A sword is on the land!
He that bears down young tree and glorious flower,
Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in power!
Where is the warrior’s hand?
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave:
Hear us, we perish!—Father, hear and save!
If, in the days of song,
The days of gladness, we have call’d on thee.
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea,
And joyous hearts were strong;
Now that alike the feeble and the brave
Must cry, “We perish!”—Father, hear and save!
The days of song are fled!
The winds come loaded, wafting dirge-notes by;
But they that linger soon unmourn’d must die—
The dead weep not the dead!
Wilt thou forsake us midst the stormy wave?
We sink, we perish!—Father, hear and save!
Helmet and lance are dust!
Is not the strong man wither’d from our eye?
The arm struck down that held our banners high?—
Thine is our spirits’ trust!
Look through the gathering shadows of the grave!
Do we not perish?—Father, hear and save!

Hernandez enters.

Elm. Why com’st thou, man of vengeance?—
What have I
To do with thee? Am I not bow’d enough?
Thou art no mourner’s comforter!
Her. Thy lord
Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day’s task
Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart!
He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy ways
Before heaven’s altar, and in penitence
Make thy soul’s peace with God.
Elm. Till this day’s task
Be closed!—There is strange triumph in thine eyes—
Is it that I have fall’n from that high place
Whereon I stood in fame? But I can feel
A wild and bitter pride in thus being past
The power of thy dark glance! My spirit now
Is wound about by one sole mighty grief;
Thy scorn hath lost its sting. Thou may’st reproach——
Her. I come not to reproach thee. Heaven doth work
By many agencies; and in its hour
There is no insect which the summer breeze
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may serve
Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well
As the great ocean, or th’ eternal fires
Pent in earth’s caves. Thou hast but speeded that,
Which, in th’ infatuate blindness of thy heart,
Thou wouldst have trampled o’er all holy ties
But to avert one day!
Elm. My senses fail.
Thou said’st—speak yet again—I could not catch
The meaning of thy words.
Her. E’en now thy lord
Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls
He stands in conference with the boastful Moor,
And awful strength is with him. Through the blood
Which this day must be pour’d in sacrifice
Shall Spain be free. On all her olive-hills
Shall men set up the battle-sign of fire,
And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the sense
Of vengeance wakeful in each other’s hearts
E’en with thy children’s tale!
Xim. Peace, father! peace!
Behold she sinks!—the storm hath done its work
Upon the broken reed. Oh! lend thine aid
To bear her hence.
[They lead her away.

Scene VI.—A Street in Valencia. Several Groups of Citizens and Soldiers, many of them lying on the steps of a church. Arms scattered on the ground around them.

