Part 5

_Jul._ Till I have met the tyrant face to face, And gained a conquest greater than the last; Till he no longer rules one rood of Spain, And not one Spaniard, not one enemy, The least relenting, flags upon his flight; Till we are equal in the eyes of men, The humblest and most wretched of our kind, No peace for me, no comfort, no—no child!

_Opas_. No pity for the thousands fatherless, The thousands childless like thyself, nay more, The thousands friendless, helpless, comfortless— Such thou wilt make them, little thinking so, Who now perhaps, round their first winter fire, Banish, to talk of thee, the tales of old, Shedding true honest tears for thee unknown: Precious be these, and sacred in thy sight, Mingle them not with blood from hearts thus kind. If only warlike spirits were evoked By the war-demon, I would not complain, Or dissolute and discontented men; But wherefore hurry down into the square The neighbourly, saluting, warm-clad race, Who would not injure us, and cannot serve; Who, from their short and measured slumber risen, In the faint sunshine of their balconies, With a half-legend of a martyrdom And some weak wine and withered grapes before them, Note by their foot the wheel of melody That catches and rolls on the sabbath dance. To drag the steady prop from failing age, Break the young stem that fondness twines around, Widen the solitude of lonely sighs, And scatter to the broad bleak wastes of day The ruins and the phantoms that replied, Ne’er be it thine.

_Jul._ Arise, and save me, Spain!

FIRST ACT: SECOND SCENE.

MUZA _enters_.

_Muza_. Infidel chief, thou tarriest here too long, And art perhaps repining at the days Of nine continued victories, o’er men Dear to thy soul, tho’ reprobate and base. Away!

[_He retires_.

_Jul._ I follow. Could my bitterest foes Hear this! ye Spaniards, this! which I foreknew And yet encountered; could they see your Julian Receiving orders from and answering These desperate and heaven-abandoned slaves, They might perceive some few external pangs, Some glimpses of the hell wherein I move, Who never have been fathers.

_Opas_. These are they To whom brave Spaniards must refer their wrongs!

_Jul._ Muza, that cruel and suspicious chief, Distrusts his friends more than his enemies, Me more than either; fraud he loves and fears, And watches her still footfall day and night.

_Opas_. O Julian! such a refuge! such a race!

_Jul._ Calamities like mine alone implore. No virtues have redeemed them from their bonds; Wily ferocity, keen idleness, And the close cringes of ill-whispering want, Educate them to plunder and obey;

## Active to serve him best whom most they fear,

They show no mercy to the merciful, And racks alone remind them of the name.

_Opas_. O everlasting curse for Spain and thee!

_Jul._ Spain should have vindicated then her wrongs In mine, a Spaniard’s and a soldier’s wrongs.

_Opas_. Julian, are thine the only wrongs on earth? And shall each Spaniard rather vindicate Thine than his own? is there no Judge of all? Shall mortal hand seize with impunity The sword of vengeance, from the armoury Of the Most High? easy to wield, and starred With glory it appears: but all the host Of the archangels, should they strive at once, Would never close again its widening blade.

_Jul._ He who provokes it hath so much to rue. Where’er he turn, whether to earth or heaven, He finds an enemy, or raises one.

_Opas_. I never yet have seen where long success Hath followed him who warred upon his king.

_Jul._ Because the virtue that inflicts the stroke Dies with him, and the rank ignoble heads Of plundering faction soon unite again, And prince-protected share the spoil at rest.

FIRST ACT: THIRD SCENE.

_Guard announces a herald_. OPAS _departs_.

_Guard_. A messenger of peace is at the gate, My lord, safe access, private audience, And free return, he claims.

_Jul._ Conduct him in.

RODERIGO _enters as a herald_.

A messenger of peace! audacious man! In what attire appearest thou? a herald’s? Under no garb can such a wretch be safe.

_Rod._ Thy violence and fancied wrongs I know, And what thy sacrilegious hands would do, O traitor and apostate!

