Part 6

_Sis._ I will not implore Of him or thee what I have lost for ever. These were not when we parted thy alarms; Far other, and far worthier of thy heart Were they; which Sisabert could banish then. Fear me not now, Covilla! thou hast changed— I am changed too—I lived but where thou livedst, My very life was portioned off from thine. Upon the surface of thy happiness Day after day I gazed, I doted—there Was all I had, was all I coveted; So pure, serene, and boundless it appeared: Yet, for we told each other every thought, Thou knowest well, if thou rememberest, At times I feared; as though some demon sent Suspicion without form into the world, To whisper unimaginable things. Then thy fond arguing banished all but hope, Each wish, and every feeling, was with thine, Till I partook thy nature, and became Credulous, and incredulous, like thee. We, who have met so altered, meet no more. Mountains and seas! ye are not separation: Death! thou dividest, but unitest too, In everlasting peace and faith sincere. Confiding love! where is thy resting-place? Where is thy truth, Covilla? where!—Go, go, I should adore thee and believe thee still.

[_Goes_.

_Cov._ O Heaven! support me, or desert me quite, And leave me lifeless this too trying hour! He thinks me faithless.

_Jul._ He must think thee so.

_Cov._ Oh, tell him, tell him all, when I am dead— He will die too, and we shall meet again. He will know all when these sad eyes are closed. Ah, cannot he before? must I appear The vilest?—O just Heaven! can it be thus? I am—all earth resounds it—lost, despised, Anguish and shame unutterable seize me. ’Tis palpable, no phantom, no delusion, No dream that wakens with o’erwhelming horror: Spaniard and Moor fight on this ground alone, And tear the arrow from my bleeding breast To pierce my father’s, for alike they fear.

_Jul._ Invulnerable, unassailable Are we, alone perhaps of human kind, Nor life allures us more, nor death alarms.

_Cov._ Fallen, unpitied, unbelieved, unheard! I should have died long earlier: gracious God! Desert me to my sufferings, but sustain My faith in Thee! O hide me from the world, And from thyself, my father, from thy fondness, That opened in this wilderness of woe A source of tears—it else had burst my heart, Setting me free for ever: then perhaps A cruel war had not divided Spain, Had not o’erturned her cities and her altars, Had not endangered thee! Oh, haste afar Ere the last dreadful conflict that decides Whether we live beneath a foreign sway—

_Jul._ Or under him whose tyranny brought down The curse upon his people. O child! child! Urge me no further, talk not of the war, Remember not our country.

_Cov._ Not remember! What have the wretched else for consolation! What else have they who pining feed their woe? Can I, or should I, drive from memory All that was dear and sacred, all the joys Of innocence and peace? when no debate Was in the convent, but what hymn, whose voice, To whom among the blessed it arose, Swelling so sweet; when rang the vesper-bell And every finger ceased from the guitar, And every tongue was silent through our land; When, from remotest earth, friends met again Hung on each other’s neck, and but embraced, So sacred, still, and peaceful was the hour. Now, in what climate of the wasted world, Not unmolested long by the profane, Can I pour forth in secrecy to God My prayers and my repentance? where besides Is the last solace of the parting soul? Friends, brethren, parents—dear indeed, too dear Are they, but somewhat still the heart requires, That it may leave them lighter, and more blest.

_Jul._ Wide are the regions of our far-famed land: Thou shalt arrive at her remotest bounds, See her best people, choose some holiest house; Whether where Castro from surrounding vines Hears the hoarse ocean roar among his caves, And, through the fissure in the green churchyard, The wind wail loud the calmest summer day; Or where Santona leans against the hill, Hidden from sea and land by groves and bowers.

_Cov._ Oh! for one moment in those pleasant scenes Thou placest me, and lighter air I breathe: Why could I not have rested, and heard on! My voice dissolves the vision quite away, Outcast from virtue, and from nature too!

_Jul._ Nature and virtue! they shall perish first. God destined them for thee, and thee for them, Inseparably and eternally! The wisest and the best will prize thee most, And solitudes and cities will contend Which shall receive thee kindliest—sigh not so; Violence and fraud will never penetrate Where piety and poverty retire, Intractable to them, and valueless, And looked at idly, like the face of heaven. If strength be wanted for security, Mountains the guard, forbidding all approach With iron-pointed and uplifted gates, Thou wilt be welcome too in Aguilar, Impenetrable, marble-turreted, Surveying from aloft the limpid ford, The massive fane, the sylvan avenue; Whose hospitality I proved myself, A willing leader in no impious war When fame and freedom urged me; or mayst dwell In Reynosa’s dry and thriftless dale, Unharvested beneath October moons, Among those frank and cordial villagers. They never saw us, and, poor simple souls! So little know they whom they call the great, Would pity one another less than us, In injury, disaster, or distress.

