Jul. All who are seen to-day.
On prancing steeds richly caparisoned
In loyal acclamation round Roderigo;
Their sons beside them, loving one another
Unfeignedly, thro’ joy, while they themselves
In mutual homage mutual scorn suppress.
Their very walls and roofs are welcoming
The King’s approach, their storied tapestry
Swells its rich arch for him triumphantly
At every clarion blowing from below.
Cov. Such wicked men will never leave his side.
Jul. For they are insects which see nought beyond
Where they now crawl; whose changes are complete,
Unless of habitation.
Cov. Whither go
Creatures, unfit for better, or for worse?
Jul. Some to the grave—where peace be with them—some
Across the Pyrenean mountains far,
Into the plains of France; suspicion there
Will hang on every step from rich and poor,
Grey quickly-glancing eyes will wrinkle round
And courtesy will watch them, day and night.
Shameless they are, yet will they blush, amidst
A nation that ne’er blushes: some will drag
The captive’s chain, repair the shattered bark,
Or heave it, from a quicksand, to the shore,
Among the marbles on the Lybian coast;
Teach patience to the lion in his cage,
And, by the order of a higher slave,
Hold to the elephant their scanty fare
To please the children while the parent sleeps.
Cov. Spaniards? must they, dear father, lead such lives?
Jul. All are not Spaniards who draw breath in Spain,
Those are, who live for her, who die for her,
Who love her glory and lament her fall.
O may I too—
Cov. —But peacefully, and late,
Live and die here!
Jul. I have, alas! myself
Laid waste the hopes where my fond fancy strayed,
And view their ruins with unaltered eyes.
Cov. My mother will at last return to thee.
Might I, once more, but—could I now! behold her.
Tell her—ah me! what was my rash desire?
No, never tell her these inhuman things,
For they would waste her tender heart away
As they waste mine; or tell where I have died,
Only to show her that her every care
Could not have saved, could not have comforted;
That she herself, clasping me once again
To her sad breast, had said, Covilla! go,
Go, hide them in the bosom of thy God.
Sweet mother! that far-distant voice I hear,
And, passing out of youth and out of life,
I would not turn at last, and disobey.