Thou to thy rest art gone,
High heart! and what are we,
While o’er our heads the storm sweeps on,
That we should mourn for thee?
Free grave and peaceful bier
To the buried son of Spain!
To those that live, the lance and spear,
And well if not the chain!
Be theirs to weep the dead,
As they sit beneath their vines,
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread
Of spoilers o’er its shrines!
Thou hast thrown off the load
Which we must yet sustain,
And pour our blood where thine hath flow’d,
Too blest if not in vain!
We give thee holy rite,
Slow knell, and chanted strain!
—For those that fall to-morrow night,
May be left no funeral-train.
Again, when trumpets wake,
We must brace our armour on;
But a deeper note thy sleep must break—
Thou to thy rest art gone!
Happier in this than all,
That, now thy race is run,
Upon thy name no stain may fall,
Thy work hath well been done!
Elm. “Thy work hath well been done!”—so thou may’st rest!
—There is a solemn lesson in those words—
But now I may not pause.
[Exit Elmina.

[275]

“Frey geht das Unglück durch die ganze Erde.”
Schiller’s Death of Wallenstein, act iv. sc. 2.

Scene III.—A Street in the City.

Hernandez, Gonzalez.

Her. Would they not hear?
Gon. They heard, as one that stands
By the cold grave, which hath but newly closed
O’er his last friend, doth hear some passer-by
Bid him be comforted! Their hearts have died
Within them! We must perish, not as those
That fall when battle’s voice doth shake the hills,
And peal through heaven’s great arch, but silently,
And with a wasting of the spirit down,
A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark,
Which lit us on our toils! Reproach me not;
My soul is darken’d with a heavy cloud—
Yet fear not I shall yield!
Her. Breathe not the word,
Save in proud scorn! Each bitter day o’erpass’d
By slow endurance, is a triumph won
For Spain’s red Cross. And be of trusting heart!
A few brief hours, and those that turn’d away
In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice,
May crowd around their leader, and demand
To be array’d for battle. We must watch
For the swift impulse, and await its time,
As the bark waits the ocean’s. You have chosen
To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance,
When they were weary; they had cast aside
Their arms to slumber; or a knell, just then,
With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood
Creep shuddering through their veins; or they had caught
A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped forth
Strange omens from its blaze.
Gon. Alas! the cause
Lies deeper, in their misery! I have seen,
In my night’s course through this beleaguer’d city,
Things whose remembrance doth not pass away
As vapours from the mountains. There were some,
That sat beside their dead, with eyes wherein
Grief had ta’en place of sight, and shut out all
But its own ghastly object. To my voice
Some answer’d with a fierce and bitter laugh,
As men whose agonies were made to pass
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word,
Dropt from the light of spirit. Others lay—
Why should I tell thee, father! how despair
Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down
Unto the very dust? And yet for this,
Fear not that I embrace my doom—O God!
That ’twere my doom alone!—with less of fix’d
And solemn fortitude. Lead on, prepare
The holiest rites of faith, that I by them
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life;
—But what are these? Who hath not dearer lives
Twined with his own! I shall be lonely soon—
Childless! Heaven wills it so. Let us begone.
Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat
With a less troubled motion.

[Exeunt Gonzalez and Hernandez.

Scene IV.—A Tent in the Moorish Camp.

Abdullah, Alphonso, Carlos.