_Cov._ But they would ask each other whence our grief, That they might pity.

_Jul._ Rest then just beyond, In the secluded scenes where Ebro springs And drives not from his fount the fallen leaf, So motionless and tranquil its repose.

_Cov._ Thither let us depart, and speedily.

_Jul._ I cannot go: I live not in the land I have reduced beneath such wretchedness: And who could leave the brave, whose lives and fortunes Hang on his sword?

_Cov._ Me thou canst leave, my father; Ah yes, for it is past; too well thou seest My life and fortunes rest not upon thee. Long, happily—could it be gloriously!— Still mayst thou live, and save thy country still!

_Jul._ Unconquerable land! unrivalled race! Whose bravery, too enduring, rues alike The power and weakness of accursed kings— How cruelly hast thou neglected me! Forcing me from thee, never to return, Nor in thy pangs and struggles to partake! I hear a voice—’tis Egilona—come, Recall thy courage, dear unhappy girl, Let us away.

SECOND ACT: THIRD SCENE.

EGILONA _enters_.

_Egi._ Remain, I order thee. Attend, and do thy duty: I am queen, Unbent to degradation.

_Cov._ I attend Ever most humbly and most gratefully My too kind sovereign, cousin now no more; Could I perform but half the services I owe her, I were happy for a time; Or dared I show her half my love, ’twere bliss.

_Egi._ Oh! I sink under gentleness like thine. Thy sight is death to me; and yet ’tis dear. The gaudy trappings of assumptive state Drop at the voice of nature to the earth, Before thy feet—I cannot force myself To hate thee, to renounce thee; yet—Covilla! Yet—oh distracting thought! ’tis hard to see, Hard to converse with, to admire, to love— As from my soul I do, and must do, thee— One who hath robbed me of all pride and joy, All dignity, all fondness. I adored Roderigo—he was brave, and in discourse Most voluble; the masses of his mind Were vast, but varied; now absorbed in gloom, Majestic, not austere; now their extent Opening, and waving in bright levity—

_Jul._ Depart, my daughter—’twere as well to bear His presence as his praise—go—she will dream This phantasm out, nor notice thee depart.

[COVILLA _goes_.

_Egi._ What pliancy! what tenderness! what life! Oh for the smiles of those who smile so seldom, The love of those who know no other love! Such he was, Egilona, who was thine.

_Jul._ While he was worthy of the realm and thee.

_Egi._ Can it be true, then, Julian, that thy aim Is sovereignty? not virtue, nor revenge?

_Jul._ I swear to Heaven, nor I nor child of mine Ever shall mount to this polluted throne.

_Egi._ Then am I still a queen. The savage Moor Who could not conquer Ceuta from thy sword, In his own country, not with every wile Of his whole race, not with his myriad crests Of cavalry, seen from the Calpian heights Like locusts on the parched and gleamy coast, Will never conquer Spain.

_Jul._ Spain then was conquered When fell her laws before the traitor king.

SECOND ACT: FOURTH SCENE.

_Officer announces_ OPAS.

O queen, the metropolitan attends On matters of high import to the state, And wishes to confer in privacy.

_Egi._ [_to_ JULIAN.] Adieu then; and whate’er betide the country, Sustain at least the honours of our house.

[JULIAN _goes before_ OPAS _enters_.

_Opas_. I cannot but commend, O Egilona, Such resignation and such dignity. Indeed he is unworthy; yet a queen Rather to look for peace, and live remote From cities, and from courts, and from her lord, I hardly could expect in one so young, So early, widely, wondrously admired.

_Egi._ I am resolved: religious men, good Opas, In this resemble the vain libertine; They find in woman no consistency, No virtue but devotion, such as comes To infancy or age, or fear or love, Seeking a place of rest, and finding none Until it soar to heaven.

_Opas_. A spring of mind That rises when all pressure is removed, Firmness in pious and in chaste resolves, But weakness in much fondness; these, O queen, I did expect, I own.

