XXVIII.

Then on the silence of the snows there lay A Sabbath’s quiet sunshine--and its bell Fill’d the hush’d air awhile, with lonely sway; For the stream’s voice was chain’d by winter’s spell, The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and dell Rang forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee Peal’d from the mountain churches, with a swell Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea-- For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps were free!

[228] Senn, the name given to a herdsman among the Swiss Alps.

[229] Fohnwind, the south-east wind, which frequently lays waste the country before it.

[230] Walter Furst, the father-in-law of Tell.

[231] Werner Stauffacher, who had been urged by his wife to rouse and unite his countrymen for the deliverance of Switzerland.

[232] Erni, Arnold Melchthal.

[233] The Lammer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine eagle.

[234] The eyes of his aged father had been put out by the orders of the Austrian governor.

[235] Forest-Sea--the lake of the Four Cantons is frequently so called.

SONGS OF THE CID.[236]

THE CID’S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE.

With sixty knights in his gallant train, Went forth the Campeador of Spain; For wild sierras and plains afar, He left the lands of his own Bivar.[237]

To march o’er field, and to watch in tent, From his home in good Castile he went; To the wasting siege and the battle’s van, --For the noble Cid was a banish’d man!

Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze play’d, And his native streams wild music made, And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay, When for march and combat he took his way.

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took, And he turn’d his steed for a parting look, For a parting look at his own fair towers, --Oh! the exile’s heart hath weary hours!

The pennons were spread, and the band array’d, But the Cid at the threshold a moment stay’d-- It _was_ but a moment; the halls were lone, And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.

There was not a steed in the empty stall, Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall, Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door, Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.[238]

Then a dim tear swell’d to the warrior’s eye, As the voice of his native groves went by; And he said--“My foemen their wish have won: Now the will of God be in all things done!”

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer, And the winds of the morning swept off the tear, And the fields of his glory lay distant far, --He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar!

[236] These ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the “wild and wonderful” traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and the ancient poem of the Cid.

[237] Bivar, the supposed birthplace of the Cid, was a castle, about two leagues from Burgos.

[238]

“Tornaba la cabeza, e estabalos catando: Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin cañados, Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin mantos: E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados. Sospirò mio Cid.” _Poem of the Cid._

THE CID’S DEATHBED.

It was an hour of grief and fear Within Valencia’s walls, When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear Above her marble halls.

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes, And steps of hurrying feet, Where the Zambra’s[239] notes were wont to rise, Along the sunny street.

It was an hour of fear and grief On bright Valencia’s shore, For Death was busy with her chief, The noble Campeador.

The Moor-king’s barks were on the deep, With sounds and signs of war; But the Cid was passing to his sleep, In the silent Alcazar.

No moan was heard through the towers of state, No weeper’s aspect seen, But by the couch Ximena sate, With pale yet steadfast mien.[240]

Stillness was round the leader’s bed, Warriors stood mournful nigh, And banners, o’er his glorious head, Were drooping heavily.

And feeble grew the conquering hand, And cold the valiant breast; He had fought the battles of the land, And his hour was come to rest.

What said the Ruler of the field? --His voice is faint and low; The breeze that creeps o’er his lance and shield Hath louder accents now.

“Raise ye no cry, and let no moan Be made when I depart; The Moor must hear no dirge’s tone; Be ye of mighty heart!

“Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain From your walls ring far and shrill; And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain Shall grant you victory still.

“And gird my form with mail-array, And set me on my steed; So go ye forth on your funeral-way, And God shall give you speed.

“Go with the dead in the front of war, All arm’d with sword and helm,[241] And march by the camp of King Bucar, For the good Castilian realm.

“And let me slumber in the soil Which gave my fathers birth; I have closed my day of battle-toil, And my course is done on earth.”

--Now wave, ye glorious banners! wave! Through the lattice a wind sweeps by, And the arms, o’er the deathbed of the brave, Send forth a hollow sigh.

Now wave, ye banners of many a fight! As the fresh wind o’er you sweeps; The wind and the banners fall hush’d as night; The Campeador--he sleeps!

Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn, And swell out the trumpet’s blast, Till the notes prevail o’er the voice of wail, For the noble Cid hath pass’d!

[239] The Zambra, a Moorish dance. When Valencia was taken by the Cid, many of the Moorish families chose to remain there, and reside under his government.

[240] The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently alluded to in the romances.

[241]

“Banderas antiguas, tristes Be victorias un tiempo amadas, Tremolando estan al viento Y lloran aunque no hablan,” &c.

Herder’s translation of these romances (Der Cid, nach Spanischen Romanzen besungen) are remarkable for their spirit and scrupulous fidelity.

THE CID’S FUNERAL PROCESSION.

The Moor had beleaguer’d Valencia’s towers, And lances gleam’d up through her citron bowers, And the tents of the desert had girt her plain, And camels were trampling the vines of Spain; For the Cid was gone to rest.

There were men from wilds where the death-wind sweeps, There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps, There were bows from sands where the ostrich runs, For the shrill horn of Afric had call’d her sons To the battles of the West.

The midnight bell, o’er the dim seas heard, Like the roar of waters, the air had stirr’d; The stars were shining o’er tower and wave, And the camp lay hush’d as a wizard’s cave; But the Christians woke that night.

They rear’d the Cid on his barded steed, Like a warrior mail’d for the hour of need, And they fix’d the sword in the cold right hand Which had fought so well for his father’s land, And the shield from his neck hung bright.

There was arming heard in Valencia’s halls, There was vigil kept on the rampart walls; Stars had not faded nor clouds turn’d red, When the knights had girded the noble dead, And the burial train moved out.

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, Was the still death-march of the host begun; With a silent step went the cuirass’d bands, Like a lion’s tread on the burning sands; And they gave no battle-shout.

When the first went forth, it was midnight deep, In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep; When the last through the city’s gates had gone, O’er tent and rampart the bright day shone, With a sun-burst from the sea.

There were knights five hundred went arm’d before, And Bermudez the Cid’s green standard bore;[242] To its last fair field, with the break of morn, Was the glorious banner in silence borne, On the glad wind streaming free.

And the Campeador came stately then, Like a leader circled with steel-clad men! The helmet was down o’er the face of the dead, But his steed went proud, by a warrior led, For he knew that the Cid was there.

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword, And Ximena following her noble lord; Her eye was solemn, her step was slow, But there rose not a sound of war or woe, Not a whisper on the air.

The halls in Valencia were still and lone, The churches were empty, the masses done; There was not a voice through the wide streets far, Nor a footfall heard in the Alcazar, --So the burial-train moved out.

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, Was the still death-march of the host begun; With a silent step went the cuirass’d bands, Like a lion’s tread on the burning sands; And they gave no battle-shout.

But the deep hills peal’d with a cry ere long, When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng! --With a sudden flash of the lance and spear, And a charge of the war-steed in full career, It was Alvar Fañez came![243]

He that was wrapt with no funeral shroud, Had pass’d before like a threatening cloud! And the storm rush’d down on the tented plain, And the Archer-Queen,[244] with her bands, lay slain; For the Cid upheld his fame.

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar, And the Libyan kings who had join’d his war; And their hearts grew heavy, and died away, And their hands could not wield an assagay, For the dreadful things they saw!

For it seem’d where Minaya his onset made, There were seventy thousand knights array’d, All white as the snow on Nevada’s steep, And they came like the foam of a roaring deep --’Twas a sight of fear and awe!

And the crested form of a warrior tall, With a sword of fire, went before them all; With a sword of fire and a banner pale, And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail; He rode in the battle’s van!

There was fear in the path of his dim white horse, There was death in the giant-warrior’s course! Where his banner stream’d with its ghostly light, Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying flight-- For it seem’d not the sword of man!

The field and the river grew darkly red, As the kings and leaders of Afric fled; There was work for the men of the Cid that day! --They were weary at eve, when they ceased to slay, As reapers whose task is done!

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled! The sails of their galleys in haste were spread; But the sea had its share of the Paynim slain, And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain. --So the Cid to his grave pass’d on!

[242] “And while they stood there, they saw the Cid Ruy Diez coming up with three hundred knights; for he had not been in the battle, and they knew his _green pennon_.”--Southey’s _Chronicle of the Cid_.

[243] Alvar Fañez Minaya, one of the Cid’s most distinguished warriors.

[244] A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of female warriors, accompanied King Bucar from Africa. Her arrows were so unerring, that she obtained the name of the Star of Archers.

“Una Mora muy gallarda, Gran maestra en el tirar, Con Saetas del Aljava, De los arcos de Turquia Estrella era nombrada, Por la destreza que avia En el herir de la Xara.”

THE CID’S RISING.

’Twas the deep mid-watch of the silent night, And Leon in slumber lay, When a sound went forth in rushing might, Like an army on its way![245] In the stillness of the hour When the dreams of sleep have power, And men forget the day.

Through the dark and lonely streets it went, Till the slumberers woke in dread;-- The sound of a passing armament, With the charger’s stony tread. There was heard no trumpet’s peal, But the heavy tramp of steel, As a host’s to combat led.

Through the dark and lonely streets it pass’d, And the hollow pavement rang, And the towers, as with a sweeping blast, Rock’d to the stormy clang! But the march of the viewless train Went on to a royal fane, Where a priest his night-hymn sang.

There was knocking that shook the marble floor, And a voice at the gate, which said-- “That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador, Was there in his arms array’d; And that with him, from the tomb, Had the Count Gonzalez come With a host, uprisen to aid!

“And they came for the buried king that lay At rest in that ancient fane; For he must be arm’d on the battle-day, With them to deliver Spain!” --Then the march went sounding on, And the Moors by noontide sun Were dust on Tolosa’s plain.

[245] See Southey’s _Chronicle of the Cid_, p. 352.

GREEK SONGS

THE STORM OF DELPHI.[246]

Far through the Delphian shades An Eastern trumpet rung! And the startled eagle rush’d on high, With a sounding flight through the fiery sky; And banners, o’er the shadowy glades, To the sweeping winds were flung.

Banners, with deep-red gold All waving as a flame, And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed, And a peal of Asia’s war-notes told That in arms the Persian came.

He came with starry gems On his quiver and his crest; With starry gems, at whose heart the day Of the cloudless Orient burning lay, And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems, As onward his thousands press’d.

But a gloom fell o’er their way, And a heavy moan went by! A moan, yet not like the wind’s low swell, When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell, But a mortal murmur of dismay, Or a warrior’s dying sigh!

A gloom fell o’er their way! ’Twas not the shadow cast By the dark pine-boughs, as they cross’d the blue Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue; The air was fill’d with a mightier sway-- But on the spearmen pass’d!

And hollow to their tread Came the echoes of the ground; And banners droop’d, as with dews o’erborne, And the wailing blast of the battle-horn Had an alter’d cadence, dull and dead, Of strange foreboding sound.

But they blew a louder strain, When the steep defiles were pass’d! And afar the crown’d Parnassus rose, To shine through heaven with his radiant snows, And in golden light the Delphian fane Before them stood at last!

In golden light it stood, Midst the laurels gleaming lone; For the Sun-god yet, with a lovely smile, O’er its graceful pillars look’d awhile, Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood Grew deep round its mountain-throne.

And the Persians gave a shout! But the marble walls replied With a clash of steel and a sullen roar Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore, And a savage trumpet’s note peal’d out, Till their hearts for terror died!

On the armour of the god Then a viewless hand was laid; There were helm and spear, with a clanging din, And corslet brought from the shrine within, From the inmost shrine of the dread abode, And before its front array’d.

And a sudden silence fell Through the dim and loaded air! On the wild-bird’s wing and the myrtle spray, And the very founts in their silvery way: With a weight of sleep came down the spell, Till man grew breathless there.

But the pause was broken soon! ’Twas not by song or lyre; For the Delphian maids had left their bowers, And the hearths were lone in the city’s towers, But there burst a sound through the misty noon-- That battle-noon of fire!

It burst from earth and heaven! It roll’d from crag and cloud! For a moment on the mountain-blast With a thousand stormy voices pass’d; And the purple gloom of the sky was riven, When the thunder peal’d aloud.

And the lightnings in their play Flash’d forth, like javelins thrown: Like sun-darts wing’d from the silver bow, They smote the spear and the turban’d brow; And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray, And the banners were struck down!

And the massy oak-boughs crash’d To the fire-bolts from on high, And the forest lent its billowy roar, While the glorious tempest onward bore, And lit the streams, as they foam’d and dash’d, With the fierce rain sweeping by.

Then rush’d the Delphian men On the pale and scatter’d host. Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, They rush’d from the dim Corycian cave; And the singing blast o’er wood and glen Roll’d on, with the spears they toss’d.

There were cries of wild dismay, There were shouts of warrior-glee, There were savage sounds of the tempest’s mirth, That shook the realm of their eagle-birth; But the mount of song, when they died away, Still rose, with its temple, free!

And the Pæan swell’d ere long, Io Pæan! from the fane; Io Pæan! for the war-array On the crown’d Parnassus riven that day! --Thou shalt rise _as_ free, thou mount of song! With thy bounding streams again.

[246] See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitford’s _Greece_.

THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.[247]

Before the fiery sun-- The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye, In the free air, and on the war-field won-- Our fathers crown’d the Bowl of Liberty.

Amidst the tombs they stood, The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies, And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood Had steep’d the soil in hues of sacrifice.

They call’d the glorious dead, In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh, And pour’d rich odours o’er their battle-bed, And bade them to their rite of Liberty.

They call’d them from the shades-- The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell How softer light th’ immortal clime pervades, And music floats o’er meads of asphodel.

Then fast the bright-red wine Flow’d to _their_ names who taught the world to die, And made the land’s green turf a living shrine, Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.[248]

So the rejoicing earth Took from her vines again the blood she gave, And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth From the free soil, thus hallow’d to the brave.

_We_ have the battle-fields, The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, We have the founts the purple vintage yields; --When shall _we_ crown the Bowl of Liberty?

[247] This and the following piece appeared originally in the _New Monthly Magazine_.

[248] For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration of the battle of Platæa, see Potter’s _Antiquities of Greece_, vol. i. p. 389.

THE VOICE OF SCIO.

A voice from Scio’s isle-- A voice of song, a voice of old Swept far as cloud or billow roll’d, And earth was hush’d the while--

The souls of nations woke! Where lies the land whose hills among That voice of victory hath not rung, As if a trumpet spoke?

To sky, and sea, and shore, Of those whose blood on Ilion’s plain Swept from the rivers to the main, A glorious tale it bore.

Still by our sun-bright deep, With all the fame that fiery lay Threw round them, in its rushing way, The sons of battle sleep.

And kings their turf have crown’d! And pilgrims o’er the foaming wave Brought garlands there: so rest the brave, Who thus their bard have found!

A voice from Scio’s isle, A voice as deep hath risen again; As far shall peal its thrilling strain, Where’er our sun may smile!

Let not its tones expire! Such power to waken earth and heaven, And might and vengeance, ne’er was given To mortal song or lyre!

Know ye not whence it comes? --From ruin’d hearths, from burning fanes, From kindred blood on yon red plains, From desolated homes!

’Tis with us through the night! ’Tis on our hills, ’tis in our sky-- Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high O’er the mid-waves of fight!

THE SPARTANS’ MARCH.[249]

[“The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made to the ‘Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.’ The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur.”--Campbell, _On the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks_.]

’Twas morn upon the Grecian hills, Where peasants dress’d the vines; Sunlight was on Cithæron’s rills, Arcadia’s rocks and pines.

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, Eurotas wander’d by, When a sound arose from Sparta’s towers Of solemn harmony.

Was it the hunters’ choral strain To the woodland-goddess pour’d? Did virgin hands in Pallas’ fane Strike the full-sounding chord?

But helms were glancing on the stream, Spears ranged in close array, And shields flung back a glorious beam To the morn of a fearful day!

And the mountain-echoes of the land Swell’d through the deep blue sky; While to soft strains moved forth a band Of men that moved to die.

They march’d not with the trumpet’s blast, Nor bade the horn peal out; And the laurel groves, as on they pass’d, Rang with no battle-shout!

They ask’d no clarion’s voice to fire Their souls with an impulse high; But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre For the sons of liberty!

And still sweet flutes their path around Sent forth Æolian breath; They needed not a sterner sound To marshal them for death!

So moved they calmly to their field, Thence never to return, Save bearing back the Spartan shield, Or on it proudly borne!

[249] Originally published in the _Edinburgh Magazine_.

THE URN AND SWORD.

They sought for treasures in the tomb, Where gentler hands were wont to spread Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom, And sunny ringlets, for the dead.[250]

They scatter’d far the greensward heap, Where once those hands the bright wine pour’d; --What found they in the home of sleep?-- A mouldering urn, a shiver’d sword!

An urn, which held the dust of one Who died when hearths and shrines were free; A sword, whose work was proudly done Between our mountains and the sea.

And these are treasures!--undismay’d, Still for their suffering land we trust, Wherein the past its fame hath laid With freedom’s sword and valour’s dust.

[250] See Potter’s _Grecian Antiquities_, vol. ii. p. 234.

THE MYRTLE BOUGH.

Still green, along our sunny shore, The flowering myrtle waves, As when its fragrant boughs of yore Were offer’d on the graves-- The graves wherein our mighty men Had rest, unviolated then.

Still green it waves! as when the hearth Was sacred through the land; And fearless was the banquet’s mirth, And free the minstrel’s hand; And guests, with shining myrtle crown’d, Sent the wreath’d lyre and wine-cup round.

Still green! as when on holy ground The tyrant’s blood was pour’d: Forget ye not what garlands bound The young deliverer’s sword! Though earth may shroud Harmodius now, We still have sword and myrtle bough!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRÜTLI.

Whence art thou, flower? From holy ground, Where freedom’s foot hath been! Yet bugle-blast or trumpet-sound Ne’er shook that solemn scene.

Flower of a noble field! thy birth Was not where spears have cross’d, And shiver’d helms have strewn the earth, Midst banners won and lost.

But where the sunny hues and showers Unto thy cup were given, There met high hearts at midnight hours, Pure hands were raised to heaven;

And vows were pledged that man should roam Through every Alpine dell Free as the wind, the torrent’s foam, The shaft of William Tell.

And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer, Hallow’d the pastoral sod; And souls grew strong for battle there, Nerved with the peace of God.

Before the Alps and stars they knelt, That calm devoted band, And rose, and made their spirits felt Through all the mountain-land.

Then welcome, Grütli’s free-born flower! Even in thy pale decay There dwells a breath, a tone, a power, Which all high thoughts obey.

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

And was thy home, pale wither’d thing, Beneath the rich blue southern sky? Wert thou a nursling of the spring, The winds and suns of glorious Italy?

Those suns in golden light e’en now Look o’er the poet’s lovely grave; Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.

The flowers o’er Posilippo’s brow May cluster in their purple bloom, But on th’ o’ershadowing ilex-bough, Thy breezy place is void by Virgil’s tomb.

Thy place is void; oh! none on earth, This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that which souls of loftiest birth Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.

Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung On the green stem which once was thine; When shall another strain be sung Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?

THE CHIEFTAIN’S SON.

Yes, it is ours!--the field is won, A dark and evil field! Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

Let me not hear your trumpets ring, Swell not the battle-horn! Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!

Speak not of victory!--in the name There is too much of woe! Hush’d be the empty voice of Fame-- Call me back _his_ whose graceful head is low.

Speak not of victory!--from my halls The sunny hour is gone! The ancient banner on my walls Must sink ere long; I had but him--but one!

Within the dwelling of my sires The hearths will soon be cold, With me must die the beacon-fires That stream’d at midnight from the mountain-hold.

And let them fade, since this must be, My lovely and my brave! Was thy bright blood pour’d forth for me? And is there but for stately youth a grave?

Speak to me once again, my boy! Wilt thou not hear my call? Thou wert so full of life and joy, I had not dreamt of _this_--that thou couldst fall!

Thy mother watches from the steep For thy returning plume; How shall I tell her that thy sleep Is of the silent house, th’ untimely tomb?

Thou didst not seem as one to die, With all thy young renown! --Ye saw his falchion’s flash on high, In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!

Slow be your march! the field is won! A dark and evil field! Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

A FRAGMENT.

Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave! Let the pines murmur o’er your grave, Your dirge be in the moaning wave-- We call you back no more!

Oh! there was mourning when ye fell, In your own vales a deep-toned knell, An agony, a wild farewell-- But that hath long been o’er.

Rest with your still and solemn fame; The hills keep record of your name, And never can a touch of shame Darken the buried brow.

But we on changeful days are cast, When bright names from their place fall fast; And ye that with your glory pass’d, We cannot mourn you now.

ENGLAND’S DEAD.

Son of the Ocean Isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear’d o’er Glory’s bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead.

On Egypt’s burning plains, By the pyramid o’ersway’d, With fearful power the noonday reigns, And the palm-trees yield no shade;--

But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!-- _There_ slumber England’s dead.

The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far by Ganges’ banks at night Is heard the tiger’s roar;--

But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone,-- _There_ slumber England’s dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods The Western wilds among, And free, in green Columbia’s woods, The hunter’s bow is strung;--

But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow’s flight be sped! Why should _they_ reck whose task is done?-- _There_ slumber England’s dead!

The mountain storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky Like rose-leaves on the breeze;--

But let the storm rage on! Let the fresh wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,-- _There_ slumber England’s dead.

On the frozen deep’s repose ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern night-clouds lower;--

But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! _Their_ course with mast and flag is done,-- Even there sleep England’s dead.

The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead.

THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDS, HELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822.

[The _Gorseddau_, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, “in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light.” The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly) in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening of a _Gorsedd_, or meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of federation.--See Owen’s _Translation of the Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen_.]

Where met our bards of old?--the glorious throng, They of the mountain and the battle-song? They met--oh! not in kingly hall or bower, But where wild Nature girt herself with power: They met where streams flash’d bright from rocky caves; They met where woods made moan o’er warriors’ graves, And where the torrent’s rainbow spray was cast, And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast, And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied The crested Roman, in his hour of pride; And where the Carnedd,[251] on its lonely hill, Bore silent record of the mighty still; And where the Druid’s ancient Cromlech[252] frown’d, And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.

There throng’d th’ inspired of yore!--on plain or height, _In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light_, And, baring unto heaven each noble head, Stood in the circle, where none else might tread. Well might their lays be lofty!--soaring thought From Nature’s presence tenfold grandeur caught: Well might bold freedom’s soul pervade the strains Which startled eagles from their lone domains, And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went Up through the blue resounding firmament. Whence came the echoes to those numbers high? ’Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by, And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest With their good swords, upon the mountain’s breast; And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow, Sever’d by cloud and storm from all below; And the turf-mounds,[253] once girt by ruddy spears, And the rock-altars of departed years. --Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent’s roar, The winds a thousand wild responses bore; And the green land, whose every vale and glen Doth shrine the memory of heroic men, On all her hills awakening to rejoice, Sent forth proud answers to her children’s voice.

For us, not ours the festival to hold, Midst the stone circles hallow’d thus of old; Not where great Nature’s majesty and might First broke all glorious on our infant sight; Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave, Not by the mountain-llyn,[254] the ocean-wave, In these late days we meet--dark Mona’s shore, Eryri’s[255] cliffs resound with harps no more!

But as the stream, (though time or art may turn The current, bursting from its cavern’d urn, From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers, To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,) Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep, Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep; Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free, Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee! To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong, Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song! Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less To the green memory of thy loveliness, Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal’d from every height, _In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light_!

[251] Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.

[252] Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a stone of covenant.

[253] The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mounts of turf.--_Pennant._

[254] Llyn, a lake or pool.

[255] _Eryri_, Snowdon.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.[256]

I come, I come! ye have call’d me long-- I come o’er the mountains with light and song! Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth, By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes Are veil’d with wreaths on Italian plains;-- But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have look’d on the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free, And the pine has a hinge of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, And call’d out each voice of the deep blue sky; From the night-bird’s lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain, They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain brows, They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!

Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come! Where the violets lie may be now your home. Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye, And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly! With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Come forth to the sunshine--I may not stay. Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in grove and glen! Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth! Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, And youth is abroad in my green domains.

But ye!--ye are changed since ye met me last! There is something bright from your features pass’d! There is that come over your brow and eye Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die! --Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet: Oh! what have you look’d on since last we met?

Ye are changed, ye are changed!--and I see not here All whom I saw in the vanish’d year! There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, Which toss’d in the breeze with a play of light; There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay No faint remembrance of dull decay!

There were steps that flew o’er the cowslip’s head, As if for a banquet all earth were spread; There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky, And had not a sound of mortality! Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass’d? Ye have look’d on death since ye met me last!

I know whence the shadow comes o’er you now-- Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow! Ye have given the lovely to earth’s embrace-- She hath taken the fairest of beauty’s race, With their laughing eyes and their festal crown: They are gone from amongst you in silence down!

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair, Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair! But I know of a land where there falls no blight-- I shall find them there, with their eyes of light! Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell, I tarry no longer--farewell, farewell!

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne-- Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn! For me, I depart to a brighter shore-- Ye are mark’d by care, ye are mine no more; I go where the loved who have left you dwell, And the flowers are not Death’s. Fare ye well, farewell!

[256] Originally published in the _New Monthly Magazine_.

[“‘The Voice of Spring,’ perhaps the best known and best loved of all Mrs Hemans’ lyrics, was written early in the year 1823; and is thus alluded to in a letter to a friend, who had lately suffered a severe and sudden bereavement:--‘The Voice of Spring’ expresses some peculiar feelings of my own. Although my life has yet been unvisited by any affliction so deeply impressive, in all its circumstances, as the one you have been called upon to sustain; yet I cannot but feel every year, with the return of the violet, how much the shadows of my mind have deepened since its last appearance; and to me the spring, with all its joy and beauty, is generally a time of thoughtfulness rather than mirth. I think the most delightful poetry I know upon the subject of this season, is contained in the works of Tieck, a German poet, with whom you are perhaps acquainted; but the feelings he expresses are of a very different character from those I have described to you, seeming all to proceed from an overflowing sense of life and joy.’

“This indefinable feeling of languor and depression produced by the influence of spring, will be well understood by many a gentle heart. Never do the

‘Fond strange yearnings from the soul’s deep cell Gush for the faces we no more shall see,’

with such uncontrollable power, as when all external nature breathes of life and gladness. Amidst all the bright and joyous things around us, we are haunted with images of death and the grave. The force of contrast, not less strong than that of analogy, is unceasingly reminding us of the great gulf that divides us from those who are now ‘gone down in silence.’ Some unforgotten voice is ever whispering--‘And I too in Arcadia!’ We remember how we were wont to rejoice in the soft air and pleasant sunshine; and these things can charm us no longer, ‘because _they_ are not.’ The farewell sadness of autumn, on the contrary--its falling leaves, and universal imagery of decay, by bringing more home to us the sense of our own mortality, identifies us more closely with those who are gone before, and the veil of separation becomes, as it were, more transparent. We are impressed with a more pervading conviction that ‘we shall go to them;’ while, in spring, every thing seems mournfully to echo, ‘they will not return to us!’

“These peculiar associations may be traced in many of Mrs Hemans’ writings, deepening with the influence of years and of sorrows, and more particularly developed in the poem called ‘Breathings of Spring.’ And when it is remembered that it was at this season her own earthly course was finished, the following passage from a letter, written in the month of May, some years after the one last quoted, cannot be read without emotion:--‘Poor A. H. is to be buried to-morrow. With the bright sunshine laughing around, it seems more sad to think of; yet, if I could choose when I would wish to die, it should be in spring--the influence of that season is so strangely depressing to my heart and frame.’”--_Memoir_, p. 66-68.

“‘The Voice of Spring,’ one of the first of what may be called Mrs Hemans’ fanciful lyrics, which presently became as familiar as the music of some popular composer when brought to our doors by wandering minstrels.”--Chorley’s _Memorials_, vol. i. p. 113.

“But it is time Mrs Hemans’ poetry were allowed to speak for itself; in making our extracts from it, we have really been as much puzzled as a child gathering flowers in a lovely garden--now attracted by a rose--straightway allured by a lily--now tempted by a stately tulip--and again unsettled by a breathing violet, or ‘well-attired woodbine.’ We do think, however, that the ‘Voice of Spring’ is the pride of Mrs H.’s parterre--the rose of her poetry.”--(A. A. Watts.)--_Literary Magnet_, 1826.]

ELYSIUM.

