Chapter XXVII: Part II (6)

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_Exit_ Gonzalez.

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

[274] _Serranos_, mountaineers.

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

Hernandez, Garcias, _and Others_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Gar._ Father, farewell.

[_Exeunt_ Garcias _and his followers_.

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

Elmina _enters_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Her._ By yielding up the city?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Elm._ What tale is this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Elm._ And ye met
No more?

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

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

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

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

_Her._ And wherefore?

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

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

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

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

[_Exit_ Hernandez.

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

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

DIRGE, (_heard without_.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_Exit_ Elmina.

[275]

“Frey geht das Unglück durch die ganze Erde.”

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

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

Hernandez, Gonzalez.

_Her._ Would they not hear?

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

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

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

[_Exeunt_ Gonzalez _and_ Hernandez.

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

Abdullah, Alphonso, Carlos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_A Moorish soldier enters._

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

_Abd._ Conduct them hither.

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

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

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

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

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

_Alph._ That voice doth sound----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Abd._ These are vain words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Alph._ Mother! thou tremblest!

_Abd._ Hath thy heart resolved?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_Exeunt_ Abdullah _with_ Elmina _and her Attendant_.

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

[_He rushes out, followed by_ Carlos.

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

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

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

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

Ximena, Theresa.

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

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

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

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

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

Theresa _sings_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Elmina _enters hurriedly_.

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

[_She starts back on seeing_ Ximena.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Xim._ Why should this be?

[Gonzalez _enters, and detains_ Elmina.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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