_Jul._ What they would They cannot: thee of kingdom and of life ’Tis easy to despoil, thyself the traitor, Thyself the violator of allegiance. Oh would all-righteous Heaven they could restore The joy of innocence, the calm of age, The probity of manhood, pride of arms, And confidence of honour! the august And holy laws trampled beneath thy feet. And Spain! O parent, I have lost thee too! Yes, thou wilt curse me in thy latter days, Me, thine avenger. I have fought her foe, Roderigo, I have gloried in her sons, Sublime in hardihood and piety: Her strength was mine: I, sailing by her cliffs, By promontory after promontory, Opening like flags along some castle-towers, Have sworn before the cross upon our mast Ne’er shall invader wave his standard there.

_Rod._ Yet there thou plantest it, false man, thyself.

_Jul._ Accursed he who makes me this reproach, And made it just! Had I been happy still, I had been blameless: I had died with glory Upon the walls of Ceuta.

_Rod._ Which thy treason Surrendered to the Infidel.

_Jul._ ’Tis hard And base to live beneath a conqueror: Yet, amid all this grief and infamy, ’Twere something to have rushed upon the ranks In their advance; ’twere something to have stood Defeat, discomfiture; and, when around No beacon blazes, no far axle groans Through the wide plain, no sound of sustenance Or succour soothes the still-believing ear, To fight upon the last dismantled tower, And yield to valour, if we yield at all. But rather should my neck lie trampled down By every Saracen and Moor on earth, Than my own country see her laws o’erturned By those who should protect them: Sir, no prince Shall ruin Spain; and, least of all, her own. Is any just or glorious act in view, Your oaths forbid it: is your avarice, Or, if there be such, any viler passion, To have its giddy range, and to be gorged, It rises over all your sacraments, A hooded mystery, holier than they all.

_Rod._ Hear me, Don Julian; I have heard thy wrath Who am thy king, nor heard man’s wrath before.

_Jul._ Thou shalt hear mine, for thou art not my king.

_Rod._ Knowest thou not the altered face of war? Xeres is ours; from every region round True loyal Spaniards throng into our camp: Nay, thy own friends and thy own family, From the remotest provinces, advance To crush rebellion: Sisabert is come, Disclaiming thee and thine; the Asturian hills Opposed to him their icy chains in vain: But never wilt thou see him, never more, Unless in adverse war, and deadly hate.

_Jul._ So lost to me! So generous, so deceived! I grieve to hear it.

_Rod._ Come, I offer grace, Honour, dominion: send away these slaves, Or leave them to our sword, and all beyond The distant Ebro to the towns of France Shall bless thy name, and bend before thy throne. I will myself accompany thee, I, The king, will hail thee brother.

_Jul._ Ne’er shalt thou Henceforth be king: the nation in thy name May issue edicts, champions may command The vassal multitudes of marshalled war, And the fierce charger shrink before the shouts, Lowered as if earth had opened at his feet, While thy mailed semblance rises toward the ranks, But God alone sees thee.

_Rod._ What hopest thou? To conquer Spain, and rule a ravaged land? To compass me around, to murder me?

_Jul._ No, Don Roderigo: swear thou, in the fight That thou wilt meet me, hand to hand, alone, That, if I ever save thee from a foe—

_Rod._ I swear what honour asks—first, to Covilla Do thou present my crown and dignity.

_Jul._ Darest thou offer any price for shame?

_Rod._ Love and repentance.

_Jul._ Egilona lives: And were she buried with her ancestors, Covilla should not be the gaze of men, Should not, despoiled of honour, rule the free.

_Rod._ Stern man! her virtues well deserve the throne.

_Jul._ And Egilona—what hath she deserved, The good, the lovely?

_Rod._ But the realm in vain Hoped a succession.

_Jul._ Thou hast torn away The roots of royalty.

_Rod._ For her, for thee.

_Jul._ Blind insolence! base insincerity! Power and renown no mortal ever shared, Who could retain or grasp them to himself: And, for Covilla? patience! peace! for her? She call upon her God, and outrage Him At His own altar! she repeat the vows She violates in repeating! who abhors Thee and thy crimes, and wants no crown of thine. Force may compel the abhorrent soul, or want Lash and pursue it to the public ways; Virtue looks back and weeps, and may return To these, but never near the abandoned one Who drags religion to adultery’s feet, And rears the altar higher for her sake.

_Rod._ Have then the Saracens possessed thee quite, And wilt thou never yield me thy consent?

_Jul._ Never.

