Abd. Whose desertion interdicts
Homage, authority, precedency—
Muza. Till war shall rescue them—
Abd. And love restore.
Egi. O generous Abdalazis! never! never!
My enemies—Julian alone remains—
The worst, in safety, far beyond my reach,
Breathe freely on the summit of their hopes;
Because they never stopped, because they sprang
From crime to crime, and trampled down remorse.
Oh! if her heart knew tenderness like mine!
Grant vengeance on the guilty; grant but that,
I ask no more; my hand, my crown, is thine.
Fulfil the justice of offended heaven,
Assert the sacred rights of royalty,
Come not in vain, crush the rebellious crew,
Crush, I implore, the indifferent and supine.
Muza. Roderigo thus escaped from Julian’s tent.
Egi. No, not escaped, escorted, like a king.
The base Covilla first pursued her way
On foot; but after her the royal car,
Which bore me from San Pablos to the throne,
Empty indeed, yet ready at her voice,
Rolled o’er the plain, amid the carcases
Of those who fell in battle or in flight:
She, a deceiver still, to whate’er speed
The moment might incite her, often stopped
To mingle prayers with the departing breath,
Improvident! and those with heavy wounds
Groaned bitterly beneath her tottering knee.
Tar. Now, by the clement and the merciful!
The girl did well: when I breathe out my soul,
Oh! if compassion give one pang the more,
That pang be mine; here be it, in this land.
Such women are they in this land alone.
Egi. Insulting man!
Muza. We shall confound him yet.
Say, and speak quickly, whither went the king?
Thou knewest where was Julian.
Abd. I will tell
Without his answer: yes, my friends; yes, Tarik,
Now will I speak, nor thou, for once, reply.
There is, I hear, a poor half-ruined cell
In Xeres, whither few indeed resort;
Green are the walls within, green is the floor
And slippery from disuse; for Christian feet
Avoid it, as half-holy, half accursed.
Still in its dark recess fanatic sin
Abases to the ground his tangled hair,
And servile scourges and reluctant groans
Roll o’er the vault uninterruptedly,
Till, such the natural stillness of the place
The very tear upon the damps below
Drops audible, and the heart’s throb replies.
There is the idol maid of Christian creed,
And taller images, whose history
I know not, nor inquired—a scene of blood,
Of resignation amid mortal pangs,
And other things, exceeding all belief.
Hither the aged Opas of Seville
Walked slowly, and behind him was a man
Barefooted, bruised, dejected, comfortless,
In sackcloth; the white ashes on his head
Dropped as he smote his breast; he gathered up,
Replaced them all, groaned deeply, looked to heaven,
And held them, like a treasure, with clasped hands.