An Old Cit. The air is sultry, as with thunder-clouds.
I left my desolate home, that I might breathe
More freely in heaven’s face, but my heart feels
With this hot gloom o’erburden’d. I have now
No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends,
Will bring the old man water from the fount,
To moisten his parch’d lip?
[A citizen goes out.
2d Cit. This wasting siege,
Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you!
’Tis sad to hear no voices through the house,
Once peopled with fair sons!
3d Cit. Why, better thus,
Than to be haunted with their famish’d cries,
E’en in your very dreams!
Old Cit. Heaven’s will be done!
These are dark times! I have not been alone
In my affliction.
3d Cit. (with bitterness.) Why, we have but this thought
Left for our gloomy comfort!—And ’tis well!
Ay, let the balance be awhile struck even
Between the noble’s palace and the hut,
Where the worn peasant sickens! They that bear
The humble dead unhonour’d to their homes,
Pass now i’ th’ streets no lordly bridal train
With its exulting music; and the wretch
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall
Flings himself down to die, in his last need
And agony of famine, doth behold
No scornful guests, with their long purple robes,
To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just!
These are the days when pomp is made to feel
Its human mould!
4th Cit. Heard you last night the sound
Of Saint Iago’s bell?—How sullenly
From the great tower it peal’d!
5th Cit. Ay, and ’tis said
No mortal hand was near when so it seem’d
To shake the midnight streets.
Old Cit. Too well I know
The sound of coming fate!—’Tis ever thus
When Death is on his way to make it night
In the Cid’s ancient house.[279] Oh! there are things
In this strange world of which we’ve all to learn
When its dark bounds are pass’d. Yon bell, untouch’d,
(Save by the hands we see not,) still doth speak—
When of that line some stately head is mark’d—
With a wild hollow peal, at dead of night,
Rocking Valencia’s towers. I’ve heard it oft,
Nor know its warning false.
4th Cit. And will our chief
Buy with the price of his fair children’s blood
A few more days of pining wretchedness
For this forsaken city?
Old Cit. Doubt it not!
—But with that ransom he may purchase still
Deliverance for the land! And yet ’tis sad
To think that such a race, with all its fame,
Should pass away! For she, his daughter too,
Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose time
To sojourn there is short.
5th Cit. Then woe for us
When she is gone! Her voice, the very sound
Of her soft step, was comfort, as she moved
Through the still house of mourning! Who like her
Shall give us hope again?
Old Cit. Be still!—she comes,
And with a mien how changed! A hurrying step,
And a flush’d cheek! What may this bode?—
Be still!
Ximena enters, with Attendants carrying a Banner.
Xim. Men of Valencia! in an hour like this,
What do ye here?
A Cit. We die!
Xim. Brave men die now
Girt for the toil, as travellers suddenly
By the dark night o’ertaken on their way!
These days require such death! It is too much
Of luxury for our wild and angry times,
To fold the mantle round us, and to sink
From life, as flowers that shut up silently,
When the sun’s heat doth scorch them! Hear ye not?
A Cit. Lady! what wouldst thou with us?
Xim. Rise and arm!
E’en now the children of your chief are led
Forth by the Moor to perish! Shall this be—
Shall the high sound of such a name be hush’d,
I’ th’ land to which for ages it hath been
A battle-word, as ’twere some passing note
Of shepherd-music? Must this work be done,
And ye lie pining here, as men in whom
The pulse which God hath made for noble thought
Can so be thrill’d no longer?
A Cit. ’Tis e’en so!
Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathed upon us,
Our hearts beat faint and low.
Xim. Are ye so poor
Of soul, my countrymen! that ye can draw
Strength from no deeper source than that which sends
The red blood mantling through the joyous veins,
And gives the fleet step wings? Why, how have age
And sensitive womanhood ere now endured,
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud cause,
Blessing that agony? Think ye the Power
Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach
The torturer where eternal heaven had set
Bounds to his sway, was earthy, of this earth—
This dull mortality? Nay, then look on me!
Death’s touch hath mark’d me, and I stand amongst you,
As one whose place, i’ th’ sunshine of your world,
Shall soon be left to fill!—I say, the breath
Of th’ incense, floating through yon fane, shall scarce
Pass from your path before me! But even now
I’ve that within me, kindling through the dust,
Which from all time hath made high deeds its voice