[“In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes--that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence--were banished to the infernal Regions.”--Chateaubriand, _Génie du Christianisme_.]

Fair wert thou in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams, Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, Where, as they pass’d, bright hours Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

Fair wert thou, with the light On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast From purple skies ne’er deep’ning into night, Yet soft, as if each moment were their last Of glory, fading fast Along the mountains!--but _thy_ golden day Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Æolian sound went by From fountain-voices in their secret glades, And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply To summer’s breezy sigh, And young leaves trembling to the wind’s light breath, Which ne’er had touch’d them with a hue of death!

And the transparent sky Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain Of harps that midst the woods made harmony, Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain With dreams and yearnings vain, And dim remembrances, that still draw birth From the bewildering music of the earth.

And who, with silent tread, Moved o’er the plains of waving asphodel? Call’d from the dim procession of the dead, Who midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell, And listen to the swell Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale The spirit wandering in the immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine, at nations’ feasts went round! They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, And in all regions found Their echoes midst the mountains!--and become In man’s deep heart as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied-- Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought The soul’s far birthplace--but without a guide! Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysterious dreams, born midst the olive woods by Grecian streams.

But the most _loved_ are they Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way; The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps; till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.

And these--of whose abode, Midst her green valleys, earth retain’d no trace, Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, A shade of sadness on some kindred face, A dim and vacant place In some sweet home;--thou hadst no wreaths for _these_, Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!

The peasant at his door Might sink to die when vintage-feasts were spread, And songs on every wind! From _thy_ bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head-- Thou wert for nobler dead! He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, And sigh’d to bid the festal sun farewell!

The slave, whose very tears Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years, As embers in a burial-urn compress’d; _He_ might not be thy guest! No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Came o’er _his_ path, and whisper’d “Liberty!”

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, The child at rest before the mother lay, E’en so to pass away, With its bright smile!--Elysium! what wert _thou_ To her, who wept o’er that young slumb’rer’s brow?

Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, Which in its clear eye shone Like spring’s first wakening! but that light was past-- Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast?

Not where _thy_ soft winds play’d, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep! Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade! From thee no voice came o’er the gloomy deep, And bade man cease to weep! Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love![257]

[257] The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs Hemans some years after its first publication, and, though done so perhaps to advantage, one verse was omitted. As originally written, the two following stanzas concluded the piece:--

For the most loved are they Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice, In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way; The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps; till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.

And the world knows not then, Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! Yet these are they, who on the souls of men Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, The long-remember’d dead! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell-- Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel!

THE FUNERAL GENIUS,

AN ANCIENT STATUE.

“Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sur sa tête, et le dos appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exprimer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables.”--Visconti, _Description des Antiques du Musée Royal_.

Thou shouldst be look’d on when the starlight falls Through the blue stillness of the summer air, Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls-- It hath too fitful and too wild a glare! And thou!--thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.

Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead Were crown’d of old, with pale spring-flowers like these: Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed As from the wing of some faint southern breeze: And the pine-boughs o’ershadow thee with gloom, Which of the grove seems breathing--not the tomb.

_They_ fear’d not death, whose calm and gracious thought Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee! They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, And laid thy head against the forest tree, As that of one, by music’s dreamy close, On the wood-violets lull’d to deep repose.

They fear’d not death!--yet who shall say his touch Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair? Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much Of tender beauty as thy features wear? Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes So still a night, a night of summer, lies!

Had they seen aught like thee? Did some fair boy Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest? --His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy, But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress’d; And his eye veil’d so softly by its fringe, And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?

Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour Made known its lessons from a brow like thine! If all their knowledge of the spoiler’s power Came by a look so tranquilly divine! --Let him who _thus_ hath seen the lovely part, Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart.

But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe, Or love, or terror, in the days of old, That men pour’d out their gladd’ning spirit’s flow, Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold, And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid Far more than we--for loftier faith is ours! _Their_ gems were lost in ashes--yet they made The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array’d, And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.

Is it for _us_ a darker gloom to shed O’er its dim precincts?--do we not intrust But for a time its chambers with our dead, And strew immortal seed upon the dust? Why should _we_ dwell on that which lies beneath, When living light hath touch’d the brow of death?

THE TOMBS OF PLATÆA.

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

And there they sleep!--the men who stood In arms before th’ exulting sun, And bathed their spears in Persian blood, And taught the earth how freedom might be won.

They sleep!--th’ Olympic wreaths are dead, Th’ Athenian lyres are hush’d and gone; The Dorian voice of song is fled-- Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on.

They sleep--and seems not all around As hallow’d unto glory’s tomb? Silence is on the battle-ground, The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom.

And stars are watching on their height, But dimly seen through mist and cloud; And still and solemn is the light Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud.

And thou, pale Night-queen! here thy beams Are not as those the shepherd loves, Nor look they down on shining streams, By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves.

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, In shadowy quiet, midst its vines; No temple gleaming from the steep, Midst the gray olives or the mountain pines:

But o’er a dim and boundless waste, Thy rays, e’en like a tomb-lamp’s, brood, Where man’s departed steps are traced But by his dust, amidst the solitude.

And be it thus!--What slave shall tread O’er freedom’s ancient battle-plains? Let deserts wrap the glorious dead When their bright Land sits weeping o’er her chains.

Here, where the Persian clarion rung, And where the Spartan sword flash’d high, And where the pæan strains were sung, From year to year swell’d on by liberty;

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, Until the bonds of Greece be riven, Save of the leader’s charging-word, Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven!

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave! No vines festoon your lonely tree,[258] No harvest o’er your war-field wave, Till rushing winds proclaim--The land is free!

[258] A single tree appears in Mr Williams’ impressive picture.

THE VIEW FROM CASTRI.

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

There have been bright and glorious pageants here, Where now gray stones and moss-grown columns lie; There have been words, which earth grew pale to hear, Breathed from the cavern’s misty chambers nigh: There have been voices through the sunny sky, And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes sending, And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody With incense-clouds around the temple blending, And throngs with laurel-boughs before the altar bending.

There have been treasures of the seas and isles Brought to the Day-god’s now-forsaken throne; Thunders have peal’d along the rock-defiles, When the far-echoing battle-horn made known That foes were on their way! The deep wind’s moan Hath chill’d th’ invader’s heart with secret fear; And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone, Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce career, From his bold hand have struck the banner and the spear.

The shrine hath sunk!--but thou unchanged art there! Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams! Unchanged--and rising through the radiant air, With thy dark waving pines, and flashing streams, And all thy founts of song! Their bright course teems With inspiration yet; and each dim haze, Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems As with its mantle veiling from our gaze The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days!

Away, vain fantasies!--doth less of power Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest, Though, in deep stillness, now the ruin’s flower Wave o’er the pillars mouldering on thy breast? --Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy crest! Let the great rocks their solitude regain! No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest With their full chords:--but silent be the strain! Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th’ Eternal’s reign![259]

[259] This, with the preceding, and several of the following pieces, first appeared in the _Edinburgh Magazine_.

THE FESTAL HOUR.

When are the lessons given That shake the startled earth? When wakes the foe While the friend sleeps? When falls the traitor’s blow? When are proud sceptres riven, High hopes o’erthrown?--It is when lands rejoice, When cities blaze and lift th’ exulting voice, And wave their banners to the kindling heaven!

Fear ye the festal hour! When mirth o’erflows, then tremble!--’Twas a night Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, When through the regal bower The trumpet peal’d ere yet the song was done, And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, And trampling armies, ruthless in their power.

The marble shrines were crown’d: Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody, And censers waved around; And lyres were strung and bright libations pour’d! When through the streets flash’d out the avenging sword, Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound![260]

Through Rome a triumph pass’d. Rich in her Sun-god’s mantling beams went by That long array of glorious pageantry, With shout and trumpet-blast. An empire’s gems their starry splendour shed O’er the proud march; a king in chains was led; A stately victor, crown’d and robed, came last.[261]

And many a Dryad’s bower Had lent the laurels which, in waving play, Stirr’d the warm air, and glisten’d round his way As a quick-flashing shower. --O’er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung-- Woe for the dead!--the father’s broken flower!

A sound of lyre and song, In the still night, went floating o’er the Nile, Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, Swept with that voice along; And lamps were shining o’er the red wine’s foam Where a chief revell’d in a monarch’s dome, And fresh rose-garlands deck’d a glittering throng.

’Twas Antony that bade The joyous chords ring out! But strains arose Of wilder omen at the banquet’s close! Sounds, by no mortal made,[262] Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, And pass’d--and with another sunset’s light, The kingly Roman on his bier was laid.

Bright midst its vineyards lay The fair Campanian city,[263] with its towers And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers, Clear in the golden day; Joy was around it as the glowing sky, And crowds had fill’d its halls of revelry, And all the sunny air was music’s way.

A cloud came o’er the face Of Italy’s rich heaven!--its crystal blue Was changed, and deepen’d to a wrathful hue Of night, o’ershadowing space As with the wings of death!--in all his power Vesuvius woke, and hurl’d the burning shower, And who could tell the buried city’s place?

Such things have been of yore, In the gay regions where the citrons blow, And purple summers all their sleepy glow On the grape-clusters pour; And where the palms to spicy winds are waving, Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving, As with a flow of light, their southern shore.

Turn we to other climes!-- Far in the Druid isle a feast was spread, Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead;[264] And ancient battle-rhymes Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed And lofty songs of Britain’s elder time;--

But ere the giant-fane Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, Hush’d were the bards, and in the face of heaven, O’er that old burial-plain, Flash’d the keen Saxon dagger!--blood was streaming Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming, And Britain’s hearths were heap’d that night in vain--

For they return’d no more! They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, In that fierce banquet’s mirth to bear their part: And on the rushy floor, And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls; But not for them--they slept--their feast was o’er!

Fear ye the festal hour! Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o’erflows! Tame down the swelling heart! The bridal rose, And the rich myrtle’s flower, Have veil’d the sword! Red wines have sparkled fast From venom’d goblets, and soft breezes pass’d With fatal perfume through the revel’s bower.

Twine the young glowing wreath! But pour not all your spirit in the song, Which through the sky’s deep azure floats along Like summer’s quickening breath! The ground is hollow in the path of mirth: Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth, So darkly press’d and girdled in by death!

[“‘The Festal Hour’ certainly appears to us to be one of the noblest, regular, and classical odes in the English language--happy in the general idea, and rich in imagery and illustration.”--Dr Morehead _in Constable’s Magazine_, _Sept. 1823_.]

[260] The sword of Harmodius.

[261] Paulus Æmilius, one of whose sons died a few days before, and another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest of Macedon, when Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains.

[262] See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, the night before Antony’s death.

[263] Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inhabitants were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes which overwhelmed the city descended.

[264] Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king; and by others mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of British chiefs here alluded to.

SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.

[“In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold of Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested that this prince repeatedly declared he ‘would trample the audacious rustics under his feet;’ and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for the purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to death.

“The 15th October 1315 dawned. The sun darted its first rays on the shields and armour of the advancing host; and this being the first army ever known to have attempted the frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line with various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cavalry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space between the mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on the eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled down heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. The confederates on the mountain, perceiving the impression made by this attack, rushed down in close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered column. With massy clubs they dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and dealt their blows and thrusts with long pikes. The narrowness of the defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having injured the road, the horses were impeded in all their motions; many leaped into the lake; all were startled; and at last the whole column gave way, and fell suddenly back on the infantry; and these last, as the nature of the country did not allow them to open their files, were run over by the fugitives, and many of them trampled to death. A general rout ensued, and Duke Leopold was with much difficulty rescued by a peasant, who led him to Winterthur, where the historian of the times saw him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed.”--Planta’s _History of the Helvetic Confederacy_.]

The wine-month[265] shone in its golden prime, And the red grapes clustering hung, But a deeper sound, through the Switzer’s clime, Than the vintage music, rung-- A sound through vaulted cave, A sound through echoing glen, Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave; --’Twas the tread of steel-girt men.

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, Midst the ancient rocks was blown, Till the Alps replied to that voice of war With a thousand of their own. And through the forest-glooms Flash’d helmets to the day; And the winds were tossing knightly plumes, Like the larch-boughs in their play.

In Hasli’s[266] wilds there was gleaming steel As the host of the Austrian pass’d; And the Schreckhorn’s[267] rocks, with a savage peal, Made mirth of his clarion’s blast. Up midst the Righi snows The stormy march was heard, With the charger’s tramp, whence fire-sparks rose, And the leader’s gathering-word.

But a band, the noblest band of all, Through the rude Morgarten strait, With blazon’d streamers and lances tall, Moved onwards in princely state. They came with heavy chains For the race despised so long-- But amidst his Alp-domains, The herdsman’s arm is strong!

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn When they enter’d the rock-defile, And shrill as a joyous hunter’s horn Their bugles rang the while. But on the misty height Where the mountain-people stood, There was stillness as of night, When storms at distance brood.

There was stillness as of deep, dead night, And a pause--but not of fear, While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might Of the hostile shield and spear. On wound those columns bright Between the lake and wood, But they look’d not to the misty height Where the mountain-people stood.

The pass was fill’d with their serried power, All helm’d and mail-array’d, And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower In the rustling forest-shade. There were prince and crested knight, Hemm’d in by cliff and flood, When a shout arose from the misty height Where the mountain-people stood.

And the mighty rocks came bounding down Their startled foes among, With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown-- Oh! the herdsman’s arm is strong!-- They came like lauwine[268] hurl’d From Alp to Alp in play, When the echoes shout through the snowy world, And the pines are borne away.

The fir-woods crash’d on the mountain-side, And the Switzers rush’d from high, With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride Of the Austrian chivalry: Like hunters of the deer, They storm’d the narrow dell; And first in the shock, with Uri’s spear, Was the arm of William Tell.[269]

There was tumult in the crowded strait, And a cry of wild dismay; And many a warrior met his fate From a peasant’s hand that day! And the Empire’s banner then From its place of waving free, Went down before the shepherd-men, The men of the Forest-Sea.

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake The cuirass and the shield, And the war-horse dash’d to the reddening lake From the reapers of the field! The field--but not of sheaves-- Proud crests and pennons lay, Strewn o’er it thick as the birch-wood leaves In the autumn tempest’s way.

Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view’d When the Austrian turn’d to fly, And the brave, in the trampling multitude, Had a fearful death to die! And the leader of the war At eve unhelm’d was seen, With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, And a pale and troubled mien.

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills Went back from the battle-toil, To their cabin homes midst the deep-green hills, All burden’d with royal spoil. There were songs and festal fires On the soaring Alps that night, When children sprang to greet their sires From the wild Morgarten fight

[265] _Wine-month_, the German name for October.

[266] Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne.

[267] Schreckhorn, the _peak of terror_, a mountain in the canton of Berne.

[268] _Lauwine_, the Swiss name for the avalanche.

[269] William Tell’s name is particularly mentioned amongst the confederates at Morgarten.

ODE ON THE DEFEAT OF KING SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL, AND HIS ARMY, IN AFRICA.

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF HERRERA.

[Ferdinand de Herrera, surnamed the Divine, was a Spanish poet who lived in the reign of Charles V., and is still considered by the Castilians as one of their classic writers. He aimed at the introduction of a new style into Spanish poetry, and his lyrics are distinguished by the sustained majesty of their language, the frequent recurrence of expressions and images derived apparently from a fervent study of the prophetic books of Scripture, and the lofty tone of national pride maintained throughout, and justified indeed by the nature of the subjects to which some of these productions are devoted. This last characteristic is blended with a deep and enthusiastic feeling of religion, which rather exalts than tempers the haughty confidence of the poet in the high destinies of his country. Spain is to him what Judea was to the bards who sang beneath the shadow of her palm-trees--the chosen and favoured land, whose people, severed from all others by the purity and devotedness of their faith, are peculiarly called to wreak the vengeance of Heaven upon the infidel. This triumphant conviction is powerfully expressed in his magnificent Ode on the Battle of Lepanto.

The impression of deep solemnity left upon the mind of the Spanish reader, by another of Herrera’s lyric compositions, will, it is feared, be very inadequately conveyed through the medium of the following translation.]

“Voz de dolor, y canto de gemido,” etc.

A voice of woe, a murmur of lament, A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire; Let such record the day, the day of wail For Lusitania’s bitter chastening sent! She who hath seen her power, her fame expire, And mourns them in the dust, discrown’d and pale. And let the awful tale With grief and horror every realm o’ershade, From Afric’s burning main To the far sea, in other hues array’d, And the red limits of the Orient’s reign, Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold Christ’s glorious banner to the winds unfold.

Alas! for those that in embattled power, And vain array of chariots and of horse, O desert Libya! sought thy fatal coast! And trusting not in Him, the eternal source Of might and glory, but in earthly force, Making the strength of multitudes their boast, A flush’d and crested host, Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trode Their path of pride, as o’er a conquer’d land Given for the spoil; nor raised their eyes to God: And Israel’s Holy One withdrew his hand, Their sole support;--and heavily and prone They fell--the car, the steed, the rider, all o’erthrown!

It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe, Which to deep solitude and tears consign’d The peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth. A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow Announced the morn--it seem’d as nature pined, And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam’s birth; While, startling the pale earth, Bursting upon the mighty and the proud With visitation dread, Their crests the Eternal, in his anger, bow’d, And raised barbarian nations o’er their head, The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold, But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncontroll’d.

Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword Of the strong infidel’s ignoble hand, Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crown Of thy fair knighthood; and the insatiate horde, Not with thy life content, O ruin’d land! Sad Lusitania! even thy bright renown Defaced and trampled down; And scatter’d, rushing as a torrent-flood, Thy pomp of arms and banners;--till the sands Became a lake of blood--thy noblest blood!-- The plain a mountain of thy slaughter’d bands. Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed; On thy devoted sons--amaze, and shame, and dread.

Are _these_ the conquerors, _these_ the lords of fight, The warrior men, the invincible, the famed, Who shook the earth with terror and dismay, Whose spoils were empires?--They that in their might The haughty strength of savage nations tamed, And gave the spacious Orient realms of day To desolation’s sway, Making the cities of imperial name E’en as the desert-place? Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race In one brief hour? Is this their valour’s doom, On distant shores to fall, and find not even a tomb?

Once were they, in their splendour and their pride, As an imperial cedar on the brow Of the great Lebanon! It rose, array’d In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide Majestic branches, leaving far below All children of the forest. To its shade The waters tribute paid, Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky, And the wild mountain-creatures made their lair Beneath; and nations by its canopy Were shadow’d o’er. Supreme it stood, and ne’er Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair.

But all elated, on its verdant stem, Confiding solely in its regal height, It soar’d presumptuous, as for empire born; And God for this removed its diadem, And cast it from its regions of delight, Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn, By the deep roots uptorn! And lo! encumbering the lone hills it lay, Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state; While, pale with fear, men hurried far away, Who in its ample shade had found so late Their bower of rest; and nature’s savage race Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place.

But thou, base Libya! thou whose arid sand Hath been a kingdom’s deathbed, where one fate Closed her bright life and her majestic fame,-- Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand Hath fall’n the victory, be not thou elate! Boast not thyself, though thine that day of shame, Unworthy of a name! Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance, Aroused to vengeance by a nation’s cry, Pierced by his searching lance, Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony, And thine affrighted streams to ocean’s flood An ample tribute bear of Afric’s Paynim blood.

SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL.

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Sebastian. Gonzalez, _his friend_. Zamor, _a young Arab_. Sylveira.

## Scene I. _The sea-shore near Lisbon._

Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamor.

_Seb._ With what young life and fragrance in its breath My native air salutes me! From the groves of citron, and the mountains of the vine, And thy majestic tide thus foaming on In power and freedom o’er its golden sands, Fair stream, my Tajo! youth, with all its glow And pride of feeling, through my soul and frame Again seems rushing, as these noble waves Past their bright shores flow joyously. Sweet land, My own, my fathers’ land, of sunny skies And orange bowers!--Oh! is it not a dream That thus I tread thy soil? Or do I wake From a dark dream but now! Gonzalez, say, Doth it not bring the flush of early life Back on th’ awakening spirit, thus to gaze On the far-sweeping river, and the shades Which, in their undulating motion, speak Of gentle winds amidst bright waters born, After the fiery skies and dark-red sands Of the lone desert? Time and toil must needs Have changed our mien; but this, our blessèd land, Hath gain’d but richer beauty since we bade Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not thus? Thy brow is clouded.

_Gon._ To mine eye the scene Wears, amidst all its quiet loveliness, A hue of desolation; and the calm, The solitude and silence which pervade Earth, air, and ocean, seem belonging less To peace than sadness! We have proudly stood Even on this shore, beside the Atlantic wave, When it hath look’d not thus.

_Seb._ Ay, now thy soul Is in the past! Oh no! it look’d not thus When the morn smiled upon our thousand sails, And the winds blew for Afric. How that hour, With all its hues of glory, seems to burst Again upon my vision! I behold The stately barks, the arming, the array, The crests, the banners of my chivalry, Sway’d by the sea-breeze till their motion show’d Like joyous life! How the proud billows foam’d! And the oars flash’d like lightnings of the deep, And the tall spears went glancing to the sun, And scattering round quick rays, as if to guide The valiant unto fame! Ay, the blue heaven Seem’d for that noble scene a canopy Scarce too majestic, while it rang afar To peals of warlike sound! My gallant bands! Where are you now?

_Gon._ Bid the wide desert tell Where sleep its dead! To mightier hosts than them Hath it lent graves ere now; and on its breast Is room for nations yet!

_Seb._ It cannot be That all have perish’d! Many a noble man, Made captive on that war-field, may have burst His bonds like ours. Cloud not this fleeting hour, Which to my soul is as the fountain’s draught To the parch’d lip of fever, with a thought So darkly sad!

_Gon._ Oh never, never cast That deep remembrance from you! When once more Your place is midst earth’s rulers, let it dwell Around you, as the shadow of your throne, Wherein the land may rest. My king! this hour (Solemn as that which to the voyager’s eye, In far and dim perspective, doth unfold A new and boundless world) may haply be The last in which the courage and the power Of truth’s high voice may reach you. Who may stand As man to man, as friend to friend, before Th’ ancestral throne of monarchs? Or perchance Toils, such as tame the loftiest to endurance, Henceforth may wait us here! But howsoe’er This be, the lessons now from sufferings past Befit all time, all change. Oh! by the blood, The free, the generous blood of Portugal, Shed on the sands of Afric--by the names Which, with their centuries of high renown, There died, extinct for ever--let not those Who stood in hope and glory at our side Here, on this very sea-beach, whence they pass’d To fall, and leave no trophy--let them not Be soon, be e’er forgotten! for their fate Bears a deep warning in its awfulness, Whence power might well learn wisdom!

_Seb._ Thinkst thou, then, That years of sufferance and captivity, Such as have bow’d down eagle hearts ere now, And made high energies their spoil, have pass’d So lightly o’er my spirit? It is not thus! The things thou wouldst recall are not of those To be forgotten! But my heart hath still A sense, a bounding pulse for hope and joy, And it is joy which whispers in the breeze Sent from my own free mountains. Brave Gonzalez! Thou’rt one to make thy fearless heart a shield Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour When knightly crests are trampled, and proud helms Cleft, and strong breastplates shiver’d. Thou art one To infuse the soul of gallant fortitude Into the captive’s bosom, and beguile The long slow march beneath the burning noon With lofty patience; but for those quick bursts, Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose wing Wanders in chainless joy; for things like these Thou hast no sympathies! And thou, my Zamor, Art wrapt in thought! I welcome thee to this, The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not A goodly heritage?

_Zam._ The land is fair; But he, the archer of the wilderness, Beholdeth not the palms beneath whose shade His tents are scatter’d, and his camels rest; And therefore is he sad!

_Seb._ Thou must not pine With that sick yearning of th’ impatient heart, Which makes the exile’s life one fever’d dream Of skies, and hills, and voices far away, And faces wearing the familiar hues Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known Too much of this, and would not see another Thus daily die. If it be so with thee, My gentle Zamor, speak. Behold, our bark Yet, with her white sails catching sunset’s glow, Lies within signal-reach. If it be thus, Then fare thee well--farewell, thou brave, and true, And generous friend! How often is our path Cross’d by some being whose bright spirit sheds A passing gladness o’er it, but whose course Leads down another current, never more To blend with ours! Yet far within our souls, Amidst the rushing of the busy world, Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers yet Around that image. And e’en so, kind Zamor! Shalt thou be long remember’d.

_Zam._ By the fame Of my brave sire, whose deeds the warrior tribes Tell round the desert’s watchfire, at the hour Of silence, and of coolness, and of stars, I will not leave thee! ’Twas in such an hour The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay Shrouded in slumber’s mantle, as within The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then, When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole Soft on the sleeper? Whose keen dart transfix’d The monarch of the solitudes? I woke, And saw _thy_ javelin crimson’d with his blood, Thou, my deliverer! and my heart e’en then Call’d thee its brother.

_Seb._ For that gift of life With one of tenfold price, even freedom’s self, Thou hast repaid me well.

_Zam._ Then bid me not Forsake thee! Though my father’s tents may rise At times upon my spirit, yet my home Shall be amidst thy mountains, prince! and thou Shalt be my chief, until I see thee robed With all thy power. When thou canst need no more Thine Arab’s faithful heart and vigorous arm, From the green regions of the setting sun Then shall the wanderer turn his steps, and seek His Orient wilds again.

_Seb._ Be near me still, And ever, O my warrior! I shall stand Again amidst my hosts a mail-clad king, Begirt with spears and banners, and the pomp And the proud sounds of battle. Be thy place Then at my side. When doth a monarch cease To need true hearts, bold hands? Not in the field Of arms, nor on the throne of power, nor yet The couch of sleep. Be our friend, we will not part.

_Gon._ Be all thy friends thus faithful, for e’en yet They may be fiercely tried.

_Seb._ I doubt them not. Even now my heart beats high to meet their welcome. Let us away!

_Gon._ Yet hear once more, my liege. The humblest pilgrim, from his distant shrine Returning, finds not e’en his peasant home Unchanged amidst its vineyards. Some loved face, Which made the sunlight of his lowly board, Is touch’d by sickness; some familiar voice Greets him no more; and shall not fate and time Have done their work, since last we parted hence, Upon an empire? Ay, within those years, Hearts from their ancient worship have fall’n off, And bow’d before new stars; high names have sunk From their supremacy of place, and others Gone forth, and made themselves the mighty sounds At which thrones tremble. Oh! be slow to trust E’en those to whom your smiles were wont to seem As light is unto flowers. Search well the depths Of bosoms in whose keeping you would shrine The secret of your state. Storms pass not by Leaving earth’s face unchanged.

_Seb._ Whence didst thou learn The cold distrust which casts so deep a shadow O’er a most noble nature?

_Gon._ Life hath been My stern and only teacher. I have known Vicissitudes in all things, but the most In human hearts. Oh! yet awhile tame down That royal spirit, till the hour be come When it may burst its bondage! On thy brow The suns of burning climes have set their seal, And toil, and years, and perils, have not pass’d O’er the bright aspect, and the ardent eye, As doth a breeze of summer. Be that change The mask beneath whose shelter thou may’st read Men’s thoughts, and veil thine own.

_Seb._ Am I thus changed From all I was? And yet it needs must be, Since e’en my soul hath caught another hue From its long sufferings. Did I not array The gallant flower of Lusian chivalry, And lead the mighty of the land, to pour Destruction on the Moslem? I return, And as a fearless and a trusted friend, Bring, from the realms of my captivity, An Arab of the desert!--But the sun Hath sunk below th’ Atlantic. Let us hence-- Gonzalez, fear me not.

[_Exeunt._

## Scene II.--_A Street in Lisbon illuminated._

Many Citizens.

_1st Cit._ In sooth our city wears a goodly mien, With her far-blazing fanes, and festive lamps Shining from all her marble palaces, Countless as heaven’s fair stars. The humblest lattice Sends forth its radiance. How the sparkling waves Fling back the light!

_2d Cit._ Ay, ’tis a gallant show; And one which serves, like others, to conceal Things which must not be told.

_3d Cit._ What wouldst thou say?

_2d Cit._ That which may scarce, in perilous times like these, Be said with safety. Hast thou look’d within Those stately palaces? Were they but peopled With the high race of warlike nobles, once Their princely lords, think’st thou, good friend, that now They would be glittering with this hollow pomp, To greet a conqueror’s entrance?

_3d Cit._ Thou say’st well. None but a land forsaken of its chiefs Had been so lost and won.

_4th Cit._ The lot is cast; We have but to yield. Hush! for some strangers come: Now, friends, beware.