Abd. These are bold words: but hast thou look’d on death,
Fair stripling? On thy cheek and sunny brow
Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course
Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced
The ibex of the mountains, if thy step
Hath climb’d some eagle’s nest, and thou hast made
His nest thy spoil, ’tis much! And fear’st thou not
The leader of the mighty?
Alph. I have been
Rear’d amongst fearless men, and midst the rocks
And the wild hills, whereon my fathers fought
And won their battles. There are glorious tales
Told of their deeds, and I have learn’d them all.
How should I fear thee, Moor?
Abd. So, thou hast seen
Fields, where the combat’s roar hath died away
Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flowers
Bloom o’er forgotten graves! But know’st thou aught
Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes fire,
And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds
Trample the life from out the mighty hearts
That ruled the storm so late?—Speak not of death
Till thou hast look’d on such.
Alph. I was not born
A shepherd’s son, to dwell with pipe and crook,
And peasant men, amidst the lowly vales;
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears,
And crested knights! I am of princely race;
And, if my father would have heard my suit.
I tell thee, infidel, that long ere now
I should have seen how lances meet, and swords
Do the field’s work.
Abd. Boy!—know’st thou there are sights
A thousand times more fearful? Men may die
Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring
To battle-horn and tecbir.[276] But not all
So pass away in glory. There are those,
Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes,
Led forth in fetters—dost thou mark me, boy?—
To take their last look of th’ all-gladdening sun,
And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth
Unto the death of shame!—Hadst thou seen this——
Alph. (to Carlos.) Sweet brother, God is with us—fear thou not!
We have had heroes for our sires:—this man
Should not behold us tremble.
Abd. There are means
To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again
I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls,
Sue to thy sire for life!—or would’st thou die
With this thy brother?
Alph. Moslem! on the hills,
Around my father’s castle, I have heard
The mountain-peasants, as they dress’d the vines,
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home,
Singing their ancient songs; and these were all
Of the Cid Campeador; and how his sword
Tizona[277] clear’d its way through turban’d hosts,
And captured Afric’s kings, and how he won
Valencia from the Moor.[278] I will not shame
The blood we draw from him!
[A Moorish soldier enters.
Sol. Valencia’s lord
Sends messengers, my chief.
Abd. Conduct them hither.
[The soldier goes out and re-enters with Elmina, disguised, and an attendant.
Car. (springing forward to the attendant.)
Oh! take me hence, Diego! take me hence
With thee, that I may see my mother’s face
At morning when I wake. Here dark-brow’d men
Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us.
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind,
And well I know thou lov’st me, my Diego!
Abd. Peace, boy!—What tidings, Christian, from thy lord?
Is he grown humbler?—doth he set the lives
Of these fair nurslings at a city’s worth?
Alph. (rushing forward impatiently.) Say not he doth!—Yet wherefore art thou here?
If it be so, I could weep burning tears
For very shame! If this can be, return!
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils,
I will but ask a war-horse and a sword,
And that beside him in the mountain-chase,
And in his halls, and at his stately feasts,
My place shall be no more! But no!—I wrong,
I wrong my father! Moor, believe it not:
He is a champion of the Cross and Spain,
Sprung from the Cid!—and I, too, I can die
As a warrior’s high-born child!
Elm. Alas, alas!
And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy?
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst cast
Its flower away, in very scorn of heart,
Ere yet the blight be come?
Alph. That voice doth sound——
Abd. Stranger, who art thou?—this is mockery! speak!
Elm. (throwing off a mantle and helmet, and embracing her sons.)
My boys! whom I have rear’d through many hours
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts
Untold and unimagined; let me die
With you, now I have held you to my heart,
And seen once more the faces, in whose light
My soul hath lived for years!
Car. Sweet mother! now
Thou shalt not leave us more.
Abd. Enough of this!
Woman! what seek’st thou here? How hast thou dared
To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts?
Elm. Think’st thou there dwells no courage but in breasts
That set their mail against the ringing spears,
When helmets are struck down? Thou little know’st
Of nature’s marvels. Chief! my heart is nerved
To make its way through things which warrior men,
Ay, they that master death by field or flood,
Would look on, ere they braved! I have no thought,
No sense of fear! Thou’rt mighty! but a soul
Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power
Of that one feeling pour’d through all its depths,
Than monarchs with their hosts? Am I not come
To die with these my children?
Abd. Doth thy faith
Bid thee do this, fond Christian? Hast thou not
The means to save them?
Elm. I have prayers, and tears,
And agonies!—and he, my God—the God
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour
To bow the crested head—hath made these things
Most powerful in a world where all must learn
That one deep language, by the storm call’d forth
From the bruised reeds of earth! For thee, perchance,
Affliction’s chastening lesson hath not yet
