Gebir, and Count Julian

SEVENTH BOOK.

   What mortal first by adverse fate assailed,
Trampled by tyranny or scoffed by scorn,
Stung by remorse or wrung by poverty,
Bade with fond sigh his native laud farewell?
Wretched! but tenfold wretched who resolved
Against the waves to plunge th’ expatriate keel
Deep with the richest harvest of his land!
   Driven with that weak blast which Winter leaves
Closing his palace gates on Caucasus,
Oft hath a berry risen forth a shade;
From the same parent plant another lies
Deaf to the daily call of weary hind;
Zephyrs pass by and laugh at his distress.
By every lake’s and every river’s side
The nymphs and Naiads teach Equality;
In voices gently querulous they ask,
“Who would with aching head and toiling arms
Bear the full pitcher to the stream far off?
Who would, of power intent on high emprise,
Deem less the praise to fill the vacant gulf
Then raise Charybdis upon Etna’s brow?”
Amid her darkest caverns most retired,
Nature calls forth her filial elements
To close around and cruel that monster Void:
Fire, springing fierce from his resplendent throne,
And Water, dashing the devoted wretch
Woundless and whole with iron-coloured mace,
Or whirling headlong in his war-belt’s fold.
Mark well the lesson, man! and spare thy kind.
Go, from their midnight darkness wake the woods,
Woo the lone forest in her last retreat:
Many still bend their beauteous heads unblest
And sigh aloud for elemental man.
Through palaces and porches evil eyes
Light upon e’en the wretched, who have fled
The house of bondage or the house of birth;
Suspicions, murmurs, treacheries, taunts, retorts,
Attend the brighter banners that invade;
And the first horn of hunter, pale with want,
Sounds to the chase, the second to the war. 
   The long awaited day at last arrived,
When, linked together by the seven-armed Nile,
Egypt with proud Iberia should unite.
Here the Tartesian, there the Gadite tents
Rang with impatient pleasure: here engaged
Woody Nebrissa’s quiver-bearing crew,
Contending warm with amicable skill;
While they of Durius raced along the beach
And scattered mud and jeers on all behind.
The strength of Bætis too removed the helm
And stripped the corslet off, and staunched the foot
Against the mossy maple, while they tore
Their quivering lances from the hissing wound.
Others push forth the prows of their compeers,
And the wave, parted by the pouncing beak,
Swells up the sides, and closes far astern:
The silent oars now dip their level wings,
And weary with strong stroke the whitening wave.
Others, afraid of tardiness, return:
Now, entering the still harbour, every surge
Runs with a louder murmur up their keel,
And the slack cordage rattles round the mast.
Sleepless with pleasure and expiring fears
Had Gebir risen ere the break of dawn,
And o’er the plains appointed for the feast
Hurried with ardent step: the swains admired
What so transversely could have swept the dew;
For never long one path had Gebir trod,
Nor long, unheeding man, one pace preserved.
Not thus Charoba: she despaired the day:
The day was present; true; yet she despaired.
In the too tender and once tortured heart
Doubts gather strength from habit, like disease;
Fears, like the needle verging to the pole,
Tremble and tremble into certainty.
How often, when her maids with merry voice
Called her, and told the sleepless queen ’twas morn,
How often would she feign some fresh delay,
And tell them (though they saw) that she arose.
Next to her chamber, closed by cedar doors
A bath of purest marble, purest wave,
On its fair surface bore its pavement high:
Arabian gold enchased the crystal roof,
With fluttering boys adorned and girls unrobed:
These, when you touch the quiet water, start
From their aërial sunny arch, and pant
Entangled mid each other’s flowery wreaths,
And each pursuing is in turn pursued.
Here came at last, as ever wont at morn,
Charoba: long she lingered at the brink,
Often she sighed, and, naked as she was,
Sat down, and leaning on the couch’s edge,
On the soft inward pillow of her arm
Rested her burning cheek: she moved her eyes;
She blushed; and blushing plunged into the wave. 
   Now brazen chariots thunder through each street,
And neighing steeds paw proudly from delay.
While o’er the palace breathes the dulcimer,
Lute, and aspiring harp, and lisping reed;
Loud rush the trumpets bursting through the throng
And urge the high-shouldered vulgar; now are heard
Curses and quarrels and constricted blows,
Threats and defiance and suburban war.
Hark! the reiterated clangour sounds!
Now murmurs, like the sea or like the storm,
Or like the flames on forests, move and mount
From rank to rank, and loud and louder roll,
Till all the people is one vast applause.
Yes, ’tis herself, Charoba—now the strife
To see again a form so often seen!
Feel they some partial pang, some secret void,
Some doubt of feasting those fond eyes again?
Panting imbibe they that refreshing sight
To reproduce in hour of bitterness?
She goes, the king awaits her from the camp:
Him she descried, and trembled ere he reached
Her car, but shuddered paler at his voice.
So the pale silver at the festive board
Grows paler filled afresh and dewed with wine;
So seems the tenderest herbage of the spring
To whiten, bending from a balmy gale.
The beauteous queen alighting he received,
And sighed to loose her from his arms; she hung
A little longer on them through her fears:
Her maidens followed her, and one that watched,
One that had called her in the morn, observed
How virgin passion with unfueled flame
Burns into whiteness, while the blushing cheek
Imagination heats and Shame imbues. 
   Between both nations drawn in ranks they pass:
The priests, with linen ephods, linen robes,
Attend their steps, some follow, some precede,
Where clothed with purple intertwined with gold
Two lofty thrones commanded land and main.
Behind and near them numerous were the tents
As freckled clouds o’erfloat our vernal skies,
Numerous as wander in warm moonlight nights,
Along Meander’s or Cayster’s marsh,
Swans pliant-necked and village storks revered.
