Sis. Yes, blooming royalty will first attract
These creatures of the desert—now I breathe
More freely—she is theirs if I pursue
The fugitive again—he well deserves
The death he flies from—stay! Don Julian twice
Called him aloud, and he, methinks, replied.
Could not I have remained a moment more,
And seen the end? although with hurried voice
He bade me intercept the scattered foes,
And hold the city barred to their return.
May Egilona be another’s wife
Whether he die or live! but oh!—Covilla—
She never can be mine! yet she may be
Still happy—no, Covilla, no—not happy,
But more deserving happiness without it.
Mine never! nor another’s—’tis enough.
The tears I shed no rival can deride;
In the fond intercourse, a name once cherished
Will never be defended by faint smiles,
Nor given up with vows of altered love.
And is the passion of my soul at last
Reduced to this? is this my happiness?
This my sole comfort? this the close of all
Those promises, those tears, those last adieus,
And those long vigils for the morrow’s dawn?
Opas. Arouse thee! be thyself. O Sisabert,
Awake to glory from these feverish dreams:
The enemy is in our land—two enemies—
We must quell both—shame on us, if we fail.
Sis. Incredible! a nation be subdued
Peopled as ours!
Opas. Corruption may subvert
What force could never.
Sis. Traitors may.
Opas. Alas
If traitors can, the basis is but frail.
I mean such traitors as the vacant world
Echoes most stunningly: not fur-robed knaves
Whose whispers raise the dreaming bloodhound’s ear
Against benighted famished wanderers;
While with remorseless guilt they undermine
Palace and shed, their very father’s house,
O blind! their own, their children’s heritage,
To leave more ample space for fearful wealth.
Plunder in some most harmless guise they swathe,
Call it some very meek and hallowed name,
Some known and borne by their good forefathers,
And own and vaunt it thus redeemed from sin.
These are the plagues heaven sends o’er every land
Before it sink, the portents of the street,
Not of the air, lest nations should complain
Of distance or of dimness in the signs,
Flaring from far to Wisdom’s eye alone:
These are the last! these, when the sun rides high,
In the forenoon of doomsday, revelling,
Make men abhor the earth, arraign the skies.
Ye who behold them spoil field after field,
Despising them in individual strength,
Not with one torrent sweeping them away
Into the ocean of eternity,
Arise! despatch! no renovating gale,
No second spring awaits you—up, begone—
If you have force and courage even for flight—
The blast of dissolution is behind.
Sis. How terrible! how true! what voice like thine
Can rouse and warn the nation! if she rise,
Say, whither go, where stop we?
Opas. God will guide.
Let us pursue the oppressor to destruction;
The rest is heaven’s: must we move no step
Because we cannot see the boundaries
Of our long way, and every stone between?
Sis. Is not thy vengeance for the late affront,
For threats and outrage and imprisonment—
Opas. For outrage, yes—imprisonment and threats
I pardon him, and whatsoever ill
He could do me.