Been laid upon thy heart; and thou may’st love
To see the creatures, by its might brought low,
Humbled before thee.
[She throws herself at his feet.
Conqueror, I can kneel!
I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself
E’en to thy feet! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves,
If this will swell thy triumph, to behold
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased!
Do this, but spare my sons!
Alph. (attempting to raise her.) Thou shouldst not kneel
Unto this infidel! Rise, rise, my mother!
This sight doth shame our house!
Abd. Thou daring boy!
They that in arms have taught thy father’s land
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty mien
Unto another language.
Elm. Peace, my son!
Have pity on my heart! Oh, pardon, chief!
He is of noble blood. Hear, hear me yet!
Are there no lives through which the shafts of heaven
May reach your soul? He that loves aught on earth,
Dares far too much, if he be merciless!
Is it for those, whose frail mortality
Must one day strive alone with God and death,
To shut their souls against th’ appealing voice
Of nature, in her anguish? Warrior, man,
To you, too, ay, and haply with your hosts,
By thousands and ten thousands marshall’d round,
And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke
Which the lance wards not! Where shall your high heart
Find refuge then, if in the day of might
Woe hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet,
And you have pitied not?
Abd. These are vain words.
Elm. Have you no children?—fear ye not to bring
The lightning on their heads? In your own land
Doth no fond mother, from the tents beneath
Your native palms, look o’er the deserts out,
To greet your homeward step? You have not yet
Forgot so utterly her patient love—
For is not woman’s in all climes the same?—
That you should scorn my prayer! Oh heaven! his eye
Doth wear no mercy!
Abd. Then it mocks you not.
I have swept o’er the mountains of your land,
Leaving my traces, as the visitings
Of storms upon them! Shall I now be stay’d?
Know, unto me it were as light a thing,
In this my course, to quench your children’s lives,
As, journeying through a forest, to break off
The young wild branches that obstruct the way
With their green sprays and leaves.
Elm. Are there such hearts
Amongst thy works, O God?
Abd. Kneel not to me.
Kneel to your lord! on his resolves doth hang
His children’s doom. He may be lightly won
By a few bursts of passionate tears and words.
Elm. (rising indignantly.) Speak not of noble men! He bears a soul
Stronger than love or death.
Alph. (with exultation.) I knew ’twas thus!
He could not fail!
Elm. There is no mercy, none,
On this cold earth! To strive with such a world,
Hearts should be void of love! We will go hence,
My children! we are summon’d. Lay your heads,
In their young radiant beauty, once again
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells
Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round,
Will yet have pity, and before His face
We three will stand together! Moslem! now
Let the stroke fall at once!
Abd. ’Tis thine own will.
These might e’en yet be spared.
Elm. Thou wilt not spare!
And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew,
And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear
From their first lisping accents caught the sound
Of that word—Father—once a name of love—
Is——Men shall call him steadfast.
Abd. Hath the blast
Of sudden trumpets ne’er at dead of night,
When the land’s watchers fear’d no hostile step,
Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world,
In cities, whose heroic lords have been
Steadfast as thine?
Elm. There’s meaning in thine eye,
More than thy words.
Abd. (pointing to the city.) Look to yon towers and walls!
Think you no hearts within their limits pine,
Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared
To burst the feeble links which bind them still
Unto endurance.
Elm. Thou hast said too well.
But what of this?
Abd. Then there are those, to whom
The Prophet’s armies not as foes would pass
Yon gates, but as deliverers. Might they not
In some still hour, when weariness takes rest,
Be won to welcome us? Your children’s steps
May yet bound lightly through their father’s halls!
Alph. (indignantly.) Thou treacherous Moor!
Elm. Let me not thus be tried
Beyond all strength, O heaven!
Abd. Now, ’tis for thee,
Thou Christian mother! on thy sons to pass
The sentence—life or death! The price is set
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands.
Alph. Mother! thou tremblest!
Abd. Hath thy heart resolved?
Elm. (covering her face with her hands.)
My boy’s proud eye is on me, and the things
Which rush in stormy darkness through my soul
Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer here.
Abd. Come forth. We’ll commune elsewhere.
Car. (to his mother.) Wilt thou go?
Oh! let me follow thee!
Elm. Mine own fair child!
Now that thine eyes have pour’d once more on mine
The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice
Hath sent its gentle music through my soul,
And I have felt the twining of thine arms—
How shall I leave thee?
Abd. Leave him, as ’twere but
For a brief slumber, to behold his face
At morning, with the sun’s.
Alph. Thou hast no look
For me, my mother!
Elm. Oh! that I should live
To say, I dare not look on thee! Farewell,
My first-born, fare thee well!
Alph. Yet, yet beware!
It were a grief more heavy on thy soul,
That I should blush for thee, than o’er my grave
That thou shouldst proudly weep!
Abd. Away! we trifle here. The night wanes fast.
Come forth!
Elm. One more embrace! My sons, farewell!
[Exeunt Abdullah with Elmina and her Attendant.
Alph. Hear me yet once, my mother! Art thou gone?
But one word more!
[He rushes out, followed by Carlos.