Throughout each nation moved the hum confused,
Like that from myriad wings o’er Scythian cups
Of frothy milk, concreted soon with blood.
Throughout the fields the savoury smoke ascends,
And boughs and branches shade the hides unbroached.
Some roll the flowery turf into a seat,
And others press the helmet—now resounds
The signal—queen and monarch mount the thrones.
The brazen clarion hoarsens: many leagues
Above them, many to the south, the heron
Rising with hurried croak and throat outstretched,
Ploughs up the silvering surface of her plain. 
   Tottering with age’s zeal and mischief’s haste
Now was discovered Dalica; she reached
The throne, she leant against the pedestal,
And now ascending stood before the king.
Prayers for his health and safety she preferred,
And o’er his head and o’er his feet she threw
Myrrh, nard, and cassia, from three golden urns;
His robe of native woof she next removed,
And round his shoulders drew the garb accursed,
And bowed her head and parted: soon the queen
Saw the blood mantle in his manly cheeks,
And feared, and faltering sought her lost replies,
And blessed the silence that she wished were broke.
Alas! unconscious maiden! night shall close,
And love and sovereignty and life dissolve,
And Egypt be one desert drenched in blood.
   When thunder overhangs the fountain’s head,
Losing its wonted freshness every stream
Grows turbid, grows with sickly warmth suffused:
Thus were the brave Iberians when they saw
The king of nations from his throne descend.
Scarcely, with pace uneven, knees unnerved,
Reached he the waters: in his troubled ear
They sounded murmuring drearily; they rose
Wild, in strange colours, to his parching eyes;
They seemed to rush around him, seemed to lift
From the receding earth his helpless feet.
He fell—Charoba shrieked aloud—she ran—
Frantic with fears and fondness, mazed with woe,
Nothing but Gebir dying she beheld.
The turban that betrayed its golden charge
Within, the veil that down her shoulders hung,
All fallen at her feet! the furthest wave
Creeping with silent progress up the sand,
Glided through all, and raised their hollow folds.
In vain they bore him to the sea, in vain
Rubbed they his temples with the briny warmth:
He struggled from them, strong with agony,
He rose half up, he fell again, he cried
“Charoba!  O Charoba!”  She embraced
His neck, and raising on her knee one arm,
Sighed when it moved not, when it fell she shrieked,
And clasping loud both hands above her head,
She called on Gebir, called on earth, on heaven.
   “Who will believe me? what shall I protest?
How innocent, thus wretched!  God of gods,
Strike me—who most offend thee most defy—
Charoba most offends thee—strike me, hurl
From this accursed land, this faithless throne.
O Dalica! see here the royal feast!
See here the gorgeous robe! you little thought
How have the demons dyed that robe with death.
Where are ye, dear fond parents! when ye heard
My feet in childhood pat the palace-floor,
Ye started forth and kissed away surprise:
Will ye now meet me! how, and where, and when?
And must I fill your bosom with my tears,
And, what I never have done, with your own!
Why have the gods thus punished me? what harm
Have ever I done them? have I profaned
Their temples, asked too little, or too much?
Proud if they granted, grieved if they withheld?
O mother! stand between your child and them!
Appease them, soothe them, soften their revenge,
Melt them to pity with maternal tears—
Alas, but if you cannot! they themselves
Will then want pity rather than your child.
O Gebir! best of monarchs, best of men,
What realm hath ever thy firm even hand
Or lost by feebleness or held by force!
Behold thy cares and perils how repaid!
Behold the festive day, the nuptial hour!”
   Thus raved Charoba: horror, grief, amaze,
Pervaded all the host; all eyes were fixed;
All stricken motionless and mute: the feast
Was like the feast of Cepheus, when the sword
Of Phineus, white with wonder, shook restrained,
And the hilt rattled in his marble hand.
She heard not, saw not, every sense was gone;
One passion banished all; dominion, praise,
The world itself was nothing.  Senseless man!
What would thy fancy figure now from worlds?
There is no world to those that grieve and love.
She hung upon his bosom, pressed his lips,
Breathed, and would feign it his that she resorbed;
She chafed the feathery softness of his veins,
That swelled out black, like tendrils round their vase
After libation: lo! he moves! he groans!
He seems to struggle from the grasp of death.
Charoba shrieked and fell away, her hand
Still clasping his, a sudden blush o’erspread
Her pallid humid cheek, and disappeared.
’Twas not the blush of shame—what shame has woe?—
’Twas not the genuine ray of hope, it flashed
With shuddering glimmer through unscattered clouds,
It flashed from passions rapidly opposed.
   Never so eager, when the world was waves,
Stood the less daughter of the ark, and tried
(Innocent this temptation!) to recall
With folded vest and casting arm the dove;
Never so fearful, when amid the vines
Rattled the hail, and when the light of heaven
Closed, since the wreck of Nature, first eclipsed,
As she was eager for his life’s return,
As she was fearful how his groans might end.
They ended: cold and languid calm succeeds;
His eyes have lost their lustre, but his voice
Is not unheard, though short: he spake these words:
   “And weepest thou, Charoba! shedding tears
More precious than the jewels that surround
The neck of kings entombed! then weep, fair queen,
At once thy pity and my pangs assuage.
Ah! what is grandeur, glory—they are past!
When nothing else, not life itself, remains,
Still the fond mourner may be called our own.
Should I complain of Fortune? how she errs,
Scattering her bounty upon barren ground,
Slow to allay the lingering thirst of toil?
Fortune, ’tis true, may err, may hesitate,
Death follows close nor hesitates nor errs.
I feel the stroke!  I die!”  He would extend
His dying arm; it fell upon his breast:
Cold sweat and shivering ran o’er every limb,
His eyes grew stiff, he struggled and expired.