And token to the nations. Look on me!
Why hath heaven pour’d forth courage, as a flame
Wasting the womanish heart, which must be still’d
Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness,
If not to shame your doubt, and your despair,
And your soul’s torpor? Yet, arise and arm!
It may not be too late.
A Cit. Why, what are we,
To cope with hosts? Thus faint, and worn, and few,
O’ernumber’d and forsaken, is’t for us
To stand against the mighty?
Xim. And for whom
Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath
From their high places, made the fearfulness,
And ever-wakeful presence of his power
To the pale startled earth most manifest,
But for the weak? Was’t for the helm’d and crown’d
That suns were stay’d at noonday?—stormy seas
As a rill parted?—mail’d archangels sent
To wither up the strength of kings with death?
—I tell you, if these marvels have been done,
’Twas for the wearied and th’ oppress’d of men.
They needed such! And generous faith hath power
By her prevailing spirit, e’en yet to work
Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those
Of the great elder-time! Be of good heart!
Who is forsaken? He that gives the thought
A place within his breast? ’Tis not for you.
—Know ye this banner?
Cits. (murmuring to each other.) Is she not inspired?
Doth not heaven call us by her fervent voice?
Xim. Know ye this banner?
Cits. ’Tis the Cid’s.
Xim. The Cid’s!
Who breathes that name but in th’ exulting tone
Which the heart rings to? Why, the very wind,
As it swells out the noble standard’s fold,
Hath a triumphant sound! The Cid’s! it moved
Even as a sign of victory through the land,
From the free skies ne’er stooping to a foe!
Old Cit. Can ye still pause, my brethren! Oh! that youth
Through this worn frame were kindling once again!
Xim. Ye linger still? Upon this very air,
He that was born in happy hour for Spain[280]
Pour’d forth his conquering spirit! ’Twas the breeze
From your own mountains which came down to wave
This banner of his battles, as it droop’d
Above the champion’s deathbed. Nor even then
Its tale of glory closed. They made no moan
O’er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung,[281]
But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war
Told when the mighty pass’d! They wrapt him not
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior’s form
In war-array, and on his barded[282] steed,
As for a triumph, rear’d him; marching forth
In the hush’d midnight from Valencia’s walls,
Beleaguer’d then, as now. All silently
The stately funeral moved. But who was he
That follow’d, charging on the tall white horse,
And with the solemn standard, broad and pale,
Waving in sheets of snowlight? And the cross,
The bloody cross, far-blazing from his shield,
And the fierce meteor-sword? They fled, they fled!
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts,
Were dust in his red path. The scimitar
Was shiver’d as a reed;—for in that hour
The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spain,
Was arm’d betimes. And o’er that fiery field
The Cid’s high banner stream’d all joyously,
For still its lord was there.
Cits. (rising tumultuously.) Even unto death
Again it shall be follow’d!
Xim. Will he see
The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-light
Which from his house for ages o’er the land
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus quench’d at once?
Will he not aid his children in the hour
Of this their utmost peril? Awful power
Is with the holy dead, and there are times
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst!
Is it a thing forgotten how he woke
From its deep rest of old; remembering Spain
In her great danger? At the night’s mid-watch
How Leon started, when the sound was heard
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets,
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men,
By thousands marching through. For he had risen!
The Campeador was on his march again,
And in his arms, and follow’d by his hosts
Of shadowy spearmen. He had left the world
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth,
And call’d his buried warriors from their sleep,
Gathering them round him to deliver Spain;
For Afric was upon her. Morning broke,
Day rush’d through clouds of battle; but at eve
Our God had triumph’d, and the rescued land
Sent up a shout of victory from the field,
That rock’d her ancient mountains.
Cits. Arm! to arms!
On to our chief! We have strength within us yet
To die with our blood roused! Now, be the word
For the Cid’s house!
[They begin to arm themselves.
Xim. Ye know his battle-song?
The old rude strain wherewith his bands went forth
To strike down Paynim swords!
[She sings.