_1st Cit._ Did the king pass this way At morning, with his train?

_2d Cit._ Ay: saw you not The long and rich procession?

Sebastian _enters with_ Gonzalez _and_ Zamor.

_Seb. to Gon._ This should be The night of some high festival. E’en thus My royal city to the skies sent up, From her illumined fanes and towers, a voice Of gladness, welcoming our first return From Afric’s coast. Speak thou, Gonzalez! ask The cause of this rejoicing. To my heart Deep feelings rush, so mingling and so fast, My voice perchance might tremble.

_Gon._ Citizen, What festal night is this, that all your streets Are throng’d and glittering thus?

_1st Cit._ Hast thou not heard Of the king’s entry, in triumphal pomp, This very morn?

_Gon._ The king! triumphal pomp!-- Thy words are dark.

_Seb._ Speak yet again: mine ears Ring with strange sounds. Again!

_1st Cit._ I said, the king, Philip of Spain, and now of Portugal, This morning enter’d with a conqueror’s train Our city’s royal palace: and for this We hold our festival.

_Seb._ (_in a low voice._) Thou said’st--the king! His name?--I heard it not.

_1st Cit._ Philip of Spain.

_Seb._ Philip of Spain! We slumber, till aroused By th’ earthquake’s bursting shock. Hath there not fall’n A sudden darkness? All things seem to float Obscurely round me. Now ’tis past. The streets Are blazing with strange fire. Go, quench those lamps; They glare upon me till my very brain Grows dizzy, and doth whirl. How dare ye thus Light up your shrines for _him_?

_Gon._ Away, away! This is no time, no scene----

_Seb._ Philip of Spain! How name ye this fair land? Why, is it not The free, the chivalrous Portugal?--the land By the proud ransom of heroic blood Won from the Moor of old? Did that red stream Sink to the earth, and leave no fiery current In the veins of noble men, that so its tide, Full swelling at the sound of hostile steps, Might be a kingdom’s barrier?

_2d Cit._ That high blood Which should have been our strength, profusely shed By the rash King Sebastian, bathed the plains Of fatal Alcazar. Our monarch’s guilt Hath brought this ruin down.

_Seb._ Must this be heard, And borne, and unchastised? Man, darest thou stand Before me face to face, and thus arraign Thy sovereign?

_Zam._ (_aside to Seb._) Shall I lift the sword, my prince, Against thy foes?

_Gon._ Be still--or all is lost.

_2d Cit._ I dare speak that which all men think and know. ’Tis to Sebastian, and his waste of life, And power, and treasure, that we owe these bonds.

_3d Cit._ Talk not of bonds. May our new monarch rule The weary land in peace! But who art thou? Whence com’st thou, haughty stranger, that these things, Known to all nations, should be new to thee?

_Seb._ (_wildly._) I come from regions where the cities lie In ruins, not in chains!

_Exit with_ Gonzalez _and_ Zamor.

_2d Cit._ He wears the mien Of one that hath commanded; yet his looks And words were strangely wild.

_1st Cit._ Mark’d you his fierce And haughty gesture, and the flash that broke From his dark eye, when King Sebastian’s name Became our theme?

_2d Cit._ Trust me, there’s more in this Than may be lightly said. These are no times To breathe men’s thoughts i’ th’ open face of heaven And ear of multitudes. They that would speak Of monarchs and their deeds, should keep within Their quiet homes. Come, let us hence; and then We’ll commune of this stranger.

## Scene III.--_The Portico of a Palace._

Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamor.

_Seb._ Withstand me not! I tell thee that my soul, With all its passionate energies, is roused Unto that fearful strength which _must_ have way, E’en like the elements in their hour of might And mastery o’er creation.

_Gon._ But they _wait_ That hour in silence. Oh! be calm awhile-- Thine is not come. My king----

_Seb._ I am no king, While in the very palace of my sires, Ay, where mine eyes first drank the glorious light, Where my soul’s thrilling echoes first awoke To the high sound of earth’s immortal names, Th’ usurper lives and reigns. I am no king Until I cast him thence.

_Zam._ Shall not thy voice Be as a trumpet to th’ awak’ning land? Will not the bright swords flash like sun-bursts forth, When the brave hear their chief?

_Gon._ Peace, Zamor! peace! Child of the desert, what hast thou to do With the calm hour of counsel? Monarch, pause: A kingdom’s destiny should not be the sport Of passion’s reckless winds. There is a time When men, in very weariness of heart And careless desolation, tamed to yield By misery strong as death, will lay their souls E’en at the conqueror’s feet--as nature sinks, After long torture, into cold, and dull, And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour Of fierce atonement? Ay! the slumberer wakes With gather’d strength and vengeance; and the sense And the remembrance of his agonies Are in themselves a power, whose fearful path Is like the path of ocean, when the heavens Take off its interdict. Wait, then, the hour Of that high impulse.

_Seb._ Is it not the sun Whose radiant bursting through the embattled clouds Doth make it morn? The hour of which thou speak’st, Itself, with all its glory, is the work Of some commanding nature, which doth bid The sullen shades disperse. Away!--e’en now The land’s high hearts, the fearless and the true, Shall know they have a leader. Is not this The mansion of mine own, mine earliest, friend Sylveira?

_Gon._ Ay, its glittering lamps too well Illume the stately vestibule to leave Our sight a moment’s doubt. He ever loved Such pageantries.

_Seb._ _His_ dwelling thus adorn’d On such a night! Yet will I seek him here. He must be faithful, and to him the first My tale shall be reveal’d. A sudden chill Falls on my heart; and yet I will not wrong My friend with dull suspicion. He hath been Link’d all too closely with mine inmost soul. And what have I to lose?

_Gon._ Is their blood naught Who without hope will follow where thou lead’st, E’en unto death?

_Seb._ Was that a brave man’s voice? Warrior and friend! how long, then, hast thou learn’d To hold thy blood thus dear?

_Gon._ Of _mine_, mine own Think’st thou I spoke? When all is shed for thee Thou’lt know me better.

_Seb._ (_entering the palace._) For a while farewell.

[_Exit._

_Gon._ Thus princes lead men’s hearts. Come, follow me; And if a home is left me still, brave Zamor! There will I bid thee welcome.

[_Exeunt._

## Scene IV.--_A Hall within the Palace._

Sebastian, Sylveira.

_Sylv._ Whence art thou, stranger?--what wouldst thou with me? There is a fiery wildness in thy mien Startling and almost fearful.

_Seb._ From the stern, And vast, and desolate wilderness, whose lord Is the fierce lion, and whose gentlest wind Breathes of the tomb, and whose dark children make The bow and spear their law, men bear not back That smilingness of aspect, wont to mask The secrets of their spirits midst the stir Of courts and cities. I have look’d on scenes Boundless, and strange, and terrible; I have known Sufferings which are not in the shadowy scope Of wild imagination; and these things Have stamp’d me with their impress. Man of peace, Thou look’st on one familiar with th’ extremes Of grandeur and of misery.

_Sylv._ Stranger, speak Thy name and purpose briefly, for the time Ill suits these mysteries. I must hence; to-night I feast the lords of Spain.

_Seb._ Is that a task For King Sebastian’s friend?

_Sylv._ Sebastian’s friend! That name hath lost its meaning. Will the dead Rise from their silent dwellings, to upbraid The living for their mirth? The grave sets bounds Unto all human friendship.

_Seb._ On the plain Of Alcazar full many a stately flower, The pride and crown of some high house, was laid Low in the dust of Afric; but of these Sebastian was not one.

_Sylv._ I am not skill’d To deal with men of mystery. Take, then, off The strange dark scrutiny of thine eye from mine What mean’st thou?--Speak!

_Seb._ Sebastian died not there.---- I read no joy in that cold doubting mien. Is not thy name Sylveira?

_Sylv._ Ay.

_Seb._ Why, then, Be glad! I tell thee that Sebastian lives! Think thou on this--he lives! Should he return-- For he may yet return--and find the friend In whom he trusted with such perfect trust

As should be heaven’s alone--mark’st thou my words?-- Should he then find this man, not girt and arm’d, And watching o’er the heritage of his lord, But, reckless of high fame and loyal faith, Holding luxurious revels with his foes, How would thou meet his glance?

_Sylv._ As I do thine, Keen though it be, and proud.

_Seb._ Why, thou dost quail Before it! even as if the burning eye Of the broad sun pursued thy shrinking soul Through all its depths.

_Sylv._ Away! he died not there! He _should_ have died there, with the chivalry And strength and honour of his kingdom, lost By his impetuous rashness.

_Seb._ This from _thee_? Who hath given power to falsehood, that one gaze At its unmask’d and withering mien, should blight High souls at once? I wake. And this from thee? There are, whose eyes discern the secret springs Which lie beneath the desert, and the gold And gems within earth’s caverns, far below The everlasting hills: but who hath dared To dream that heaven’s most awful attribute Invested his mortality, and to boast That through its inmost folds his glance could read One heart, one human heart? Why, then, to love And trust is but to lend a traitor arms Of keenest temper and unerring aim, Wherewith to pierce our souls. But thou, beware! Sebastian lives!

_Sylv._ If it be so, and thou Art of his followers still, then bid him seek Far in the wilds, which gave one sepulchre To his proud hosts, a kingdom and a home, For none is left him here.

_Seb._ This is to live An age of wisdom in an hour! The man Whose empire, as in scorn, o’erpass’d the bounds E’en of the infinite deep; whose Orient realms Lay bright beneath the morning, while the clouds Were brooding in their sunset mantle still, O’er his majestic regions of the West; This heir of far dominion shall return, And, in the very city of his birth, Shall find no home! Ay, I _will_ tell him this, And he will answer that the tale is false, False as a traitor’s hollow words of love; And that the stately dwelling, in whose halls We commune now--a friend’s, a monarch’s gift, Unto the chosen of his heart, Sylveira, Should yield him still a welcome.

_Sylv._ Fare thee well! I may not pause to hear thee, for thy words Are full of danger, and of snares, perchance Laid by some treacherous foe. But all in vain. I mock thy wiles to scorn.

_Seb._ Ha! ha! The snake Doth pride himself in his distorted cunning, Deeming it wisdom. Nay, thou go’st not thus. My heart is bursting, and I _will_ be heard. What! know’st thou not my spirit was born to hold Dominion over thine? Thou shalt not cast Those bonds thus lightly from thee. Stand thou there, And tremble in the presence of thy lord!

_Sylv._ This is all madness.

_Seb._ Madness! no, I say-- ’Tis Reason starting from her sleep, to feel, And see, and know, in all their cold distinctness, Things which come o’er her, as a sense of pain O’ th’ sudden wakes the dreamer. Stay thee yet; Be still. Thou’rt used to smile and to obey; Ay, and to weep. I have seen thy tears flow fast, As from the fulness of a heart o’ercharged With loyal love. Oh! never, never more Let tears or smiles be trusted! When thy king Went forth on his disastrous enterprise, Upon thy bed of sickness thou wast laid, And he stood o’er thee with the look of one Who leaves a dying brother, and his eyes Were fill’d with tears like thine. No! _not_ like thine: _His_ bosom knew no falsehood, and he deem’d Thine clear and stainless as a warrior’s shield, Wherein high deeds and noble forms alone Are brightly imaged forth.

_Sylv._ What now avail These recollections?

_Seb._ What! I have seen thee shrink, As a murderer from the eye of light, before me: I have earn’d (how dearly and how bitterly It matters not, but I _have_ earn’d at last) Deep knowledge, fearful wisdom. Now, begone! Hence to thy guests, and fear not, though arraign’d E’en of Sebastian’s friendship. Make his scorn (For he _will_ scorn thee, as a crouching slave By all high hearts is scorn’d) thy right, thy charter Unto vile safety. Let the secret voice, Whose low upbraidings will not sleep within thee, Be as a sign, a token of thy claim To all such guerdons as are shower’d on traitors, When noble men are crush’d. And fear thou not: ’Tis but the kingly cedar which the storm Hurls from his mountain throne--th’ ignoble shrub, Grovelling beneath, may live.

_Sylv._ It is _thy_ part To tremble for thy life.

_Seb._ They that have look’d Upon a heart like thine, should know too well The worth of life to tremble. Such things make Brave men, and reckless. Ay, and they whom fate Would trample should be thus. It is enough-- Thou may’st depart.

_Sylv._ And thou, if thou dost prize Thy safety, speed thee hence.

[_Exit_ Sylveira.

_Seb._ (_alone._) And this is he Who was as mine own soul: whose image rose, Shadowing my dreams of glory with the thought That on the sick man’s weary couch he lay, Pining to share my battles!

CHORUS.

Ye winds that sweep The conquer’d billows of the western deep, Or wander where the morn Midst the resplendent Indian heavens is born, Waft o’er bright isles and glorious worlds the fame Of the crown’d Spaniard’s name: Till in each glowing zone Its might the nations own, And bow to him the vassal knee Whose sceptre shadows realms from sea to sea.

_Seb._ Away--away! this is no place for him Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now A word of desolation. [_Exit._

THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA.

A DRAMATIC POEM.[270]

“Judicio ha dado esta no vista hazanna Del valor que en los siglos venideros Tendrán los Hijos de la fuerte Espanna, Hijos de tal padres herederos.

Hallò sola en Numancia todo quanto Debe con justo titulo cantarse Y lo que puede dar materia al canto.” Cervantes, _Numancia_.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Alvar Gonzalez, _Governor of Valencia_. Alphonso, Carlos, _his Sons_. Hernandez, _a Priest_. Abdullah, _a Moorish Prince, Chief of the Army besieging Valencia_. Garcias, _a Spanish Knight_.

Elmina, _Wife to Gonzalez_. Ximena, _her Daughter_. Theresa, _an attendant_. _Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, &c._

[270] _Advertisement by the Author._--The history of Spain records two instances of the severe and self-devoting heroism which forms the subject of the following dramatic poem. The first of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which was defended, in 1294, for Sancho King of Castile, during the rebellion of his brother Don Juan, by Guzman surnamed the Good.[271] The second is related of Alonso Lopez de Texeda, who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, maintained the city of Zamora for the children of Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of Trastamara.[272]

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished both these memorable sieges, it appeared to the author of the following pages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger colour of nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in which she has feebly attempted “to describe high passions and high actions,” by connecting a religious feeling with the patriotism and high-minded loyalty which had thus been proved “faithful unto death,” and by surrounding her ideal _dramatis personæ_ with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this reason, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed upon Valencia del Cid as the scene to give them

“A local habitation and a name.”

[271] See Quintana’s “Vidas de Espanoles Celebres,” p. 53.

[272] See the Preface to Southey’s “Chronicle of the Cid.”

## Scene I.--_Room in a Palace of Valencia._--Ximena _singing to a lute_.

BALLAD.

“Thou hast not been with a festal throng At the pouring of the wine; Men bear not from the hall of song A mien so dark as thine! There’s blood upon thy shield, There’s dust upon thy plume, Thou hast brought from some disastrous field That brow of wrath and gloom!”

“And is there blood upon my shield? Maiden, it well may be! We have sent the streams from our battle-field All darken’d to the sea! We have given the founts a stain, Midst their woods of ancient pine; And the ground is wet--but not with rain, Deep dyed--but not with wine!

“The ground is wet--but not with rain-- We have been in war-array, And the noblest blood of Christian Spain Hath bathed her soil to-day. I have seen the strong man die, And the stripling meet his fate, Where the mountain-winds go sounding by In the Roncesvalles’ Strait.

“In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait There are helms and lances cleft; And they that moved at morn elate On a bed of heath are left! There’s many a fair young face Which the war-steed hath gone o’er; At many a board there is kept a place For those that come no more!”

“Alas! for love, for woman’s breast, If woe like this must be! Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle-crest, And a white plume waving free? With his proud quick-flashing eye, And his mien of knightly state? Doth he come from where the swords flash’d high In the Roncesvalles’ Strait?”

“In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait I saw, and mark’d him well; For nobly on his steed he sate, When the pride of manhood fell! But it is not _youth_ which turns From the field of spears again; For the boy’s high heart too wildly burns, Till it rests amidst the slain!”

“Thou canst not say that _he_ lies low, The lovely and the brave: Oh! none could look on his joyous brow, And think upon the grave! Dark, dark perchance the day Hath been with valour’s fate; But _he_ is on his homeward way From the Roncesvalles’ Strait!”

“There is dust upon his joyous brow, And o’er his graceful head; And the war-horse will not wake him now, Though it browse his greensward bed! I have seen the stripling die, And the strong man meet his fate Where the mountain-winds go sounding by In the Roncesvalles’ Strait!”

Elmina _enters._

_Elm._ Your songs are not as those of other days, Mine own Ximena! Where is now the young And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke Joy’s echo from all hearts?

_Xim._ My mother, this Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds; And these are not the halls wherein my voice First pour’d those gladd’ning strains.

_Elm._ Alas! thy heart (I see it well) doth sicken for the pure Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills, Where thy young brothers, o’er the rock and heath, Bound in glad boyhood, e’en as torrent-streams Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been Within these walls thus suddenly begirt, Thou shouldst have track’d ere now, with step as light, Their wild-wood paths.

_Xim._ I would not but have shared These hours of woe and peril, though the deep And solemn feelings wakening at their voice Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves, And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild O’ th’ summer-forest, filling earth and heaven With its own awful music. And ’tis well! Should not a hero’s child be train’d to hear The trumpet’s blast unstartled, and to look In the fix’d face of death without dismay?

_Elm._ Woe! woe! that aught so gentle and so young Should thus be call’d to stand i’ the tempest’s path, And bear the token and the hue of death On a bright soul so soon! I had not shrunk From mine own lot; but thou, my child, shouldst move As a light breeze of heaven, through summer-bowers, And not o’er foaming billows. We are fall’n On dark and evil days!

_Xim._ Ay, days that wake All to their tasks!--Youth may not loiter now In the green walks of spring; and womanhood Is summon’d unto conflicts, heretofore The lot of warrior-spirits. Strength is born In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts; Not amidst joy.

_Elm._ Hast thou some secret woe That thus thou speak’st?

_Xim._ What sorrow should be mine, Unknown to thee?

_Elm._ Alas! the baleful air, Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks Through the devoted city, like a blight Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall’n, And wrought an early withering. Thou hast cross’d The paths of death, and minister’d to those O’er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still, Deep, solemn radiance; and thy brow hath caught A wild and high expression, which at times Fades into desolate calmness, most unlike What youth’s bright mien should wear. My gentle child! I look on thee in fear!

_Xim._ Thou hast no cause To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel, And the deep tambour, and the heavy step Of armèd men, break on our morning dreams-- When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave Are falling round us, and we deem it much To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest If the good sword, in its own stormy hour, Hath done its work upon them, ere disease Had chill’d their fiery blood;--it is no time For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours, We trode the woodland mazes, when young leaves Were whispering in the gale.--My father comes-- Oh! speak of me no more. I would not shade His princely aspect with a thought less high Than his proud duties claim.

Gonzalez _enters_.

_Elm._ My noble lord! Welcome from this day’s toil! It is the hour Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose Unto all weary men; and wilt not thou Free thy mail’d bosom from the corslet’s weight, To rest at fall of eve?

_Gon._ There may be rest For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath His vine and olive he may sit at eve, Watching his children’s sport: but unto _him_ Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain-height, When heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms --Who speaks of rest?

_Xim._ My father, shall I fill The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute Whose sounds thou lovest?

_Gon._ If there be strains of power To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn May cast off nature’s feebleness, and hold Its proud career unshackled, dashing down Tears and fond thoughts to earth; give voice to those! I have need of such, Ximena!--we must hear No melting music now!

_Xim._ I know all high Heroic ditties of the elder-time, Sung by the mountain-Christians,[273] in the holds Of th’ everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear The print of Freedom’s step; and all wild strains Wherein the dark serranos[274] teach the rocks And the pine-forests deeply to resound The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid?

_Gon._ Ay, speak of him; for in that name is power, Such as might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him! We are his children! They that can look back I’ th’ annals of their house on such a name, How should _they_ take Dishonour by the hand, And o’er the threshold of their fathers’ halls First lead her as a guest?

_Elm._ Oh, why is this? How my heart sinks!

_Gon._ It must not fail thee _yet_, Daughter of heroes!--thine inheritance Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst number In thy long line of glorious ancestry Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made The ground it bathed e’en as an altar, whence High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not, Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, With its victorious inspiration girt As with a conqueror’s robe, till th’ infidel, O’erawed, shrank back before them? Ay, the earth Doth call them martyrs; but _their_ agonies Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope Lay naught but dust. And earth doth call them _martyrs_! Why, heaven but claim’d their blood, their lives, and not The things which grew as tendrils round their hearts; No, not their children!

_Elm._ Mean’st thou? know’st thou aught?-- I cannot utter it--my sons! my sons! Is it of them? Oh! wouldst thou speak of them?

_Gon._ A mother’s heart divineth but too well!

_Elm._ Speak, I adjure thee! I can bear it all. Where are my children?

_Gon._ In the Moorish camp Whose lines have girt the city.

_Xim._ But they live? --All is not lost, my mother!

_Elm._ Say, they live.

_Gon._ Elmina, still they live.

_Elm._ But captives! They Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself Bounding from cliff to cliff, amidst the wilds Where the rock-eagle seem’d not more secure In its rejoicing freedom! And my boys Are captives with the Moor!--oh! how was this?

_Gon._ Alas! our brave Alphonso, in the pride Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls, With his young brother, eager to behold The face of noble war. Thence on their way Were the rash wanderers captured.

_Elm._ ’Tis enough. --And when shall they be ransom’d?

_Gon._ There is ask’d A ransom far too high.

_Elm._ What! have we wealth Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons The while wear fetters? Take thou all for them, And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us As ’twere a cumbrous robe! Why, _thou_ art one, To whose high nature pomp hath ever been But as the plumage to a warrior’s helm, Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me, Thou knowst not how serenely I could take The peasant’s lot upon me, so my heart, Amidst its deep affections undisturb’d, May dwell in silence.

_Xim._ Father! doubt thou not But we will bind ourselves to poverty, With glad devotedness, if this, but this, May win them back. Distrust us not, my father! We can bear all things.

_Gon._ Can ye bear disgrace?

_Xim._ We were not born for this.

_Gon._ No, thou say’st well! Hold to that lofty faith. My wife, my child! Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems Torn from her secret caverns? If by them Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring Rejoicing to the light! But he for whom Freedom and life may but be won with shame, Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to fix His steadfast look on the majestic heavens, And proudly die!

_Elm._ Gonzalez, _who_ must die?

_Gon._ (_hurriedly._) They on whose lives a fearful price is set, But to be paid by treason! Is’t enough? Or must I yet seek words?

_Elm._ That look saith more! Thou canst not mean----

_Gon._ I do! why dwells there not Power in a glance to speak it? They must die! They--must their names be told?--_our sons_ must die, Unless I yield the city!

_Xim._ Oh, look up! My mother, sink not thus! Until the grave Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope.

_Elm._ (_in a low voice._) Whose knell was in the breeze? No, no, not _theirs_! Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope? --And there is hope! I will not be subdued-- I will not hear a whisper of despair! For nature is all-powerful, and her breath Moves like a quickening spirit o’er the depths Within a father’s heart. Thou too, Gonzalez, Wilt tell me there is hope!

_Gon._ (_solemnly._) Hope but in Him Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when The bright steel quiver’d in the father’s hand Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice Through the still clouds and on the breathless air, Commanding to withhold! Earth has no hope: It rests with Him.

_Elm._ _Thou_ canst not tell me this! Thou, father of my sons, within whose hands Doth lie thy children’s fate.

_Gon._ If there have been Men in whose bosoms nature’s voice hath made Its accents as the solitary sound Of an o’erpowering torrent, silencing Th’ austere and yet divine remonstrances Whisper’d by faith and honour, lift thy hands; And, to that Heaven which arms the brave with strength, Pray that the father of thy sons may ne’er Be thus found wanting!

_Elm._ Then their doom is seal’d! Thou wilt not save thy children?

_Gon._ Hast thou cause, Wife of my youth! to deem it lies within The bounds of possible things, that I should link My name to that word--_traitor_? They that sleep On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine, Died not for this!

_Elm._ Oh, cold and hard of heart! Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul Thus lightly from all human bonds can free Its haughty flight! Men! men! too much is yours Of vantage; ye that with a sound, a breath, A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space Of rooted-up affections, o’er whose void Our yearning hearts must wither! So it is, Dominion must be won! Nay, leave me not-- My heart is bursting, and I _must_ be heard! Heaven hath given power to mortal agony, As to the elements in their hour of might And mastery o’er creation! Who shall dare To mock that fearful strength! I _must_ be heard! Give me my sons.

_Gon._ That they may live to hide With covering hands th’ indignant flush of shame On their young brows, when men shall speak of him They call’d their father! Was the oath whereby, On th’ altar of my faith, I bound myself With an unswerving spirit to maintain This free and Christian city for my God And for my king, a writing traced on sand? That passionate tears should wash it from the earth, Or e’en the life-drops of a bleeding heart Efface it, as a billow sweeps away The last light vessel’s wake? Then never more Let man’s deep vows be trusted!--though enforced By all th’ appeals of high remembrances, And silent claims o’ th’ sepulchres wherein His fathers with their stainless glory sleep, On their good swords! Think’st thou _I_ feel no pangs? He that hath given me sons doth know the heart Whose treasure he recalls. Of this no more: ’Tis vain. I tell thee that th’ inviolate Cross Still from our ancient temples must look up Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its foot I perish, with my race. Thou _darest_ not ask That I, the son of warriors--men who died To fix it on that proud supremacy-- Should tear the sign of our victorious faith From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor In impious joy to trample!

_Elm._ Scorn me not In mine extreme of misery! Thou art strong-- Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild; I know not what I ask. And yet ’twere but Anticipating fate--since it must fall, That Cross _must_ fall at last! There is no power, No hope within this city of the grave, To keep its place on high. Her sultry air Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor Hath bent his bow against them; for the shaft Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark, Than th’ arrow of the desert. Even the skies O’erhang the desolate splendour of her domes With an ill omen’s aspect, shaping forth, From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and signs Foreboding ruin. _Man_ might be withstood, But who shall cope with famine and disease When leagued with armèd foes? Where now the aid, Where the long-promised lances of Castile? We are forsaken in our utmost need-- By heaven and earth forsaken!

_Gon._ If this be, (And yet I will not deem it,) we must fall As men that in severe devotedness Have chosen their part, and bound themselves to death, Through high conviction that their suffering land By the free blood of martyrdom alone Shall call deliverance down.

_Elm._ Oh! I have stood Beside thee through the beating storms of life With the true heart of unrepining love-- As the poor peasant’s mate doth cheerily, In the parch’d vineyard, or the harvest field, Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat And burden of the day. But now the hour, The heavy hour is come, when human strength Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust, Owning that woe is mightier! Spare me yet This bitter cup, my husband! Let not her, The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn In her unpeopled home--a broken stem, O’er its fallen roses dying!

_Gon._ Urge me not, Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found Worthy a brave man’s love!--oh, urge me not To guilt, which, through the midst of blinding tears, In its own hues thou seest not! Death may scarce Bring aught like this!

_Elm._ All, all thy gentle race, The beautiful beings that around thee grew, Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all? She, too, thy daughter--doth her smile unmark’d Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day? Shadows are gathering round her: seest thou not The misty dimness of the spoiler’s breath Hangs o’er her beauty; and the face which made The summer of our hearts, now doth but send, With every glance, deep bodings through the soul, Telling of early fate?

_Gon._ I see a change Far nobler on her brow! She is as one, Who, at the trumpet’s sudden call, hath risen From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm, Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost The beam which laugh’d upon th’ awakening heart, E’en as morn breaks o’er earth. But far within Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch, Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade! The altar-flame, i’ th’ sanctuary’s recess, Burns quenchless, being of heaven! She hath put on Courage, and faith, and generous constancy, Even as a breastplate. Ay! men look on her, As she goes forth serenely to her tasks, Binding the warrior’s wounds, and bearing fresh Cool draughts to fever’d lips--they look on her, Thus moving in her beautiful array Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn Unto their heavy toils.

_Elm._ And seest thou not In that high faith and strong collectedness, A fearful inspiration? _They_ have cause To tremble, who behold th’ unearthly light Of high and, it may be, prophetic thought Investing youth with grandeur! From the grave It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child Waits but a father’s hand to snatch her back Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me; Ximena! kneel beside me, and implore That which a deeper, more prevailing voice Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied, --His children’s lives!