COUNT JULIAN.

CHARACTERS.

Count Julian.

Roderigo, King of Spain.

Opas, Metropolitan of Seville.

Sisabert, betrothed to Covilla.

Muza, Prince of Mauritania.

Abdalazis, Son of Muza.

Tarik, Moorish Chieftain.

Covilla, Daughter of Julian.

Egilona, Wife of Roderigo.

Hernando, Osma, Ramiro, &c. } Officers.

FIRST ACT: FIRST SCENE.

Camp of Julian.

Opas.  Julian.

Opas.  See her, Count Julian: if thou lovest God,
See thy lost child.

Jul.  I have avenged me, Opas,
More than enough: I only sought to hurl
The brands of war on one detested head,
And die upon his ruin.  O my country!
O lost to honour, to thyself, to me,
Why on barbarian hands devolves thy cause,
Spoilers, blasphemers!

Opas.  Is it thus, Don Julian,
When thy own offspring, that beloved child,
For whom alone these very acts were done
By them and thee, when thy Covilla stands
An outcast and a suppliant at thy gate,
Why that still stubborn agony of soul,
Those struggles with the bars thyself imposed?
Is she not thine? not dear to thee as ever?

Jul.  Father of mercies! shew me none, whene’er
The wrongs she suffers cease to wring my heart,
Or I seek solace ever, but in death.

Opas.  What wilt thou do then, too unhappy man?

Jul.  What have I done already?  All my peace
Has vanished; my fair fame in after-times
Will wear an alien and uncomely form,
Seen o’er the cities I have laid in dust,
Countrymen slaughtered, friends abjured!

Opas.  And faith?

Jul.  Alone now left me, filling up in part
The narrow and waste intervals of grief:
It promises that I shall see again
My own lost child.

Opas.  Yes, at this very hour.

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

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

Jul.  Arise, and save me, Spain!

FIRST ACT: SECOND SCENE.

Muza enters.

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

[He retires.

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

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

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

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

Jul.  Calamities like mine alone implore.
No virtues have redeemed them from their bonds;
Wily ferocity, keen idleness,
And the close cringes of ill-whispering want,
Educate them to plunder and obey;
Active to serve him best whom most they fear,
They show no mercy to the merciful,
And racks alone remind them of the name.

Opas.  O everlasting curse for Spain and thee!