THE CID’S BATTLE-SONG.

The Moor is on his way!
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout,
And the horn o’er the blue seas ringing out,
He hath marshall’d his dark array!
Shout through the vine-clad land!
That her sons on all their hills may hear;
And sharpen the point of the red wolf-spear,
And the sword for the brave man’s hand!
[The Citizens join in the song, while they continue arming themselves.
Banners are in the field!
The chief must rise from his joyous board,
And turn from the feast ere the wine be pour’d,
And take up his father’s shield!
The Moor is on his way!
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground,
And the goats roam wild through the pine-woods round:
There is nobler work to-day!
Send forth the trumpet’s call!
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down,
And the marriage-robe, and the flowery crown;
And arm in the banquet hall!
And stay the funeral-train:
Bid the chanted mass be hush’d awhile,
And the bier laid down in the holy aisle,
And the mourners girt for Spain.
[They take up the banner and follow Ximena out, their voices are heard gradually dying away at a distance.
Ere night must swords be red!
It is not an hour for knells and tears,
But for helmets braced and serried spears!
To-morrow for the dead!
The Cid is in array!
His steed is barded, his plume waves high,
His banner is up in the sunny sky—
Now, joy for the Cross to-day!

[279] It was a Spanish tradition that the great bell of the cathedral of Saragossa always tolled spontaneously before a king of Spain died.

[280] “El que en buen hora nasco;” he that was born in happy hour. An appellation given to the Cid in the ancient chronicles.

[281] For this, and the subsequent allusions to Spanish legends, see The Romances, and Chronicle of the Cid.

[282] Barded, caparisoned for battle.

Scene VII.—The walls of the city. The plains beneath, with the Moorish Camp and Army.

Gonzalez, Garcias, Hernandez.

(A wild sound of Moorish music heard from below.)

