“Thou hast not been with a festal throng
At the pouring of the wine;
Men bear not from the hall of song
A mien so dark as thine!
There’s blood upon thy shield,
There’s dust upon thy plume,
Thou hast brought from some disastrous field
That brow of wrath and gloom!”
“And is there blood upon my shield?
Maiden, it well may be!
We have sent the streams from our battle-field
All darken’d to the sea!
We have given the founts a stain,
Midst their woods of ancient pine;
And the ground is wet—but not with rain,
Deep dyed—but not with wine!
“The ground is wet—but not with rain—
We have been in war-array,
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain
Hath bathed her soil to-day.
I have seen the strong man die,
And the stripling meet his fate,
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by
In the Roncesvalles’ Strait.
“In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait
There are helms and lances cleft;
And they that moved at morn elate
On a bed of heath are left!
There’s many a fair young face
Which the war-steed hath gone o’er;
At many a board there is kept a place
For those that come no more!”
“Alas! for love, for woman’s breast,
If woe like this must be!
Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle-crest,
And a white plume waving free?
With his proud quick-flashing eye,
And his mien of knightly state?
Doth he come from where the swords flash’d high
In the Roncesvalles’ Strait?”
“In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait
I saw, and mark’d him well;
For nobly on his steed he sate,
When the pride of manhood fell!
But it is not youth which turns
From the field of spears again;
For the boy’s high heart too wildly burns,
Till it rests amidst the slain!”
“Thou canst not say that he lies low,
The lovely and the brave:
Oh! none could look on his joyous brow,
And think upon the grave!
Dark, dark perchance the day
Hath been with valour’s fate;
But he is on his homeward way
From the Roncesvalles’ Strait!”
“There is dust upon his joyous brow,
And o’er his graceful head;
And the war-horse will not wake him now,
Though it browse his greensward bed!
I have seen the stripling die,
And the strong man meet his fate
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by
In the Roncesvalles’ Strait!”
Elm. Your songs are not as those of other days,
Mine own Ximena! Where is now the young
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke
Joy’s echo from all hearts?
Xim. My mother, this
Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds;
And these are not the halls wherein my voice
First pour’d those gladd’ning strains.
Elm. Alas! thy heart
(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills,
Where thy young brothers, o’er the rock and heath,
Bound in glad boyhood, e’en as torrent-streams
Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been
Within these walls thus suddenly begirt,
Thou shouldst have track’d ere now, with step as light,
Their wild-wood paths.
Xim. I would not but have shared
These hours of woe and peril, though the deep
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves,
And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush
All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild
O’ th’ summer-forest, filling earth and heaven
With its own awful music. And ’tis well!
Should not a hero’s child be train’d to hear
The trumpet’s blast unstartled, and to look
In the fix’d face of death without dismay?
Elm. Woe! woe! that aught so gentle and so young
Should thus be call’d to stand i’ the tempest’s path,
And bear the token and the hue of death
On a bright soul so soon! I had not shrunk
From mine own lot; but thou, my child, shouldst move
As a light breeze of heaven, through summer-bowers,
And not o’er foaming billows. We are fall’n
On dark and evil days!
Xim. Ay, days that wake
All to their tasks!—Youth may not loiter now
In the green walks of spring; and womanhood
Is summon’d unto conflicts, heretofore
The lot of warrior-spirits. Strength is born
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts;
Not amidst joy.
Elm. Hast thou some secret woe
That thus thou speak’st?
Xim. What sorrow should be mine,
Unknown to thee?
Elm. Alas! the baleful air,
Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks
Through the devoted city, like a blight
Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall’n,
And wrought an early withering. Thou hast cross’d
The paths of death, and minister’d to those
O’er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still,
Deep, solemn radiance; and thy brow hath caught
A wild and high expression, which at times
Fades into desolate calmness, most unlike
What youth’s bright mien should wear. My gentle child!
I look on thee in fear!
Xim. Thou hast no cause
To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel,
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step
Of armèd men, break on our morning dreams—
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave
Are falling round us, and we deem it much
To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour,
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease
Had chill’d their fiery blood;—it is no time
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours,
We trode the woodland mazes, when young leaves
Were whispering in the gale.—My father comes—
Oh! speak of me no more. I would not shade
His princely aspect with a thought less high
Than his proud duties claim.
Elm. My noble lord!
Welcome from this day’s toil! It is the hour
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose
Unto all weary men; and wilt not thou
Free thy mail’d bosom from the corslet’s weight,
To rest at fall of eve?