[276] Tecbir, the war-cry of the Moors and Arabs.

[277] Tizona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid’s favourite sword, taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar.

[278] Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged and taken by the armies of different nations, remained in possession of the Moors for a hundred and seventy years after the Cid’s death. It was regained from them by King Don Jayme of Aragon, surnamed the Conqueror; after whose success I have ventured to suppose it governed by a descendant of the Campeador.

Scene V.—The Garden of a Palace in Valencia.

Ximena, Theresa.

Ther. Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the limes,
And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs,
Than waits you in the city.
Xim. There are those
In their last need, and on their bed of death,—
At which no hand doth minister but mine,—
That wait me in the city. Let us hence.
Ther. You have been wont to love the music made
By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds,
Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn
From these to scenes of death?
Xim. To me the voice
Of summer, whispering through young flowers and leaves,
Now speaks too deep a language! and of all
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies,
The breathing soul is sadness! I have felt
That summons through my spirit, after which
The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds
Seem fraught with secret warnings. There is cause
That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes
Where Death is busy, taming warrior-hearts,
And pouring winter through the fiery blood,
And fettering the strong arm! For now no sigh
In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven,
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf,
But of his angel’s silent coming bears
Some token to my soul. But naught of this
Unto my mother! These are awful hours!
And on their heavy steps afflictions crowd
With such dark pressure, there is left no room
For one grief more.
Ther. Sweet lady, talk not thus!
Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light,
There’s more of life in its clear tremulous ray
Than I have mark’d of late. Nay, go not yet;
Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring
From the transparent waters, dashing round
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness,
O’er the pale glistening marble. ’Twill call up
Faint bloom, if but a moment’s, to your cheek.
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing
The melody you love.

Theresa sings.

