors!

Gon. How! is the city storm’d?

O righteous heaven! for this I look’d not yet!

Hath all been done in vain? Why, then, ’tis time

For prayer, and then to rest!

Cit. The sun shall set,

And not a Christian voice be left for prayer,

To-night, within Valencia. Round our walls

The Paynim host is gathering for th’ assault,

I And we have none to guard them.

Gon. Then my place

Is here no longer. I had hoped to die

E’en by the altar and the sepulchre

Of my brave sires; but this was not to be!

Give me my sword again, and lead me hence

Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour,

And it hath still high duties. Now, my wife!

Thou mother of my children—of the dead—

Whom I name unto thee in steadfast hope—

Farewell!

Elm. No, not farewell! My soul hath risen

To mate itself with thine; and by thy side,

Amidst the hurling lances, I will stand,

As one on whom a brave man’s love hath been

Wasted not utterly.

Gon. I thank thee, heaven!

That I have tasted of the awful joy

Which thou hast given, to temper hours like this

With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends

In these dread visitings!

(To Elmina.) We will not part,

But with the spirit’s parting.

Elm. One farewell

To her, that, mantled with sad loveliness,

Doth slumber at our feet! My blessed child!

Oh! in thy heart’s affliction thou wert strong,

And holy courage did pervade thy woe,

As light the troubled waters! Be at peace!

Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul

Of all that were around thee! And thy life

E’en then was struck and withering at the core!

Farewell! thy parting look hath on me fallen,

E’en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now

More like what thou hast been. My soul is hush’d;

For a still sense of purer worlds hath sunk

And settled on its depths with that last smile

Which from thine eye shone forth. Thou hast not lived

In vain! My child, farewell!

Gon. Surely for thee

Death had no sting, Ximena! We are blest

To learn one secret of the shadowy pass,

From such an aspect’s calmness. Yet once more

I kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower!

In token of th’ undying love and hope

Whose land is far away.

[Exeunt.

[283] “La voilà, telle que la mort nous l’a faite!”—Bossuet, Oraisons Funèbres.

Scene IX.—The walls of the city.

Hernandez—A few citizens gathered round him.

Her. Why, men have cast the treasures, which their lives

Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre;

Ay, at their household hearths have lit the brand,

Even from that shrine of quiet love to bear

The flame which gave their temples and their homes

In ashes to the winds! They have done this,

Making a blasted void where once the sun

Look’d upon lovely dwellings; and from earth

Razing all record that on such a spot

Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept,

And frail humanity knelt before her God:

They have done this, in their free nobleness,

Rather than see the spoiler’s tread pollute

Their holy places. Praise, high praise be theirs,

Who have left man such lessons! And these things,

Made your own hills their witnesses! The sky,

Whose arch bends o’er you, and the seas, wherein

Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw

The altar, and the birthplace, and the tomb,

And all memorials of man’s heart and faith,

Thus proudly honour’d! Be ye not outdone

By the departed! Though the godless foe

Be close upon us, we have power to snatch

The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong!

A few bright torches and brief moments yet

Shall baffle his flush’d hope; and we may die,

Laughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me!

And thou, Valencia! triumph in thy fate—

The ruin, not the yoke; and make thy towers

A beacon unto Spain!

Cits. We’ll follow thee!

Alas! for our fair city, and the homes

Wherein we rear’d our children! But away!

The Moor shall plant no Crescent o’er our fanes!

Voice. (from a tower on the walls.) Succours!—Castile! Castile!

Cits. (rushing to the spot.) It is even so!

Now blessing be to heaven, for we are saved!

Castile! Castile!

Voice. (from the tower.) Line after line of spears,

Lance after lance, upon th’ horizon’s verge,

Like festal lights from cities bursting up,

Doth skirt the plain. In faith, a noble host!

Another voice. The Moor hath turn’d him from our walls, to front

Th’ advancing might of Spain!

Cits. (shouting.) Castile! Castile!

Gonzalez enters, supported by Elmina and a citizen.

Gon. What shouts of joy are these?

Her. Hail! chieftain, hail!

Thus, even in death, ’tis given thee to receive

The conqueror’s crown! Behold our God hath heard,

And arm’d himself with vengeance! Lo! they come!

The lances of Castile!