Gon. There may be rest
For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath
His vine and olive he may sit at eve,
Watching his children’s sport: but unto him
Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain-height,
When heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms
—Who speaks of rest?
Xim. My father, shall I fill
The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute
Whose sounds thou lovest?
Gon. If there be strains of power
To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn
May cast off nature’s feebleness, and hold
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down
Tears and fond thoughts to earth; give voice to those!
I have need of such, Ximena!—we must hear
No melting music now!
Xim. I know all high
Heroic ditties of the elder-time,
Sung by the mountain-Christians,
[273] in the holds
Of th’ everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear
The print of Freedom’s step; and all wild strains
Wherein the dark serranos
[274] teach the rocks
And the pine-forests deeply to resound
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear
The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid?
Gon. Ay, speak of him; for in that name is power,
Such as might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him!
We are his children! They that can look back
I’ th’ annals of their house on such a name,
How should they take Dishonour by the hand,
And o’er the threshold of their fathers’ halls
First lead her as a guest?
Elm. Oh, why is this?
How my heart sinks!
Gon. It must not fail thee yet,
Daughter of heroes!—thine inheritance
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst number
In thy long line of glorious ancestry
Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made
The ground it bathed e’en as an altar, whence
High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not,
Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross,
With its victorious inspiration girt
As with a conqueror’s robe, till th’ infidel,
O’erawed, shrank back before them? Ay, the earth
Doth call them martyrs; but their agonies
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope
Lay naught but dust. And earth doth call them martyrs!
Why, heaven but claim’d their blood, their lives, and not
The things which grew as tendrils round their hearts;
No, not their children!
Elm. Mean’st thou? know’st thou aught?—
I cannot utter it—my sons! my sons!
Is it of them? Oh! wouldst thou speak of them?
Gon. A mother’s heart divineth but too well!
Elm. Speak, I adjure thee! I can bear it all.
Where are my children?
Gon. In the Moorish camp
Whose lines have girt the city.
Xim. But they live?
—All is not lost, my mother!
Gon. Elmina, still they live.
Elm. But captives! They
Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself
Bounding from cliff to cliff, amidst the wilds
Where the rock-eagle seem’d not more secure
In its rejoicing freedom! And my boys
Are captives with the Moor!—oh! how was this?
Gon. Alas! our brave Alphonso, in the pride
Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls,
With his young brother, eager to behold
The face of noble war. Thence on their way
Were the rash wanderers captured.
Elm. ’Tis enough.
—And when shall they be ransom’d?
Gon. There is ask’d
A ransom far too high.
Elm. What! have we wealth
Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons
The while wear fetters? Take thou all for them,
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us
As ’twere a cumbrous robe! Why, thou art one,
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been
But as the plumage to a warrior’s helm,
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me,
Thou knowst not how serenely I could take
The peasant’s lot upon me, so my heart,
Amidst its deep affections undisturb’d,
May dwell in silence.
Xim. Father! doubt thou not
But we will bind ourselves to poverty,
With glad devotedness, if this, but this,
May win them back. Distrust us not, my father!
We can bear all things.
Gon. Can ye bear disgrace?
Xim. We were not born for this.
Gon. No, thou say’st well!
Hold to that lofty faith. My wife, my child!
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems
Torn from her secret caverns? If by them
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring
Rejoicing to the light! But he for whom
Freedom and life may but be won with shame,
Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to fix
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens,
And proudly die!
Elm. Gonzalez, who must die?
Gon. (hurriedly.) They on whose lives a fearful price is set,
But to be paid by treason! Is’t enough?
Or must I yet seek words?
Elm. That look saith more!
Thou canst not mean——
Gon. I do! why dwells there not
Power in a glance to speak it? They must die!
They—must their names be told?—our sons must die,
Unless I yield the city!
Xim. Oh, look up!
My mother, sink not thus! Until the grave
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope.
Elm. (in a low voice.) Whose knell was in the breeze? No, no, not theirs!
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope?
—And there is hope! I will not be subdued—
I will not hear a whisper of despair!
For nature is all-powerful, and her breath
Moves like a quickening spirit o’er the depths
Within a father’s heart. Thou too, Gonzalez,
Wilt tell me there is hope!
Gon. (solemnly.) Hope but in Him
Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when
The bright steel quiver’d in the father’s hand
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice
Through the still clouds and on the breathless air,
Commanding to withhold! Earth has no hope:
It rests with Him.
Elm. Thou canst not tell me this!