_Rod._ So deep in guilt, in treachery! Forced to acknowledge it! forced to avow The traitor!

_Jul._ Not to thee, who reignest not, But to a country ever dear to me, And dearer now than ever: what we love Is loveliest in departure! One I thought, As every father thinks, the best of all, Graceful, and mild, and sensible, and chaste: Now all these qualities of form and soul Fade from before me, nor on anyone Can I repose, or be consoled by any. And yet in this torn heart I love her more Than I could love her when I dwelt on each, Or clasped them all united, and thanked God, Without a wish beyond.—Away, thou fiend! O ignominy, last and worst of all! I weep before thee—like a child—like mine— And tell my woes, fount of them all, to thee!

FIRST ACT: FOURTH SCENE.

ABDALAZIS _enters_.

_Abd._ Julian, to thee, the terror of the faithless, I bring my father’s order, to prepare For the bright day that crowns thy brave exploits: Our enemy is at the very gate! And art thou here, with women in thy train, Crouching to gain admittance to their lord, And mourning the unkindness of delay!

_Jul._ [_much agitated_, _goes towards the door_, _and returns_.] I am prepared: Prince, judge not hastily.

_Abd._ Whether I should not promise all they ask, I too could hesitate, though earlier taught The duty to obey, and should rejoice To shelter in the universal storm A frame so delicate, so full of fears, So little used to outrage and to arms, As one of these; so humble, so uncheered At the gay pomp that smoothes the track of war. When she beheld me from afar dismount, And heard my trumpet, she alone drew back, And, as though doubtful of the help she seeks, Shuddered to see the jewels on my brow, And turned her eyes away, and wept aloud. The other stood awhile, and then advanced: I would have spoken, but she waved her hand And said, “Proceed, protect us, and avenge, And be thou worthier of the crown thou wearest.” Hopeful and happy is indeed our cause, When the most timid of the lovely hail Stranger and foe—

_Rod._ [_unnoticed by_ ABDALAZIS.] And shrink but to advance.

_Abd._ Thou tremblest? whence, O Julian! whence this change? Thou lovest still thy country.

_Jul._ Abdalazis! All men with human feelings love their country. Not the highborn or wealthy man alone, Who looks upon his children, each one led By its gay handmaid, from the high alcove, And hears them once a day: not only he Who hath forgotten, when his guest inquires The name of some far village all his own; Whose rivers bound the province, and whose hills Touch the last cloud upon the level sky: No; better men still better love their country. ’Tis the old mansion of their earliest friends, The chapel of their first and best devotions; When violence or perfidy invades, Or when unworthy lords hold wassail there, And wiser heads are drooping round its moats, At last they fix their steady and stiff eye There, there alone—stand while the trumpet blows, And view the hostile flames above its towers Spire, with a bitter and severe delight.

_Abd._ [taking his hand.] Thou feelest what thou speakest, and thy Spain Will ne’er be sheltered from her fate by thee. We, whom the prophet sends o’er many lands, Love none above another; Heaven assigns Their fields and harvests to our valiant swords, And ’tis enough—we love while we enjoy. Whence is the man in that fantastic guise? Suppliant? or herald? he who stalks about, And once was even seated while we spoke: For never came he with us o’er the sea.

_Jul._ He comes as herald.

_Rod._ Thou shalt know full soon, Insulting Moor.

_Abd._ He cannot bear the grief His country suffers; I will pardon him. He lost his courage first, and then his mind; His courage rushes back, his mind still wanders. The guest of heaven was piteous to these men, And princes stoop to feed them in their courts.

FIRST ACT: FIFTH SCENE.

RODERIGO _is going out when_ MUZA _enters with_ EGILONA; RODERIGO _starts back_.

_Muza_ [_sternly to_ EGILONA.] Enter, since ’tis the custom in this land.

_Egi._ [_passing_ MUZA _disdainfully_, _points to_ ABDALAZIS, _and says to_ JULIAN.] Is this our future monarch, or art thou?

_Jul._ ’Tis Abdalazis, son of Muza, prince Commanding Africa, from Abyla To where Tunisian pilots bend the eye O’er ruined temples in the glassy wave. Till quiet times and ancient laws return, He comes to govern here.

_Rod._ To-morrow’s dawn Proves that.