_Xim._ Alas! this may not be: Mother!--I cannot.

[_Exit_ Ximena.

_Gon._ My heroic child! --A terrible sacrifice thou claim’st, O God! From creatures in whose agonising hearts Nature is strong as death!

_Elm._ Is ’t thus in thine? Away! What time is given thee to resolve On--what I cannot utter? Speak! thou know’st Too well what I would say.

_Gon._ Until--ask not! The time is brief.

_Elm._ Thou said’st--I heard not right----

_Gon._ The time is brief.

_Elm._ What! must we burst all ties Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined! And, for this task’s fulfilment, can it be That man in his cold heartlessness, hath dared, To number and to mete us forth the sands Of hours, nay, moments? Why, the sentenced wretch, He on whose soul there rests a brother’s blood Pour’d forth in slumber, is allow’d more time To wean his turbulent passions from the world His presence doth pollute! It is not thus? We must have time to school us.

_Gon._ We have but To bow the head in silence, when heaven’s voice Calls back the things we love.

_Elm._ Love! love!--there are soft smiles and gentle words, And there are faces, skilful to put on The look we trust in--and ’tis mockery all! --A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat The thirst that semblance kindled! There is none, In all this cold and hollow world--no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother’s heart. It is but pride, wherewith To his fair son the father’s eye doth turn, Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, The bright glad creature springing in his path, But as the heir of his great name--the young And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love! This is _man’s_ love! What marvel!--_you_ ne’er made Your breast the pillow of his infancy, While to the fulness of your heart’s glad heavings His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair Waved softly to your breath! _You_ ne’er kept watch Beside him, till the last pale star had set, And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke On your dim weary eye; not _yours_ the face Which, early faded through fond care for him, Hung o’er his sleep, and, duly as heaven’s light, Was there to greet his wak’ning! _You_ ne’er smooth’d His couch, ne’er sang him to his rosy rest; Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours Had learn’d soft utterance; press’d your lip to his, When fever parch’d it; hush’d his wayward cries, With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love! No! these are _woman’s_ tasks!--in these her youth, And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, Steal from her all unmark’d! My boys! my boys! Hath vain affection borne with all for this? --Why were ye given me?

_Gon._ Is there strength in man Thus to endure? That thou couldst read, through all Its depths of silent agony, the heart Thy voice of woe doth rend!

_Elm._ Thy heart--_thy_ heart! Away! it feels not _now_! But an hour comes to tame the mighty man Unto the infant’s weakness; nor shall heaven Spare you that bitter chastening! May you live To be alone, when loneliness doth seem Most heavy to sustain! For me, my voice Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon With all forgotten sounds--my quiet place Low with my lovely ones; and we shall sleep, Though kings lead armies o’er us--we shall sleep, Wrapt in earth’s covering mantle! You the while Shall sit within your vast forsaken halls, And hear the wild and melancholy winds Moan through their drooping banners, never more To wave above your race. Ay, then call up Shadows--dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, But all, all--_glorious_,--conquerors, chieftains, kings, To people that cold void! And when the strength From your right arm hath melted, when the blast Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more A fiery wakening,--if at last you pine For the glad voices and the bounding steps Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp Of twining arms, and all the joyous light Of eyes that laugh’d with youth, and made your board A place of sunshine,--when those days are come, Then, in your utter desolation, turn To the cold world--the smiling, faithless world, Which hath swept past you long--and bid it quench Your soul’s deep thirst with _fame_! immortal _fame_! Fame to the sick of heart!--a gorgeous robe, A crown of victory, unto him that dies I’ th’ burning waste, for water!

_Gon._ This from _thee_! Now the last drop of bitterness is pour’d. Elmina--I forgive thee! [_Exit_ Elmina. Aid me, Heaven! From whom alone is power! Oh! thou hast set Duties so stern of aspect in my path, They almost to my startled gaze assume The hue of things less hallow’d! Men have sunk Unblamed beneath such trials! Doth not He Who made us know the limits of our strength? My wife! my sons! Away! I must not pause To give my heart one moment’s mastery thus!

[_Exit_ Gonzalez.

[273] Mountain-Christians, those natives of Spain who, under their prince Pelayo, took refuge amongst the mountains of the northern provinces, where they maintained their religion and liberty, whilst the rest of their country was overrun by the Moors.

[274] _Serranos_, mountaineers.

## Scene II.--_The Aisle of a Gothic Church._

Hernandez, Garcias, _and Others_.

_Her._ The rites are closed. Now, valiant men! depart, Each to his place--I may not say, of rest-- Your faithful vigils for your sons may win What must not be your own. Ye are as those Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade They may not sit. But bless’d be those who toil For after-days! All high and holy thoughts Be with you, warriors! through the lingering hours Of the night-watch.

_Gar._ Ay, father! we have need Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence Our hearts against despair. Yet have I been From youth a son of war. The stars have look’d A thousand times upon my couch of heath, Spread midst the wild sierras, by some stream Whose dark-red waves look’d e’en as though their source Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins Of noble hearts; while many a knightly crest Roll’d with them to the deep. And, in the years Of my long exile and captivity, With the fierce Arab I have watch’d beneath The still, pale shadow of some lonely palm, At midnight in the desert; while the wind Swell’d with the lion’s roar, and heavily The fearfulness and might of solitude Press’d on my weary heart.

_Her._ (_thoughtfully._) Thou little know’st Of what is solitude! I tell thee, those For whom--in earth’s remotest nook, howe’er Divided from their path by chain on chain Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude Of rolling seas--there beats one human heart, Their breathes one being, unto whom their name Comes with a thrilling and a gladd’ning sound Heard o’er the din of life, are not alone! Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone; For there is that on earth with which they hold A brotherhood of soul! Call _him_ alone, Who stands shut out from this!--and let not those Whose homes are bright with sunshine and with love, Put on the insolence of happiness, Glorying in that proud lot! A lonely hour Is on its way to each, to all; for Death Knows no companionship.

_Gar._ I have look’d on Death In field, and storm, and flood. But never yet Hath aught weigh’d down my spirit to a mood Of sadness, dreaming o’er dark auguries, Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth, Omens in heaven! The summer skies put forth No clear bright stars above us, but at times, Catching some comet’s fiery hue of wrath, Marshal their clouds to armies, traversing Heaven with the rush of meteor-steeds--th’ array Of spears and banners tossing like the pines Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm Doth sweep the mountains.

_Her._ Ay, last night I too Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens; And I beheld the meeting and the shock Of those wild hosts i’ th’ air, when, as they closed, A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles The thunder’s path, fell o’er them. Then were flung Through the dull glare, broad cloudy banners forth; And chariots seem’d to whirl, and steeds to sink, Bearing down crested warriors. But all this Was dim and shadowy; then swift darkness rush’d Down on th’ unearthly battle, as the deep Swept o’er the Egyptian’s armament. I look’d, And all that fiery field of plumes and spears Was blotted from heaven’s face! I look’d again, And from the brooding mass of cloud leap’d forth One meteor-sword, which o’er the reddening sea Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes give Unto a rocking citadel! I beheld, And yet my spirit sank not.

_Gar._ Neither deem That mine hath blench’d. But these are sights and sounds To awe the firmest. Know’st thou what we hear At midnight from the walls? Were’t but the deep Barbaric horn, or Moorish tambour’s peal, Thence might the warrior’s heart catch impulses Quickening its fiery currents. But our ears Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knell For brave men in their noon of strength cut down, And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge Faint swelling through the streets. Then e’en the air Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament, As if the viewless watchers of the land Sigh’d on its hollow breezes! To my soul The torrent-rush of battle, with its din Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply, Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe, As the free sky’s glad music unto him Who leaves a couch of sickness.

_Her._ (_with solemnity._) If to plunge In the mid waves of combat, as they bear Chargers and spearmen onwards, and to make A reckless bosom’s front the buoyant mark, On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows-- If _thus_ to dare were valour’s noblest aim, Lightly might fame be won! But there are things, Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch, And courage temper’d with a holier fire. Well may’st thou say that these are fearful times; Therefore, be firm, be patient! There is strength, And a fierce instinct, e’en in common souls, To bear up manhood with a stormy joy, When red swords meet in lightning! But our task Is more and nobler! We have to endure, And to keep watch, and to arouse a land, And to defend an altar! If we fall, So that our blood make but the millionth part Of Spain’s great ransom, we may count it joy To die upon her bosom, and beneath The banner of her faith! Think but on this, And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, Suffering, yet hoping all things. Fare ye well.

_Gar._ Father, farewell.

[_Exeunt_ Garcias _and his followers_.

_Her._ These men have earthly ties And bondage on their natures! To the cause Of God, and Spain’s revenge, they bring but half Their energies and hopes. But he whom heaven Hath call’d to be th’ awakener of a land, Should have his soul’s affections all absorb’d In that majestic purpose, and press on To its fulfilment--as a mountain-born And mighty stream, with all its vassal rills, Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not To dally with the flowers. Hark! what quick step Comes hurrying through the gloom, at this dead hour?

Elmina _enters_.

_Elm._ Are not all hours as one to misery? Why Should _she_ take note of time, for whom the day And night have lost their blessed attributes Of sunshine and repose?

_Her._ I know thy griefs; But there are trials for the noble heart, Wherein its own deep fountains must supply All it can hope of comfort. Pity’s voice Comes with vain sweetness to th’ unheeding ear Of anguish, e’en as music heard afar On the green shore, by him who perishes Midst rocks and eddying waters.

_Elm._ Think thou not I sought thee but for pity. I am come For that which grief is privileged to demand With an imperious claim, from all whose form-- Whose human form, doth seal them unto suffering! Father! I ask thine _aid_.

_Her._ There is no aid For thee or for thy children, but with Him Whose presence is around us in the cloud, As in the shining and the glorious light.

_Elm._ There is no aid! Art thou a man of God? Art thou a man of sorrow?--for the world Doth call thee such;--and hast thou not been taught By God and sorrow--mighty as they are-- To own the claims of misery?

_Her._ Is there power With me to save thy sons?--implore of heaven!

_Elm._ Doth not heaven work its purposes by man? I tell thee _thou_ canst save them! Art thou not Gonsalez’ counsellor? Unto him thy words Are e’en as oracles----

_Her._ And therefore? Speak!-- The noble daughter of Pelayo’s line Hath naught to ask unworthy of the name Which is a nation’s heritage. Dost thou shrink?

_Elm._ Have pity on me, father! I must speak That, from the thought of which but yesterday I had recoil’d in scorn! But this is past Oh! we grow humble in our agonies, And to the dust--their birthplace--bow the heads That wore the crown of glory! I am weak-- My chastening is far more than I can bear.

_Her._ These are no times for weakness. On our hills The ancient cedars, in their gather’d might, Are battling with the tempest, and the flower Which cannot meet its driving blast must die. But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem Unwont to bend or break. Lift thy proud head, Daughter of Spain!--what wouldst thou with thy lord?

_Elm._ Look not upon me thus! I have no power To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye Off from my soul! What! am I sunk to this? I, whose blood sprung from heroes! How my sons Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace On their majestic line! My sons! my sons! --Now is all else forgotten! I had once A babe that in the early spring-time lay Sickening upon my bosom, till at last, When earth’s young flowers were opening to the sun, Death sank on his meek eyelid, and I deem’d All sorrow light to mine! But now the fate Of all my children seems to brood above me In the dark thunder-clouds! Oh! I have power And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst win The father to relent, to save his sons!

_Her._ By yielding up the city?

_Elm._ Rather say By meeting that which gathers close upon us, Perchance one day the sooner! Is’t not so? Must we not yield at last? How long shall man Array his single breast against disease, And famine, and the sword?

_Her._ How long? While He Who shadows forth his power more gloriously In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul, Than in the circling heavens with all their stars, Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate, In the good cause, with solemn joy! How long? --And who art _thou_ that, in the littleness Of thine own selfish purpose, wouldst set bounds To the free current of all noble thought And generous action, bidding its bright waves Be stay’d, and flow no farther? But the Power Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs, To chain them in from wandering, hath assign’d No limits unto that which man’s high strength Shall, through its aid, achieve!

_Elm._ Oh! there are times, When _all_ that hopeless courage can achieve But sheds a mournful beauty o’er the fate Of those who die in vain.

_Her._ _Who_ dies in vain Upon his country’s war-fields, and within The shadow of her altars? Feeble heart! I tell thee that the voice of noble blood, Thus pour’d for faith and freedom, hath a tone Which, from the night of ages, from the gulf Of death, shall burst, and make its high appeal Sound unto earth and heaven! Ay, let the land, Whose sons through centuries of woe have striven, And perish’d by her temples, sink awhile, Borne down in conflict! But immortal seed Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown On all her ancient hills, and generous hope Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet Bring forth a glorious harvest! Earth receives Not one red drop from faithful hearts in vain.

_Elm._ Then it must be! And ye will make those lives, Those young bright lives, an offering--to retard Our doom one day!

_Her._ The mantle of that day May wrap the fate of Spain!

_Elm._ What led me here? Why did I turn to _thee_ in my despair? Love hath no ties upon thee; what had I To hope from _thee_, thou lone and childless man? Go to thy silent home!--there no young voice Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring Forth at the sound of thine! What knows thy heart?

_Her._ Woman! how darest thou taunt me with my woes? _Thy_ children, too, shall perish, and I say It shall be well! Why takest thou thought for them? Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life Unto its dregs, and making night thy time Of care yet more intense, and casting health Unprized to melt away i’ th’ bitter cup Thou minglest for thyself? Why, what hath earth To pay thee back for this? Shall they not live (If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon All love may be forgotten? Years of thought, Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness, That changed not, though to change be this world’s law-- Shall they not flush thy cheek with shame, whose blood Marks e’en like branding iron? to thy sick heart Make death a want, as sleep to weariness? Doth not all hope end thus? or e’en at best, Will they not leave thee? far from thee seek room For the o’erflowings of their fiery souls On life’s wide ocean? Give the bounding steed Or the wing’d bark to youth, that his free course May be o’er hills and seas; and weep thou not In thy forsaken home, for the bright world Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes No thought on thee!

_Elm._ Not so! it is not so! Thou dost but torture me! _My_ sons are kind, And brave, and gentle.

_Her._ Others, too, have worn The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee yet; I will be calm, and thou shalt learn how earth, The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes Which far outweigh thine own.

_Elm._ It may not be! _Whose_ grief is like a mother’s for her sons?

_Her._ _My_ son lay stretch’d upon his battle-bier, And there were hands wrung o’er him which had caught Their hue from his young blood!

_Elm._ What tale is this?

_Her._ Read you no records in this mien, of things Whose traces on man’s aspect are not such As the breeze leaves on water? Lofty birth, War, peril, power? Affliction’s hand is strong, If it erase the haughty characters They grave so deep! I have not always been That which I am. The name I bore is not Of those which perish! I was once a chief-- A warrior--nor as now, a lonely man! I was a father!

_Elm._ Then thy heart can _feel_! Thou wilt have pity!

_Her._ Should I pity _thee_? _Thy_ sons will perish gloriously--their blood----

_Elm._ Their blood! my children’s blood! Thou speak’st as ’twere Of casting down a wine-cup, in the mirth And wantonness of feasting! My fair boys! --Man! hast _thou_ been a father?

_Her._ Let them die! Let them die _now_, thy children! so thy heart Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm’d Within it, to the last! Nor shalt thou learn The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust Are framed the idols whose false glory binds Earth’s fetter on our souls! Thou think’st it much To mourn the early dead; but there are tear’s Heavy with deeper anguish! We endow Those whom we love, in our fond passionate blindness, With power upon our souls, too absolute To be a mortal’s trust! Within their hands We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone Can reach our hearts; and _they_ are merciful, As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us! Ay, fear them! fear the loved! Had I but wept O’er my son’s grave, or o’er a babe’s, where tears Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun, And brightening the young verdure, _I_ might still Have loved and trusted!

_Elm._ (_disdainfully._) But he fell in war! And hath not glory medicine in her cup For the brief pangs of nature?

_Her._ Glory!--Peace, And listen! By my side the stripling grew, Last of my line. I rear’d him to take joy I’ th’ blaze of arms, as eagles train their young To look upon the day-king! His quick blood Even to his boyish cheek would mantle up, When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his eye Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds-- --But this availeth not! Yet he _was_ brave. I’ve seen him clear himself a path in fight As lightning through a forest; and his plume Waved like a torch above the battle-storm, The soldier’s guide, when princely crests had sunk, And banners were struck down. Around my steps Floated his fame, like music, and I lived But in the lofty sound. But when my heart In one frail ark had ventured all, when most He seem’d to stand between my soul and heaven, --Then came the thunder-stroke!

_Elm._ ’Tis ever thus! And the unquiet and foreboding sense That thus ’twill ever be, doth link itself Darkly with all deep love! He died?

_Her._ Not so! --Death! Death! Why, earth should be a paradise, To make that name so fearful! Had he died, With his young fame about him for a shroud, I had not learn’d the might of agony To bring proud natures low! No! he fell off-- Why do I tell thee this? what right hast _thou_ To learn how pass’d the glory from my house? Yet listen! He forsook me! He, that was As mine own soul, forsook me! trampled o’er The ashes of his sires! ay, leagued himself E’en with the infidel, the curse of Spain; And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid, Abjured his faith, his God! Now, talk of death!

_Elm._ Oh! I can pity thee----

_Her._ There’s more to hear. I braced the corslet o’er my heart’s deep wound, And cast my troubled spirit on the tide Of war and high events, whose stormy waves Might bear it up from sinking;----

_Elm._ And ye met No more?

_Her._ Be still! We did! we met _once_ more. God had his own high purpose to fulfil, Or think’st thou that the sun in his bright heaven Had look’d upon such things? We met _once more_. That was an hour to leave its lightning-mark Sear’d upon brain and bosom! There had been Combat on Ebro’s banks, and when the day Sank in red clouds, it faded from a field Still held by Moorish lances. Night closed round-- A night of sultry darkness, in the shadow Of whose broad wing, e’en unto death, I strove Long with a turban’d champion; but my sword Was heavy with God’s vengeance--and prevail’d. He fell--my heart exulted--and I stood In gloomy triumph o’er him. Nature gave No sign of horror, for ’twas Heaven’s decree! He strove to speak--but I had done the work Of wrath too well; yet in his last deep moan A dreadful something of familiar sound Came o’er my shuddering sense. The moon look’d forth, And I beheld--speak not!--twas he--my son! My boy lay dying there! He raised one glance And knew me--for he sought with feeble hand To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil Sank o’er them soon. I will not have thy look Fix’d on me thus! Away!

_Elm._ Thou hast seen this, Thou hast _done_ this--and yet thou liv’st?

_Her._ I live! And know’st thou wherefore? On my soul there fell A horror of great darkness, which shut out All earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away The spear and helm, and made the cloister’s shade The home of my despair. But a deep voice Came to me through the gloom, and sent its tones Far through my bosom’s depths. And I awoke; Ay, as the mountain-cedar doth shake off Its weight of wintry snow, e’en so I shook Despondence from my soul, and knew myself Seal’d by that blood wherewith my hands were dyed, And set apart, and fearfully mark’d out Unto a mighty task! To rouse the soul Of Spain as from the dead; and to lift up The Cross, her sign of victory, on the hills, Gathering her sons to battle! And my voice Must be as freedom’s trumpet on the winds, From Roncesvalles to the blue sea-waves Where Calpe looks on Afric; till the land Have fill’d her cup of vengeance! Ask me _now_ To yield the Christian city, that its fanes May rear the minaret in the face of heaven!-- But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast Ere that day come!

_Elm._ I ask thee this no more, For I am hopeless now. But yet one boon-- Hear me, by all thy woes! Thy voice hath power Through the wide city: here I cannot rest-- Aid me to pass the gates!

_Her._ And wherefore?

_Elm._ Thou, That _wert_ a father, and art now--alone! Canst _thou_ ask “wherefore?” Ask the wretch whose sands Have not an hour to run, whose failing limbs Have but one earthly journey to perform, Why, on his pathway to the place of death, Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parch’d lip Implores a cup of water? Why, the stroke Which trembles o’er him in itself shall bring Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies Nature’s last prayer? I tell thee that the thirst Which burns my spirit up is agony To be endured no more! And I _must_ look Upon my children’s faces, I must hear Their voices, ere they perish! But hath heaven Decreed that they _must_ perish? Who shall say If in yon Moslem camp there beats no heart Which prayers and tears may melt?

_Her._ There!--with the Moor! Let him fill up the measure of his guilt! --’Tis madness all! How wouldst thou pass th’ array Of armèd foes?

_Elm._ Oh! free doth sorrow pass, Free and unquestion’d, through a suffering world![275]

_Her._ This must not be. Enough of woe is laid E’en now upon thy lord’s heroic soul, For man to bear, unsinking. Press thou not Too heavily th’ o’erburthen’d heart. Away! Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers for strength Up to heaven’s gate. Farewell!

[_Exit_ Hernandez.

_Elm._ Are all men thus? --Why, were’t not better they should fall e’en now Than live to shut their hearts, in haughty scorn, Against the sufferer’s pleadings? But no, no! Who can be like _this_ man, that slew his son, Yet wears his life still proudly, and a soul Untamed upon his brow?

(_After a pause._) There’s one, whose arms Have borne my children in their infancy, And on whose knees they sported, and whose hand Hath led them oft--a vassal of their sire’s; And I will seek him: he may lend me aid, When all beside pass on.

DIRGE, (_heard without_.)

Thou to thy rest art gone, High heart! and what are we, While o’er our heads the storm sweeps on, That we should mourn for thee?

Free grave and peaceful bier To the buried son of Spain! To those that live, the lance and spear, And well if not the chain!

Be _theirs_ to weep the dead, As they sit beneath their vines, Whose flowery land hath borne no tread Of spoilers o’er its shrines!

Thou hast thrown off the load Which we must yet sustain, And pour our blood where _thine_ hath flow’d, Too blest if not in vain!

We give thee holy rite, Slow knell, and chanted strain! --For those that fall to-morrow night, May be left no funeral-train.

Again, when trumpets wake, We must brace our armour on; But a deeper note _thy_ sleep must break-- Thou to thy rest art gone!

Happier in _this_ than all, That, now thy race is run, Upon thy name no stain may fall, Thy work hath well been done!

_Elm._ “Thy work hath well been done!”--so thou may’st rest! --There is a solemn lesson in those words-- But now I may not pause.

[_Exit_ Elmina.

[275]

“Frey geht das Unglück durch die ganze Erde.”

Schiller’s _Death of Wallenstein_, act iv. sc. 2.

## Scene III.--_A Street in the City._

Hernandez, Gonzalez.

_Her._ Would they not hear?

_Gon._ They heard, as one that stands By the cold grave, which hath but newly closed O’er his last friend, doth hear some passer-by Bid him be comforted! Their hearts have died Within them! We must perish, not as those That fall when battle’s voice doth shake the hills, And peal through heaven’s great arch, but silently, And with a wasting of the spirit down, A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark, Which lit us on our toils! Reproach me not; My soul is darken’d with a heavy cloud-- Yet fear not I shall yield!

_Her._ Breathe not the word, Save in proud scorn! Each bitter day o’erpass’d By slow endurance, is a triumph won For Spain’s red Cross. And be of trusting heart! A few brief hours, and those that turn’d away In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice, May crowd around their leader, and demand To be array’d for battle. We must watch For the swift impulse, and await its time, As the bark waits the ocean’s. You have chosen To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance, When they were weary; they had cast aside Their arms to slumber; or a knell, just then, With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood Creep shuddering through their veins; or they had caught A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped forth Strange omens from its blaze.

_Gon._ Alas! the cause Lies deeper, in their misery! I have seen, In my night’s course through this beleaguer’d city, Things whose remembrance doth not pass away As vapours from the mountains. There were some, That sat beside their dead, with eyes wherein Grief had ta’en place of sight, and shut out all But its own ghastly object. To my voice Some answer’d with a fierce and bitter laugh, As men whose agonies were made to pass The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word, Dropt from the light of spirit. Others lay-- Why should I tell thee, father! how despair Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down Unto the very dust? And yet for this, Fear not that I embrace my doom--O God! That ’twere _my_ doom alone!--with less of fix’d And solemn fortitude. Lead on, prepare The holiest rites of faith, that I by them Once more may consecrate my sword, my life; --But what are these? Who hath not dearer lives Twined with his own! I shall be lonely soon-- Childless! Heaven wills it so. Let us begone. Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat With a less troubled motion.

[_Exeunt_ Gonzalez _and_ Hernandez.

## Scene IV.--_A Tent in the Moorish Camp._

Abdullah, Alphonso, Carlos.

_Abd._ These are bold words: but hast thou look’d on death, Fair stripling? On thy cheek and sunny brow Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced The ibex of the mountains, if thy step Hath climb’d some eagle’s nest, and thou hast made His nest thy spoil, ’tis much! And fear’st thou not The leader of the mighty?

_Alph._ I have been Rear’d amongst fearless men, and midst the rocks And the wild hills, whereon my fathers fought And won their battles. There are glorious tales Told of their deeds, and I have learn’d them all. How should I fear thee, Moor?

_Abd._ So, thou hast seen Fields, where the combat’s roar hath died away Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flowers Bloom o’er forgotten graves! But know’st thou aught Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes fire, And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds Trample the life from out the mighty hearts That ruled the storm so late?--Speak not of death Till thou hast look’d on such.

_Alph._ I was not born A shepherd’s son, to dwell with pipe and crook, And peasant men, amidst the lowly vales; Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears, And crested knights! I am of princely race; And, if my father would have heard my suit. I tell thee, infidel, that long ere now I should have seen how lances meet, and swords Do the field’s work.

_Abd._ Boy!--know’st thou there are sights A thousand times more fearful? Men may die Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring To battle-horn and tecbir.[276] But not all So pass away in glory. There are those, Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes, Led forth in fetters--dost thou mark me, boy?-- To take their last look of th’ all-gladdening sun, And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth Unto the death of shame!--Hadst thou seen this----

_Alph._ (_to Carlos._) Sweet brother, God is with us--fear thou not! We have had heroes for our sires:--this man Should not behold us tremble.

_Abd._ There are means To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls, Sue to thy sire for life!--or would’st thou die With this thy brother?

_Alph._ Moslem! on the hills, Around my father’s castle, I have heard The mountain-peasants, as they dress’d the vines, Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home, Singing their ancient songs; and these were all Of the Cid Campeador; and how his sword Tizona[277] clear’d its way through turban’d hosts, And captured Afric’s kings, and how he won Valencia from the Moor.[278] I will not shame The blood we draw from him!

[_A Moorish soldier enters._

_Sol._ Valencia’s lord Sends messengers, my chief.

_Abd._ Conduct them hither.

[_The soldier goes out and re-enters with_ Elmina, _disguised, and an attendant_.

_Car._ (_springing forward to the attendant._) Oh! take me hence, Diego! take me hence With thee, that I may see my mother’s face At morning when I wake. Here dark-brow’d men Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us. Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind, And well I know thou lov’st me, my Diego!

_Abd._ Peace, boy!--What tidings, Christian, from thy lord? Is he grown humbler?--doth he set the lives Of these fair nurslings at a city’s worth?

_Alph._ (_rushing forward impatiently._) Say not he doth!--Yet wherefore art thou here? If it be so, I could weep burning tears For very shame! If this _can_ be, return! Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils, I will but ask a war-horse and a sword, And that beside him in the mountain-chase, And in his halls, and at his stately feasts, My place shall be no more! But no!--I wrong, I wrong my father! Moor, believe it not: He is a champion of the Cross and Spain, Sprung from the Cid!--and I, too, I can die As a warrior’s high-born child!

_Elm._ Alas, alas! And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy? What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst cast Its flower away, in very scorn of heart, Ere yet the blight be come?

_Alph._ That voice doth sound----

_Abd._ Stranger, who art thou?--this is mockery! speak!

_Elm._ (_throwing off a mantle and helmet, and embracing her sons._) My boys! whom I have rear’d through many hours Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts Untold and unimagined; let me die With you, now I have held you to my heart, And seen once more the faces, in whose light My soul hath lived for years!

_Car._ Sweet mother! now Thou shalt not leave us more.

_Abd._ Enough of this! Woman! what seek’st thou here? How hast thou dared To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts?