Thou, father of my sons, within whose hands
Doth lie thy children’s fate.
Gon. If there have been
Men in whose bosoms nature’s voice hath made
Its accents as the solitary sound
Of an o’erpowering torrent, silencing
Th’ austere and yet divine remonstrances
Whisper’d by faith and honour, lift thy hands;
And, to that Heaven which arms the brave with strength,
Pray that the father of thy sons may ne’er
Be thus found wanting!
Elm. Then their doom is seal’d!
Thou wilt not save thy children?
Gon. Hast thou cause,
Wife of my youth! to deem it lies within
The bounds of possible things, that I should link
My name to that word—traitor? They that sleep
On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine,
Died not for this!
Elm. Oh, cold and hard of heart!
Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free
Its haughty flight! Men! men! too much is yours
Of vantage; ye that with a sound, a breath,
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space
Of rooted-up affections, o’er whose void
Our yearning hearts must wither! So it is,
Dominion must be won! Nay, leave me not—
My heart is bursting, and I must be heard!
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony,
As to the elements in their hour of might
And mastery o’er creation! Who shall dare
To mock that fearful strength! I must be heard!
Give me my sons.
Gon. That they may live to hide
With covering hands th’ indignant flush of shame
On their young brows, when men shall speak of him
They call’d their father! Was the oath whereby,
On th’ altar of my faith, I bound myself
With an unswerving spirit to maintain
This free and Christian city for my God
And for my king, a writing traced on sand?
That passionate tears should wash it from the earth,
Or e’en the life-drops of a bleeding heart
Efface it, as a billow sweeps away
The last light vessel’s wake? Then never more
Let man’s deep vows be trusted!—though enforced
By all th’ appeals of high remembrances,
And silent claims o’ th’ sepulchres wherein
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep,
On their good swords! Think’st thou I feel no pangs?
He that hath given me sons doth know the heart
Whose treasure he recalls. Of this no more:
’Tis vain. I tell thee that th’ inviolate Cross
Still from our ancient temples must look up
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its foot
I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask
That I, the son of warriors—men who died
To fix it on that proud supremacy—
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor
In impious joy to trample!
Elm. Scorn me not
In mine extreme of misery! Thou art strong—
Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild;
I know not what I ask. And yet ’twere but
Anticipating fate—since it must fall,
That Cross must fall at last! There is no power,
No hope within this city of the grave,
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air
Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor
Hath bent his bow against them; for the shaft
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark,
Than th’ arrow of the desert. Even the skies
O’erhang the desolate splendour of her domes
With an ill omen’s aspect, shaping forth,
From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and signs
Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood,
But who shall cope with famine and disease
When leagued with armèd foes? Where now the aid,
Where the long-promised lances of Castile?
We are forsaken in our utmost need—
By heaven and earth forsaken!
Gon. If this be,
(And yet I will not deem it,) we must fall
As men that in severe devotedness
Have chosen their part, and bound themselves to death,
Through high conviction that their suffering land
By the free blood of martyrdom alone
Shall call deliverance down.
Elm. Oh! I have stood
Beside thee through the beating storms of life
With the true heart of unrepining love—
As the poor peasant’s mate doth cheerily,
In the parch’d vineyard, or the harvest field,
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat
And burden of the day. But now the hour,
The heavy hour is come, when human strength
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust,
Owning that woe is mightier! Spare me yet
This bitter cup, my husband! Let not her,
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn
In her unpeopled home—a broken stem,
O’er its fallen roses dying!
Gon. Urge me not,
Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found
Worthy a brave man’s love!—oh, urge me not
To guilt, which, through the midst of blinding tears,
In its own hues thou seest not! Death may scarce
Bring aught like this!
Elm. All, all thy gentle race,
The beautiful beings that around thee grew,
Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all?
She, too, thy daughter—doth her smile unmark’d
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day?
Shadows are gathering round her: seest thou not
The misty dimness of the spoiler’s breath
Hangs o’er her beauty; and the face which made
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send,
With every glance, deep bodings through the soul,
Telling of early fate?
Gon. I see a change
Far nobler on her brow! She is as one,
Who, at the trumpet’s sudden call, hath risen
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm,
Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost
The beam which laugh’d upon th’ awakening heart,
E’en as morn breaks o’er earth. But far within
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source
Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch,
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade!
The altar-flame, i’ th’ sanctuary’s recess,
Burns quenchless, being of heaven! She hath put on
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy,
Even as a breastplate. Ay! men look on her,
As she goes forth serenely to her tasks,
Binding the warrior’s wounds, and bearing fresh
Cool draughts to fever’d lips—they look on her,
Thus moving in her beautiful array
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn
Unto their heavy toils.