_Muza_. What art thou?

_Rod._ [_drawing his sword_.] King.

_Abd._ Amazement!

_Muza_. Treason!

_Egi._ O horror!

_Muza_. Seize him.

_Egi._ Spare him! fly to me!

_Jul._ Urge me not to protect a guest, a herald— The blasts of war roar over him unfelt.

_Egi._ Ah fly, unhappy!

_Rod._ Fly! no, Egilona— Dost thou forgive me? dost thou love me? still?

_Egi._ I hate, abominate, abhor thee—go, Or my own vengeance—

_Rod._ [_taking_ JULIAN’S _hand_, _and inviting him to attack_ MUZA _and_ ABDALAZIS.] Julian!

_Jul._ Hence, or die.

SECOND ACT: FIRST SCENE.

_Camp of_ JULIAN.

JULIAN _and_ COVILLA.

_Jul._ Obdurate! I am not as I appear. Weep, my beloved child, Covilla, weep Into my bosom; every drop be mine Of this most bitter soul-empoisoning cup: Into no other bosom than thy father’s Canst thou, or wouldst thou, pour it.

_Cov._ Cease, my lord, My father, angel of my youth, when all Was innocence and peace.

_Jul._ Arise, my love, Look up to heaven—where else are souls like thine! Mingle in sweet communion with its children, Trust in its providence, its retribution, And I will cease to mourn; for, O my child, These tears corrode, but thine assuage the heart.

_Cov._ And never shall I see my mother too, My own, my blessed mother!

_Jul._ Thou shalt see Her and thy brothers.

_Cov._ No! I cannot look On them, I cannot meet their lovely eyes, I cannot lift mine up from under theirs. We all were children when they went away; They now have fought hard battles, and are men, And camps and kings they know, and woes and crimes. Sir, will they never venture from the walls Into the plain? Remember, they are young, Hardy and emulous and hazardous; And who is left to guard them in the town?

_Jul._ Peace is throughout the land: the various tribes Of that vast region sink at once to rest, Like one wide wood when every wind lies hushed.

_Cov._ And war, in all its fury, roams o’er Spain.

_Jul._ Alas! and will for ages: crimes are loose At which ensanguined War stands shuddering; And calls for vengeance from the powers above, Impatient of inflicting it himself. Nature in these new horrors is aghast At her own progeny, and knows them not. I am the minister of wrath; the hands That tremble at me, shall applaud me too, And seal their condemnation.

_Cov._ O kind father, Pursue the guilty, but remember Spain.

_Jul._ Child, thou wert in thy nursery short time since, And latterly hast passed the vacant hour Where the familiar voice of history Is hardly known, however nigh, attuned In softer accents to the sickened ear; But thou hast heard, for nurses tell these tales, Whether I drew my sword for Witiza Abandoned by the people he betrayed, Though brother to the woman who of all Was ever dearest to this broken heart, Till thou, my daughter, wert a prey to grief, And a brave country brooked the wrongs I bore. For I had seen Rusilla guide the steps Of her Theodofred, when burning brass Plunged its fierce fang into the founts of light, And Witiza’s the guilt! when, bent with age, He knew the voice again, and told the name, Of those whose proffered fortunes had been laid Before his throne, while happiness was there, And strained the sightless nerve tow’rd where they stood At the forced memory of the very oaths He heard renewed from each, but heard afar, For they were loud, and him the throng spurned off.

_Cov._ Who were all these?

_Jul._ All who are seen to-day On prancing steeds richly caparisoned In loyal acclamation round Roderigo; Their sons beside them, loving one another Unfeignedly, through joy, while they themselves In mutual homage mutual scorn suppress. Their very walls and roofs are welcoming The king’s approach, their storied tapestry Swells its rich arch for him triumphantly At every clarion blowing from below.

_Cov._ Such wicked men will never leave his side.

_Jul._ For they are insects which see nought beyond Where they now crawl; whose changes are complete, Unless of habitation.

_Cov._ Whither go Creatures unfit for better, or for worse?