_Elm._ Think’st thou there dwells no courage but in breasts That set their mail against the ringing spears, When helmets are struck down? Thou little know’st Of nature’s marvels. Chief! my heart is nerved To make its way through things which warrior men, Ay, they that master death by field or flood, Would look on, ere they braved! I have no thought, No sense of fear! Thou’rt mighty! but a soul Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power Of that one feeling pour’d through all its depths, Than monarchs with their hosts? Am I not come To die with these my children?

_Abd._ Doth thy faith Bid thee do this, fond Christian? Hast thou not The means to save them?

_Elm._ I have prayers, and tears, And agonies!--and he, my God--the God Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour To bow the crested head--hath made these things Most powerful in a world where all must learn That one deep language, by the storm call’d forth From the bruised reeds of earth! For thee, perchance, Affliction’s chastening lesson hath not yet Been laid upon thy heart; and thou may’st love To see the creatures, by its might brought low, Humbled before thee. [_She throws herself at his feet._ Conqueror, I can kneel! I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself E’en to thy feet! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves, If this will swell thy triumph, to behold The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased! Do this, but spare my sons!

_Alph._ (_attempting to raise her._) Thou shouldst not kneel Unto this infidel! Rise, rise, my mother! This sight doth shame our house!

_Abd._ Thou daring boy! They that in arms have taught thy father’s land How chains are worn, shall school that haughty mien Unto another language.

_Elm._ Peace, my son! Have pity on my heart! Oh, pardon, chief! He is of noble blood. Hear, hear me yet! Are there no lives through which the shafts of heaven May reach your soul? He that loves aught on earth, Dares far too much, if he be merciless! Is it for those, whose frail mortality Must one day strive alone with God and death, To shut their souls against th’ appealing voice Of nature, in her anguish? Warrior, man, To you, too, ay, and haply with your hosts, By thousands and ten thousands marshall’d round, And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke Which the lance wards not! Where shall your high heart Find refuge then, if in the day of might Woe hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet, And you have pitied not?

_Abd._ These are vain words.

_Elm._ Have you no children?--fear ye not to bring The lightning on their heads? In your own land Doth no fond mother, from the tents beneath Your native palms, look o’er the deserts out, To greet your homeward step? You have not yet Forgot so utterly her patient love-- For is not woman’s in all climes the same?-- That you should scorn _my_ prayer! Oh heaven! his eye Doth wear no mercy!

_Abd._ Then it mocks you not. I have swept o’er the mountains of your land, Leaving my traces, as the visitings Of storms upon them! Shall I now be stay’d? Know, unto me it were as light a thing, In this my course, to quench your children’s lives, As, journeying through a forest, to break off The young wild branches that obstruct the way With their green sprays and leaves.

_Elm._ Are there such hearts Amongst thy works, O God?

_Abd._ Kneel not to me. Kneel to your lord! on his resolves doth hang His children’s doom. He may be lightly won By a few bursts of passionate tears and words.

_Elm._ (_rising indignantly._) Speak not of noble men! He bears a soul Stronger than love or death.

_Alph._ (_with exultation._) I knew ’twas thus! He could not fail!

_Elm._ There is no mercy, none, On this cold earth! To strive with such a world, Hearts should be void of love! We will go hence, My children! we are summon’d. Lay your heads, In their young radiant beauty, once again To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round, Will yet have pity, and before His face We three will stand together! Moslem! now Let the stroke fall at once!

_Abd._ ’Tis thine own will. These might e’en yet be spared.

_Elm._ _Thou_ wilt not spare! And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew, And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear From their first lisping accents caught the sound Of that word--_Father_--once a name of love-- Is----Men shall call him _steadfast_.

_Abd._ Hath the blast Of sudden trumpets ne’er at dead of night, When the land’s watchers fear’d no hostile step, Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world, In cities, whose heroic lords have been _Steadfast_ as thine?

_Elm._ There’s meaning in thine eye, More than thy words.

_Abd._ (_pointing to the city._) Look to yon towers and walls! Think you no hearts within their limits pine, Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared To burst the feeble links which bind them still Unto endurance.

_Elm._ Thou hast said too well. But what of this?

_Abd._ Then there are those, to whom The Prophet’s armies not as foes would pass Yon gates, but as deliverers. Might they not In some still hour, when weariness takes rest, Be won to welcome us? Your children’s steps May yet bound lightly through their father’s halls!

_Alph._ (_indignantly._) Thou treacherous Moor!

_Elm._ Let me not thus be tried Beyond all strength, O heaven!

_Abd._ Now, ’tis for _thee_, Thou Christian mother! on thy sons to pass The sentence--life or death! The price is set On their young blood, and rests within thy hands.

_Alph._ Mother! thou tremblest!

_Abd._ Hath thy heart resolved?

_Elm._ (_covering her face with her hands._) My boy’s proud eye is on me, and the things Which rush in stormy darkness through my soul Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer _here_.

_Abd._ Come forth. We’ll commune elsewhere.

_Car._ (_to his mother._) Wilt thou go? Oh! let me follow thee!

_Elm._ Mine own fair child! Now that thine eyes have pour’d once more on mine The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice Hath sent its gentle music through my soul, And I have felt the twining of thine arms-- How shall I leave thee?

_Abd._ Leave him, as ’twere but For a brief slumber, to behold his face At morning, with the sun’s.

_Alph._ Thou hast no look For me, my mother!

_Elm._ Oh! that I should live To say, I _dare_ not look on thee! Farewell, My first-born, fare thee well!

_Alph._ Yet, yet beware! It were a grief more heavy on thy soul, That I should blush for thee, than o’er my grave That thou shouldst proudly weep!

_Abd._ Away! we trifle here. The night wanes fast. Come forth!

_Elm._ One more embrace! My sons, farewell!

[_Exeunt_ Abdullah _with_ Elmina _and her Attendant_.

_Alph._ Hear me yet once, my mother! Art thou gone? But one word more!

[_He rushes out, followed by_ Carlos.

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

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

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

## Scene V.--_The Garden of a Palace in Valencia._

Ximena, Theresa.

_Ther._ Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove Here through the myrtles whispering, and the limes, And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs, Than waits you in the city.

_Xim._ There are those In their last need, and on their bed of death,-- At which no hand doth minister but mine,-- That wait me in the city. Let us hence.

_Ther._ You have been wont to love the music made By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds, Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn From these to scenes of death?

_Xim._ To me the voice Of summer, whispering through young flowers and leaves, Now speaks too deep a language! and of all Its dreamy and mysterious melodies, The breathing soul is sadness! I have felt That summons through my spirit, after which The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds Seem fraught with secret warnings. There is cause That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes Where Death is busy, taming warrior-hearts, And pouring winter through the fiery blood, And fettering the strong arm! For now no sigh In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven, No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf, But of his angel’s silent coming bears Some token to my soul. But naught of this Unto my mother! These are awful hours! And on their heavy steps afflictions crowd With such dark pressure, there is left no room For one grief more.

_Ther._ Sweet lady, talk not thus! Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light, There’s more of life in its clear tremulous ray Than I have mark’d of late. Nay, go not yet; Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring From the transparent waters, dashing round Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness, O’er the pale glistening marble. ’Twill call up Faint bloom, if but a moment’s, to your cheek. Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing The melody you love.

Theresa _sings_.

Why is the Spanish maiden’s grave So far from her own bright land? The sunny flowers that o’er it wave Were sown by no kindred hand.

’Tis not the orange-bough that sends Its breath on the sultry air, ’Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends To the breeze of evening there!

But the rose of Sharon’s eastern bloom By the silent dwelling fades, And none but strangers pass the tomb Which the palm of Judah shades.

The lowly Cross, with flowers o’ergrown, Marks well that place of rest; But who hath graved, on its mossy stone, A sword, a helm, a crest?

These are the trophies of a chief, A lord of the axe and spear! --Some blossom pluck’d, some faded leaf, Should grace a maiden’s bier!

Scorn not her tomb--deny not her The honours of the brave! O’er that forsaken sepulchre Banner and plume might wave.

She bound the steel, in battle tried, Her fearless heart above, And stood with brave men side by side, In the strength and faith of love!

That strength prevail’d--that faith was bless’d! True was the javelin thrown, Yet pierced it not her warrior’s breast-- She met it with her own!

And nobly won, where heroes fell In arms for the holy shrine, A death which saved what she loved so well, And a grave in Palestine.

Then let the rose of Sharon spread Its breast to the glowing air, And the palm of Judah lift its head, Green and immortal there!

And let yon gray stone, undefaced, With its trophy mark the scene, Telling the pilgrim of the waste Where Love and Death have been.

_Xim._ Those notes were wont to make my heart beat quick, As at a voice of victory; but to-day The spirit of the song is changed, and seems All mournful. Oh! that, ere my early grave Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth Beneath my father’s banner! In that sound Were life to you, sweet brothers!--But for me-- Come on--our tasks await us. They who know Their hours are number’d out, have little time To give the vague and slumberous languor way, Which doth steal o’er them in the breath of flowers, And whisper of soft winds.

[Elmina _enters hurriedly_.

_Elm._ The air will calm my spirit, ere yet I meet His eye, which must be met.--Thou here, Ximena!

[_She starts back on seeing_ Ximena.

_Xim._ Alas! my mother! in that hurrying step And troubled glance I read----

_Elm._ (_wildly._) Thou read’st it not! Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye The things lay glaring, which within our hearts We treasure up for God’s? Thou read’st it not! I say, thou canst not! There’s not one on earth Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves have made And kept dark places in the very breast Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour When the graves open!

_Xim._ Mother! what is this! Alas! your eye is wandering, and your cheek Flush’d, as with fever! To your woes the night Hath brought no rest.

_Elm._ Rest!--who should rest?--not he That holds one earthly blessing to his heart Nearer than life! No! if this world have aught Of bright or precious, let not him, who calls Such things his own, take rest!--Dark spirits keep watch; And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame, Were as heaven’s air, the vital element Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their souls Made marks for human scorn! Will they bear on With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all Its glorious drapery? Who shall tell us this? --Will _he_ so bear it?

_Xim._ Mother! let us kneel And blend our hearts in prayer! What else is left To mortals when the dark hour’s might is on them? --Leave us, Theresa.--Grief like this doth find Its balm in solitude. [_Exit_ Theresa.

My mother! peace Is heaven’s benignant answer to the cry Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me?

_Elm._ Away! ’tis but for souls unstain’d, to wear Heaven’s tranquil image on their depths.--The stream Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm, Reflects but clouds and lightnings!--Didst thou speak Of peace?--’tis fled from earth! But there is joy! Wild, troubled joy! And who shall know, my child, It is not happiness? Why, our own hearts Will keep the secret close! Joy, joy! if but To leave this desolate city, with its dull Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again Th’ untainted mountain-air!--But hush! the trees, The flowers, the waters, must hear naught of this! They are full of voices, and will whisper things---- --We’ll speak of it no more.

_Xim._ O pitying heaven! This grief doth shake her reason!

_Elm._ (_starting._) Hark! a step! ’Tis--’tis thy father’s! Come away--not now-- He must not see us now!

_Xim._ Why should this be?

[Gonzalez _enters, and detains_ Elmina.

_Gon._ Elmina, dost thou shun me? Have we not E’en from the hopeful and the sunny time When youth was as a glory round our brows, Held on through life together? And is this, When eve is gathering round us, with the gloom Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps Upon the darkening wild?

_Elm._ (_coldly._) There needs not this. Why shouldst thou think I shunn’d thee

_Gon._ Should the love That shone o’er many years, th’ unfading love, Whose only change hath been from gladdening smiles To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength, Thus lightly be forgotten?

_Elm._ Speak’st _thou_ thus? --I have knelt before thee with that very plea, When it avail’d me not! But there are things Whose very breathings from the soul erase All record of past love, save the chill sense, Th’ unquiet memory of its wasted faith, And vain devotedness! Ay! they that fix Affection’s perfect trust on aught of earth, Have many a dream to start from!

_Gon._ This is but The wildness and the bitterness of grief, Ere yet the unsettled heart hath closed its long Impatient conflicts with a mightier power, Which makes all conflict vain. ----Hark! was there not A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond The Moorish tents, and of another tone Than th’ Afric horn, Ximena?

_Xim._ O my father! I know that horn too well.--’Tis but the wind, Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep And savage war-note from us, wafting it O’er the far hills.

_Gon._ Alas! this woe must be! I do not shake my spirit from its height, So startling it with hope! But the dread hour Shall be met bravely still. I can keep down Yet for a little while--and heaven will ask No more--the passionate workings of my heart --And thine, Elmina?

_Elm._ ’Tis--I am prepared. I _have_ prepared for all.

_Gon._ Oh, well I knew Thou wouldst not fail me! Not in vain my soul, Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up Unshaken trust.

_Elm._ (_wildly._) Away!--thou know’st me not! Man dares too far--his rashness would invest This our mortality with an attribute Too high and awful, boasting that he knows One human heart!

_Gon._ These are wild words, but yet I will not doubt thee! Hast thou not been found Noble in all things, pouring thy soul’s light Undimm’d o’er every trial? And, as our fates, So must our names be, undivided!--Thine, I’ th’ record of a warrior’s life, shall find Its place of stainless honour. By his side----

_Elm._ May this be borne! How much of agony Hath the heart room for? Speak to me in wrath --I can endure it! But no gentle words! No words of love! no praise! Thy sword might slay, And be more merciful!

_Gon._ Wherefore art thou thus? Elmina, my beloved!

_Elm._ No more of love! --Have I not said there’s that within my heart, Whereon it falls as living fire would fall Upon an unclosed wound?

_Gon._ Nay, lift thine eyes, That I may read _their_ meaning!

_Elm._ Never more With a free soul. What have I said?--’twas naught! Take thou no heed! The words of wretchedness Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the speech Of troubled dreams?

_Gon._ I have seen thee in the hour Of thy deep spirit’s joy, and when the breath Of grief hung chilling round thee; in all change, Bright health and drooping sickness; hope and fear; Youth and decline; but never yet, Elmina, Ne’er hath thine eye till now shrunk back, perturb’d With shame or dread, from mine!

_Elm._ Thy glance doth search A wounded heart too deeply.

_Gon._ Hast thou there Aught to conceal?

_Elm._ Who hath not?

_Gon._ Till this hour _Thou_ never hadst! Yet hear me!--by the free And unattainted fame which wraps the dust Of thine heroic fathers----

_Elm._ This to me! --Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds Of festal music round a dying man! Will his heart echo them? But if thy words Were spells, to call up, with each lofty tone, The grave’s most awful spirits, they would stand Powerless, before my anguish!

_Gon._ Then, by her, Who there looks on thee in the purity Of her devoted youth, and o’er whose name No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must ne’er Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully From the quick feeling of dishonour--Speak! Unfold this mystery! By thy sons----

_Elm._ My sons! And canst _thou_ name them?

_Gon._ Proudly! Better far They died with all the promise of their youth, And the fair honour of their house upon them, Than that, with manhood’s high and passionate soul To fearful strength unfolded, they should live, Barr’d from the lists of crested chivalry, And pining, in the silence of a woe, Which from the heart shuts daylight--o’er the shame Of those who gave them birth! But _thou_ couldst ne’er Forget their lofty claims!

_Elm._ (_wildly._) ’Twas but for them! ’Twas for them only! Who shall dare arraign Madness of crime? And He who made us, knows

There are dark moments of all hearts and lives, Which bear down reason!

_Gon._ Thou, whom I have loved With such high trust as o’er our nature threw A glory scarce allow’d--what hast thou done? --Ximena, go thou hence!

_Elm._ No, no! my child! There’s pity in thy look! All other eyes Are full of wrath and scorn! Oh, leave me not!

_Gon._ That I should live to see thee thus abased! --Yet speak! What hast thou done?

_Elm._ Look to the gate! Thou’rt worn with toil--but take no rest to-night! The western gate! Its watchers have been won-- The Christian city hath been bought and sold!-- They will admit the Moor!

_Gon._ They have been won! Brave men and tried so long! Whose work was this?

_Elm._ Think’st thou all hearts like thine? Can mothers stand To see their children perish?

_Gon._ Then the guilt Was thine?

_Elm._ Shall mortal dare to call it guilt? I tell thee, heaven, which made all holy things, Made naught more holy than the boundless love Which fills a mother’s heart! I say, ’tis woe Enough, with such an aching tenderness, To love aught earthly! and in vain! in vain! --We are press’d down too sorely!

_Gon._ (_in a low desponding voice._) Now my life Is struck to worthless ashes!--In my soul Suspicion hath ta’en root. The nobleness Henceforth is blotted from all human brows; And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, Almost like prophecy, is pour’d upon me, To read the guilty secrets in each eye That once look’d bright with truth! Why, then, I have gain’d What men call wisdom!--A new sense, to which All tales that speak of high fidelity, And holy courage, and proud honour, tried, Search’d, and found steadfast, even to martyrdom, Are food for mockery! Why should I not cast From my thinn’d locks the wearing helm at once, And in the heavy sickness of my soul Throw the sword down for ever? Is there aught In all this world of gilded hollowness, Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things, Worth striving for again?

_Xim._ Father! look up! Turn unto me, thy child!

_Gon._ Thy face is fair; And hath been unto me, in other days, As morning to the journeyer of the deep? But now--’tis too like hers!

_Elm._ (_falling at his feet._) Woe, shame and woe, Are on me in their might! Forgive! forgive!

_Gon._ (_starting up._) Doth the Moor deem that _I_ have part or share Or counsel in his vileness? Stay me not! Let go thy hold--’tis powerless on me now: I linger here, while treason is at work!

[_Exit_ Gonzalez.

_Elm._ Ximena, dost _thou_ scorn me?

_Xim._ I have found In mine own heart too much of feebleness, Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes But His whom naught can blind, to dare do aught But pity thee, dear mother!

_Elm._ Blessings light On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this! Thou kind and merciful! My soul is faint-- Worn with long strife! Is there aught else to do, Or suffer, ere we die?--Oh God! my sons! --I have betray’d them! All their innocent blood Is on my soul!

_Xim._ How shall I comfort thee? --Oh! hark! what sounds come deepening on the wind, So full of solemn hope!

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

CHANT.

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._

[283] “La voilà, telle que la mort nous l’a faite!”--Bossuet, _Oraisons Funèbres_.

## Scene IX.--_The walls of the city._

Hernandez--_A few citizens gathered round him._

_Her._ Why, men have cast the treasures, which their lives Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre; Ay, at their household hearths have lit the brand, Even from that shrine of quiet love to bear The flame which gave their temples and their homes In ashes to the winds! They have done this, Making a blasted void where once the sun Look’d upon lovely dwellings; and from earth Razing all record that on such a spot Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept, And frail humanity knelt before her God: They have done _this_, in their free nobleness, Rather than see the spoiler’s tread pollute Their holy places. Praise, high praise be theirs, Who have left man such lessons! And these things, Made your own hills their witnesses! The sky, Whose arch bends o’er you, and the seas, wherein Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw The altar, and the birthplace, and the tomb, And all memorials of man’s heart and faith, Thus proudly honour’d! Be ye not outdone By the departed! Though the godless foe Be close upon us, we have power to snatch The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong! A few bright torches and brief moments yet Shall baffle his flush’d hope; and we may die, Laughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me! And thou, Valencia! triumph in thy fate-- The ruin, not the yoke; and make thy towers A beacon unto Spain!

_Cits._ We’ll follow thee! Alas! for our fair city, and the homes Wherein we rear’d our children! But away! The Moor shall plant no Crescent o’er our fanes!

_Voice._ (_from a tower on the walls._) Succours!--Castile! Castile!

_Cits._ (_rushing to the spot._) It is even so! Now blessing be to heaven, for we are saved! Castile! Castile!

_Voice._ (_from the tower._) Line after line of spears, Lance after lance, upon th’ horizon’s verge, Like festal lights from cities bursting up, Doth skirt the plain. In faith, a noble host!

_Another voice._ The Moor hath turn’d him from our walls, to front Th’ advancing might of Spain!

_Cits._ (_shouting._) Castile! Castile!

Gonzalez _enters, supported by_ Elmina _and a citizen_.

_Gon._ What shouts of joy are these?

_Her._ Hail! chieftain, hail! Thus, even in death, ’tis given thee to receive The conqueror’s crown! Behold our God hath heard, And arm’d himself with vengeance! Lo! they come! The lances of Castile!

_Gon._ I knew, I knew, Thou wouldst not utterly, my God! forsake Thy servant in his need! My blood and tears Have not sunk vainly to th’ attesting earth. Praise to Thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived To see this hour!

_Elm._ And I, too, bless thy name, Though thou hast proved me unto agony! O God!--thou God of chastening!

_Voice._ (_from the tower._) They move on! I see the royal banner in the air, With its emblazon’d towers!

_Gon._ Go, bring ye forth The banner of the Cid, and plant it here, To stream above me, for an answering sign That the good Cross doth hold its lofty place Within Valencia still! What see you now?

_Her._ I see a kingdom’s might upon its path, Moving, in terrible magnificence, Unto revenge and victory! With the flash Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks, As meteors from a still and gloomy deep, And with the waving of ten thousand plumes, Like a land’s harvest in the autumn wind, And with fierce light, which is not of the sun, But flung from sheets of steel--it comes, it comes, The vengeance of our God!

_Gon._ I hear it now, The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes, Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths.

_Her._ Ay, earth knows well the omen of that sound; And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre’s, Pent in her secret hollows, to respond Unto the step of death!

_Gon._ Hark! how the wind Swells proudly with the battle-march of Spain? Now the heart feels its power! A little while Grant me to Eve, my God! What pause is this?

_Her._ A deep and dreadful one! The serried files Level their spears for combat; now the hosts Look on each other in their brooding wrath, Silent, and face to face.

_Voices heard without, chanting._

Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit! rest thee now! E’en while with ours thy footsteps trode His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Soul, to its place on high! They that have seen thy look in death No more may fear to die.

_Elm._ (_to_ Gonzalez.) It is the death-hymn o’er thy daughter’s bier! But I am calm; and e’en like gentle winds, That music, through the stillness of my heart, Sends mournful peace.

_Gon._ Oh! well those solemn tones Accord with such an hour, for all her life Breathed of a hero’s soul!

[_A sound of trumpets and shouting from the plain._]

_Her._ Now, now they close! Hark! what a dull dead sound Is in the Moorish war-shout! I have known Such tones prophetic oft. The shock is given-- Lo! they have placed their shields before their hearts, And lower’d their lances with the streamers on, And on their steeds bent forward! God for Spain! The first bright sparks of battle have been struck From spear to spear, across the gleaming field!-- There is no sight on which the blue sky looks To match with this! ’Tis not the gallant crests,

Nor banners with their glorious blazonry; The very nature and high soul of man Doth now reveal itself!

_Gon._ Oh, raise me up, That I may look upon the noble scene!-- It will not be!--That this dull mist would pass A moment from my sight! Whence rose that shout, As in fierce triumph?

_Her._ (_clasping his hands._) Must I look on this? The banner sinks--’tis taken!

_Gon._ Whose?

_Her._ Castile’s!

_Gon._ O God of Battles!

_Elm._ Calm thy noble heart; Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. Nay, rest thee on my bosom.

_Her._ Cheer thee yet! Our knights have spurr’d to rescue. There is now A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things, Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness Wherewith they moved before! I see tall plumes All wildly tossing o’er the battle’s tide, Sway’d by the wrathful motion, and the press Of desperate men, as cedar boughs by storms. Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood, Many a false corslet broken, many a shield Pierced through! Now, shout for Santiago, shout! Lo! javelins with a moment’s brightness cleave The thickening dust, and barded steeds go down With their helm’d riders! Who, but One, can tell How spirits part amidst that fearful rush And trampling-on of furious multitudes?

_Gon._ Thou’rt silent!--See’st thou more? My soul grows dark.

_Her._ And dark and troubled, as an angry sea, Dashing some gallant armament in scorn Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze! I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross’d, And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms To lighten with the stroke! But round the spot Where, like a storm-fell’d mast, our standard sank, The heart of battle burns.

_Gon._ Where is that spot?

_Her._ It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms, That lift their green heads o’er the tumult still, In calm and stately grace.

_Gon._ _There_ didst thou say? Then God is with us, and we _must_ prevail! For on that spot they died: my children’s blood Calls on th’ avenger thence!

_Elm._ They perish’d there! --And the bright locks that waved so joyously To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled Even on that place of death! O Merciful! Hush the dark thought within me!

_Her._ (_with sudden exultation._) Who is he, On the white steed, and with the castled helm, And the gold-broider’d mantle, which doth float E’en like a sunny cloud above the fight; And the pale cross, which from his breastplate gleams With star-like radiance?

_Gon._ (_eagerly._) Didst thou say the cross?

_Her._ On his mail’d bosom shines a broad white cross, And his long plumage through the dark’ning air Streams like a snow-wreath.

_Gon._ That should be--

_Her._ The king! Was it not told to us how he sent, of late, To the Cid’s tomb, e’en for the silver cross, Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind O’er his brave heart in fight?[284]

_Gon._ (_springing up joyfully._) My king! my king! Now all good saints for Spain! My noble king! And thou art there! That I might look once more Upon thy face! But yet I thank thee, heaven! That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands Thus to receive his city!

[_He sinks back into_ Elmina’s _arms_.

_Her._ He hath clear’d A pathway midst the combat, and the light Follows his charge through yon close living mass, E’en as a gleam on some proud vessel’s wake Along the stormy waters! ’Tis redeem’d-- The castled banner; it is flung once more, In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds! There seems a wavering through the Paynim hosts-- Castile doth press them sore--now, now rejoice!

_Gon._ What hast thou seen?

_Her._ Abdullah falls! He falls! The man of blood!--the spoiler!--he hath sunk In our king’s path! Well hath that royal sword Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez! They give way, The Crescent’s van is broken! On the hills, And the dark pine-woods, may the infidel Call vainly, in his agony of fear, To cover him from vengeance! Lo! they fly! They of the forest and the wilderness Are scatter’d, e’en as leaves upon the wind! Woe to the sons of Afric! Let the plains, And the vine mountains, and Hesperian seas, Take their dead unto them!--that blood shall wash Our soil from stains of bondage.

_Gon._ (_attempting to raise himself._) Set me free! Come with me forth, for I must greet my king, After his battle-field!

_Her._ Oh, blest in death! Chosen of heaven, farewell! Look on the Cross, And part from earth in peace!

_Gon._ Now, charge once more! God is with Spain, and Santiago’s sword Is reddening all the air! Shout forth “Castile!” The day is ours! I go; but fear ye not! For Afric’s lance is broken, and my sons Have won their first good field! [_He dies._

_Elm._ Look on me yet! Speak one farewell, my husband!--must thy voice Enter my soul no more! Thine eye is fix’d-- Now is my life uprooted--and ’tis well.

[_A sound of triumphant music is heard, and many Castilian Knights and Soldiers enter._]

_A Cit._ Hush your triumphal sounds, although ye come E’en as deliverers! But the noble dead, And those that mourn them, claim from human hearts Deep silent reverence.

_Elm._ (_rising proudly._) No, swell forth, Castile! Thy trumpet music, till the seas and heavens, And the deep hills, give every stormy note Echoes to ring through Spain! How, know ye not That all array’d for triumph, crown’d and robed With the strong spirit which hath saved the land, E’en now a conqueror to his rest is gone? Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind Swell on with victory’s shout!--_He_ will not hear-- Hath earth a sound more sad?

_Her._ Lift ye the dead, And bear him with the banner of his race Waving above him proudly, as it waved O’er the Cid’s battles, to the tomb wherein His warrior sires are gather’d. [_They raise the body._

Elm. Ay, ’tis thus Thou shouldst be honour’d! And I follow thee, With an unfaltering and a lofty step, To that last home of glory. She that wears In her deep heart the memory of thy love, Shall thence draw strength for all things; till the God Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth, Looking upon her still and chasten’d soul, Call it once more to thine!

(_To the Castilians._) Awake, I say! Tambour and trumpet, wake! And let the land Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal. --So should a hero pass to his repose.

[_Exeunt omnes._

[284] This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alfonso, the last of that name. He sent to the Cid’s tomb for the cross which that warrior was accustomed to wear upon his breast when he went to battle, and had it made into one for himself, “because of the faith which he had, that through it he should obtain the victory.”--Southey’s _Chronicle of the Cid_.

[CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON THE “SIEGE OF VALENCIA.”