Elm. And seest thou not
In that high faith and strong collectedness,
A fearful inspiration? They have cause
To tremble, who behold th’ unearthly light
Of high and, it may be, prophetic thought
Investing youth with grandeur! From the grave
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child
Waits but a father’s hand to snatch her back
Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me;
Ximena! kneel beside me, and implore
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied,
—His children’s lives!
Xim. Alas! this may not be:
Mother!—I cannot.
Gon. My heroic child!
—A terrible sacrifice thou claim’st, O God!
From creatures in whose agonising hearts
Nature is strong as death!
Elm. Is ’t thus in thine?
Away! What time is given thee to resolve
On—what I cannot utter? Speak! thou know’st
Too well what I would say.
Gon. Until—ask not!
The time is brief.
Elm. Thou said’st—I heard not right——
Elm. What! must we burst all ties
Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined!
And, for this task’s fulfilment, can it be
That man in his cold heartlessness, hath dared,
To number and to mete us forth the sands
Of hours, nay, moments? Why, the sentenced wretch,
He on whose soul there rests a brother’s blood
Pour’d forth in slumber, is allow’d more time
To wean his turbulent passions from the world
His presence doth pollute! It is not thus?
We must have time to school us.
Gon. We have but
To bow the head in silence, when heaven’s voice
Calls back the things we love.
Elm. Love! love!—there are soft smiles and gentle words,
And there are faces, skilful to put on
The look we trust in—and ’tis mockery all!
—A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat
The thirst that semblance kindled! There is none,
In all this cold and hollow world—no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother’s heart. It is but pride, wherewith
To his fair son the father’s eye doth turn,
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks,
The bright glad creature springing in his path,
But as the heir of his great name—the young
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love!
This is man’s love! What marvel!—you ne’er made
Your breast the pillow of his infancy,
While to the fulness of your heart’s glad heavings
His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair
Waved softly to your breath! You ne’er kept watch
Beside him, till the last pale star had set,
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke
On your dim weary eye; not yours the face
Which, early faded through fond care for him,
Hung o’er his sleep, and, duly as heaven’s light,
Was there to greet his wak’ning! You ne’er smooth’d
His couch, ne’er sang him to his rosy rest;
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours
Had learn’d soft utterance; press’d your lip to his,
When fever parch’d it; hush’d his wayward cries,
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!
No! these are woman’s tasks!—in these her youth,
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,
Steal from her all unmark’d! My boys! my boys!
Hath vain affection borne with all for this?
—Why were ye given me?
Gon. Is there strength in man
Thus to endure? That thou couldst read, through all
Its depths of silent agony, the heart
Thy voice of woe doth rend!
Elm. Thy heart—thy heart! Away! it feels not now!
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man
Unto the infant’s weakness; nor shall heaven
Spare you that bitter chastening! May you live
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem
Most heavy to sustain! For me, my voice
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon
With all forgotten sounds—my quiet place
Low with my lovely ones; and we shall sleep,
Though kings lead armies o’er us—we shall sleep,
Wrapt in earth’s covering mantle! You the while
Shall sit within your vast forsaken halls,
And hear the wild and melancholy winds
Moan through their drooping banners, never more
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up
Shadows—dim phantoms from ancestral tombs,
But all, all—glorious,—conquerors, chieftains, kings,
To people that cold void! And when the strength
From your right arm hath melted, when the blast
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more
A fiery wakening,—if at last you pine
For the glad voices and the bounding steps
Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp
Of twining arms, and all the joyous light
Of eyes that laugh’d with youth, and made your board
A place of sunshine,—when those days are come,
Then, in your utter desolation, turn
To the cold world—the smiling, faithless world,
Which hath swept past you long—and bid it quench
Your soul’s deep thirst with fame! immortal fame!
Fame to the sick of heart!—a gorgeous robe,
A crown of victory, unto him that dies
I’ th’ burning waste, for water!
Gon. This from thee!
Now the last drop of bitterness is pour’d.
Elmina—I forgive thee!
[Exit Elmina.
Aid me, Heaven!
From whom alone is power! Oh! thou hast set
Duties so stern of aspect in my path,
They almost to my startled gaze assume
The hue of things less hallow’d! Men have sunk
Unblamed beneath such trials! Doth not He
Who made us know the limits of our strength?
My wife! my sons! Away! I must not pause
To give my heart one moment’s mastery thus!