Why is the Spanish maiden’s grave
So far from her own bright land?
The sunny flowers that o’er it wave
Were sown by no kindred hand.
’Tis not the orange-bough that sends
Its breath on the sultry air,
’Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends
To the breeze of evening there!
But the rose of Sharon’s eastern bloom
By the silent dwelling fades,
And none but strangers pass the tomb
Which the palm of Judah shades.
The lowly Cross, with flowers o’ergrown,
Marks well that place of rest;
But who hath graved, on its mossy stone,
A sword, a helm, a crest?
These are the trophies of a chief,
A lord of the axe and spear!
—Some blossom pluck’d, some faded leaf,
Should grace a maiden’s bier!
Scorn not her tomb—deny not her
The honours of the brave!
O’er that forsaken sepulchre
Banner and plume might wave.
She bound the steel, in battle tried,
Her fearless heart above,
And stood with brave men side by side,
In the strength and faith of love!
That strength prevail’d—that faith was bless’d!
True was the javelin thrown,
Yet pierced it not her warrior’s breast—
She met it with her own!
And nobly won, where heroes fell
In arms for the holy shrine,
A death which saved what she loved so well,
And a grave in Palestine.
Then let the rose of Sharon spread
Its breast to the glowing air,
And the palm of Judah lift its head,
Green and immortal there!
And let yon gray stone, undefaced,
With its trophy mark the scene,
Telling the pilgrim of the waste
Where Love and Death have been.
Xim. Those notes were wont to make my heart
beat quick,
As at a voice of victory; but to-day
The spirit of the song is changed, and seems
All mournful. Oh! that, ere my early grave
Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal
Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth
Beneath my father’s banner! In that sound
Were life to you, sweet brothers!—But for me—
Come on—our tasks await us. They who know
Their hours are number’d out, have little time
To give the vague and slumberous languor way,
Which doth steal o’er them in the breath of flowers,
And whisper of soft winds.
[Elmina enters hurriedly.
Elm. The air will calm my spirit, ere yet I meet
His eye, which must be met.—Thou here, Ximena!
[She starts back on seeing Ximena.
Xim. Alas! my mother! in that hurrying step
And troubled glance I read——
Elm. (wildly.) Thou read’st it not!
Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye
The things lay glaring, which within our hearts
We treasure up for God’s? Thou read’st it not!
I say, thou canst not! There’s not one on earth
Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves have made
And kept dark places in the very breast
Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour
When the graves open!
Xim. Mother! what is this!
Alas! your eye is wandering, and your cheek
Flush’d, as with fever! To your woes the night
Hath brought no rest.
Elm. Rest!—who should rest?—not he
That holds one earthly blessing to his heart
Nearer than life! No! if this world have aught
Of bright or precious, let not him, who calls
Such things his own, take rest!—Dark spirits keep watch;
And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame,
Were as heaven’s air, the vital element
Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their souls
Made marks for human scorn! Will they bear on
With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all
Its glorious drapery? Who shall tell us this?
—Will he so bear it?
Xim. Mother! let us kneel
And blend our hearts in prayer! What else is left
To mortals when the dark hour’s might is on them?
—Leave us, Theresa.—Grief like this doth find
Its balm in solitude.
[Exit Theresa.
My mother! peace
Is heaven’s benignant answer to the cry
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me?
Elm. Away! ’tis but for souls unstain’d, to wear
Heaven’s tranquil image on their depths.—The stream
Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm,
Reflects but clouds and lightnings!—Didst thou speak
Of peace?—’tis fled from earth! But there is joy!
Wild, troubled joy! And who shall know, my child,
It is not happiness? Why, our own hearts
Will keep the secret close! Joy, joy! if but
To leave this desolate city, with its dull
Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again
Th’ untainted mountain-air!—But hush! the trees,
The flowers, the waters, must hear naught of this!
They are full of voices, and will whisper things——
—We’ll speak of it no more.
Xim. O pitying heaven!
This grief doth shake her reason!
Elm. (starting.) Hark! a step!
’Tis—’tis thy father’s! Come away—not now—
He must not see us now!
Xim. Why should this be?
[Gonzalez enters, and detains Elmina.
Gon. Elmina, dost thou shun me? Have we not
E’en from the hopeful and the sunny time
When youth was as a glory round our brows,
Held on through life together? And is this,
When eve is gathering round us, with the gloom
Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps
Upon the darkening wild?
Elm. (coldly.) There needs not this.
Why shouldst thou think I shunn’d thee
Gon. Should the love
That shone o’er many years, th’ unfading love,
Whose only change hath been from gladdening smiles
To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength,
Thus lightly be forgotten?
Elm. Speak’st thou thus?
—I have knelt before thee with that very plea,
When it avail’d me not! But there are things
Whose very breathings from the soul erase
All record of past love, save the chill sense,
Th’ unquiet memory of its wasted faith,
And vain devotedness! Ay! they that fix
Affection’s perfect trust on aught of earth,
Have many a dream to start from!
Gon. This is but
The wildness and the bitterness of grief,
Ere yet the unsettled heart hath closed its long
Impatient conflicts with a mightier power,
Which makes all conflict vain.
——Hark! was there not
A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond
The Moorish tents, and of another tone
Than th’ Afric horn, Ximena?
Xim. O my father!
I know that horn too well.—’Tis but the wind,
Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep
And savage war-note from us, wafting it
O’er the far hills.
Gon. Alas! this woe must be!
I do not shake my spirit from its height,
So startling it with hope! But the dread hour
Shall be met bravely still. I can keep down