“Of ‘The Siege of Valencia’ we say little, for we by no means consider it as the happiest of Mrs Hemans’s efforts. Not that it does not contain, nay, abound with fine passages; but the whole wants vigour, coherence, and compression. The story is meagre, and the dialogue too diffuse.”--_The_ Rev. Dr Morehead _in Constable’s Magazine for September 1823_.

“The ‘Tales and Historic Scenes,’ ‘The Sceptic,’ ‘The Welsh Melodies,’ ‘The Siege of Valencia,’ and ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’” says Delta, “may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career, and are characterised by beauties of a high and peculiar stamp. With reference to the two latter, it must be owned, that if the genius of Mrs Hemans was not essentially dramatic, yet that both abound with high and magnificent bursts of poetry. It was not easy to adapt her fine taste and uniformly high-toned sentiment to the varied aspects of life and character necessary to the success of scenic exhibition; and she must have been aware of the difficulties that surrounded her in that path. If these cannot, therefore, be considered as successful tragedies, they hold their places as dramatic poems of rich and rare poetic beauty. Indeed, it would be difficult, from the whole range of Mrs Hemans’s writings, to select any thing more exquisitely conceived, more skilfully managed, or more energetically written, than the Monk’s tale in ‘The Siege of Valencia.’ The description of his son, in which he dwells with parental enthusiasm on his boyish beauty and accomplishments--of his horror at that son’s renunciation of the Christian faith, and leaguing with the infidel--and of the twilight encounter, in which he took the life of his own giving--are all worked out in the loftiest spirit of poetry.”--_Biographical Memoir_, p. 16-17.

“‘The Siege of Valencia,’ ‘The Last Constantine,’ and other poems, were published in the course of the year 1823. This volume was marked by more distinct evidences of originality than any of Mrs Hemans’s previous works. None of her after poems contain finer bursts of strong, fervid, indignant poetry than ‘The Siege of Valencia;’ its story--a thrilling conflict between maternal love and the inflexible spirit of chivalrous honour--afforded to her an admirable opportunity of giving utterance to the two master interests of her mind. It is a tale that will bear a second reading--though, it must be confessed that, as in the case of ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ somewhat of a monotony of colouring is thrown over its scenes by the unchanged employment of a lofty and enriched phraseology, which would have gained in emphasis by its being more sparingly used. Ximena, too, all glowing and heroic as she is, stirring up the sinking hearts of the besieged citizens with her battle-song of the Cid, and dying as it were of that strain of triumph--is too spiritual, too saintly, wholly to carry away the sympathies. Our imagination is kindled by her splendid, high-toned devotion--our tears are called forth by the grief of her mother, the stately Elmina, broken down, but not degraded, by the agony of maternal affection, to connive at a treachery she is too noble wholly to carry through. The scenes with her husband are admirable; some of her speeches absolutely startle us with their passion and intensity--the following, for instance:--

‘Love! love! there are soft smiles and gentle words,’” etc.

--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 110-12.

“‘The Siege of Valencia’ is a dramatic poem, but not intended for representation. The story is extremely simple. The Moors, who besiege Valencia, take the two sons of the governor, Gonzalez, captive, as they come to visit their father, and now the ransom demanded for them is the surrender of the city: they are to die if the place is not yielded up. Elmina, the mother of the boys, and Ximena, their sister, are the remaining members of a family to which so dreadful an option is submitted. The poem is one of the highest merit. The subject is of great dignity, being connected with the defence of Spain against the Moors; and at the same time it is of the greatest tenderness, offering a succession of the most moving scenes that can be imagined to occur in the bosom of a family. The father is firm, the daughter is heroic, the mother falters. She finds her way to the Moorish camp, sees her children, forms her plan for betraying the town, and then is not able to conceal her grief and her design from her husband. He immediately sends a defiance to the Moors, his children are brought out and beheaded, a sortie is made from the besieged city: finally, the king of Spain arrives to the rescue; the wrongs of Gonzalez are avenged; he himself dies in victory; and the poem closes with a picture of his wife, moved by the strongest grief, of which she is yet able to restrain the expression. The great excellence of the poem lies in the description of the struggle between the consciousness of duty and maternal fondness. We believe none but a mother could have written it.”--Professor Norton, in _North American Review_ for April 1827.

“The graceful powers of Mrs Hemans in the same walk which had been trodden so grandly by Miss Baillie, were manifested in her ‘Vespers of Palermo’, and her ‘Siege of Valencia.’ The latter is a noble work, and as a poem ranks with her highest productions, though it is filled too uniformly perhaps with the spirit of her own mind, to be very distinctively dramatic. It has indeed variety, but less of the variety of human nature, than of a godlike and exalted nature, which belongs to few among mankind, and to them, perhaps, only in strange and terrible crises. The steadfastness of the paternal chieftain, the sterner enthusiasm of the priest, the mother’s maddening affection, and the gentle heroism of the melancholy Ximena are drawn with individuality, but it is the individuality of a common greatness, the apparent appropriation to many of an essence really the same in all. In her own heart the poetess found this pure essence; and when she created her Christian patriots at Valencia, she but translated herself into a new dialect of manners and motives. Of this one elevated material she has, however, made fine dramatic use. The language, while faultless in its measured music, has passion to swell its cadences; the loftiness is never languid; and the flow of the verse is skilfully broken into the animated abruptness suitable to earnest dialogue. There are many, too, of those sudden glimpses of profound truth in which the energy of passion seems to force its rude way, in a moment, into regions of the heart that philosophy would take hours to survey with its technical language. Thus, when the iron-hearted monk is telling the story of his son’s disgrace,--

’Elmina. He died?

Hernandez. Not so! --Death! death! Why, earth should be a paradise To make that name so fearful! Had he died, With his young fame about him for a shroud, I had not learn’d the might of agony To bring proud natures low! No! he fell off---- Why do I tell thee this? What right hast thou To learn how pass’d the glory from my house? Yet listen. He forsook me! He that was As mine own soul forsook me!--trampled o’er The ashes of his sires!--ay, leagued himself Even with the infidel, the curse of Spain; And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid, Abjured his faith, his God! Now, talk of death!

“The whole of the scene to which the passage belongs, is moulded in the highest spirit of tragic verse. The bewilderment of the mother betrayed into guilt by overpowering affection, and the death of the beautiful enthusiast Ximena, are sketched in a style of excellence little inferior; and the peculiar powers of Mrs Hemans’s poetry, less dramatic than declamatory, have full scope in the spirit-stirring address of the latter to the fainting host of Valencia, as she lifts in her own ancient city the banner of the Cid, and recounts the sublime legend of his martial burial. Spain and its romances formed the darling theme of Mrs Hemans’s muse; and before leaving the subject, she gives us her magnificent series of ballads, the ‘Songs of the Cid,’ which meet us at the close of the drama, as if to form an appropriate chorus to the whole.”--William Archer Butler, _Introductory Notice to National Lyrics and Songs for Music_. Dublin: 1838.]

Miscellaneous Poems.

SONG.

FOUNDED ON AN ARABIAN ANECDOTE.

Away! though still thy sword is red With life-blood from my sire, No drop of thine may now be shed To quench my bosom’s fire; Though on my heart ’twould fall more blest Than dews upon the desert’s breast.

I’ve sought thee midst the sons of men, Through the wide city’s fanes; I’ve sought thee by the lion’s den, O’er pathless, boundless plains; No step that mark’d the burning waste, But mine its lonely course hath traced.

Thy name hath been a baleful spell, O’er my dark spirit cast; No thought may dream, no words may tell, What there unseen hath pass’d: This wither’d cheek, this faded eye, Are seals of thee--behold! and fly!

Hath not my cup for thee been pour’d Beneath the palm-tree’s shade? Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored Within my dwelling laid? What though unknown--yet who shall rest Secure--if not the Arab’s guest?

Haste thee! and leave my threshold-floor Inviolate and pure! Let not thy presence tempt me more, --Man may not thus endure! Away! I bear a fetter’d arm, A heart that burns--but must not harm.

Begone! outstrip the swift gazelle! The wind in speed subdue! Fear cannot fly so swift, so well, As vengeance shall pursue; And hate, like love in parting pain, Smiles o’er _one_ hope--we meet again!

To-morrow--and th’ avenger’s hand, The warrior’s dart is free! E’en now, no spot in all thy land, Save _this_, had shelter’d thee; Let blood the monarch’s hall profane,-- The Arab’s tent must bear no stain!

Fly! may the desert’s fiery blast Avoid thy secret way! And sternly, till thy steps be past, Its whirlwinds sleep to-day! I would not that thy doom should be Assign’d by heaven to aught but me.

ALP-HORN SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF TIECK.

What dost thou here, brave Swiss? Forgett’st thou thus thy native clime-- The lovely land of thy bright spring-time? The land of thy home, with its free delights, And fresh green valleys and mountain heights? Can the stranger’s yield thee bliss?

What welcome cheers thee now? Dar’st thou lift thine eye to gaze around? Where are the peaks, with their snow-wreaths crown’d? Where is the song, on the wild winds borne, Or the ringing peal of the joyous horn, Or the peasant’s fearless brow?

But thy spirit is far away! Where a greeting waits thee in kindred eyes. Where the white Alps look through the sunny skies, With the low senn-cabins, and pastures free, And the sparkling blue of the glacier-sea, And the summits clothed with day!

Back, noble child of Tell! Back to the wild and the silent glen, And the frugal board of peasant-men! Dost thou seek the friend, the loved one, here?-- Away! not a true Swiss heart is near, Against thine own to swell!

THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH.

[The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in the southern hemisphere. The following lines are supposed to be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South America.]

In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, Where savannahs in boundless magnificence spread, And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high, The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.

The fir-tree waves o’er me, the fire-flies’ red light With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the night; And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth, How distant my steps from the land of my birth.

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently bum In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn, Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine, Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine.

Thou recallest the ages when first o’er the main My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain, And planted their faith in the regions that see Its unperishing symbol emblazon’d in thee.

How oft in their course o’er the oceans unknown, Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone, Hath their spirit been cheer’d by thy light, when the deep Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep!

As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,[285] When first his bright banner of faith was unfurl’d; Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou.

And to me, as I traversed the world of the west, Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest; By forests and rivers untamed in their pride, Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide.

Shine on!--my own land is a far distant spot, And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not; And the eyes that I love, though e’en now they may be O’er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!

But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine, A fount of bright hopes and of visions divine; And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free, Soars high o’er the Andes to mingle with thee.

[285] Constantine.

THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON.

I lay upon the solemn plain, And by the funeral mound, Where those who died not there in vain, Their place of sleep had found.

’Twas silent where the free blood gush’d, When Persia came array’d-- So many a voice had there been hush’d, So many a footstep stay’d.

I slumber’d on the lonely spot So sanctified by death; I slumber’d--but my rest was not As theirs, who lay beneath.

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, They rose--the chainless dead-- All arm’d they sprang, in joy, in power, Up from their grassy bed.

I saw their spears, on that red field, Flash as in time gone by-- Chased to the seas without his shield, I saw the Persian fly.

I woke--the sudden trumpet’s blast Call’d to another fight: From visions of our glorious past, Who doth not wake in might?

TO MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

What Wish can Friendship form for thee, What brighter star invoke to shine?-- Thy path from every thorn is free, And every rose is thine!

Life hath no purer joy in store, Time hath no sorrow to efface; Hope cannot paint one blessing more Than memory can retrace!

_Some_ hearts a boding fear might own, Had Fate to _them_ thy portion given, Since many an eye, by tears alone, Is taught to gaze on heaven!

And there are virtues oft conceal’d, Till roused by anguish from repose; As odorous trees no balm will yield, Till from their wounds it flows.

But fear not _thou_ the lesson fraught With Sorrow’s chastening power to know; Thou need’st not thus be sternly taught “To melt at others’ woe.”

Then still, with heart as blest, as warm, Rejoice thou in thy lot on earth; Ah! why should Virtue dread the _storm_, If _sunbeams_ prove her worth?

WRITTEN ON THE FIRST LEAF OF THE ALBUM OF THE SAME.

What first should consecrate as thine, The volume, destined to be fraught With many a sweet and playful line, With many a pure and pious thought?

It should be, what a loftier strain Perchance less meetly would impart; What never yet was pour’d in vain,-- The blessing of a grateful heart--

For kindness, which hath soothed the hour Of anxious grief, of weary pain, And oft, with its beguiling power, Taught languid Hope to smile again.

Long shall that fervent blessing rest On thee and thine; and, heavenwards borne, Call down such peace to soothe _thy_ breast, As _thou_ wouldst bear to all that mourn.

TO THE SAME;

ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER.

Say not ’tis fruitless, nature’s holy tear, Shed by affection o’er a parent’s bier! More blest than dew on Hermon’s brow that falls, Each drop to life some latent virtue calls, Awakes some purer hope, ordain’d to rise, By earthly sorrow strengthen’d for the skies; Till the sad heart, whose pangs exalt its love, With its lost treasure, seeks a home--above.

But grief will claim her hour,--and He whose eye Looks pitying down on nature’s agony, He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep, Who bids us hope, forbids us not to weep! He, too, hath wept--and sacred be the woes Once borne by Him, their inmost source who knows, Searches each wound, and bids His Spirit bring Celestial healing on its dove-like wing!

And who but He shall soothe, when one dread stroke Ties, that were fibres of the soul, hath broke? Oh! well may those, yet lingering here, deplore The vanish’d light, that cheers their path no more! Th’ Almighty hand, which many a blessing dealt, Sends its keen arrows not to be unfelt! By fire and storm, heaven tries the Christian’s worth, And joy departs, to wean us from the earth, Where still too long, with beings born to die, Time hath dominion o’er Eternity.

Yet not the less, o’er all the heart hath lost, Shall Faith rejoice, when Nature grieves the most. Then comes her triumph! through the shadowy gloom, Her star in glory rises from the tomb, Mounts to the day-spring, leaves the cloud below, And gilds the tears that cease not yet to flow! Yes, all is o’er! fear, doubt, suspense are fled-- Let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead! The final ordeal of the soul is past, And the pale brow is seal’d to heaven at last![286]

And thou, loved spirit! for the skies mature, Steadfast in faith, in meek devotion pure; Thou that didst make the home thy presence bless’d Bright with the sunshine of thy gentle breast, Where peace a holy dwelling-place had found, Whence beam’d her smile benignantly around; Thou, that to bosoms widow’d and bereft Dear, precious records of thy worth hast left, The treasured gem of sorrowing hearts to be, Till heaven recall surviving love to thee!

O cherish’d and revered! fond memory well On thee, with sacred, sad delight, may dwell! So pure, so blest thy life, that Death alone Could make more perfect happiness thine own. He came: thy cup of joy, serenely bright, Full to the last, still flow’d in cloudless light; He came--an angel, bearing from on high The all it wanted--Immortality!

[286] “Till we have sealed the servants of God in their foreheads.”--_Revelation_.

FROM THE SPANISH OF GARCILASO DE LA VEGA.

Divine Eliza!--since the sapphire sky Thou measur’st now on angel wings, and feet Sandall’d with immortality--oh, why Of me forgetful? Wherefore not entreat To hurry on the time, when I shall see The veil of mortal being rent in twain, And smile that I am free?

In the third circle of that happy land, Shall we not seek together, hand in hand, Another lovelier landscape, a new plain, Other romantic streams and mountains blue, And other vales, and a new shady shore, When I may rest, and ever in my view Keep thee, without the terror and surprise Of being sunder’d more!

FROM THE ITALIAN OF SANNAZARO.

Oh! pure and blessèd soul, That, from thy clay’s control Escaped, hast sought and found thy native sphere, And from thy crystal throne Look’st down, with smiles alone, On this vain scene of mortal hope and fear;

Thy happy feet have trod The starry spangled road, Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding; And from their erring track Thou charm’st thy shepherds back, With the soft music of thy gentle chiding.

Oh! who shall Death withstand-- Death, whose impartial hand Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine! When shall our ears again Drink in so sweet a strain, Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine!

APPEARANCE OF THE SPIRIT OF THE CAPE TO VASCO DE GAMA.

(TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE LUSIAD OF CAMOENS.)

Propitious winds our daring bark impell’d O’er seas which mortal ne’er till then beheld, When as one eve, devoid of care, we stood Watching the prow glide swiftly through the flood, High o’er our heads arose a cloud so vast, O’er sea and heaven a fearful shade it cast: Awful, immense, it came! so thick, so drear, Its gloomy grandeur chill’d our hearts with fear, And the dark billow heaved with distant roar, Hoarse, as if bursting on some rocky shore.

Thrill’d with amaze, I cried, “Supernal Power! What mean the omens of this threatening hour! What the dread mystery of this ocean-clime, So darkly grand, so fearfully sublime?” Scarce had I spoke, when lo! a mighty form, Tower’d through the gathering shadows of the storm; Of rude proportions and gigantic size, Dark features, rugged beard, and deep-sunk eyes; Fierce was his gesture, and his tresses flew, Sable his lips, and earthly pale his hue. Well may I tell thee that his limbs and height, In vast dimensions and stupendous might, Surpass’d that wonder, once the sculptor’s boast, The proud Colossus of the Rhodian coast. Deep was his voice--in hollow tones he spoke, As if from ocean’s inmost caves they broke; And but that form to view, that voice to hear, Spread o’er our flesh and hair cold deadly thrills of fear.

“O daring band!” he cried, “far, far more bold Than all whose deeds recording fame has told; Adventurous spirits! whom no bounds of fear Can teach one pause in rapine’s fierce career; Since, bursting thus the barriers of the main, Ye dare to violate my lonely reign, Where, till this moment, from the birth of time, No sail e’er broke the solitude sublime: Since thus ye pierce the veil by Nature thrown O’er the dark secrets of the Deep Unknown, Ne’er yet reveal’d to aught of mortal birth, Howe’er supreme in power, unmatch’d in worth-- Hear from my lips what chastisements of fate, Rash, bold intruders! on your course await! What countless perils, woes of darkest hue, Haunt the vast main and shores your arms must yet subdue!

“Know that o’er every bark, whose fearless helm Invades, like yours, this wide mysterious realm, Unmeasured ills my arm in wrath shall pour, And guard with storms my own terrific shore! And on the fleet, which first presumes to brave The dangers throned on this tempestuous wave, Shall vengeance burst, ere yet a warning fear, Have time to prophesy destruction near!

“Yes, desperate band! if right my hopes divine, Revenge, fierce, full, unequall’d, shall be mine! Urge your bold prow, pursue your venturous way-- Pain, Havoc, Ruin, wait their destined prey! And your proud vessels, year by year, shall find (If no false dreams delude my prescient mind) My wrath so dread in many a fatal storm, Death shall be deem’d misfortune’s mildest form.

* * * * *

“Lo! where my victim comes!--of noble birth, Of cultured genius, and exalted worth, With her,[287] his best beloved, in all her charms, Pride of his heart, and treasure of his arms! From foaming waves, from raging winds they fly, Spared for revenge, reserved for agony! Oh! dark the fate that calls them from their home, On this rude shore, my savage reign, to roam, And sternly saves them from a billowy tomb, For woes more exquisite, more dreadful doom! --Yes! he shall see the offspring, loved in vain, Pierced with keen famine, die in lingering pain; Shall see fierce Caffres every garment tear, From her, the soft, the idolised, the fair; Shall see those limbs, of nature’s finest mould, Bare to the sultry sun, or midnight cold, And, in long wanderings o’er a desert land, Those tender feet imprint the scorching sand.

“Yet more, yet deeper woe, shall those behold Who live through toils unequall’d and untold! On the wild shore, beneath the burning sky, The hapless pair, exhausted, sink to die! Bedew the rock with tears of pain intense, Of bitterest anguish, thrilling every sense; Till in one last embrace, with mortal throes, Their struggling spirits mount from anguish to repose!”

As the dark phantom sternly thus portray’d Our future ills, in Horror’s deepest shade,-- “Who then art _thou_?” I cried. “Dread being, tell Each sense thus bending in amazement’s spell!” --With fearful shriek, far echoing o’er the tide, Writhing his lips and eyes, he thus replied: “Behold the genius of that secret shore Where the wind rages and the billows roar-- That stormy Cape, for ages mine alone, To Pompey, Strabo, Pliny, all unknown! Far to the southern pole my throne extends, That hidden rock, which Afric’s region ends. Behold that spirit, whose avenging might, Whose fiercest wrath your daring deeds excite.”

* * * * *

Thus having said, with strange, terrific cries, The giant-spectre vanish’d from our eyes; In sable clouds dissolved--while far around, Dark ocean’s heaving realms his parting yells resound!

[287] Don Emmanuel de Sonsa, and his wife, Leonora de Sà.

A DIRGE.

Weep for the early lost!-- How many flowers were mingled in the crown Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down, E’en when life promised most! How many hopes have wither’d! They that bow To heaven’s dread will, feel all its mysteries now.

Did the young mother’s eye Behold her child, and close upon the day, Ere from its glance th’ awakening spirit’s ray In sunshine could reply? --Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn! Oh! strong is faith, if woe like this be borne.

For there is hush’d on earth A voice of gladness--there is veil’d a face, Whose parting leaves a dark and silent place By the once-joyous hearth; A smile hath pass’d, which fill’d its home with light, A soul, whose beauty made that smile so bright!

But there _is_ power with faith! Power, e’en though nature o’er the untimely grave Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave; For sorrow comes of Death, And with a yearning heart we linger on, When they, whose glance unlock’d its founts, are gone!

But glory from the dust, And praise to Him, the merciful, for those On whose bright memory love may still repose With an immortal trust! Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part, Such hope as she hath left--“the pure in heart!”

1823.

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE.

TO VENUS.

## BOOK I., ODE XXX.

Oh! leave thine own loved isle, Bright Queen of Cyprus and the Paphian shores! And here in Glycera’s fair temple smile, Where vows and incense lavishly she pours.

Waft here thy glowing son; Bring Hermes; let the Nymphs thy path surround, And youth, unlovely till thy gifts be won, And the light Graces with the zone unbound.

TO HIS ATTENDANT.

## BOOK I., ODE XXXVIII.

I hate the Persian’s costly pride: The wreaths with bands of linden tied-- These, boy, delight me not; Nor where the lingering roses bide Seek thou for me the spot. For me be naught but myrtle twined-- The modest myrtle, sweet to bind Alike thy brows and mine, While thus I quaff the bowl, reclined Beneath th’ o’erarching vine.

TO DELIUS.

## BOOK II., ODE III.

Firm be thy soul!--serene in power, When adverse fortune clouds the sky; Undazzled by the triumph’s hour, Since, Delius, thou must die--

Alike, if still to grief resign’d, Or if, through festal days, ’tis thine To quaff, in grassy haunts reclined, The old Falernian wine--

Haunts where the silvery poplar-boughs Love with the pine’s to blend on high, And some clear fountain brightly flows In graceful windings by.

There be the rose with beauty fraught, So soon to fade, so brilliant now; There be the wine, the odours brought, While time and fate allow!

For thou, resigning to thine heir Thy halls, thy bowers, thy treasured store, Must leave that home, those woodlands fair, On yellow Tiber’s shore.

What then avails it, if thou trace From Inachus thy glorious line? Or, sprung from some ignoble race, If not a roof be thine?

Since the dread lot for all must leap Forth from the dark revolving urn, And we must tempt the gloomy deep, Whence exiles ne’er return.

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA.

## BOOK III., ODE XIII.

Oh! worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine, Bandusian fount, than crystal far more bright! To-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine, Whose forehead swells with horns of infant might: Ev’n now of love and war he dreams in vain, Doom’d with his blood thy gelid wave to stain.

Let the red dog-star burn!--his scorching beam Fierce in resplendence shall molest not thee! Still shelter’d from his rays, thy banks, fair stream! To the wild flock around thee wandering free, And the tired oxen from the furrow’d field, The genial freshness of their breath shall yield.

And thou, bright fount! ennobled and renown’d Shalt by thy poet’s votive song be made; Thou and the oak with deathless verdure crown’d, Whose boughs, a pendant canopy, o’ershade Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many a tale, Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale.

TO FAUNUS.

## BOOK III., ODE XVIII.

Faunus! who lovest the flying nymphs to chase, Oh, let thy steps with genial influence tread My sunny fields, and be thy fostering grace Soft on my nursling groves and borders shed;

If, at the mellow closing of the year, A tender kid in sacrifice be thine, Nor fail the liberal bowls to Venus dear, Nor clouds of incense to thine antique shrine.

Joyous each flock in meadow herbage plays, When the December feast returns to thee; Calmly the ox along the pasture strays, With festal villagers from toil set free.

Then from the wolf no more the lambs retreat, Then shower the woods to thee their foliage round; And the glad labourer triumphs that his feet In triple dance have struck the hated ground.

DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS.

A TRAGEDY.[288]

[“About this time, Mrs Hemans was engaged in the composition of another tragedy, entitled ‘_De Chatillon, or, The Crusaders_;’ in which, with that deference to _fair_ criticism which she was always ready to avow, and to act upon, she made it her purpose to attempt a more compressed style of writing, avoiding that redundancy of poetic diction which had been censured as the prevailing fault of ‘The Vespers.’ It may possibly be thought that in the composition in question she has fallen into the opposite extreme of want of elaboration; yet, in its present state, it is, perhaps, scarcely amenable to criticism--for, by some strange accident, the fair copy transcribed by herself was either destroyed or mislaid in some of her subsequent removals, and the piece was long considered as utterly lost. Nearly two years after her death, the original rough MS., with all its hieroglyphical blots and erasures, was discovered amongst a mass of forgotten papers; and it has been a task of no small difficulty to decipher it, and complete the copy now first given to the world. Allowances must, therefore, be made for the disadvantages under which it appears,--thus deprived of her own finishing touches, and with no means of ascertaining how far it may differ from the copy so unaccountably missing.”--_Memoir_, p. 80-1.]

[288] First published in Edition of Collected Works, vol. iv. 1840.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Rainier de Chatillon, _A French Baron_. Aymer, _His Brother_. Melech, _A Saracen Emir_. Herman, } _Knights_. Du Mornay,} Gaston, _A Vassal of Rainier’s_. Urban, _A Priest_. Sadi.

Moraima, _Daughter of Melech_.

_Knights_, _Arabs_, _Citizens_, _&c._

## ACT I.

## SCENE I.--_Before the gates of a city in Palestine._

Urban, Priests, Citizens, _at the gates. Others looking from the walls above._

_Urb._ (_to a_ Citizen _on the walls above_.) You see their lances glistening? You can tell The way they take?

_Cit._ Not yet. Their march is slow; They have not reach’d the jutting cliff, where first The mountain path divides.

_Urb._ And now?

_Cit._ The wood Shuts o’er their track. Now spears are flashing out-- It is the banner of De Chatillon. (_Very slow and mournful military music without._) This way! they come this way!

_Urb._ All holy saints Grant that they pass us not! Those martial sounds Have a strange tone of sadness! Hark, they swell Proudly, yet full of sorrow.

Rainier de Chatillon _enters with knights, soldiers, &c._

Welcome, knights! Ye bring us timely aid! men’s hearts were full Of doubt and terror. Brave De Chatillon! True soldier of the Cross! I welcome thee; I greet thee with all blessing! Where thou art There is deliverance!

_Rai._ (_bending to receive the Priest’s blessing._) Holy man, I come From a lost battle.

_Urb._ And thou bring’st the heart Whose spirit yields not to defeat.

_Rai._ I bring My father’s bier.

_Urb._ His bier! I marvel not To see your brow thus darken’d! And he died, As he had lived, in arms?

_Rai._ (_gloomily._) Not, not in arms-- His war-cry had been silenced. Have ye place Amidst your ancient knightly sepulchres For a warrior with his sword? He bade me bear His dust to slumber here.

_Urb._ And it shall sleep Beside our noblest, while we yet can call One holy place our own! Heard you, my lord, That the fierce Kaled’s host is on its march Against our city?

_Rai._ (_with sudden exultation._) That were joy to know! That were proud joy!--Who told it?--there’s a weight That must be heaved from off my troubled heart By the strong tide of battle! Kaled!--ay, A gallant name! How heard you?

_Urb._ Nay, it seem’d As if a breeze first bore the rumour in. I know not how it rose; but now it comes Like fearful truth, and we were sad, thus left Hopeless of aid or counsel--till we saw----

_Rai._ (_hastily._) You have my brother here?

_Urb._ (_with embarrassment._) We have; but he----

_Rai._ But he--but he!--Aymer de Chatillon! The fiery knight--the very soul o’ the field-- Rushing on danger with the joyous step Of a hunter o’er the hills!--is _that_ a tone Wherewith to speak of _him_? I heard a tale-- If it be true--nay, tell me!