Gon. I knew, I knew,

Thou wouldst not utterly, my God! forsake

Thy servant in his need! My blood and tears

Have not sunk vainly to th’ attesting earth.

Praise to Thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived

To see this hour!

Elm. And I, too, bless thy name,

Though thou hast proved me unto agony!

O God!—thou God of chastening!

Voice. (from the tower.) They move on!

I see the royal banner in the air,

With its emblazon’d towers!

Gon. Go, bring ye forth

The banner of the Cid, and plant it here,

To stream above me, for an answering sign

That the good Cross doth hold its lofty place

Within Valencia still! What see you now?

Her. I see a kingdom’s might upon its path,

Moving, in terrible magnificence,

Unto revenge and victory! With the flash

Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks,

As meteors from a still and gloomy deep,

And with the waving of ten thousand plumes,

Like a land’s harvest in the autumn wind,

And with fierce light, which is not of the sun,

But flung from sheets of steel—it comes, it comes,

The vengeance of our God!

Gon. I hear it now,

The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes,

Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths.

Her. Ay, earth knows well the omen of that sound;

And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre’s,

Pent in her secret hollows, to respond

Unto the step of death!

Gon. Hark! how the wind

Swells proudly with the battle-march of Spain?

Now the heart feels its power! A little while

Grant me to Eve, my God! What pause is this?

Her. A deep and dreadful one! The serried files

Level their spears for combat; now the hosts

Look on each other in their brooding wrath,

Silent, and face to face.

Voices heard without, chanting.

Calm on the bosom of thy God,

Fair spirit! rest thee now!

E’en while with ours thy footsteps trode

His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!

Soul, to its place on high!

They that have seen thy look in death

No more may fear to die.

Elm. (to Gonzalez.) It is the death-hymn o’er thy daughter’s bier!

But I am calm; and e’en like gentle winds,

That music, through the stillness of my heart,

Sends mournful peace.

Gon. Oh! well those solemn tones

Accord with such an hour, for all her life

Breathed of a hero’s soul!

[A sound of trumpets and shouting from the plain.]

Her. Now, now they close! Hark! what a dull dead sound

Is in the Moorish war-shout! I have known

Such tones prophetic oft. The shock is given—

Lo! they have placed their shields before their hearts,

And lower’d their lances with the streamers on,

And on their steeds bent forward! God for Spain!

The first bright sparks of battle have been struck

From spear to spear, across the gleaming field!—

There is no sight on which the blue sky looks

To match with this! ’Tis not the gallant crests,

Nor banners with their glorious blazonry;

The very nature and high soul of man

Doth now reveal itself!

Gon. Oh, raise me up,

That I may look upon the noble scene!—

It will not be!—That this dull mist would pass

A moment from my sight! Whence rose that shout,

As in fierce triumph?

Her. (clasping his hands.) Must I look on this?

The banner sinks—’tis taken!

Gon. Whose?

Her. Castile’s!

Gon. O God of Battles!

Elm. Calm thy noble heart;

Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed.

Nay, rest thee on my bosom.

Her. Cheer thee yet!

Our knights have spurr’d to rescue. There is now

A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things,

Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness

Wherewith they moved before! I see tall plumes

All wildly tossing o’er the battle’s tide,

Sway’d by the wrathful motion, and the press

Of desperate men, as cedar boughs by storms.

Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood,

Many a false corslet broken, many a shield

Pierced through! Now, shout for Santiago, shout!

Lo! javelins with a moment’s brightness cleave

The thickening dust, and barded steeds go down

With their helm’d riders! Who, but One, can tell

How spirits part amidst that fearful rush

And trampling-on of furious multitudes?

Gon. Thou’rt silent!—See’st thou more? My

soul grows dark.

Her. And dark and troubled, as an angry sea,

Dashing some gallant armament in scorn

Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze!

I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross’d,

And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms

To lighten with the stroke! But round the spot

Where, like a storm-fell’d mast, our standard sank,

The heart of battle burns.

Gon. Where is that spot?

Her. It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms,

That lift their green heads o’er the tumult still,

In calm and stately grace.

Gon. There didst thou say?

Then God is with us, and we must prevail!

For on that spot they died: my children’s blood

Calls on th’ avenger thence!