Yet for a little while—and heaven will ask
No more—the passionate workings of my heart
—And thine, Elmina?
Elm. ’Tis—I am prepared.
I have prepared for all.
Gon. Oh, well I knew
Thou wouldst not fail me! Not in vain my soul,
Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up
Unshaken trust.
Elm. (wildly.) Away!—thou know’st me not!
Man dares too far—his rashness would invest
This our mortality with an attribute
Too high and awful, boasting that he knows
One human heart!
Gon. These are wild words, but yet
I will not doubt thee! Hast thou not been found
Noble in all things, pouring thy soul’s light
Undimm’d o’er every trial? And, as our fates,
So must our names be, undivided!—Thine,
I’ th’ record of a warrior’s life, shall find
Its place of stainless honour. By his side——
Elm. May this be borne! How much of agony
Hath the heart room for? Speak to me in wrath
—I can endure it! But no gentle words!
No words of love! no praise! Thy sword might slay,
And be more merciful!
Gon. Wherefore art thou thus?
Elmina, my beloved!
Elm. No more of love!
—Have I not said there’s that within my heart,
Whereon it falls as living fire would fall
Upon an unclosed wound?
Gon. Nay, lift thine eyes,
That I may read their meaning!
Elm. Never more
With a free soul. What have I said?—’twas naught!
Take thou no heed! The words of wretchedness
Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the speech
Of troubled dreams?
Gon. I have seen thee in the hour
Of thy deep spirit’s joy, and when the breath
Of grief hung chilling round thee; in all change,
Bright health and drooping sickness; hope and fear;
Youth and decline; but never yet, Elmina,
Ne’er hath thine eye till now shrunk back, perturb’d
With shame or dread, from mine!
Elm. Thy glance doth search
A wounded heart too deeply.
Gon. Hast thou there
Aught to conceal?
Elm. Who hath not?
Gon. Till this hour
Thou never hadst! Yet hear me!—by the free
And unattainted fame which wraps the dust
Of thine heroic fathers——
Elm. This to me!
—Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds
Of festal music round a dying man!
Will his heart echo them? But if thy words
Were spells, to call up, with each lofty tone,
The grave’s most awful spirits, they would stand
Powerless, before my anguish!
Gon. Then, by her,
Who there looks on thee in the purity
Of her devoted youth, and o’er whose name
No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must ne’er
Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully
From the quick feeling of dishonour—Speak!
Unfold this mystery! By thy sons——
Elm. My sons!
And canst thou name them?
Gon. Proudly! Better far
They died with all the promise of their youth,
And the fair honour of their house upon them,
Than that, with manhood’s high and passionate soul
To fearful strength unfolded, they should live,
Barr’d from the lists of crested chivalry,
And pining, in the silence of a woe,
Which from the heart shuts daylight—o’er the shame
Of those who gave them birth! But thou couldst ne’er
Forget their lofty claims!
Elm. (wildly.) ’Twas but for them!
’Twas for them only! Who shall dare arraign
Madness of crime? And He who made us, knows
There are dark moments of all hearts and lives,
Which bear down reason!
Gon. Thou, whom I have loved
With such high trust as o’er our nature threw
A glory scarce allow’d—what hast thou done?
—Ximena, go thou hence!
Elm. No, no! my child!
There’s pity in thy look! All other eyes
Are full of wrath and scorn! Oh, leave me not!
Gon. That I should live to see thee thus abased!
—Yet speak! What hast thou done?
Elm. Look to the gate!
Thou’rt worn with toil—but take no rest to-night!
The western gate! Its watchers have been won—
The Christian city hath been bought and sold!—
They will admit the Moor!
Gon. They have been won!
Brave men and tried so long! Whose work was this?
Elm. Think’st thou all hearts like thine? Can mothers stand
To see their children perish?
Gon. Then the guilt
Was thine?
Elm. Shall mortal dare to call it guilt?
I tell thee, heaven, which made all holy things,
Made naught more holy than the boundless love
Which fills a mother’s heart! I say, ’tis woe
Enough, with such an aching tenderness,
To love aught earthly! and in vain! in vain!
—We are press’d down too sorely!
Gon. (in a low desponding voice.) Now my life
Is struck to worthless ashes!—In my soul
Suspicion hath ta’en root. The nobleness
Henceforth is blotted from all human brows;
And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift,
Almost like prophecy, is pour’d upon me,
To read the guilty secrets in each eye
That once look’d bright with truth!
Why, then, I have gain’d
What men call wisdom!—A new sense, to which
All tales that speak of high fidelity,
And holy courage, and proud honour, tried,
Search’d, and found steadfast, even to martyrdom,
Are food for mockery! Why should I not cast
From my thinn’d locks the wearing helm at once,
And in the heavy sickness of my soul
Throw the sword down for ever? Is there aught
In all this world of gilded hollowness,
Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things,
Worth striving for again?
Xim. Father! look up!
Turn unto me, thy child!
Gon. Thy face is fair;
And hath been unto me, in other days,
As morning to the journeyer of the deep?
But now—’tis too like hers!
Elm. (falling at his feet.) Woe, shame and woe,
Are on me in their might! Forgive! forgive!
Gon. (starting up.) Doth the Moor deem that I have part or share
Or counsel in his vileness? Stay me not!
Let go thy hold—’tis powerless on me now:
I linger here, while treason is at work!
[Exit Gonzalez.
Elm. Ximena, dost thou scorn me?
Xim. I have found
In mine own heart too much of feebleness,
Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes
But His whom naught can blind, to dare do aught
But pity thee, dear mother!
Elm. Blessings light
On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this!
Thou kind and merciful! My soul is faint—
Worn with long strife! Is there aught else to do,
Or suffer, ere we die?—Oh God! my sons!
—I have betray’d them! All their innocent blood
Is on my soul!
Xim. How shall I comfort thee?
—Oh! hark! what sounds come deepening on the wind,
So full of solemn hope!

A procession of Nuns passes across the Scene, bearing relics, and chanting.

CHANT.