_Egi._ The better part Be mine; the worst hath been—and is no more.

_Opas_. But if Roderigo have at length prevailed That Egilona willingly resigns All claim to royalty, and casts away, Indifferent or estranged, the marriage-bond His perjury tore asunder, still the church Hardly can sanction his new nuptial rites.

_Egi._ What art thou saying! what new nuptial rites?

_Opas_. Thou knowest not?

_Egi._ Am I a wife; a queen? Abandon it! my claim to royalty! Whose hand was on my head when I arose Queen of this land? whose benediction sealed My marriage vow? who broke it? was it I? And wouldst thou, virtuous Opas, wouldst thou dim The glorious light of thy declining days? Wouldst thou administer the sacred vows, And sanction them, and bless them, for another, And bid her live in peace while I am living? Go then; I execrate and banish him For ever from my sight: we were not born For happiness together; none on earth Were ever so dissimilar as we. He is not worth a tear, a wish, a thought— Never was I deceived in him—I found No tenderness, no fondness, from the first: A love of power, a love of perfidy, Such is the love that is returned for mine. Ungrateful man! ’twas not the pageantry Of regal state, the clarions, nor the guard, Nor loyal valour, nor submissive beauty, Silence at my approach, awe at my voice, Happiness at my smile, that led my youth Toward Roderigo! I had lived obscure, In humbleness, in poverty, in want, Blest, oh supremely blest! with him alone: And he abandons me, rejects me, scorns me, Insensible! inhuman! for another! Thou shalt repent thy wretched choice, false man! Crimes such as thine call loudly for perdition; Heaven will inflict it, and not I—but I Neither will fall alone, nor live despised.

[_A trumpet sounds_.

_Opas_. Peace, Egilona, he arrives; compose Thy turbid thoughts, meet him with dignity.

_Egi._ He! in the camp of Julian! trust me, sir, He comes not hither, dares no longer use The signs of state, and flies from every foe.

[_Retires some distance_.

SECOND ACT: FIFTH SCENE.

_Enter_ MUZA _and_ ABDALAZIS.

_Muza_ [_to_ ABDALAZIS.] I saw him but an instant, and disguised, Yet this is not the traitor; on his brow Observe the calm of wisdom and of years.

_Opas_. Whom seekest thou?

_Muza_. Him who was king I seek. He came arrayed as herald to this tent.

_Abd._ Thy daughter! was she nigh? perhaps for her Was this disguise.

_Muza_. Here, Abdalazis, kings Disguise from other causes; they obtain Beauty by violence, and power by fraud. Treason was his intent: we must admit Whoever come; our numbers are too small For question or selection, and the blood Of Spaniards shall win Spain for us to-day.

_Abd._ The wicked cannot move from underneath Thy ruling eye.

_Muza_. Right! Julian and Roderigo Are leagued against us, on these terms alone, That Julian’s daughter weds the Christian king.

_Egi._ [_rushing forward_.] ’Tis true—and I proclaim it—

_Abd._ Heaven and earth! Was it not thou, most lovely, most high-souled, Who wishedst us success, and me a crown?

[OPAS _goes abruptly_.

_Egi._ I give it—I am Egilona, queen Of that detested man.

_Abd._ I touch the hand That chains down fortune to the throne of fate; And will avenge thee; for ’twas thy command, ’Tis Heaven’s—My father! what retards our bliss? Why art thou silent?

_Muza_. Inexperienced years Rather would rest on the soft lap, I see, Of pleasure, after the fierce gusts of war. O Destiny! that callest me alone, Hapless, to keep the toilsome watch of state; Painful to age, unnatural to youth, Adverse to all society of friends, Equality, and liberty, and ease, The welcome cheer of the unbidden feast, The gay reply, light, sudden, like the leap Of the young forester’s unbended bow; But, above all, to tenderness at home, And sweet security of kind concern Even from those who seem most truly ours. Who would resign all this, to be approached, Like a sick infant by a canting nurse, To spread his arms in darkness, and to find One universal hollowness around? Forego, a little while, that bane of peace. Love may be cherished.

_Abd._ ’Tis enough; I ask No other boon.

_Muza_. Not victory?

_Abd._ Farewell, O queen! I will deserve thee; why do tears Silently drop, and slowly, down thy veil? I shall return to worship thee, and soon; Why this affliction? Oh, that I alone Could raise or could repress it!

_Egi._ We depart, Nor interrupt your counsels, nor impede; Oh, may they prosper, whatsoe’er they be, And perfidy soon meet its just reward! The infirm and peaceful Opas—whither gone?

_Muza_. Stay, daughter; not for counsel are we met, But to secure our arms from treachery, O’erthrow and stifle base conspiracies, Involve in his own toils our false ally—

_Egi._ Author of every woe I have endured! Ah, sacrilegious man! he vowed to Heaven None of his blood should ever mount the throne.

_Muza_. Herein his vow indeed is ratified: Yet faithful ears have heard this offer made, And weighty was the conference that ensued, And long, not dubious; for what mortal e’er Refused alliance with illustrious power? Though some have given its enjoyments up, Tired and enfeebled by satiety. His friends and partisans, ’twas his pretence, Should pass uninterrupted; hence his camp Is open every day to enemies. You look around, O queen, as though you feared Their entrance—Julian I pursue no more; You conquer him—return we; I bequeath Ruin, extermination, not reproach. How we may best attain your peace and will We must consider in some other place, Not, lady, in the midst of snares and wiles How to supplant your charms and seize your crown. I rescue it, fear not: yes, we retire. Whatever is your wish becomes my own, Nor is there in this land but who obeys.

[_He leads her away_.

THIRD ACT: FIRST SCENE.

_Palace in_ XERES.

RODERIGO _and_ OPAS.

_Rod._ Impossible! she could not thus resign Me, for a miscreant of Barbary, A mere adventurer: but that citron face Shall bleach and shrivel the whole winter long There, on yon cork-tree by the sallyport. She shall return.

_Opas_. To fondness and to faith? Dost thou retain them, if she could return?

_Rod._ Retain them? she has forfeited by this All right to fondness, all to royalty.

_Opas_. Consider, and speak calmly: she deserves Some pity, some reproof.

_Rod._ To speak then calmly, Since thine eyes open and can see her guilt— Infamous and atrocious! let her go— Chains

_Opas_. What! in Muza’s camp?

_Rod._ My scorn supreme!

_Opas_. Say pity.

_Rod._ Ay, ay, pity—that suits best. I loved her, but _had_ loved her; three whole years Of pleasure, and of varied pleasure too, Had worn the soft impression half away. What I once felt, I would recall; the faint Responsive voice grew fainter each reply: Imagination sank amid the scenes It laboured to create; the vivid joy Of fleeting youth I followed, and possessed. ’Tis the first moment of the tenderest hour, ’Tis the first mien on entering new delights, We give our peace, our power, our souls, for these.

_Opas_. Thou hast; and what remains?

_Rod._ Myself—Roderigo— Whom hatred cannot reach, nor love cast down.

_Opas_. Nor gratitude nor pity nor remorse Call back, nor vows nor earth nor heaven control. But art thou free and happy? art thou safe? By shrewd contempt the humblest may chastise Whom scarlet and its ermine cannot scare, And the sword skulks for everywhere in vain, Thee the poor victim of thy outrages, Woman, with all her weakness, may despise.

_Rod._ But first let quiet age have intervened.

_Opas_. Ne’er will the peace or apathy of age Be thine, or twilight steal upon thy day. The violent choose, but cannot change, their end: Violence, by man or nature, must be theirs: Thine it must be, and who to pity thee?

_Rod._ Behold, my solace! none. I want no pity.

_Opas_. Proclaim we those the happiest of mankind Who never knew a want? Oh, what a curse To thee this utter ignorance of thine! Julian, whom all the good commiserate, Sees thee below him far in happiness: A state indeed of no quick restlessness, No glancing agitation, one vast swell Of melancholy, deep, impassable, Interminable, where his spirit alone Broods and o’ershadows all, bears him from earth, And purifies his chastened soul for heaven. Both heaven and earth shall from thy grasp recede. Whether on death or life thou arguest, Untutored savage or corrupted heathen Avows no sentiment so vile as thine.

Rod. Nor feels?

_Opas_. O human nature! I have heard The secrets of the soul, and pitied thee. Bad and accursed things have men confessed Before me, but have left them unarrayed. Naked, and shivering with deformity. The troubled dreams and deafening gush of youth Fling o’er the fancy, struggling to be free, Discordant and impracticable things: If the good shudder at their past escapes, Shall not the wicked shudder at their crimes? They shall—and I denounce upon thy head God’s vengeance—thou shalt rule this land no more.

_Rod._ What! my own kindred leave me and renounce me!

_Opas_. Kindred? and is there any in our world So near us, as those sources of all joy, Those on whose bosom every gale of life Blows softly, who reflect our images In loveliness through sorrows and through age, And bear them onward far beyond the grave.

_Rod._ Methinks, most reverend Opas, not inapt Are these fair views; arise they from Seville?

_Opas_. He, who can scoff at them, may scoff at me. Such are we, that the giver of all good Shall, in the heart he purifies, possess The latest love—the earliest—no, not there! I’ve known the firm and faithful—even from these Life’s eddying spring shed the first bloom on earth. I pity them, but ask their pity too. I love the happiness of men, and praise And sanctify the blessings I renounce.

_Rod._ Yet would thy baleful influence undermine The heaven-appointed throne.

_Opas_.—the throne of guilt Obdurate, without plea, without remorse.

_Rod._ What power hast thou? perhaps thou soon wilt want A place of refuge.

_Opas_. Rather say, perhaps My place of refuge will receive me soon. Could I extend it even to thy crimes, It should be open; but the wrath of heaven Turns them against thee, and subverts thy sway: It leaves thee not, what wickedness and woe Oft in their drear communion taste together, Hope and repentance.

_Rod._ But it leaves me arms, Vigour of soul and body, and a race Subject by law, and dutiful by choice, Whose hand is never to be holden fast Within the closing cleft of gnarled creeds; No easy prey for these vile mitred Moors. I, who received thy homage, may retort Thy threats, vain prelate, and abase thy pride.

_Opas_. Low must be those whom mortal can sink lower, Nor high are they whom human power may raise.

_Rod._ Judge now: for, hear the signal.

_Opas_. And derides The buoyant heart the dubious gulfs of war? Trumpets may sound, and not to victory.

_Rod._ The traitor and his daughter feel my power.

_Opas_. Just God! avert it!

_Rod._ Seize this rebel priest. I will alone subdue my enemies.

[_Goes out_.

THIRD ACT: SECOND SCENE.

RAMIRO _and_ OSMA _enter from opposite sides_.

_Ram._ Where is the king? his car is at the gate, His ministers attend him, but his foes Are yet more prompt, nor will await delay.

_Osma_. Nor need they—for he meets them as I speak.

_Ram._ With all his forces? or our cause is lost. Julian and Sisabert surround the walls.

_Osma_. Surround, sayst thou? enter they not the gates?

_Ram._ Perhaps ere now they enter.

_Osma_. Sisabert Brings him our prisoner.

_Ram._ They are friends! they held A parley; and the soldiers, when they saw Count Julian, lowered their arms and hailed him king?

_Osma_. How? and he leads them in the name of king?

_Ram._ He leads them; but amid that acclamation He turned away his head, and called for vengeance.

_Osma_. In Sisabert, and in the cavalry He led, were all our hopes.

_Opas_. Woe, woe is theirs Who have no other.

_Osma_. What are thine? obey The just commands of our offended king: Conduct him to the tower—off—instantly.

[_Guard hesitates_: OPAS _goes_.

Ramiro, let us haste to reinforce—

_Ram._ Hark! is the king defeated? hark!

_Osma_. I hear Such acclamation as from victory Arises not, but rather from revolt, Reiterated, interrupted, lost. Favour like this his genius will retrieve By time, or promises, or chastisement, Whiche’er he choose—the speediest is the best— His danger and his glory let us share; ’Tis ours to serve him.

_Ram._ While he rules ’tis ours. What chariot-wheels are thundering o’er the bridge?

_Osma_. Roderigo’s—I well know them.

_Ram._ Now, the burst Of acclamation! now! again, again.

_Osma_. I know the voices; they are for Roderigo.

_Ram._ Stay, I entreat thee—one hath now prevailed. So far is certain.

_Osma_. Ay, the right prevails.

_Ram._ Transient and vain their joyance, who rejoice Precipitately and intemperately, And bitter thoughts grow up where’er it fell.

_Osma_. Nor vain and transient theirs, who idly float Down popularity’s unfertile stream, And fancy all their own that rises round?

_Ram._ If thou still lovest, as I know thou dost, Thy king—

_Osma_. I love him; for he owes me much, Brave soul! and cannot, though he would, repay. Service and faith, pure faith and service hard, Throughout his reign, if these things be desert, These have I borne toward him, and still bear.