Chapter XXVI: Part II (5)

[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.