_Jul._ Some to the grave—where peace be with them! some Across the Pyrenean mountains far, Into the plains of France; suspicion there Will hang on every step from rich and poor, Grey quickly-glancing eyes will wrinkle round, And courtesy will watch them day and night. Shameless they are, yet will they blush, amid A nation that ne’er blushes: some will drag The captive’s chain, repair the shattered bark, Or heave it from a quicksand to the shore, Among the marbles of the Libyan coast; Teach patience to the lion in his cage, And, by the order of a higher slave, Hold to the elephant their scanty fare, To please the children while the parent sleeps.

_Cov._ Spaniards? must they, dear father, lead such lives?

_Jul._ All are not Spaniards who draw breath in Spain; Those are, who live for her, who die for her, Who love her glory and lament her fall. Oh, may I too—

_Cov._ But peacefully, and late, Live and die here!

_Jul._ I have, alas! myself Laid waste the hopes where my fond fancy strayed, And view their ruins with unaltered eyes.

_Cov._ My mother will at last return to thee. Might I once more, but—could I now behold her, Tell her—ah me! what was my rash desire? No, never tell her these inhuman things, For they would waste her tender heart away As they waste mine; or tell when I have died, Only to show her that her every care Could not have saved, could not have comforted. That she herself, clasping me once again To her sad breast, had said, Covilla! go, Go, hide them in the bosom of thy God! Sweet mother, that far-distant voice I hear, And passing out of youth and out of life, I would not turn at last, and disobey.

SECOND ACT: SECOND SCENE.

SISABERT _enters_.

_Sis._ Uncle, and is it true, say, can it be, That thou art leader of these faithless Moors? That thou impeachest thy own daughter’s fame Through the whole land, to seize upon the throne By the permission of those recreant slaves? What shall I call thee? art thou—speak, Count Julian— A father, or a soldier, or a man?

_Jul._ All—or this day had never seen me here.

_Sis._ O falsehood! worse than woman’s!

_Cov._ Once, my cousin, Far gentler words were uttered from your lips. If you loved me, you loved my father first, More justly and more steadily, ere love Was passion and illusion and deceit.

_Sis._ I boast not that I never was deceived, Covilla, which beyond all boasts were base, Nor that I never loved; let this be thine. Illusions! just to stop us, not delay; Amuse, not occupy! Too true! when love Scatters its brilliant foam, and passes on To some fresh object in its natural course, Widely and openly and wanderingly, ’Tis better! narrow it, and it pours its gloom In one fierce cataract that stuns the soul. Ye hate the wretch ye make so, while ye choose Whoever knows you best and shuns you most.

_Cov._ Shun me then: be beloved, more and more. Honour the hand that showed you honour first, Love—O my father! speak, proceed, persuade, Thy voice alone can mutter it—another—

_Sis._ Ah lost Covilla! can a thirst of power Alter thy heart thus to abandon mine, And change my very nature at one blow?

_Cov._ I told you, dearest Sisabert, ’twas vain To urge me more, to question, or confute.

_Sis._ I know it, for another wears the crown Of Witiza my father; who succeeds To king Roderigo will succeed to me. Yet thy cold perfidy still calls me dear, And o’er my aching temples breathes one gale Of days departed to return no more.

_Jul._ Young man, avenge our cause.

_Sis._ What cause avenge?

_Cov._ If I was ever dear to you, hear me, Not vengeance; Heaven will give that signal soon. O Sisabert, the pangs I have endured On your long absence—

_Sis._ Will be now consoled. Thy father comes to mount my father’s throne; But though I would not a usurper king, I prize his valour and defend his crown: No stranger and no traitor rules o’er me, Or unchastised inveigles humbled Spain. Covilla, gavest thou no promises? Nor thou, Don Julian? Seek not to reply— Too well I know, too justly I despise, Thy false excuse, thy coward effrontery; Yes, when thou gavest them across the sea, An enemy wert thou to Mahomet, And no appellant to his faith or leagues.

_Jul._ ’Tis well: a soldier hears throughout in silence. I urge no answer: to those words, I fear, Thy heart with sharp compunction will reply.

_Sis._ [_to_ COVILLA.] Then I demand of thee before thou reign, Answer me—while I fought against the Frank Who dared to smite thee? blazoned in the court, Not trailed through darkness, were our nuptial bands; No: Egilona joined our hands herself, The peers applauded, and the king approved.

_Jul._ Hast thou yet seen that king since thy return?

_Cov._ Father! O father!