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

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

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

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

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

FIRST ACT: THIRD SCENE.

Guard announces a herald.  Opas departs.

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

Jul.  Conduct him in.

Roderigo enters as a herald.

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

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

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

Rod.  Yet there thou plantest it, false man, thyself.

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

Rod.  Which thy treason
Surrendered to the Infidel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jul.  Darest thou offer any price for shame?

Rod.  Love and repentance.

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

Rod.  Stern man! her virtues well deserve the throne.

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

Rod.  But the realm in vain
Hoped a succession.

Jul.  Thou hast torn away
The roots of royalty.

Rod.  For her, for thee.

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

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

Jul.  Never.

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

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

FIRST ACT: FOURTH SCENE.

Abdalazis enters.

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

Jul.  [much agitated, goes towards the door, and returns.]
I am prepared: Prince, judge not hastily.

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

Rod.  [unnoticed by Abdalazis.]
And shrink but to advance.

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

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

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

Jul.  He comes as herald.

Rod.  Thou shalt know full soon,
Insulting Moor.

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

FIRST ACT: FIFTH SCENE.

Roderigo is going out when Muza enters with Egilona; Roderigo starts back.

Muza [sternly to Egilona.]
Enter, since ’tis the custom in this land.

Egi.  [passing Muza disdainfully, points to Abdalazis, and says to Julian.]
Is this our future monarch, or art thou?

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

Rod.  To-morrow’s dawn
Proves that.

Muza.  What art thou?

Rod.  [drawing his sword.]  King.

Abd.  Amazement!

Muza.  Treason!

Egi.  O horror!

Muza.  Seize him.

Egi.  Spare him! fly to me!

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

Egi.  Ah fly, unhappy!

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

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

Rod.  [taking Julian’s hand, and inviting him to attack Muza and Abdalazis.]
Julian!

Jul.  Hence, or die.

SECOND ACT: FIRST SCENE.

Camp of Julian.

Julian and Covilla.

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

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

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

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

Jul.  Thou shalt see
Her and thy brothers.

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

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

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

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

Cov.  O kind father,
Pursue the guilty, but remember Spain.

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

Cov.  Who were all these?

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

Cov.  Such wicked men will never leave his side.

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

Cov.  Whither go
Creatures unfit for better, or for worse?

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

Cov.  Spaniards? must they, dear father, lead such lives?

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

Cov.  But peacefully, and late,
Live and die here!

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

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

SECOND ACT: SECOND SCENE.

Sisabert enters.

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

Jul.  All—or this day had never seen me here.

Sis.  O falsehood! worse than woman’s!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jul.  Young man, avenge our cause.

Sis.  What cause avenge?

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

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

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

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

Jul.  Hast thou yet seen that king since thy return?

Cov.  Father!  O father!

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

[Goes.

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

Jul.  He must think thee so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cov.  Thither let us depart, and speedily.

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

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

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

SECOND ACT: THIRD SCENE.

Egilona enters.

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

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

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

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

[Covilla goes.

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

Jul.  While he was worthy of the realm and thee.

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

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

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

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

SECOND ACT: FOURTH SCENE.

Officer announces Opas.

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

Egi.  [to Julian.]  Adieu then; and whate’er betide the country,
Sustain at least the honours of our house.

[Julian goes before Opas enters.

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

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

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

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

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

Egi.  What art thou saying! what new nuptial rites?

Opas.  Thou knowest not?

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

[A trumpet sounds.

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

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

[Retires some distance.

SECOND ACT: FIFTH SCENE.

Enter Muza and Abdalazis.

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

Opas.  Whom seekest thou?

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

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

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

Abd.  The wicked cannot move from underneath
Thy ruling eye.

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

Egi.  [rushing forward.]  ’Tis true—and I proclaim it—

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

[Opas goes abruptly.

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

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

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

Abd.  ’Tis enough; I ask
No other boon.

Muza.  Not victory?

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

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

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

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

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

[He leads her away.

THIRD ACT: FIRST SCENE.

Palace in Xeres.

Roderigo and Opas.

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

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

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

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

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

Opas.  What! in Muza’s camp?

Rod.  My scorn supreme!

Opas.  Say pity.

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

Opas.  Thou hast; and what remains?

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

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

Rod.  But first let quiet age have intervened.

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

Rod.  Behold, my solace! none.  I want no pity.

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

Rod.  Nor feels?

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

Rod.  What! my own kindred leave me and renounce me!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rod.  Judge now: for, hear the signal.

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

Rod.  The traitor and his daughter feel my power.

Opas.  Just God! avert it!

Rod.  Seize this rebel priest.
I will alone subdue my enemies.

[Goes out.