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, amid
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 of the Libyan 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.
Oh, 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 when 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.
SECOND ACT: SECOND SCENE.
Sisabert enters.
Sis. Uncle, and is it true, say, can it be,
That thou art leader of these faithless Moors?
That thou impeachest thy own daughter’s fame
Through the whole land, to seize upon the throne
By the permission of those recreant slaves?
What shall I call thee? art thou—speak, Count Julian—
A father, or a soldier, or a man?