Her. What notes are these in their deep mournfulness
So strangely wild?
Gar. ’Tis the shrill melody
Of the Moor’s ancient death-song. Well I know
The rude barbaric sound; but, till this hour,
It seem’d not fearful. Now, a shuddering chill
Comes o’er me with its tones.—Lo! from yon tent
They lead the noble boys!
Her. The young, and pure,
And beautiful victims!—’Tis on things like these
We cast our hearts in wild idolatry,
Sowing the wands with hope! Yet this is well:
Thus brightly crown’d with life’s most gorgeous flowers,
And all unblemish’d, earth should offer up
Her treasures unto heaven!
Gar. (to Gonzalez.) My chief, the Moor
Hath led your children forth.
Gon. (starting.)Are my sons there?
I knew they could not perish; for yon heaven
Would ne’er behold it!—Where is he that said
I was no more a father? They look changed—
Pallid and worn, as from a prison-house!
Or is’t mine eyes see dimly? But their steps
Seem heavy, as with pain. I hear the clank—
Oh God! their limbs are fetter’d!
Abd. (coming forward beneath the walls.)
Christian! look
Once more upon thy children. There is yet
One moment for the trembling of the sword;
Their doom is still with thee.
Gon. Why should this man
So mock us with the semblance of our kind?
—Moor! Moor! thou dost too daringly provoke,
In thy bold cruelty, th’ all-judging One,
Who visits for such things! Hast thou no sense
Of thy frail nature? ’Twill be taught thee yet;
And darkly shall the anguish of my soul,
Darkly and heavily, pour itself on thine,
When thou shalt cry for mercy from the dust,
And be denied!
Abd. Nay, is it not thyself
That hast no mercy and no love within thee?
These are thy sons, the nurslings of thy house;
Speak! must they live or die?
Gon. (in violent emotion.) Is it heaven’s will
To try the dust it kindles for a day,
With infinite agony! How have I drawn
This chastening on my head! They bloom’d around me,
And my heart grew too fearless in its joy,
Glorying in their bright promise!—If we fall,
Is there no pardon for our feebleness?
Hernandez, without speaking, holds up a cross before him.
Abd. Speak!
Gon. (snatching the cross, and lifting it up.) Let the earth be shaken through its depths,
But this must triumph!
Abd. (coldly.) Be it as thou wilt.
—Unsheath the scimitar!
[To his guards.
Gar. (to Gonzalez.) Away, my chief!
This is your place no longer. There are things
No human heart, though battle-proof as yours,
Unmadden’d may sustain.
Gon. Be still! I have now
No place on earth but this!
Alph. (from beneath.) Men! give me way,
That I may speak forth once before I die!
Gar. The princely boy!—how gallantly his brow
Wears its high nature in the face of death!
Alph. Father!
Gon. My son! my son!—Mine eldest-born!
Alph. Stay but upon the ramparts! Fear thou not
—There is good courage in me. O my father!
I will not shame thee!—only let me fall
Knowing thine eye looks proudly on thy child,
So shall my heart have strength.
Gon. Would, would to God,
That I might die for thee, my noble boy!
Alphonso, my fair son!
Alph. Could I have lived,
I might have been a warrior! Now, farewell!
But look upon me still!—I will not blench
When the keen sabre flashes. Mark me well!
Mine eyelids shall not quiver as it falls,
So thou wilt look upon me!
Gar. (to Gonzalez.) Nay, my lord!
We must be gone! Thou canst not bear it!
Gon. Peace!
Who hath told thee how much man’s heart can bear?
—Lend me thine arm—my brain whirls fearfully—
How thick the shades close round! My boy! my boy!
Where art thou in this gloom?
Gar. Let us go hence!
This is a dreadful moment!
Gon. Hush!—what saidst thou?
Now let me look on him!—Dost thou see aught
Through the dull mist which wraps us?
Gar. I behold—
Oh, for a thousand Spaniards! to rush down——
Gon. Thou seest—My heart stands still to hear thee speak!
—There seems a fearful hush upon the air,
As ’twere the dead of night!
Gar. The hosts have closed
Around the spot in stillness. Through the spears,
Ranged thick and motionless, I see him not!
—But now——
Gon. He bade me keep mine eye upon him,
And all is darkness round me!—Now?
Gar. A sword,
A sword, springs upward, like a lightning burst,
Through the dark serried mass! Its cold blue glare
Is wavering to and fro—’tis vanish’d—hark!
Gon. I heard it, yes!—I heard the dull dead sound
That heavily broke the silence! Didst thou speak?
—I lost thy words—come nearer!
Gar. ’Twas—’tis past!—
The sword fell then!
Her. (with exultation.) Flow forth thou noble blood!
Fount of Spain’s ransom and deliverance, flow
Uncheck’d and brightly forth! Thou kingly stream!
Blood of our heroes! blood of martyrdom!
Which through so many warrior-hearts hast pour’d
Thy fiery currents, and hast made our hills
Free, by thine own free offering! Bathe the land,—
But there thou shalt not sink! Our very air
Shall take thy colouring, and our loaded skies
O’er th’ infidel hang dark and ominous,
With battle-hues of thee! And thy deep voice,
Rising above them to the judgment-seat,
Shall call a burst of gather’d vengeance down,
To sweep th’ oppressor from us! For thy wave
Hath made his guilt run o’er!
Gon. (endeavouring to rouse himself.) ’Tis all a dream!
There is not one—no hand on earth could harm
That fair boy’s graceful head! Why look you thus?
Abd. (pointing to Carlos.) Christian! e’en yet thou hast a son!
Gon. E’en yet!
Gar. My father! take me from these fearful men!
Wilt thou not save me, father?
Gon. (attempting to unsheath his sword.) Is the strength
From mine arm shiver’d? Garcias, follow me!
Gar. Whither, my chief?
Gon. Why, we can die as well
On yonder plain—ay, a spear’s thrust will do
The little that our misery doth require,
Sooner than e’en this anguish! Life is best
Thrown from us in such moments.
[Voices heard at a distance.
Her. Hush! what strain
Floats on the wind?
Gar. ’Tis the Cid’s battle-song!
What marvel hath been wrought?
Voices approaching heard in chorus.
The Moor is on his way!
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout,
And the horn o’er the blue seas ringing out,
He hath marshall’d his dark array!
Ximena enters, followed by the Citizens, with the Banner.
Xim. Is it too late?—My father, these are men
Through life and death prepared to follow thee
Beneath this banner! Is their zeal too late?
—Oh! there’s a fearful history on thy brow!
What hast thou seen?
Gar. It is not all too late.
Xim. My brothers!
Her. All is well.
(To Garcias.) Hush! wouldst thou chill
That which hath sprung within them, as a flame
From th’ altar-embers mounts in sudden brightness?
I say, ’tis not too late, ye men of Spain!
On to the rescue!
Xim. Bless me, O my father!
And I will hence, to aid thee with my prayers,
Sending my spirit with thee through the storm
Lit up by flashing swords!
Gon. (falling upon her neck.) Hath aught been spared?
Am I not all bereft? Thou’rt left me still!
Mine own, my loveliest one, thou’rt left me still!
Farewell!—thy father’s blessing, and thy God’s,
Be with thee, my Ximena!
Xim. Fare thee well!
If, ere thy steps turn homeward from the field,
The voice is hush’d that still hath welcomed thee,
Think of me in thy victory!
Her. Peace! no more!
This is no time to melt our nature down
To a soft stream of tears! Be of strong heart!
Give me the banner! Swell the song again!
Cits. Ere night must swords be red!
It is not an hour for knells and tears,
But for helmets braced and serried spears!
To-morrow for the dead!
[Exeunt omnes.

