Egi. Oh! was Roderigo so abased?
Muza. ’Twas he.
Now, Egilona, judge between your friends
And enemies; behold what wretches brought
The king, thy lord, Roderigo, to disgrace.
Egi. He merited—but not from them—from me
This, and much worse: had I inflicted it,
I had rejoiced—at what I ill endure.
Muza. For thee, for thee alone, we wished him here,
But other hands released him—
Abd. With what aim
Will soon appear to those discerning eyes.
Egi. I pray thee, tell what passed until that hour.
Abd. Few words, and indistinct; repentant sobs
Filled the whole space, the taper in his hand,
Lighting two small dim lamps before the altar,
He gave to Opas; at the idol’s feet
He laid his crown, and wiped his tears away:
The crown reverts not, but the tears return.
Egi. Yes, Abdalazis! soon, abundantly.
If he had only called upon my name,
Seeking my pardon ere he looked to heaven’s,
I could have—no! he thought not once on me!
Never shall he find peace or confidence;
I will rely on fortune and on thee,
Nor fear my future lot: sure, Abdalazis,
A fall so great can never happen twice,
Nor man again be faithless, like Roderigo.
Abd. Faithless he may be still, never so faithless.
Fainter must be the charms, remote the days,
When memory and dread example die,
When love and terror thrill the heart no more,
And Egilona is herself forgotten.