Cov. Oh, tell him, tell him all, when I am dead—
He will die too, and we shall meet again.
He will know all when these sad eyes are closed.
Ah, cannot he before? must I appear
The vilest?—O just Heaven! can it be thus?
I am—all earth resounds it—lost, despised,
Anguish and shame unutterable seize me.
’Tis palpable, no phantom, no delusion,
No dream that wakens with o’erwhelming horror:
Spaniard and Moor fight on this ground alone,
And tear the arrow from my bleeding breast
To pierce my father’s, for alike they fear.
Jul. Invulnerable, unassailable
Are we, alone perhaps of human kind,
Nor life allures us more, nor death alarms.
Cov. Fallen, unpitied, unbelieved, unheard!
I should have died long earlier: gracious God!
Desert me to my sufferings, but sustain
My faith in Thee! O hide me from the world,
And from thyself, my father, from thy fondness,
That opened in this wilderness of woe
A source of tears—it else had burst my heart,
Setting me free for ever: then perhaps
A cruel war had not divided Spain,
Had not o’erturned her cities and her altars,
Had not endangered thee! Oh, haste afar
Ere the last dreadful conflict that decides
Whether we live beneath a foreign sway—
Jul. Or under him whose tyranny brought down
The curse upon his people. O child! child!
Urge me no further, talk not of the war,
Remember not our country.
Cov. Not remember!
What have the wretched else for consolation!
What else have they who pining feed their woe?
Can I, or should I, drive from memory
All that was dear and sacred, all the joys
Of innocence and peace? when no debate
Was in the convent, but what hymn, whose voice,
To whom among the blessed it arose,
Swelling so sweet; when rang the vesper-bell
And every finger ceased from the guitar,
And every tongue was silent through our land;
When, from remotest earth, friends met again
Hung on each other’s neck, and but embraced,
So sacred, still, and peaceful was the hour.
Now, in what climate of the wasted world,
Not unmolested long by the profane,
Can I pour forth in secrecy to God
My prayers and my repentance? where besides
Is the last solace of the parting soul?
Friends, brethren, parents—dear indeed, too dear
Are they, but somewhat still the heart requires,
That it may leave them lighter, and more blest.
Jul. Wide are the regions of our far-famed land:
Thou shalt arrive at her remotest bounds,
See her best people, choose some holiest house;
Whether where Castro from surrounding vines
Hears the hoarse ocean roar among his caves,
And, through the fissure in the green churchyard,
The wind wail loud the calmest summer day;
Or where Santona leans against the hill,
Hidden from sea and land by groves and bowers.
Cov. Oh! for one moment in those pleasant scenes
Thou placest me, and lighter air I breathe:
Why could I not have rested, and heard on!
My voice dissolves the vision quite away,
Outcast from virtue, and from nature too!
Jul. Nature and virtue! they shall perish first.
God destined them for thee, and thee for them,
Inseparably and eternally!
The wisest and the best will prize thee most,
And solitudes and cities will contend
Which shall receive thee kindliest—sigh not so;
Violence and fraud will never penetrate
Where piety and poverty retire,
Intractable to them, and valueless,
And looked at idly, like the face of heaven.
If strength be wanted for security,
Mountains the guard, forbidding all approach
With iron-pointed and uplifted gates,
Thou wilt be welcome too in Aguilar,
Impenetrable, marble-turreted,
Surveying from aloft the limpid ford,
The massive fane, the sylvan avenue;
Whose hospitality I proved myself,
A willing leader in no impious war
When fame and freedom urged me; or mayst dwell
In Reynosa’s dry and thriftless dale,
Unharvested beneath October moons,
Among those frank and cordial villagers.
They never saw us, and, poor simple souls!
So little know they whom they call the great,
Would pity one another less than us,
In injury, disaster, or distress.
Cov. But they would ask each other whence our grief,
That they might pity.
Jul. Rest then just beyond,
In the secluded scenes where Ebro springs
And drives not from his fount the fallen leaf,
So motionless and tranquil its repose.