Scene VIII.—Before the Altar of a Church.

Elmina rises from the steps of the Altar.

Elm. The clouds are fearful that o’erhang thy ways,
O thou mysterious heaven! It cannot be
That I have drawn the vials of thy wrath
To burst upon me, through the lifting up
Of a proud heart elate in happiness!
No! in my day’s full noon, for me life’s flowers
But wreath’d a cup of trembling; and the love,
The boundless love, my spirit was form’d to bear,
Hath ever, in its place of silence, been
A trouble and a shadow, tinging thought
With hues too deep for joy! I never look’d
On my fair children, in their buoyant mirth
Or sunny sleep, when all the gentle air
Seem’d glowing with their quiet blessedness,
But o’er my soul there came a shuddering sense
Of earth, and its pale changes; e’en like that
Which vaguely mingles with our glorious dreams—
A restless and disturbing consciousness
That the bright things must fade! How have I shrunk
From the dull murmur of th’ unquiet voice,
With its low tokens of mortality,
Till my heart fainted midst their smiles!—their smiles!
Where are those glad looks now?—Could they go down
With all their joyous light, that seem’d not earth’s,
To the cold grave? My children!—righteous heaven!
There floats a dark remembrance o’er my brain
Of one who told me, with relentless eye,
That this should be the hour!
Ximena enters.
Xim. They are gone forth
Unto the rescue!—strong in heart and hope,
Faithful, though few!—My mother, let thy prayers
Call on the land’s good saints to lift once more
The sword and cross that sweep the field for Spain,
As in old battle; so thine arms e’en yet
May clasp thy sons! For me, my part is done!
The flame which dimly might have linger’d yet
A little while, hath gather’d all its rays
Brightly to sink at once. And it is well!
The shadows are around me: to thy heart
Fold me, that I may die.
Elm. My child! what dream
Is on thy soul? Even now thine aspect wears
Life’s brightest inspiration!
Xim. Death’s!
Elm. Away!
Thine eye hath starry clearness; and thy cheek
Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue,
Than tinged its earliest flower!
Xim. It well may be!
There are far deeper and far warmer hues
Than those which draw their colouring from the founts
Of youth, or health, or hope.
Elm. Nay, speak not thus!
There’s that about thee shining which would send
E’en through my heart a sunny glow of joy,
Were’t not for these sad words. The dim cold air
And solemn light, which wrap these tombs and shrines
As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up
With a young spirit of ethereal hope
Caught from thy mien!—Oh no! this is not death!
Xim. Why should not He, whose touch dissolves our chain,
Put on his robes of beauty when he comes
As a deliverer? He hath many forms—
They should not all be fearful! If his call
Be but our gathering to that distant land,
For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst,
Why should not its prophetic sense be borne
Into the heart’s deep stillness, with a breath
Of summer-winds, a voice of melody,
Solemn, yet lovely! Mother, I depart!—
Be it thy comfort, in the after-days,
That thou hast seen me thus!
Elm. Distract me not
With such wild fears! Can I bear on with life
When thou art gone?—thy voice, thy step, thy smile,
Pass’d from my path! Alas! even now thine eye
Is changed—thy cheek is fading!
Xim. Ay, the clouds
Of the dim hour are gathering o’er my sight;
And yet I fear not, for the God of Help
Comes in that quiet darkness! It may soothe
Thy woes, my mother! if I tell thee now
With what glad calmness I behold the veil
Falling between me and the world, wherein
My heart so ill hath rested.
Elm. Thine!
Xim. Rejoice
For her that, when the garland of her life
Was blighted, and the springs of hope were dried,
Received her summons hence; and had no time,
Bearing the canker at th’ impatient heart,
To wither; sorrowing for that gift of heaven,
Which lent one moment of existence light
That dimm’d the rest for ever!
Elm. How is this?
My child, what mean’st thou?
Xim. Mother! I have loved,
And been beloved! The sunbeam of an hour,
Which gave life’s hidden treasures to mine eye,
As they lay shining in their secret founts,
Went out and left them colourless. ’Tis past—
And what remains on earth? The rainbow mist
Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my sight
Is clear’d to look on all things as they are!—
But this is far too mournful! Life’s dark gift
Hath fall’n too early and too cold upon me!—
Therefore I would go hence!
Elm. And thou hast loved
Unknown——
Xim. Oh! pardon, pardon that I veil’d
My thoughts from thee! But thou hadst woes enough,
And mine came o’er me when thy soul had need
Of more than mortal strength! For I had scarce
Given the deep consciousness that I was loved
A treasure’s place within my secret heart,
When earth’s brief joy went from me!