Elm. They perish’d there!

—And the bright locks that waved so joyously

To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled

Even on that place of death! O Merciful!

Hush the dark thought within me!

Her. (with sudden exultation.) Who is he,

On the white steed, and with the castled helm,

And the gold-broider’d mantle, which doth float

E’en like a sunny cloud above the fight;

And the pale cross, which from his breastplate gleams

With star-like radiance?

Gon. (eagerly.) Didst thou say the cross?

Her. On his mail’d bosom shines a broad white cross,

And his long plumage through the dark’ning air

Streams like a snow-wreath.

Gon. That should be—

Her. The king!

Was it not told to us how he sent, of late,

To the Cid’s tomb, e’en for the silver cross,

Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind

O’er his brave heart in fight?[284]

Gon. (springing up joyfully.) My king! my king!

Now all good saints for Spain! My noble king!

And thou art there! That I might look once more

Upon thy face! But yet I thank thee, heaven!

That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands

Thus to receive his city!

[He sinks back into Elmina’s arms.

Her. He hath clear’d

A pathway midst the combat, and the light

Follows his charge through yon close living mass,

E’en as a gleam on some proud vessel’s wake

Along the stormy waters! ’Tis redeem’d—

The castled banner; it is flung once more,

In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds!

There seems a wavering through the Paynim hosts—

Castile doth press them sore—now, now rejoice!

Gon. What hast thou seen?

Her. Abdullah falls! He falls!

The man of blood!—the spoiler!—he hath sunk

In our king’s path! Well hath that royal sword

Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez!

They give way,

The Crescent’s van is broken! On the hills,

And the dark pine-woods, may the infidel

Call vainly, in his agony of fear,

To cover him from vengeance! Lo! they fly!

They of the forest and the wilderness

Are scatter’d, e’en as leaves upon the wind!

Woe to the sons of Afric! Let the plains,

And the vine mountains, and Hesperian seas,

Take their dead unto them!—that blood shall wash

Our soil from stains of bondage.

Gon. (attempting to raise himself.) Set me free!

Come with me forth, for I must greet my king,

After his battle-field!

Her. Oh, blest in death!

Chosen of heaven, farewell! Look on the Cross,

And part from earth in peace!

Gon. Now, charge once more!

God is with Spain, and Santiago’s sword

Is reddening all the air! Shout forth “Castile!”

The day is ours! I go; but fear ye not!

For Afric’s lance is broken, and my sons

Have won their first good field!

[He dies.

Elm. Look on me yet!

Speak one farewell, my husband!—must thy voice

Enter my soul no more! Thine eye is fix’d—

Now is my life uprooted—and ’tis well.

[A sound of triumphant music is heard, and many Castilian Knights and Soldiers enter.]

A Cit. Hush your triumphal sounds, although ye come

E’en as deliverers! But the noble dead,

And those that mourn them, claim from human hearts

Deep silent reverence.

Elm. (rising proudly.) No, swell forth, Castile!

Thy trumpet music, till the seas and heavens,

And the deep hills, give every stormy note

Echoes to ring through Spain! How, know ye not

That all array’d for triumph, crown’d and robed

With the strong spirit which hath saved the land,

E’en now a conqueror to his rest is gone?

Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind

Swell on with victory’s shout!—He will not hear—

Hath earth a sound more sad?

Her. Lift ye the dead,

And bear him with the banner of his race

Waving above him proudly, as it waved

O’er the Cid’s battles, to the tomb wherein

His warrior sires are gather’d.

[They raise the body.

Elm. Ay, ’tis thus

Thou shouldst be honour’d! And I follow thee,

With an unfaltering and a lofty step,

To that last home of glory. She that wears

In her deep heart the memory of thy love,

Shall thence draw strength for all things; till the God

Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth,

Looking upon her still and chasten’d soul,

Call it once more to thine!

(To the Castilians.) Awake, I say!

Tambour and trumpet, wake! And let the land

Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal.

—So should a hero pass to his repose.

[Exeunt omnes.

[284] This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alfonso, the last of that name. He sent to the Cid’s tomb for the cross which that warrior was accustomed to wear upon his breast when he went to battle, and had it made into one for himself, “because of the faith which he had, that through it he should obtain the victory.”—Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid.