Part 7
_Ram._ Come, from thy solitary eiry come, And share the prey, so plenteous and profuse, Which a less valorous brood will else consume. Much fruit is shaken down in civil storms: And shall not orderly and loyal hands Gather it up? (Loud shouts.) Again! and still refuse? How different are those citizens without From thee! from thy serenity! thy arch, Thy firmament, of intrepidity! For their new lord, whom they have never served, Afraid were they to shout, and only struck The pavement with their ferrules and their feet: Now they are certain of the great event Voices and hands they raise, and all contend Who shall be bravest in applauding most. Knowest thou these?
_Osma_. Their voices I know well— And can they shout for him they would have slain? A prince untried they welcome; soon their doubts Are blown afar.
_Ram._ Yes, brighter scenes arise. The disunited he alone unites, The weak with hope he strengthens, and the strong With justice.
_Osma_. Wait: praise him when time hath given A soundness and consistency to praise: He shares it amply who bestows it right.
_Ram._ Doubtest thou?
_Osma_. Be it so: let us away; New courtiers come—
_Ram._ And why not join the new? Let us attend him, and congratulate; Come on: they enter.
_Osma_. This is now my post No longer: I could face them in the field, I cannot here.
_Ram._ To-morrow all may change; Be comforted.
_Osma_. I want nor change nor comfort.
_Ram._ The prisoner’s voice!
_Osma_. The metropolitan’s? Triumph he may—not over me forgiven. This way, and through the chapel—none are there.
[_Goes out_.
THIRD ACT: THIRD SCENE.
OPAS _and_ SISABERT.
_Opas_. The royal threat still sounds along these halls: Hardly his foot hath passed them, and he flees From his own treachery; all his pride, his hopes, Are scattered at a breath; even courage fails Now falsehood sinks from under him. Behold, Again art thou where reigned thy ancestors; Behold the chapel of thy earliest prayers, Where I, whose chains are sundered at thy sight Ere they could close around these aged limbs, Received and blest thee, when thy mother’s arm Was doubtful if it loosed thee! with delight Have I observed the promises we made Deeply impressed and manfully performed. Now, to thyself beneficent, O prince, Never henceforth renew those weak complaints Against Covilla’s vows and Julian’s faith, His honour broken, and her heart estranged. Oh, if thou holdest peace or glory dear, Away with jealousy; brave Sisabert, Smite from thy bosom, smite that scorpion down. It swells and hardens amid mildewed hopes, O’erspreads and blackens whate’er most delights, And renders us haters of loveliness, The lowest of the fiends: ambition led The higher on, furious to dispossess, From admiration sprung and frenzied love. This disingenuous soul-debasing passion, Rising from abject and most sordid fear, Stings her own breast with bitter self-reproof, Consumes the vitals, pines, and never dies. Love, Honour, Justice, numberless the forms, Glorious and high the stature, she assumes; But watch the wandering changeful mischief well, And thou shalt see her with low lurid light Search where the soul’s most valued treasure lies, Or, more embodied to our vision, stand With evil eye, and sorcery hers alone, Looking away her helpless progeny, And drawing poison from its very smiles. For Julian’s truth have I not pledged my own? Have I not sworn Covilla weds no other?
_Sis._ Her persecutor have not I chastised? Have not I fought for Julian, won the town, And liberated thee?
_Opas_. But left for him The dangers of pursuit, of ambuscade, Of absence from thy high and splendid name.
_Sis._ Do probity and truth want such supports?
_Opas_. Griffins and eagles, ivory and gold, Can add no clearness to the lamp above; But many look for them in palaces Who have them not, and want them not, at home. Virtue and valour and experience Are never trusted by themselves alone Further than infancy and idiocy: The men around him, not the man himself, Are looked at, and by these is he preferred. ’Tis the green mantle of the warrener And his loud whistle, that alone attract The lofty gazes of the noble herd: And thus, without thy countenance and help Feeble and faint is still our confidence, Brief perhaps our success.
_Sis._ Should I resign To Abdalazis her I once adored? He truly, he must wed a Spanish queen! He rule in Spain! ah! whom could any land Obey so gladly as the meek, the humble, The friend of all who have no friend besides, Covilla! could he choose, or could he find Another who might so confirm his power? And now indeed from long domestic wars Who else survives of all our ancient house—
_Opas_. But Egilona.
_Sis._ Vainly she upbraids Roderigo.
_Opas_. She divorces him, abjures, And carries vengeance to that hideous height Which piety and chastity would shrink To look from, on the world, or on themselves.
_Sis._ She may forgive him yet.
_Opas_. Ah, Sisabert! Wretched are those a woman has forgiven: With her forgiveness ne’er hath love returned. Ye know not till too late the filmy tie That holds heaven’s precious boon eternally To such as fondly cherish her; once go Driven by mad passion, strike but at her peace, And, though she step aside from broad reproach, Yet every softer virtue dies away. Beaming with virtue inaccessible Stood Egilona; for her lord she lived, And for the heavens that raised her sphere so high: All thoughts were on her—all, beside her own. Negligent as the blossoms of the field, Arrayed in candour and simplicity, Before her path she heard the streams of joy Murmur her name in all their cadences, Saw them in every scene, in light, in shade, Reflect her image; but acknowledged them Hers most complete when flowing from her most. All things in want of her, herself of none, Pomp and dominion lay beneath her feet Unfelt and unregarded: now behold The earthly passions war against the heavenly! Pride against love, ambition and revenge Against devotion and compliancy: Her glorious beams adversity hath blunted; And coming nearer to our quiet view The original clay of coarse mortality Hardens and flaws around her.
_Sis._ Every germ Of virtue perishes, when love recedes From those hot shifting sands, the female heart.
_Opas_. His was the fault; be his the punishment ’Tis not their own crimes only, men commit, They harrow them into another’s breast, And they shall reap the bitter growth with pain.
_Sis._ Yes, blooming royalty will first attract These creatures of the desert—now I breathe More freely—she is theirs if I pursue The fugitive again—he well deserves The death he flies from—stay! Don Julian twice Called him aloud, and he, methinks, replied. Could not I have remained a moment more, And seen the end? although with hurried voice He bade me intercept the scattered foes, And hold the city barred to their return. May Egilona be another’s wife Whether he die or live! but oh!—Covilla— She never can be mine! yet she may be Still happy—no, Covilla, no—not happy, But more deserving happiness without it. Mine never! nor another’s—’tis enough. The tears I shed no rival can deride; In the fond intercourse, a name once cherished Will never be defended by faint smiles, Nor given up with vows of altered love. And is the passion of my soul at last Reduced to this? is this my happiness? This my sole comfort? this the close of all Those promises, those tears, those last adieus, And those long vigils for the morrow’s dawn?
_Opas_. Arouse thee! be thyself. O Sisabert, Awake to glory from these feverish dreams: The enemy is in our land—two enemies— We must quell both—shame on us, if we fail.
_Sis._ Incredible! a nation be subdued Peopled as ours!
_Opas_. Corruption may subvert What force could never.
_Sis._ Traitors may.
_Opas_. Alas If traitors can, the basis is but frail. I mean such traitors as the vacant world Echoes most stunningly: not fur-robed knaves Whose whispers raise the dreaming bloodhound’s ear Against benighted famished wanderers; While with remorseless guilt they undermine Palace and shed, their very father’s house, O blind! their own, their children’s heritage, To leave more ample space for fearful wealth. Plunder in some most harmless guise they swathe, Call it some very meek and hallowed name, Some known and borne by their good forefathers, And own and vaunt it thus redeemed from sin. These are the plagues heaven sends o’er every land Before it sink, the portents of the street, Not of the air, lest nations should complain Of distance or of dimness in the signs, Flaring from far to Wisdom’s eye alone: These are the last! these, when the sun rides high, In the forenoon of doomsday, revelling, Make men abhor the earth, arraign the skies. Ye who behold them spoil field after field, Despising them in individual strength, Not with one torrent sweeping them away Into the ocean of eternity, Arise! despatch! no renovating gale, No second spring awaits you—up, begone— If you have force and courage even for flight— The blast of dissolution is behind.
_Sis._ How terrible! how true! what voice like thine Can rouse and warn the nation! if she rise, Say, whither go, where stop we?
_Opas_. God will guide. Let us pursue the oppressor to destruction; The rest is heaven’s: must we move no step Because we cannot see the boundaries Of our long way, and every stone between?
_Sis._ Is not thy vengeance for the late affront, For threats and outrage and imprisonment—
_Opas_. For outrage, yes—imprisonment and threats I pardon him, and whatsoever ill He could do _me_.
_Sis._ To hold Covilla from me! To urge her into vows against her faith, Against her beauty, youth, and inclination, Without her mother’s blessing, nay without Her father’s knowledge and authority— So that she never will behold me more, Flying afar for refuge and for help Where never friend but God will comfort her—
_Opas_. These, and more barbarous deeds were perpetrated.
_Sis._ Yet her proud father deigned not to inform Me, whom he loved and taught, in peace and war, Me, whom he called his son, before I hoped To merit it by marriage or by arms. He offered no excuse, no plea; expressed No sorrow; but with firm unfaltering voice Commanded me—I trembled as he spoke— To follow where he led, redress his wrongs, And vindicate the honour of his child. He called on God, the witness of his cause, On Spain, the partner of his victories, And yet amid these animating words Rolled the huge tear down his unvisored face— A general swell of indignation rose Through the long line, sobs burst from every breast, Hardly one voice succeeded—you might hear The impatient hoof strike the soft sandy plain: But when the gates flew open, and the king In his high car came forth triumphantly, Then was Count Julian’s stature more elate; Tremendous was the smile that smote the eyes Of all he passed. “Fathers, sons, and brothers,” He cried, “I fight your battles, follow me! Soldiers, we know no danger but disgrace!” “Father, and general, and king,” they shout, And would proclaim him: back he cast his face, Pallid with grief, and one loud groan burst forth; It kindled vengeance through the Asturian ranks, And they soon scattered, as the blasts of heaven Scatter the leaves and dust, the astonished foe.
_Opas_. And doubtest thou his truth?
_Sis._ I love—and doubt— Fight—and believe: Roderigo spoke untruths— In him I place no trust; but Julian holds Truths in reserve—how should I quite confide!
_Opas_. By sorrows thou beholdest him oppressed; Doubt the more prosperous: march, Sisabert, Once more against his enemy and ours: Much hath been done, but much there still remains.
FOURTH ACT.—FIRST SCENE.
_Tent of_ JULIAN.
RODERIGO _and_ JULIAN.
_Jul._ To stop perhaps at any wickedness Appears a merit now, and at the time Prudence and policy it often is Which afterward seems magnanimity. The people had deserted thee, and thronged My standard, had I raised it, at the first; But once subsiding, and no voice of mine Calling by name each grievance to each man, They, silent and submissive by degrees, Bore thy hard yoke, and, hadst thou but oppressed, Would still have borne it: thou hast now deceived; Thou hast done all a foreign foe could do, And more, against them; with ingratitude Not hell itself could arm the foreign foe: ’Tis forged at home, and kills not from afar. Amid whate’er vain glories fell upon Thy rainbow span of power, which I dissolve, Boast not how thou conferredst wealth and rank, How thou preservedst me, my family, All my distinctions, all my offices, When Witiza was murdered, that I stand Count Julian at this hour by special grace. The sword of Julian saved the walls of Ceuta, And not the shadow that attends his name: It was no badge, no title, that o’erthrew Soldier, and steed, and engine—Don Roderigo, The truly and the falsely great here differ: These by dull wealth or daring fraud advance; Him the Almighty calls amid his people To sway the wills and passions of mankind. The weak of heart and intellect beheld Thy splendour, and adored thee lord of Spain: I rose—Roderigo lords o’er Spain no more.
_Rod._ Now to a traitor’s add a boaster’s name.
_Jul._ Shameless and arrogant, dost thou believe I boast for pride or pastime? forced to boast, Truth costs me more than falsehood e’er cost thee. Divested of that purple of the soul, That potency, that palm of wise ambition, Cast headlong by thy madness from that height, That only eminence ’twixt earth and heaven, Virtue, which some desert, but none despise, Whether thou art beheld again on earth, Whether a captive or a fugitive, Miner or galley-slave, depends on me: But he alone who made me what I am Can make me greater, or can make me less.
_Rod._ Chance, and chance only, threw me in thy power; Give me my sword again and try my strength.
_Jul._ I tried it in the front of thousands.
_Rod._ Death At least vouchsafe me from a soldier’s hand.
_Jul._ I love to hear thee ask for it—now my own Would not be bitter; no, nor immature.
_Rod._ Defy it, say thou rather.
_Jul._ Death itself Shall not be granted thee, unless from God; A dole from his and from no other hand. Thou shalt now hear and own thine infamy—
_Rod._ Chains, dungeons, tortures—but I hear no more.
_Jul._ Silence, thou wretch, live on—ay, live—abhorred. Thou shalt have tortures, dungeons, chains, enough— They naturally rise and grow around Monsters like thee, everywhere, and for ever.
_Rod._ Insulter of the fallen! must I endure Commands as well as threats? my vassal’s too? Nor breathe from underneath his trampling feet?
_Jul._ Could I speak patiently who speak to thee, I would say more—part of thy punishment It should be to be taught.
_Rod._ Reserve thy wisdom Until thy patience come, its best ally: I learn no lore, of peace or war, from thee.
_Jul._ No, thou shalt study soon another tongue, And suns more ardent shall mature thy mind. Either the cross thou bearest, and thy knees Among the silent caves of Palestine Wear the sharp flints away with midnight prayer; Or thou shalt keep the fasts of Barbary, Shalt wait amid the crowds that throng the well From sultry noon till the skies fade again, To draw up water and to bring it home In the cracked gourd of some vile testy knave, Who spurns thee back with bastinadoed foot For ignorance or delay of his command.
_Rod._ Rather the poison or the bowstring.
_Jul._ Slaves To other’s passions die such deaths as those: Slaves to their own should die—
_Rod._ What worse?
_Jul._ Their own.
_Rod._ Is this thy counsel, renegade?
_Jul._ Not mine; I point a better path, nay, force thee on. I shelter thee from every brave man’s sword While I am near thee: I bestow on thee Life: if thou die, ’tis when thou sojournest Protected by this arm and voice no more; ’Tis slavishly, ’tis ignominiously, ’Tis by a villain’s knife.
_Rod._ By whose?
_Jul._ Roderigo’s.
_Rod._ O powers of vengeance! must I hear? endure? Live?
_Jul._ Call thy vassals? no! then wipe the drops Of froward childhood from thy shameless eyes. So! thou canst weep for passion—not for pity.
_Rod._ One hour ago I ruled all Spain! a camp Not larger than a sheepfold stood alone Against me: now, no friend throughout the world Follows my steps or hearkens to my call. Behold the turns of fortune, and expect No better; of all faithless men, the Moors Are the most faithless: from thy own experience Thou canst not value nor rely on them.
_Jul._ I value not the mass that makes my sword, Yet while I use it I rely on it. Rod. Julian, thy gloomy soul still meditates— Plainly I see it—death to me—pursue The dictates of thy leaders, let revenge Have its full sway, let Barbary prevail, And the pure creed her elders have embraced: Those placid sages hold assassination A most compendious supplement to law.
_Jul._ Thou knowest not the one, nor I the other, Torn hast thou from me all my soul held dear! Her form, her voice, all, hast thou banished from me; Nor dare I, wretched as I am! recall Those solaces of every grief, erewhile. I stand abased before insulting crime— I falter like a criminal myself. The hand that hurled thy chariot o’er its wheels, That held thy steeds erect and motionless As molten statues on some palace-gates, Shakes, as with palsied age, before thee now. Gone is the treasure of my heart, for ever, Without a father, mother, friend, or name. Daughter of Julian—such was her delight— Such was mine too! what pride more innocent, What, surely, less deserving pangs like these, Than springs from filial and parental love! Debarred from every hope that issues forth To meet the balmy breath of early life, Her saddened days, all, cold and colourless, Will stretch before her their whole weary length Amid the sameness of obscurity. She wanted not seclusion, to unveil Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell; She found it in all places, at all hours: While, to assuage my labours, she indulged A playfulness that shunned a mother’s eye, Still, to avert my perils, there arose A piety that, even from _me_, retired.
_Rod._ Such was she! what am I! those are the arms That are triumphant when the battle fails. O Julian, Julian! all thy former words Struck but the imbecile plumes of vanity; These, through its steely coverings, pierce the heart. I ask not life nor death; but, if I live, Send my most bitter enemy to watch My secret paths, send poverty, send pain— I will add more—wise as thou art, thou knowest No foe more furious than forgiven kings. I ask not then what thou wouldst never grant: May heaven, O Julian, from thy hand receive A pardoned man, a chastened criminal.
_Jul._ This further curse hast thou inflicted; wretch, I cannot pardon thee.
_Rod._ Thy tone, thy mien, Refute those words.
_Jul._ No—I can _not_ forgive.
_Rod._ Upon my knee, my conqueror, I implore— Upon the earth, before thy feet—hard heart!
_Jul._ Audacious! hast thou never heard that prayer And scorned it? ’tis the last thou shouldst repeat. Upon the earth! upon her knees! O God!
_Rod._ Resemble not a wretch so lost as I: Be better; Oh! be happier; and pronounce it.
_Jul._ I swerve not from my purpose: thou art mine, Conquered; and I have sworn to dedicate, Like a torn banner on my chapel’s roof, Thee to that power from whom thou hast rebelled. Expiate thy crimes by prayer, by penances.
_Rod._ Hasten the hour of trial, speak of peace. Pardon me not, then—but with purer lips Implore of God, who _would_ hear _thee_, to pardon.
_Jul._ Hope it I may—pronounce it—O Roderigo! Ask it of him who can; I too will ask, And, in my own transgressions, pray for thine.
_Rod._ One name I dare not—
_Jul._ Go—abstain from that, I do conjure thee: raise not in my soul Again the tempest that has wrecked my fame; Thou shalt not breathe in the same clime with her. Far o’er the unebbing sea thou shalt adore The eastern star, and—may thy end be peace.
FOURTH ACT.—SECOND SCENE.
RODERIGO _goes_: HERNANDO _enters_.
_Her._ From the prince Tarik I am sent, my lord.
_Jul._ A welcome messager, my brave Hernando. How fares it with the gallant soul of Tarik?
_Her._ Most joyfully; he scarcely had pronounced Your glorious name, and bid me urge your speed, Than, with a voice as though it answered heaven, “He shall confound them in their dark designs,” Cried he, and turned away with that swift stride Wherewith he meets and quells his enemies.
_Jul._ Alas, I cannot bear felicitation, Who shunned it even in felicity.
_Her._ Often we hardly think ourselves the happy Unless we hear it said by those around. O my lord Julian, how your praises cheered Our poor endeavours! sure, all hearts are ope Lofty and low, wise and unwise, to praise. Even the departed spirit hovers round Our blessings and our prayers; the corse itself Hath shined with other light than the still stars Shed on its rest, or the dim taper, nigh. My father, old men say, who saw him dead And heard your lips pronounce him good and happy, Smiled faintly through the quiet gloom, that eve, And the shroud throbbed upon his grateful breast. Howe’er it be, many who tell the tale Are good and happy from that voice of praise. His guidance and example were denied My youth and childhood: what I am I owe—
_Jul._ Hernando, look not back: a narrow path And arduous lies before thee; if thou stop Thou fallest; go right onward, nor observe Closely and rigidly another’s way, But, free and active, follow up thy own.
_Her._ The voice that urges now my manly step Onward in life, recalls me to the past, And from that fount I freshen for the goal. Early in youth, among us villagers Converse and ripened counsel you bestowed. O happy days of (far departed!) peace, Days when the mighty Julian stooped his brow Entering our cottage door; another air Breathed through the house; tired age and lightsome youth Beheld him, with intensest gaze: these felt More chastened joy; those, more profound repose. Yes, my best lord, when labour sent them home And midday suns, when from the social meal The wicker window held the summer heat, Praised have those been who, going unperceived, Opened it wide, that all might see you well: Nor were the children blamed, upon the mat, Hurrying to watch what rush would last arise From your foot’s pressure, ere the door was closed, And not yet wondering how they dared to love. Your counsels are more precious now than ever, But are they—pardon if I err—the same? Tarik is gallant, kind, the friend of Julian, Can he be more? or ought he to be less? Alas! his faith!
_Jul._ In peace or war, Hernando?
_Her._ Oh, neither—far above it; faith in God—
_Jul._ ’Tis God’s, not thine—embrace it not, nor hate it. Precious or vile, how dare we seize that offering, Scatter it, spurn it, in its way to heaven, Because we know it not? the Sovereign Lord Accepts his tribute, myrrh and frankincense From some, from others penitence and prayer: Why intercept them from his gracious hand? Why dash them down? why smite the supplicant?
_Her._ ’Tis what they do?