’Twas at morn
I saw the warriors to their field go forth,
And he—my chosen—was there amongst the rest,
With his young, glorious brow! I look’d again:
The strife grew dark beneath me—but his plume
Waved free above the lances. Yet again—
It had gone down! and steeds were trampling o’er
The spot to which mine eyes were riveted,
Till blinded by th’ intenseness of their gaze!—
And then—at last—I hurried to the gate,
And met him there!—I met him!—on his shield,
And with his cloven helm, and shiver’d sword,
And dark hair steep’d in blood! They bore him past:
Mother!—I saw his face! Oh! such a death
Works fearful changes on the fair of earth,
The pride of woman’s eye!
Elm. Sweet daughter, peace!
Wake not the dark remembrance; for thy frame—
Xim. There will be peace ere long. I shut my heart,
Even as a tomb, o’er that lone silent grief,
That I might spare it thee!—But now the hour
Is come, when that, which would have pierced thy soul,
Shall be its healing balm. Oh! weep thou not,
Save with a gentle sorrow!
Elm. Must it be?
Art thou indeed to leave me?
Xim. (exultingly.) Be thou glad!
I say, rejoice above thy favour’d child!
Joy, for the soldier when his field is fought,
Joy, for the peasant when his vintage-task
Is closed at eve!—But most of all for her,
Who, when her life had changed its glittering robes
For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling
So heavily around the journeyers on,
Cast down its weight—and slept!
Elm. Alas! thine eye
Is wandering—yet how brightly! Is this death!
Or some high wondrous vision? Speak, my child!
How is it with thee now?
Xim. (wildly.) I see it still!
’Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high,
My father’s banner! Hear’st thou not a sound?
The trumpet of Castile! Praise, praise to heaven!
—Now may the weary rest!—Be still!—Who calls
The night so fearful?——
[She dies.
Elm. No! she is not dead!
Ximena!—speak to me! Oh yet a tone
From that sweet voice, that I may gather in
One more remembrance of its lovely sound,
Ere the deep silence fall! What, is all hush’d?—
No, no!—it cannot be! How should we bear
The dark misgivings of our souls, if heaven
Left not such beings with us? But is this
Her wonted look?—too sad a quiet lies
On its dim fearful beauty! Speak, Ximena!
Speak! My heart dies within me! She is gone,
With all her blessed smiles! My child! my child!
Where art thou?—Where is that which answer’d me,
From thy soft-shining eyes?—Hush! doth she move?
One light lock seem’d to tremble on her brow,
As a pulse throbb’d beneath;—’twas but the voice
Of my despair that stirr’d it! She is gone!
[She throws herself on the body.
Gonzalez enters wounded.
Elm. (rising as he approaches.) I must not now be scorn’d!—No, not a look.
A whisper of reproach! Behold my woe!—
Thou canst not scorn me now!
Gon. Hast thou heard all?
Elm. Thy daughter on my bosom laid her head,
And pass’d away to rest! Behold her there,
Even such as death hath made her![283]
Gon. (bending over Ximena’s body.) Thou art gone
A little while before me, O my child!
Why should the traveller weep to part with those,
That scarce an hour will reach their promised land,
Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away,
And spread his couch beside them?
Elm. Must it be
Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair
Had its bright place amongst us! Is this all
Left for the years to come? We will not stay!
Earth’s chain each hour grows weaker.
Gon. (still gazing upon Ximena.) And thou’rt laid
To slumber in the shadow, blessed child!
Of a yet stainless altar, and beside
A sainted warrior’s tomb! Oh, fitting place
For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul
Back unto him that gave it! And thy cheek
Yet smiles in its bright paleness!
Elm. Hadst thou seen
The look with which she pass’d!
Gon. (still bending over her.) Why, ’tis almost
Like joy to view thy beautiful repose!
The faded image of that perfect calm
Floats, e’en as long-forgotten music, back
Into my weary heart! No dark wild spot
On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands
That quench’d young life by violence! We’ve seen
Too much of horror, in one crowded hour,
To weep for aught so gently gather’d hence!
—Oh! man leaves other traces!
Elm. (suddenly starting.) It returns
On my bewilder’d soul? Went ye not forth
Unto the rescue? And thou’rt here alone!
—Where are my sons?
Gon. (solemnly.) We were too late!
Elm. Too late!
Hast thou naught else to tell me?
Gon. I brought back
From that last field the banner of my sires,
And my own death-wound.
Elm. Thine!
Gon. Another hour
Shall hush its throbs for ever. I go hence,
And with me——
Elm. No! Man could not lift his hands—
Where hast thou left thy sons?
Gon. I have no sons.
Elm. What hast thou said?
Gon. That now there lives not one
To wear the glory of mine ancient house,
