Teresa. Nay, it wakes within me
More than a woman's spirit.

Valdez. No more of this—
What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us!
I dare not listen to you.

Teresa. My honoured lord, 35
These were my Alvar's lessons, and whene'er
I bend me o'er his portrait, I repeat them,
As if to give a voice to the mute image.

Valdez. ——We have mourned for Alvar.
Of his sad fate there now remains no doubt. 40
Have I no other son?

Teresa. Speak not of him!
That low imposture! That mysterious picture!
If this be madness, must I wed a madman?
And if not madness, there is mystery,
And guilt doth lurk behind it.

Valdez. Is this well? 45

Teresa. Yes, it is truth: saw you his countenance?
How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear
Displaced each other with swift interchanges?
O that I had indeed the sorcerer's power.——
I would call up before thine eyes the image 50
Of my betrothed Alvar, of thy first-born![866:1]
His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead,
His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on his lips!
That spiritual and almost heavenly light
In his commanding eye—his mien heroic, 55
Virtue's own native heraldry! to man
Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel.
Whene'er he gladden'd, how the gladness spread
Wide round him! and when oft with swelling tears,
Flash'd through by indignation, he bewail'd [60]
The wrongs of Belgium's martyr'd patriots,
Oh, what a grief was there—for joy to envy,
Or gaze upon enamour'd!
O my father!
Recall that morning when we knelt together,
And thou didst bless our loves! O even now, 65
Even now, my sire! to thy mind's eye present him,
As at that moment he rose up before thee,
Stately, with beaming look! Place, place beside him
Ordonio's dark perturbéd countenance!
Then bid me (Oh thou could'st not) bid me turn 70
From him, the joy, the triumph of our kind!
To take in exchange that brooding man, who never
Lifts up his eye from the earth, unless to scowl.

Valdez. Ungrateful woman! I have tried to stifle
An old man's passion! was it not enough, 75
That thou hast made my son a restless man,
[[867]] Banish'd his health, and half unhing'd his reason;
But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion?
And toil to blast his honour? I am old,
A comfortless old man!

Teresa. O grief! to hear [80]
Hateful entreaties from a voice we love!