_Urb._ He is here: Ask _him_ to tell thee.

_Rai._ If that tale be true----

(_He turns suddenly to his companions._)

--Follow me, give the noble dead his rites, And we will have our day of vengeance yet, Soldiers and friends!

[_Exeunt omnes._

## Scene II.--_A Hall of Oriental architecture, opening upon gardens. A

fountain in the centre._

Aymer de Chatillon, Moraima.

_Mor._ (_bending over a couch on which her brother is sleeping._)

He sleeps so calmly now; the soft wind here Brings in such lulling sounds! Nay, think you not This slumber will restore him? See you not His cheek’s faint glow?

_Aym._ (_turning away._) It was _my_ sword which gave The wound he dies from!

_Mor._ Dies from! say not so! The brother of my childhood and my youth, My heart’s first friend!--Oh! I have been too weak, I have delay’d too long! _He_ could not sue, He bade _me_ urge the prayer he would not speak, And I withheld it! Christian, set us free! You have been gentle with us! ’tis the weight, The bitter feeling, of captivity Which preys upon his life!

_Aym._ You would go hence?

_Mor._ For _his_ sake!

_Aym._ You would leave me! ’Tis too late! You see it not--you know not, that your voice Hath power in its low mournfulness to shake Mine inmost soul?--that you but look on me, With the soft darkness of your earnest eyes, And bid the world fade from me, and call up A thousand passionate dreams, which wrap my life As with a troubled cloud? The very sound Of your light step hath made my heart o’erflow, Even unto aching, with the sudden gush Of its deep tenderness! You know it not? --Moraima!--speak to me!

_Mor._ (_covering herself with her veil._) I can but weep! Is it even so?--this love was born for tears! Aymer! I can but weep! (_going to leave him, he detains her._)

_Aym._ Hear me, yet hear me! I was rear’d in arms; And the proud blast of trumpets, and the shouts Of banner’d armies--these were joy to me, Enough of joy! Till you!--I look’d on you-- We met where swords were flashing, and the light Of burning towers glared wildly on the slain-- And then----

_Mor._ (_hurriedly._) Yes! then you saved me!

_Aym._ Then I knew, At once, what springs of deeper happiness Lay far within my soul; and they burst forth Troubled and dash’d with fear--yet sweet! I loved! Moraima! leave me not!

_Mor._ For _us_ to love! Oh! is’t not taking sorrow to our hearts, Binding her there? I know not what I say! How shall I look upon my brother? Hark! Did he not call? (_she goes up to the couch._)

_Aym._ Am I beloved? She wept With a full heart! I am! and such deep joy Is found on earth! If I should lose her now! If aught---- [_an attendant enters._ (_To attendant._) You seek me!--why is this?

_Att._ My lord, Your brother and his knights----

_Aym._ Here! are they here? The knights--my brother, saidst thou?

_Att._ Yes, my lord, And he would speak with you.

_Aym._ I see--I know-- (_To attendant._) Leave me! I know why he is come: ’tis vain, They shall not part us!

(_Looking back on Moraima as he goes out._)

What a silent grace Floats round her form! They shall not part us! no!

[_Exit--Scene closes._

## Scene III.--_A square of the city--a church in the background._

Rainier de Chatillon.

_Rai._ (_walking to and fro impatiently._) And now, too! now! My father unavenged, Our holy places threaten’d, every heart Task’d to its strength! A knight of Palestine _Now_ to turn dreamer, to melt down his soul In love-lorn sighs; and for an infidel! --Will he lift up his eyes to look on mine? Will he not----hush!

Aymer _enters_. (_They look on each other for a moment without speaking._)

_Rai._ (_suppressing his emotion._) So brothers meet! You know Wherefore I come?

_Aym._ It cannot be; ’tis vain. Tell me not of it!

_Rai._ How! you have not heard?

(_Turning from him._)

He hath so shut the world out with his dreams, The tidings have not reach’d him! or perchance Have been forgotten! You have captives here?

_Aym._ (_hurriedly._) Yes, mine! my own--won by the right of arms! You dare not question it.

_Rai._ A prince, they say, And his fair sister:--_is_ the maid so fair?

_Aym._ (_turning suddenly upon him._) What, _you_ would see her!

_Rai._ (_scornfully._) I!--oh, yes! to quell My soul’s deep yearnings! Let _me_ look on swords. Boy, boy! recall yourself!--I come to you With the last blessing of our father!

_Aym._ Last! His last!--how mean you? Is he----

_Rai._ Dead?--yes! dead. He died upon my breast.

_Aym._ (_with the deepest emotion._) And I was _here_! Dead!--and upon _your_ breast! _You_ closed his eyes-- While I--he spoke of me?

_Rai._ With such deep love! He ever loved you most! His spirit seem’d To linger for your coming.

_Aym._ What! he thought That I was on my way! He look’d for me? And I----

_Rai._ You came not! I had sent to you, And told you he was wounded.

_Aym._ Yes--but not-- Not _mortally_!

_Rai._ ’Twas not that outward wound-- _That_ might have closed; and yet he surely thought That you would come to him! He call’d on you When his thoughts wander’d! Ay, the very night, The very hour he died, some hasty step Enter’d his chamber--and he raised his head, With a faint lightning in his eyes, and ask’d If it were yours! That hope’s brief moment pass’d-- He sank then.

_Aym._ (_throwing himself upon his brother’s neck._) Brother! take me to his grave, That I may kneel there, till my burning tears, With the strong passion of repentant love, Wring forth a voice to pardon me!

_Rai._ You weep! _Tears_ for the garlands on a maiden’s grave! You know not _how_ he died!

_Aym._ Not of his wound?

_Rai._ His wound!--it is the silent spirit’s wound, We cannot reach to heal! One burning thought Prey’d on his heart.

_Aym._ Not--not--he had not heard-- He bless’d _me_, Rainier?

_Rai._ Have you flung away Your birthright? Yes! he bless’d you!--but he died --He whose name stood for Victory’s--he believed The ancient honour from his gray head fall’n, And died--he died of _shame_!

_Aym._ What feverish dream----

_Rai._ (_vehemently._) Was it not lost, the warrior’s latest field, The noble city held for Palestine Taken--the Cross laid low? I came too late To turn the tide of that disastrous fight, But not to rescue him. We bore him thence Wounded, upon his shield----

_Aym._ And I was _here_!

_Rai._ He cast one look back on his burning towers, Then threw the red sword of a hundred fields To the earth--and hid his face! I knew, I knew His heart was broken! Such a death for _him_! --The wasting--the sick loathing of the sun-- Let the foe’s charger trample out my life, Let me not die of _shame_! But we will have--

_Aym._ (_grasping his hand eagerly._)Yes! vengeance!

_Rai._ Vengeance! By the dying once, And once before the dead, and yet once more Alone with heaven’s bright stars, I took that vow For _both_ his sons! Think of it, when the night Is dark around you, and in festive halls Keep your soul hush’d, and think of it!

_A low Chant of female voices, heard from behind the scenes._

Fall’n is the flower of Islam’s race! Break ye the lance he bore, And loose his war-steed from its place: He is no more--

_Single voice._ No more! Weep for him mother, sister, bride! He died, with all his fame--

_Single voice._ He died!

_Aym._ (_Pointing to a palace, and eagerly speaking to his attendant, who enters._) Came it not thence? Rudolf, what sounds are these?

_Att._ The Moslem prince, your captive--he is dead: It is the mourners’ wail for him.

_Aym._ And she-- His sister--heard you--did they say she wept?

[_Hurrying away._

_Rai._ (_indignantly_.) All the deep stirring tones of honour’s voice In a moment silenced! [_Solemn military music._

(_A funeral procession, with priests, &c., crosses the background to enter the church._)

_Rai._ (_following_ Aymer _and grasping his arm._) Aymer! there--look there! It is your father’s bier!

_Aym._ (_returning._) He bless’d me, Rainier? You heard him bless me? Yes! _you_ closed his eyes: He look’d for me in vain!

[_He goes to the bier, and bends over it, covering his face._

## ACT II.

## Scene I.--_A room in the Citadel._

Rainier, Aymer, _Knights_, _assembled in council_.

_A Knight._ What! with our weary and distracted bands To dare another field! Nay, give them rest.

_Rai._ (_impatiently._) Rest! and that sleepless thought----

_Knight._ These walls have strength To baffle siege. Let the foe gird us in-- We must wait aid; our soldiers must forget That last disastrous day.

_Rai._ (_coming forward._) If they forget it, in the combat’s press May their spears fail them!

_Knight._ Yet, bethink thee, chief.

_Rai._ When _I_ forget it----how! you see not, knights! Whence we must _now_ draw strength. Send down your thoughts Into the very depths of grief and shame, And bring back courage _thence_! To talk of _rest_! How do they rest, unburied on their field, Our brethren slain by Gaza? Had we time To give them funeral rites? and ask we now Time to _forget_ their fall? My father died-- I cannot speak of him! What! and _forget_ The infidel’s fierce trampling o’er our dead? _Forget_ his scornful shout? Give battle now, While the thought lives as fire lives!--_there_ lies strength! Hold the dark memory fast! Now, now--this hour! --Aymer, you do not speak!

_Aym._ (_starting._) Have I not said? Battle!--yes, give us battle!--room to pour The troubled spirit forth upon the winds, With the trumpet’s ringing blast! Way for remorse! Free way for vengeance!

_All the Knights._ Arm! Heaven wills it so!

_Rai._ Gather your forces to the western gate! Let none forget that day! Our field was lost, Our city’s strength laid low--one mighty heart Broken! Let none forget it!

[_Exeunt._

## Scene II.--_Garden of a Palace._

Moraima.

_Mor._ Yes! his last look--my brother’s dying look Reproach’d me as it faded from his face. And I deserved it! Had I not given way To the wild guilty pleadings of my heart, I might have won his freedom! Now, ’tis past. He _is_ free now!

Aymer _enters, armed as for battle_.

Aymer! you look so changed!

_Aym._ Changed!--it may be. A storm o’ the soul goes by Not like a breeze! There’s such a fearful grasp Fix’d on my heart! Speak to me--lull _remorse_! Bid me farewell!

_Mor._ Yes! it _must_ be farewell! No other word but that.

_Aym._ No other word! The passionate, burning words that I could pour From my heart’s depths! ’Tis madness! What have I To do with love? I see it all--the mist Is gone--the bright mist gone! I see the woe, The ruin, the despair! And yet I love, Love wildly, fatally! But speak to me! Fill all my soul once more with reckless joy! That blessèd voice again!

_Mor._ Why, why is this? Oh! send me to my father! We must part.

_Aym._ Part!--yes, I know it all! I could not go Till I had seen you! Give me one farewell, The last--perchance the last!--but one farewell, Whose mournful music I may take with me Through tumult, horror, death!

[_A distant sound of trumpets._

_Mor._ (_starting._) You go to battle!

_Aym._ Hear you not that sound? Yes! I go _there_, where dark and stormy thoughts Find their free path!

_Mor._ Aymer! who leads the foe? (_Confused._) I meant--I mean--my people! Who is he, My people’s leader?

_Aym._ Kaled. (_Looking at her suspiciously._) How! you seem-- The name disturbs you!

_Mor._ My last brother’s name!

_Aym._ Fear not _my_ sword for him!

_Mor._ (_turning away._) If they should meet! I know the vow he made. (_To_ Aymer.) If thou--if _thou_ Shouldst fall!

_Aym._ Moraima! then your blessèd tears Would flow for me? then you would weep for me?

_Mor._ I must weep tears of very shame; and yet-- If--if your words have been love’s own true words, Grant me one boon!

[_Trumpet sounds again._

_Aym._ Hark! I must hence. A boon! Ask it, and hold its memory to your heart, As the last token, it may be, of love So deep and sad.

_Mor._ Pledge me your knightly faith!

_Aym._ My knightly faith, my life, my honour--all, I pledge thee all to grant it!

_Mor._ Then, to-day, Go not _this_ day to battle! He is there, My brother Kaled!

_Aym._ (_wildly._) Have I flung my sword Down to dishonour?

[_Going to leave her--she detains him._

_Mor._ Oh! your name hath stirr’d His soul amidst his tents, and he had vow’d, Long ere we met, to cross his sword with yours, Till one or both should fall. There hath been _death_ Since then, amongst us; he will seek _revenge._ And _his_ revenge--forgive me!--oh! forgive! --I could not bear _that_ thought!

_Aym._ Now must the glance Of a brave man strike me to the very dust! Ay, this is _shame_. [_Covering his face._ (_Turning wildly to Moraima._)

_You_ scorn me too? Away!--She does not know What she hath done! [_Rushes out._

## Scene III.--_Before a gateway within the city._

Rainier, Herman, _Knights_, _Men-at-arms_, &c.

_Her._ ’Tis past the hour.

_Rai._ (_looking out anxiously._) Away! ’tis _not_ the hour-- Not yet! When was the battle’s hour delay’d For a Chatillon? We must have come too soon! All are not here.

_Her._ Yes, all!

_Rai._ They came too soon! [_Going up to the knights._ Couci, De Foix, Du Mornay--here, all here! And _he_ the last!--_my_ brother! (_To a Soldier._) Where’s your lord? (_Turning away._) Why should I ask, when that fair Infidel----

Aymer _enters_.

The Saracen at our gates--and _you_ the last! Come on, remember all your fame!

_Aym._ (_coming forward in great agitation._) My fame! --Why did you save me from the Paynim’s sword, In my first battle?

_Rai._ What wild words are these?

_Aym._ You should have let me perish _then_--yes, _then_! Go to your field and leave me!

_Knights._ (_thronging round him._) Leave you!

_Rai._ Aymer! Was it _your_ voice?

_Aym._ _Now_ talk to me of fame! Tell me of all my warlike ancestors, And of my father’s death--that bitter death! Never did pilgrim for the fountains thirst As I for this day’s vengeance! To your field! --I may not go!

_Rai._ (_turning from him._) The name his race hath borne Through a thousand battles--lost! (_Returning to_ Aymer.) A Chatillon! Will you _live_ and wed dishonour?

_Aym._ (_covering his face._) Let the grave Take me and cover me! I must go down To its rest without my sword!

_Rai._ There’s some dark spell upon him! Aymer, brother! Let _me_ not die of shame! He that died so Turn’d sickening from the sun!

_Aym._ Where should I turn? [_Going up abruptly to the knights._ Herman--Du Mornay! ye have stood with me I’ the battle’s front--ye know me! ye have seen The fiery joy of danger bear me on As a wind the arrow! Leave me now--’tis past!

_Rai._ (_with bitterness._) He comes from _her_!--the infidel hath _smiled_, Doubtless, for this.

_Aym._ I should have been to-day Where shafts fly thickest, and the crossing swords Cannot flash out for blood!--Hark! you are call’d!

[_Wild Turkish music heard without. The background of the scene becomes more and more crowded with armed men._

Lay lance in rest!--wave, noble banners! wave! [_Throwing down his sword._ Go from me!--leave the fallen!

_Her._ Nay, but the cause? Tell us the cause!

_Rai._ (_approaching him indignantly._) Your sword--your crested helm And your knight’s mantle--cast them down! your name Is in the dust!--our father’s name! The cause? --Tell it not, tell it not! [_Turning to the soldiers and waving his hand._ Sound, trumpets! sound! On, lances! for the Cross!

[_Military music. As the knights march out, he looks back at_ Aymer.

I would not now Call back my noble father from the dead, If I could with but a breath!--Sound, trumpets, sound!

[_Exeunt knights and soldiers._

_Aym._ Why should I bear this shame? ’tis not too late! [_Rushing after them, he suddenly checks himself._ My faith! my knightly faith pledged to my fall!

[_Exit._

## Scene IV. _Before a Church._

_Groups of Citizens passing to and fro._ Aymer _standing against one of the pillars of the church in the background, and leaning on his sword_.

_1st Cit._ (_to 2d._) From the walls, how goes the battle?

_2d Cit._ Well, all well, Praise to the Saints! I saw De Chatillon Fighting, as if upon his single arm The fate o’ the day were set.

_3d Cit._ Shame light on those That strike not with him in their place!

_1st Cit._ You mean His brother? Ay, is’t not a fearful thing That one of such a race--a brave one too-- Should have thus fallen?

_2d Cit._ They say the captive girl Whom he so loved, hath won him from his faith To the vile Paynim creed.

_Aym._ (_suddenly coming forward._) Who dares say _that_? Show me who dares say that! [_They shrink back--he laughs scornfully._ Ha! ha! ye thought To play with a sleeper’s name!--to make your mirth As low-born men sit by a tomb, and jest O’er a dead warrior! Where’s the slanderer? Speak!

A Citizen _enters hastily_.

_Cit._ Haste to the walls! De Chatillon hath slain The Paynim chief! [_They all go out._

_Aym._ Why should they shrink? I, I should ask the night To cover me! I that have flung my name Away to scorn! Hush! am I not alone? [_Listening eagerly._ There’s a voice calling me--a voice i’ the air-- My father’s!--’Twas my father’s! Are the dead, Unseen, yet with us? Fearful!

(_Loud shouts without, he rushes forward exultingly._)

’Tis the shout Of victory! We have triumph’d!--_We!_ my place Is midst the fallen!

[_Music heard, which approaches, swelling into a triumphant march. Knights enter in procession, with banners, torch-bearers, &c. The gates of the church are thrown open, and the altar, tombs, &c. within, are seen illuminated. Knights pass over, and enter the church. One of them takes a torch, and lifts it to_ Aymer’s _face in passing. He strikes it down with a sword; then, seeing_ Rainier _approach, drops the sword, and covers his face_.

_Aym._ (_grasping Rainier by the mantle, as he is about to pass._) Brother! forsake me not!

_Rai._ (_suddenly drawing his sword, and showing it him._) _My_ sword is red With victory and revenge! Look--dyed to the hilt! --We fought--and where were you?

_Aym._ Forsake me not!

_Rai._ (_pointing with his sword to the tombs within the church._) Those are proud tombs! The dead, the glorious dead, Think you they sleep, and know not of their sons In the mysterious grave? We laid _him_ there! --Before the ashes of your father, speak! Have you abjured your faith?

_Aym._ (_indignantly._) Your name is mine--your blood--and you ask _this_! Wake _him_ to hear me answer!--Have you? No! --You have not _dared_ to think it.

[_Breaks from him, and goes out._

_Rai._ (_entering the church, and bending over one of the tombs._) Not yet lost! Not yet _all_ lost! He shall be thine again! So shalt thou sleep in peace!

_Music and Chorus of Voices from the church._

Praise, praise to heaven! Sing of the conquer’d field, the Paynim flying,-- Light up the shrines, and bid the banners wave! Sing of the warrior for the red-cross dying-- Chant a proud requiem o’er his holy grave! Praise, praise to heaven! Praise!--lift the song through night’s resounding sky! Peace to the valiant for the Cross that die! Sleep soft, ye brave!

## ACT III.

## Scene I.--_A platform before the Citadel. Knights entering._

_Her._ (_to one of the Knights._) You would plead for him?

_Knight._ Nay, remember all His past renown!

_Her._ I had a friend in youth-- This Aymer’s father had _him_ shamed for less Than his son’s fault--far less! We must accuse him;--he must have his shield Reversed--his name degraded.

_Knight._ He might yet--

_All the Knights._ Must his shame cleave to _us_? We cast him forth-- We will not bear it.

Rainier _enters_.

_Rai._ Knights! ye speak of _him_-- My brother--was’t not so? All silent! Nay, Give your thoughts breath! What said ye?

_Her._ That his name Must be degraded.

_Rai._ Silence! ye disturb The dead. Thou hear’st, my father! [_Going up indignantly to the Knights._ Which of ye Shall first accuse him? He, whose bold step won The breach at Ascalon ere Aymer’s step, Let him speak first! He that plunged deeper through the stormy fight, Thence to redeem the banner of the Cross, On Cairo’s plain, let him speak first! Or he Whose sword burst swifter o’er the Saracen, I’ the rescue of our king, by Jordan’s waves-- I say, let him speak first!

_Her._ Is he not an apostate?

_Rai._ No, no, no! If he were _that_, had my life’s blood that taint, This hand should pour it out! He is not _that_.

_Her._ _Not yet._

_Rai._ Not yet, nor ever! Let me die In a lost battle first!

_Her._ Hath he let go Name--kindred--honour--for an infidel, And will he grasp his faith?

_Rai._ (_after a gloomy pause._) That which bears poison--should it not be crush’d What though the weed look lovely? [_Suddenly addressing_ Du Mornay You have seen My native halls, Du Mornay, far away In Languedoc?

_Du Mor._ I was your father’s friend-- I knew them well.

_Rai._ (_thoughtfully._) The weight of gloom that hangs-- The very banners seem to droop with it-- O’er some of those old rooms! Were we there now, With a dull wind heaving the pale tapestries, Why, I could tell you---- [_Coming closer to_ Du Mornay. There’s a dark-red spot Grain’d in the floor of one--you know the tale?

_Du Mor._ I may have heard it by the winter fires, --Now ’tis of things gone by.

_Rai._ (_turning from him displeased._) Such legends give _Some_ minds a deeper tone. (_To_ Herman.) If _you_ had heard That tale i’ the shadowy tower----

_Her._ Nay, tell it now!

_Rai._ They say the place is haunted--moaning sounds Come thence at midnight--sounds of woman’s voice.

_Her._ And you believe----

_Rai._ I but believe the deed Done there of old. I had an ancestor-- Bertrand, the lion-chief--whose son went forth (A younger son--I am not of _his_ line) To the wars of Palestine. He fought there well-- Ay, all his race were brave; but he return’d, And with a Paynim bride.

_Her._ The recreant!--say, How bore your ancestor?

_Rai._ Well may you think It chafed him--but he bore it--for the love Of that fair son, the child of his old age. He pined in heart, yet gave the infidel A place in his own halls.

_Her._ But did this last?

_Rai._ How _should_ it last? Again the trumpet blew, And men were summon’d from their homes to guard The city of the Cross. But _he_ seem’d cold-- That youth! He shunn’d his father’s eye, and took No armour from the walls.

_Her._ Had he then fallen? Was his faith wavering?

_Rai._ So the father fear’d.

_Her._ If _I_ had been that father----

_Rai._ Ay, _you_ come Of an honour’d lineage. What would you have done?

_Her._ Nay, what did _he_?

_Rai._ What did the lion-chief? [_Turning to_ Du Mornay. Why, _thou_ hast seen the very spot of blood On the dark floor! He slew the Paynim bride. Was it not well? (_He looks at them attentively, and as he goes out exclaims--_) My brother must not fall!

## Scene II.--_A deserted Turkish burying-ground in the city--tombs and

stones overthrown--the whole shaded by dark cypress-trees._

_Mor._ (_leaning over a monumental pillar, which has been lately raised._) _He_ is at rest;--and I!--is there no power In grief to win forgiveness from the dead? When shall I rest? Hark! a step--Aymer’s step! The thrilling sound! [_She shrinks back as reproaching herself._ To feel _that_ joy even _here_! Brother! oh, pardon me!

_Rai._ (_entering, and slowly looking round._) A gloomy scene! A place for----Is she not an infidel? Who shall dare call it murder? [_He advances to her slowly, and looks at her._ She is fair-- The deeper cause! Maid, have you thought of death Midst these old tombs?

_Mor._ (_shrinking from him fearfully._) This is my brother’s grave.

_Rai._ _Thy_ brother’s! That a warrior’s grave had closed O’er _mine_--the free and noble knight he was! Ay, that the desert-sands had shrouded him Before he look’d on thee!

_Mor._ If you are _his_-- If Aymer’s brother--though your brow be dark, I may not fear you!

_Rai._ No? why, _thou_ shouldst fear The very dust o’ the mouldering sepulchre, If it had lived, and borne his name on earth! Hear’st thou?--that dust hath stirr’d, and found a voice, And said that thou must die!

_Mor._ (_clinging to the pillar as he approaches._) Be with me, heaven! You will not _murder_ me?

_Rai._ (_turning away._) A goodly word To join with a warrior’s name!--a sound to make Men’s flesh creep. What!--for Paynim blood Did _he_ stand faltering thus--my ancestor-- In that old tower? [_He again approaches her--she falls on her knees._

_Mor._ So young, and thus to die! Mercy--have mercy! In your own far land If there be love that weeps and watches for you, And follows you with prayer--even by that love Spare me--for it is woman’s! If light steps Have bounded there to meet you, clinging arms Hung on your neck, fond tears o’erflow’d your cheek, Think upon those that loved you thus, for thus Doth woman love! and spare me!--think on them; They, too, may yet need mercy! Aymer, Aymer! Wilt _thou_ not hear and aid me?

_Rai._ (_starting._) There’s a name To bring back strength! Shall I not strike to save His honour and his life? Were his _life_ all----

_Mor._ To save his life and honour!--will my death---- [_She rises and stands before him, covering her face hurriedly._ Do it with one stroke! I may not _live_ for him!

_Rai._ (_with surprise._) A woman meet death thus!

_Mor._ (_uncovering her eyes._) Yet one thing more-- I have sisters and a father. Christian knight! Oh! by your mother’s memory, let them know I died with a name unstain’d.

_Rai._ (_softened and surprised._) And such high thoughts from _her_!--an infidel! And she named my mother!--Once in early youth From the wild waves I snatch’d a woman’s life; My mother bless’d me for it (_slowly dropping his dagger_)--even with tears She bless’d me. Stay, are there no other means? (_Suddenly recollecting himself._) Follow me, maiden! Fear not now.

_Mor._ But he-- But Aymer--

_Rai._ (_sternly._) Wouldst thou perish? Name him not!-- Look not as if thou wouldst! Think’st thou dark thoughts Are blown away like dew-drops? or I, like him, A leaf to shake and turn i’ the changing wind? Follow me, and beware! [_She bends over the tomb for a moment, and follows him._

Aymer _enters, and slowly comes forward from the background._

_Aym._ For the last time--yes! it must be the last! Earth and heaven say--the last! The very dead Rise up to part us! But _one_ look--and then She must go hence for ever! Will she weep? It had been little to have _died_ for her-- I have borne shame. She shall know all! Moraima! Said they not She would be found here at her brother’s grave? Where should she go? Moraima! There’s the print Of her step--what gleams beside it? (_Seeing the dagger, he takes it up._) Ha! men work Dark deeds with things like this! [_Looking wildly and anxiously around._ I see no----blood! [_Looking at the dagger._ Stain’d!--it may be from battle; ’tis not--wet. [_Looks round, intently listening; then again examines the spot._ Ha!--what is this? another step in the grass!-- Hers and another’s step! [_He rushes into the cypress-grove._

## Scene III.--_A hall in the citadel, hung with arms and banners._

Rainier, Herman--_Knights in the background, laying aside their armour._

_Her._ (_coming forward and speaking hurriedly._) Is it done? Have you done it?

_Rai._ (_with disgust._) What! you thirst For blood so deeply?

_Her._ (_indignantly._) Have you struck, and saved The honour of your house?

_Rai._ (_thoughtfully to himself._) The light i’ the soul Is such a wavering thing! Have I done well?

(_To_ Herman).

Ask me not! Never shall they meet again. Is ’t not enough?

Aymer _enters hurriedly with the dagger, and goes up with it to several of the knights, who begin to gather round the front_.

_Aym._ Whose is this dagger?

_Rai._ (_coming forward and taking it._) Mine.

_Aym._ Yours! yours!--and know you where--

_Rai._ (_about to sheath it, but stopping._) Oh! you do well So to remind me! Yes! it must have lain In the Moslem burial-ground--and that vile dust-- Hence with it! ’tis defiled. [_Throws it from him._

_Aym._ If such a deed---- Brother! where is she?

_Rai._ Who?--what knight hath lost A Ladye-love?

_Aym._ Could he speak thus, and wear That scornful calm, if----No! he is not calm. What have you done?

_Rai._ (_aside._) Yes! she shall die to him!

_Aym._ (_grasping his arm._) What have you done--speak!

_Rai._ You should know the tale Of our dark ancestor, the Lion-Chief, And his son’s bride.

_Aym._ Man! man! you _murder’d_ her! [_Sinking back._ It grows so dark around me! She is dead! (_Wildly._) I’ll not believe it! No! she never look’d Like what could die! [_Goes up to his brother._ If you have done that deed----

_Rai._ (_sternly._) If I have done it, I have flung off shame From my brave father’s house!