When I am gone to rest.
Elm.(throwing herself on the ground, and speaking in a low hurried voice.)
In one brief hour, all gone!—and such a death!
I see their blood gush forth!—their graceful heads!
—Take the dark vision from me, O my God!
And such a death for them! I was not there!
They were but mine in beauty and in joy,
Not in that mortal anguish! All, all gone!—
Why should I struggle more?—What is this Power,
Against whose might, on all sides pressing us,
We strive with fierce impatience, which but lays
Our own frail spirits prostrate?
(After a long pause.) Now I know
Thy hand, my God!—and they are soonest crush’d
That most withstand it! I resist no more.
[She rises.
A light, a light springs up from grief and death,
Which with its solemn radiance doth reveal
Why we have thus been tried!
Gon. Then I may still
Fix my last look on thee, in holy love,
Parting, but yet with hope!
Elm. (falling at his feet.) Canst thou forgive?
Oh, I have driven the arrow to thy heart,
That should have buried it within mine own,
And borne the pang in silence! I have cast
Thy life’s fair honour, in my wild despair,
As an unvalued gem upon the waves,
Whence thou hast snatch’d it back, to bear from earth,
All stainless, on thy breast. Well hast thou done—
But I—canst thou forgive?
Gon. Within this hour
I’ve stood upon that verge whence mortals fall,
And learn’d how ’tis with one whose sight grows dim,
And whose foot trembles on the gulf’s dark side.
Death purifies all feeling: we will part
In pity and in love.
Elm. Death! And thou too
Art on thy way! Oh, joy for thee, high heart!
Glory and joy for thee! The day is closed,
And well and nobly hast thou borne thyself
Through its long battle-toils, though many swords
Have enter’d thine own soul! But on my head
Recoil the fierce invokings of despair,
And I am left far distanced in the race,
The lonely one of earth! Ay, this is just.
I am not worthy that upon my breast
In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield
Thy spirit unto God!
Gon. Thou art! thou art!
Oh! a life’s love, a heart’s long faithfulness,
Even in the presence of eternal things,
Wearing their chasten’d beauty all undimm’d,
Assert their lofty claims; and these are not
For one dark hour to cancel! We are here,
Before that altar which received the vows
Of our unbroken youth; and meet it is
For such a witness, in the sight of heaven,
And in the face of death, whose shadowy arm
Comes dim between us, to record th’ exchange
Of our tried hearts’ forgiveness. Who are they,
That in one path have journey’d, needing not
Forgiveness at its close?
A Citizen enters hastily.
Cit. The Moors! the Moors!
Gon. How! is the city storm’d?
O righteous heaven! for this I look’d not yet!
Hath all been done in vain? Why, then, ’tis time
For prayer, and then to rest!
Cit. The sun shall set,
And not a Christian voice be left for prayer,
To-night, within Valencia. Round our walls
The Paynim host is gathering for th’ assault,
I And we have none to guard them.
Gon. Then my place
Is here no longer. I had hoped to die
E’en by the altar and the sepulchre
Of my brave sires; but this was not to be!
Give me my sword again, and lead me hence
Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour,
And it hath still high duties. Now, my wife!
Thou mother of my children—of the dead—
Whom I name unto thee in steadfast hope—
Farewell!
Elm. No, not farewell! My soul hath risen
To mate itself with thine; and by thy side,
Amidst the hurling lances, I will stand,
As one on whom a brave man’s love hath been
Wasted not utterly.
Gon. I thank thee, heaven!
That I have tasted of the awful joy
Which thou hast given, to temper hours like this
With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends
In these dread visitings!
(To Elmina.) We will not part,
But with the spirit’s parting.
Elm. One farewell
To her, that, mantled with sad loveliness,
Doth slumber at our feet! My blessed child!
Oh! in thy heart’s affliction thou wert strong,
And holy courage did pervade thy woe,
As light the troubled waters! Be at peace!
Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul
Of all that were around thee! And thy life
E’en then was struck and withering at the core!
Farewell! thy parting look hath on me fallen,
E’en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now
More like what thou hast been. My soul is hush’d;
For a still sense of purer worlds hath sunk
And settled on its depths with that last smile
Which from thine eye shone forth. Thou hast not lived
In vain! My child, farewell!
Gon. Surely for thee
Death had no sting, Ximena! We are blest
To learn one secret of the shadowy pass,
From such an aspect’s calmness. Yet once more
I kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower!
In token of th’ undying love and hope
Whose land is far away.
[Exeunt.