_Aym._ (_in a low voice to himself._) So young, and dead!--because I loved her--dead!

(_To_ Rainier).

Where is she, murderer? Let me see her face. You think to hide it with the dust!--ha! ha! The dust to cover _her_! We’ll mock you still: If I call her back, she’ll come! Where is she?--speak! Now, by my father’s tomb! but I am calm.

_Rai._ Never more hope to see her!

_Aym._ Never more! [_Sitting down on the ground._ I loved her, so she perish’d!--All the earth Hath not another voice to reach my soul, Now hers is silent! Never, never more! If she had but said farewell!--(_Bewildered._) It grows so dark! This is some fearful dream. When the morn comes I shall wake. ----My life’s bright hours are done!

_Rai._ I must be firm.

(_Takes a banner from the wall, and brings it to_ Aymer.)

Have you forgotten _this_? We thought it lost, But it rose proudly waving o’er the fight In a warrior’s hand again! Yours, Aymer! yours! Brother! redeem your fame!

_Aym._ (_putting it from him._) The worthless thing! Fame! _She_ is dead!--give a king’s robe to one Stretch’d on the rack! Hence with your pageantries Down to the dust!

_Her._ The banner of the Cross! Shame on the recreant! Cast him from us!

_Rai._ Boy! Degenerate boy! _Here_, with the trophies won By the sainted chiefs of old in Paynim war Above you and around; the very air, When it but shakes their armour on the walls, Murmuring of glorious deeds; to sit and weep _Here_ for an Infidel! My father’s son, Shame! shame! deep shame!

_Knights._ Aymer de Chatillon! Go from us, leave us!

_Aym._ (_starting up._) Leave you! what! ye thought That I would stay to breathe the air _you_ breathe!-- And fight by you! Murderers! I burst all ties! [_Throws his sword on the ground before them._ There’s not a thing of the desert half so free!

(_To_ Rainier.)

You have no brother! Live to need the love Of a human heart, and steep your soul in fame To still its restless yearnings! Die alone! Midst all your pomps and trophies--die alone! [_Going out, he suddenly returns._ Did she not call on me to succour her? Kneel to you--plead for life? The Voice of Blood Follow you to your grave! [_Exit._

_Rai._ (_with emotion._) Alas! my brother! The time hath been, when in the face of Death I have bid him leave me, and he would not! (_Turning to the Knights._) Knights! The Soldan marches for Jerusalem-- We’ll meet him on the way.

## ACT IV.

## Scene I.--_Camp of Melech, the Saracen Emir._

Melech, Sadi, _Soldiers_.

_Mel._ Yes! he I mean--Rainier de Chatillon! Go, send swift riders o’er the mountains forth, And through the deserts, to proclaim the price I set upon his life!

_Sadi._ Thou gav’st the word Before; it hath been done--they are gone forth.

_Mel._ Would that my soul could wing them! Didst thou heed To say his _life_? I’ll have my own revenge! Yes! I would _save_ him from another’s hand! Thou said’st he must be brought alive?

_Sadi._ I heard Thy will, and I obey’d.

_Mel._ He slew my son-- That was in battle--but to shed _her_ blood! My child Moraima’s! Could he see and strike her? A Christian see her face, too! From my house The crown is gone! Who brought the tale?

_Sadi._ A slave Of your late son’s, escaped.

_Mel._ Have I a son Left? speak, the slave of which? Kaled is gone-- And Octar gone--both, both are fallen-- Both my young stately trees, and she my flower-- No hand but mine shall be upon him, none!-- [_A sound of festive music without._ What mean they there? [_An attendant enters._

_Att._ Tidings of joy, my chief!

_Mel._ Joy!--is the Christian taken?

Moraima _enters, and throws herself into his arms_.

_Mor._ Father! Father! I did not think this world had yet so much Of aught like happiness!

_Mel._ My own fair child! Is it on _thee_ I look indeed, my child? [_Turning to attendants._ Away, there!--gaze not on us! Do I hold _Thee_ in my arms! They told me thou wert slain. Rainier de Chatillon, they said----

_Mor._ (_hurriedly._) Oh, no! Twas he that sent thee back thy child, my father.

_Mel._ He! why, his brother Aymer still refused A monarch’s ransom for thee!

_Mor._ (_with a momentary delight._) Did he thus? [_Suddenly checking herself._ --Yes! I knew well! Oh! do not speak of him!

_Mel._ What! hath he wrong’d thee? Thou hast suffer’d much Amongst these Christians! Thou art changed, my child. There’s a dim shadow in thine eye, where once---- But they shall pay me back for all thy tears With their best blood.

_Mor._ (_alarmed._) Father! not so, not so! They still were gentle with me. But I sat And watch’d beside my dying brother’s couch Through many days: and I have wept since then-- Wept much.

_Mel._ Thy dying brother’s couch!--yes, thou Wert ever true and kind.

_Mor._ (_covering her face._) Oh! praise me not! Look gently on me, or I sink to earth; Not thus!

_Mel._ No praise! thou’rt faint, my child, and worn: The length of way hath----

_Mor._ (_eagerly._) Yes! the way was long, The desert’s wind breath’d o’er me. Could I rest?

_Mel._ Yes! thou shalt rest within thy father’s tent. Follow me, gentle child! Thou look’st so changed.

_Mor._ (_hurriedly._) The weary way,--the desert’s burning wind---- [_Laying her hand on him as she goes out._ Think thou no evil of those Christians, father!-- They were still kind.

## Scene II.--_Before a Fortress amongst Rocks, with a Desert

beyond._--_Military Music._

Rainier de Chatillon--_Knights and Soldiers_.

_Rai._ They speak of truce?

_The Knights._ Even so. Of truce between The Soldan and our King.

_Rai._ Let him who fears Lest the close helm should wear his locks away, Cry “truce,” and cast it off. I have no will To change mine armour for a masquer’s robe, And sit at festivals. Halt, lances, there! Warriors and brethren! hear. I own no truce-- I hold my life but as a weapon now Against the infidel! He shall not reap His field, nor gather of his vine, nor pray To his false gods--no! save by trembling stealth, Whilst I can grasp a sword! Wherefore, noble friends, Think not of truce with me!--but think to quaff Your wine to the sound of trumpets, and to rest In your girt hauberks, and to hold your steeds Barded in the hall beside you. Now turn back, [_He throws a spear on the ground before them._ Ye that are weary of your armour’s load: Pass o’er the spear, away!

_They all shout._ A Chatillon! We’ll follow thee--all! all!

_Rai._ A soldier’s thanks! [_Turns away from them agitated._ There’s one face gone, and that a brother’s! (_Aloud._) War!-- War to the Paynim--war! March and set up On our stronghold the banner of the Cross, Never to sink! [_Trumpets sound. They march on, winding through the rocks with military music._

_Enter_ Gaston, _an aged vassal of_ Rainier’s, _as an armed follower_--Rainier _addresses him_.

You come at last! And she--where left you her? The Paynim maid?

_Gas._ I found her guides, my lord, Of her own race, and left her on the way To reach her father’s tents.

_Rai._ Speak low!--the tale Must rest with us. It must be thought she _died_. I can trust _you_.

_Gas._ Your father trusted me.

_Rai._ He did, he did!--my father! You have been Long absent, and you bring a troubled eye Back with you. Gaston! heard you aught of _him_?

_Gas._ Whom means my lord?

_Rai._ (_impatiently._) Old man, you know too well-- Aymer, my brother.

_Gas._ I have seen him.

_Rai._ How! Seen him! Speak on.

_Gas._ Another than my chief Should have my life before the shameful tale!

_Rai._ Speak quickly.

_Gas._ In the desert, as I journey’d back, A band of Arabs met me on the way, And I became their captive. Till last night--

_Rai._ Go on! Last night?

_Gas._ They slumber’d by their fires-- _I_ could not sleep; when one--I thought him one O’ the tribe at first--came up and loosed my bonds, And led me from the shadow of the tents, Pointing my way in silence.

_Rai._ Well, and he-- You thought him one o’ the tribe.

_Gas._ Ay, till we stood In the clear moonlight forth;--and then, my lord----

_Rai._ You dare not say ’twas Aymer?

_Gas._ Woe and shame! It was, it was!

_Rai._ In their vile garb too?

_Gas._ Yes, Turban’d and robed like them.

_Rai._ What!--did he speak?

_Gas._ No word, but waved his hand, Forbidding speech to me.

_Rai._ Tell me no more!-- Lost, lost--for ever lost! He that was rear’d Under my father’s roof with me, and grew Up by my side to glory!--lost! Is this My work?--who dares to call it mine? And yet, Had I not dealt so sternly with his soul In its deep anguish----What! he wears their garb I’ the face of heaven? You saw the turban on him? You should have struck him to the earth, and so Put out our shame for ever!

_Gas._ Lift my sword Against your father’s son!

_Rai._ My father’s son! Ay, and so loved!--that yearning love for _him_ Was the last thing death conquer’d! See’st thou there?

[_The banner of the Cross is raised on the fortress._

The very banner he redeem’d for us I’ the fight at Cairo! No! by yon bright sign, He shall not perish! This way--follow me-- I’ll tell thee of a thought. (_Suddenly stopping him._) Take heed, old man! Thou hast a fearful secret in thy grasp: Let me not see thee wear mysterious looks. But no! thou lovest our name!--I’ll trust thee, Gaston!

[_Exeunt._

## Scene III.--_An Arab Encampment round a few palm-trees in the

Desert--Watch-fires in the background.--Night._

_Several Arabs enter with_ Aymer.

_Arab Chief._ Thou hast fought bravely, stranger; Now, come on To share the spoil.

_Aym._ I reck not of it. Go, Leave me to rest.

_Arab._ Well, thou hast earn’d thy rest With a red sabre. Be it as thou wilt. [_They go out.--He throws himself under a palm-tree._

_Aym._ This were an hour--if they would answer us. --They from whose viewless world no answer comes-- To hear their whispering voices. Would they but Speak once, and say they loved! If I could hear thy thrilling voice once more, It would be well with me. Moraima! speak!

Rainier _enters disguised as a dervise_.

Moraima, speak! No! the dead cannot love!

_Rai._ What doth the stranger here!--is there not mirth Around the watch-fires yonder?

_Aym._ Mirth!--away!-- I’ve naught to do with mirth. Begone!

_Rai._ They tell Wild tales by that red light; would’st thou not hear Of Eastern marvels?

_Aym._ Hence! I heed them not.

_Rai._ Nay, then hear _me_!

_Aym._ _Thee!_

_Rai._ Yes, I know a tale Wilder than theirs.

_Aym._ (_raising himself in surprise._) Thou know’st!--

_Rai._ (_without minding, continues._) A tale of one Who flung in madness to the reckless deep A gem beyond all price.

_Aym._ _My_ day is closed. What is aught human unto me?

_Rai._ Yet mark! His name was of the noblest--dost thou heed?-- Even in a land of princely chivalry; Brightness was on it--but he cast it down.

_Aym._ I will not hear--speak’st _thou_ of chivalry?

_Rai._ Yes! I have been upon thy native hills. There’s a gray cliff juts proudly from their woods, Crown’d with baronial towers--rememberest thou? And there’s a chapel by the moaning sea-- Thou know’st it well--tall pines wave over it, Darkening the heavy banners, and the tombs. Is not the cross upon thy fathers’ tombs!-- Christian! what dost thou _here_?

_Aym._ (_starting up indignantly._) Man! who art thou Thy voice disturbs my soul. Speak! I will know Thy right to question _me_.

_Rai._ (_throwing off his disguise, stands before him in the full dress of a Crusader._) My birth-right!--look!

_Aym._ Brother! (_Retreating from him with horror._) --Her blood is on your hands!--keep back!

_Rai._ (_scornfully._) Nay, keep the Paynim’s garb from touching mine. Answer me _thence_!--what dost thou here?

_Aym._ You shrink From your own work!--you, that have made me thus! Wherefore are you here? Are you not afraid To stand beneath the awful midnight sky, And you a murderer? Leave me.

_Rai._ I lift up No murderer’s brow to heaven!

_Aym._ You _dare_ speak thus!-- Do not the bright stars, with their searching rays, Strike through your guilty soul? Oh, no!--tis well, Passing well! Murder! Make the earth’s harvests grow With Paynim blood!--_Heaven_ wills it! The free air, The sunshine--I forgot--they were not made For infidels. Blot out the race from day! Who talks of _murder_? Murder! when you die Claim your soul’s place of happiness i’ the name Of that good deed!

(_In a tone of deep feeling._)

If you had loved a flower I would not have destroy’d it!

_Rai._ (_with emotion._) Brother!

_Aym._ (_impetuously._) No!-- No brother now. She knelt to you in vain; And that hath set a gulf--a boundless gulf-- Between our souls. Your very face is changed-- There’s a red cloud shadowing it: your forehead wears The marks of blood--_her_ blood!

(_In a triumphant tone._)

But you prevail not! You have made the dead The mighty--the victorious! Yes! you thought To dash her image into fragments down, And you have given it power--such deep sad power, I see naught else on earth!

_Rai._ (_aside._) I dare not say she lives.

(_To_ Aymer, _holding up the cross of his sword_.)

You see not _this_! Once by our father’s grave I ask’d, and here, I’ the silence of the waste, I ask once more-- Have you abjured your faith?

_Aym._ Why are you come To torture me? No, no! I have not. No! But you have sent the torrent through my soul, And by their deep strong roots torn fiercely up Things that were part of it--inborn feelings, thoughts-- I know not what I cling to!

_Rai._ Aymer! yet Heaven hath not closed its gates! Return, return, Before the shadow of the palm-tree fades I’ the waning moonlight. Heaven gives time. Return, My brother! By our early days--the love That nurtured us!--the holy dust of those That sleep i’ the tomb!--sleep! no, they cannot sleep! Doth the night bring no voices from the dead Back on your soul?

_Aym._ (_turning from him._) Yes--_hers_!

_Rai._ (_indignantly turning off._) Why should I strive? Why doth it cost me these deep throes to fling A weed off? [_Checking himself._ Brother, hath the stranger come Between our hearts for ever? Yet return-- Win back your fame, my brother!

_Aym._ Fame again! Leave me the desert!--leave it me! I hate Your false world’s glittering draperies, that press down Th’ o’erlabour’d heart! They have crush’d mine. Your vain And hollow-sounding words are wasted now: You should adjure me by the name of _him_ That slew his son’s young bride!--our ancestor-- _That_ were a spell! Fame! fame!--your hand hath rent The veil from off your world! To speak of fame, When the soul is parch’d like mine! Away! I have join’d these men because they war with man, And all his hollow pomp! Will you go hence? (_Fiercely._) Why do I talk thus with a _murderer_? Ay, This is the desert, where _true_ words may rise Up unto heaven i’ the stillness! Leave it me!-- The free wild desert!

_Arab Chief enters._

_Arab._ Stranger, we have shared The spoil, forgetting not----A Christian here! Ho! sons of Kedar!--’tis De Chatillon! This way!--surround him! There’s an Emir’s wealth Set on his life! Come on!

[_Several Arabs rush in and surround_ Rainier, _who, after vainly endeavouring to force his way through them, is made prisoner_.

_Rai._ And he stands there To see me bought and sold! Death, death!--not chains!

[Aymer, _who has stood for a moment as if bewildered, rushes forward, and strikes down one of the Arabs_.

_Aym._ Off from my brother, infidel! [_The others hurry_ Rainier _away_. (_Recollecting himself._) Why, then, heaven Is just! So! now I see it! Blood for blood! [_Again rushing forward._ No! he shall feel _remorse_! I’ll rescue him, And make him weep for her! [_Exit._

## ACT V.

## Scene I.--_A Hall in the Fortress occupied by_ De Chatillon’s

_followers_.

_Knights listening to a Troubadour._

_Her._ No more soft strains of love. Good Vidal, sing The imprison’d warrior’s lay. There’s a proud tone Of lofty sadness in it.

Troubadour _sings_.

’Twas a trumpet’s pealing sound! And the knight look’d down from the Paynim’s tower, And a Christian host in its pride and power Through the pass beneath him wound. “Cease awhile, clarion! clarion, wild and shrill. Cease! let them hear the captive’s voice--be still!

“I knew ’twas a trumpet’s note! And I see my brethren’s lances gleam, And their pennons wave by the mountain-stream, And their plumes to the glad wind float. “Cease awhile, clarion! &c.

“I am here with my heavy chain! And I look on a torrent sweeping by, And an eagle rushing to the sky, And a host to its battle-plain! Cease awhile, clarion! &c.

“Must I pine in my fetters here? With the wild wave’s foam, and the free bird’s flight, And the tall spears glancing on my sight, And the trumpet in mine ear? Cease awhile, clarion!” &c.[289]

Aymer _enters hurriedly_.

_Aym._ Silence, thou minstrel! silence!

_Her._ Aymer, here! And in that garb! Seize on the renegade! Knights he must die!

_Aym._ (_scornfully._) Die! die!--the fearful threat! To be thrust out of this same blessed world, Your world--all yours! (_Fiercely._) But I will _not_ be made A thing to circle with your _pomps_ of death, Your chains, and guards, and scaffolds! Back! I’ll die As the free lion dies! [_Drawing his sabre._

_Her._ What seek’st thou here?

_Aym._ Naught but to give your Christian swords a deed Worthier than----Where’s your chief? in the Paynim’s bonds! Made the wild Arabs’ prize! Ay, heaven is just! If ye will rescue him, then follow me: I know the way they bore him!

_Her._ Follow thee! Recreant! deserter of thy house and faith! To think true knights would follow _thee_ again! ’Tis all some snare--away!

_Aym._ Some snare! Heaven! heaven! Is my name sunk to this? Must men first crush My soul, then spurn the ruin they have made? --Why, let him perish!--blood for blood!--must earth Cry out in vain? Wine, wine! we’ll revel here! On, minstrel, with thy song!

Troubadour _continues the song_.

“They are gone--they have all pass’d by! They in whose wars I had borne my part, They that I loved with a brother’s heart, They have left me here to die! Sound again, clarion! clarion, pour thy blast! Sound, for the captive’s dream of hope is past!”

_Aym._ (_starting up._) That was the lay he loved in our boyish days-- And he must die forsaken! No, by heaven! He shall not! Follow me! I say your chief Is bought and sold! Is there no generous trust Left in your souls? De Foix, I saved your life At Ascalon! Du Mornay, you and I On Jaffa’s wall together set our breasts Against a thousand spears! What! have I fought Beside you, shared your cup, slept in your tents, And ye can think---- [_Dashing off his turban._ Look on my burning brow! Read if there’s falsehood branded on it--read The marks of treachery there!

_Knights, (gathering round him.)_ No, no! come on! To the rescue! lead us on! we’ll trust thee still!

_Aym._ Follow, then!--this way. If I die for him, _There_ will be vengeance! He shall think of me To his last hour! [_Exeunt._

[289] “She preferred in music whatever was national and melancholy; and her strains adapted for singing were, of course, framed to the tones most congenial to the temperament of her own mind. How successfully wed to the magic of sweet sound many of her verses have been by her sister, no lover of music need to be reminded. The ‘Roman Girl’s Song’ is full of a solemn classic beauty; and, in one of her letters, it is said that of ‘The Captive Knight’ Sir Walter Scott never was weary. Indeed, it seems in his mind to have been the song of Chivalry, representative of the English; as the Flowers of the Forest was of the Scottish; the Cancionella Española of the Spanish; and the Rhine Song of the Germans.”--_Biographical Sketch by_ Delta, 1836.

Of all Mrs Hemans’s lyrics set to music, ‘The Captive Knight’ has been the most popular, and deservedly so. It has indeed stirred many a heart “like the sound of a trumpet.”--_Chorley’s Memorials._

## Scene II.--_A Pavilion in the Camp of Melech._

Melech, Sadi.

_Mel._ It must be that these sounds and sights of war Shake her too gentle nature. Yes, her cheek Fades hourly in my sight! What other cause-- None, none! She must go hence! Choose from thy band The bravest, Sadi! and the longest tried, And I will send my child----

_Voice without._ Where is your chief?

De Chatillon _enters, guarded by Arab and Turkish soldiers_.

_Arab Chief._ The sons of Kedar’s tribe have brought to the son Of the Prophet’s house a prisoner!

_Mel._ (_half drawing his sword._) Chatillon! That slew my boy! Thanks for the avenger’s hour! Sadi, their guerdon--give it them--the gold! And me the vengeance!

(_Looking at_ Rainier, _who holds the upper fragment of his sword, and seems lost in thought_.)

This is he That slew my first-born!

_Rai._ (_to himself._) Surely there leap’d up A brother’s heart within him! Yes, he struck To the earth a Paynim----

_Mel._ (_raising his voice._) Christian! thou hast been Our nation’s deadliest foe!

_Rai._ (_looking up and smiling proudly._) ’Tis joy to hear I have not lived in vain!

_Mel._ Thou bear’st thyself With a conqueror’s mien! What is thy hope from me?

_Rai._ A soldier’s death.

_Mel._ (_hastily._) Then thou wouldst _fear_ a slave’s?

_Rai._ Fear! As if man’s own spirit had not power To make his death a triumph! Waste not words; Let my blood bathe thine own sword. Infidel! I slew thy son! [_Looking at his broken sword._ Ay, there’s the red mark here!

_Mel._ (_approaching him._) Thou darest to tell me this!

[_A tumult heard without._

_Voices without._ A Chatillon!

_Rai._ My brother’s voice! _He is saved!_

_Mel._ (_calling._) What, ho! my guards!

Aymer _enters with the knights, fighting their way through_ Melech’s _soldiers, who are driven before them_.

_Aym._ On with the war-cry of our ancient house: For the Cross--De Chatillon!

_Knights._ For the Cross--De Chatillon!

[Rainier _attempts to break from his guards_. Sadi _enters with more soldiers to the assistance of_ Melech. Aymer _and the knights are overpowered_. Aymer _is wounded and falls_.

_Mel._ Bring fetters--bind the captives!

_Rai._ Lost--all lost! No! he is saved!

(_Breaking from his guards, he goes up to_ Aymer.)

Brother, my brother! hast thou pardon’d me That which I did to save thee? Speak! forgive!

_Aym._ (_turning from him._) Thou see’st I die for thee! She is avenged!

_Rai._ I am no murderer! Hear me! turn to me! We are parting by the grave!

Moraima _enters veiled, and goes up to_ Melech.

_Mor._ Father! Oh! look not sternly on thy child. I came to plead. They said thou hast condemn’d A Christian knight to die----

_Mel._ Hence--to thy tent! Away--begone!

_Aym._ (_attempting to rise._) Moraima! hath her spirit come To make death beautiful? Moraima! speak.

_Mor._ It was his voice! Aymer!

[_She rushes to him, throwing aside her veil._

_Aym._ Thou liv’st--thou liv’st! I knew thou couldst not die! Look on me still Thou livest! and makest this world so full of joy-- But I depart!

_Mel._ (_approaching her._) Moraima! hence! Is this A place for thee?

_Mor._ Away! away! There is no place but this for me on earth! Where should I go? There is no place but this! My soul is bound to it!

_Mel._ (_to the guards._) Back, slaves! and look not on her! [_They retreat to the background._ ’Twas for this She droop’d to the earth.

_Aym._ Moraima, fare thee well! Think on me! I have loved thee! I take hence That deep love with my soul! for well I know It must be deathless!

_Mor._ Oh! thou hast not known What _woman’s_ love is! Aymer, Aymer, stay! If I could die for thee! My heart is grown So strong in its despair!

_Rai._ (_turning from them._) And all the past Forgotten!--our young days! His last thoughts _hers_! The Infidel’s!

_Aym._ (_with a violent effort turning his head round._) Thou art no murderer! Peace Between us--peace, my brother! In our deaths We shall be join’d once more!

_Rai._ (_holding the cross of the sword before him._) Look yet on this!

_Aym._ If thou hadst only told me that she lived! --But our hearts meet at last!

[_Presses the cross to his lips._

Moraima! save my brother! Look on me! Joy--there is joy in death!

[_He dies on_ Rainier’s _arm_.

_Mor._ Speak--speak once more! Aymer! how is it that I call on thee, And that thou answer’st not? Have we not loved? Death! death!--and this is--death! _Rai._ So thou art gone, Aymer! I never thought to weep again-- But now--farewell! Thou wert the bravest knight That e’er laid lance in rest--and thou didst wear The noblest form that ever woman’s eye Dwelt on with love; and till that fatal dream Came o’er thee! Aymer! Aymer! thou wert still The most true-hearted brother! There thou art Whose breast was once my shield! I never thought That foes should see me weep! but there thou art, Aymer, my brother!----

_Mor._ (_suddenly rising._) With his last, last breath He bade me save his brother!

(_Falling at Melech’s feet_.) Father, spare The Christian--spare him!

_Mel._ For _thy_ sake spare _him_ That slew thy father’s son!--Shame to thy race!

(_To the soldiers in the background._)

Soldiers! come nearer with your levell’d spears! Yet nearer!--gird him in! My boy’s young blood Is on his sword. Christian, abjure thy faith, Or die: thine hour is come!

_Rai._ (_turning and throwing himself on the weapons of the soldiers._) Thou hast mine answer, Infidel! [_Calling aloud to the knights as he falls back._ Knights of France! Herman! De Foix! Du Mornay! be ye strong! _Your_ hour will come!---- Must the old war-cry cease?

[_Half raising himself, and waving the cross triumphantly._

For the Cross--De Chatillon!

[_He dies._

(_The curtain falls._)

ANNOTATION ON “DE CHATILLON.”

[“The merits of ‘The Siege of Valencia’ are more of a descriptive than of a strictly dramatic kind; and abounding as it does with fine passages of narrative beauty, and with striking scenes and situations, it is not only not adapted for representation, but, on the contrary, the characters are developed by painting much more than by incident. Withal, it wants unity and entireness, and in several places is not rhetorical but diffuse.

“From the previous writings of the same author, and until the appearance of ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ it seemed to be the prevalent opinion of critics, that the genius of Mrs Hemans was not of a dramatic cast--that it expatiated too much in the development of sentiment, too much in the luxuriancy of description, to be ever brought under the trammels essentially necessary for the success of scenic dialogue.

“The merits of ‘The Vespers’ are great, and have been acknowledged to be so, not only by the highest of contemporary literary authorities, but by the still more unequivocal testimony of theatrical applause. What ‘has been, has been,’ and we wish not to detract one iota from praise so fairly earned; but we must candidly confess, that before the perusal of ‘De Chatillon,’ (although that poem is probably not quite in the state in which it would have been submitted to the world by its writer,) we were somewhat infected with the prevailing opinion, that the most successful path of Mrs Hemans did not lead her towards the drama. Our opinion on this subject is, however, now much altered; and we hesitate not to say, after minutely considering the characters of Rainier--so skilfully acted on, now by fraternal love, and now by public duty--and of Aymer and Moraima, placed in situations where inclination is opposed to principle--that, by the cultivation of this species of composition, had health and prolonged years been the fate of the author of ‘De Chatillon,’ that tragedy, noble as it is, which must now be placed at the head of her dramatic efforts, would in all probability have been even surpassed in excellence by ulterior efforts.

“Mrs Hemans had at length struck the proper keys. It is quite evident that she had succeeded in imbibing new and more severe ideas of this class of compositions. She had passed from the narrative into what has been conventionally termed the dramatic poem--from the ‘Historic Scenes’ to ‘Sebastian’ and ‘The Siege of Valencia;’ but ‘The Vespers of Palermo’ and ‘De Chatillon’ can alone be said to be her legitimate dramas.

“The last, however, must be ranked first, by many degrees of comparison. Without stripping her language of that richness and poetic beauty so characteristic of her genius, or condescending in a single passage to the mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many modern writers for the stage as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has, in this attempt, preserved adherence to reality amid scenes allied with romance--brevity and effect, in situations strongly alluring to amplification; and, in her delineation of some of the strongest, as well as the finest emotions of the heart, there is exhibited a knowledge of nature’s workings, at once minute, faithful, and affecting.”--_MS. Critique by_ Δ.]

THE FOREST SANCTUARY.

“Long time against oppression have I fought, And for the native liberty of faith Have bled and suffer’d bonds.” _Remorse; a Tragedy._

[The following poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious persecutions of his own country, in the sixteenth century, takes refuge, with his child, in a North American forest. The story is supposed to be related by himself, amidst the wilderness which has afforded him an asylum.]