Part 2 — Scene I.—Room in a Palace of Valencia.—Ximena singing to a lute.

“Thou hast not been with a festal throng At the pouring of the wine; Men bear not from the hall of song A mien so dark as thine! There’s blood upon thy shield, There’s dust upon thy plume, Thou hast brought from some disastrous field That brow of wrath and gloom!” “And is there blood upon my shield? Maiden, it well may be! We have sent the streams from our battle-field All darken’d to the sea! We have given the founts a stain, Midst their woods of ancient pine; And the ground is wet—but not with rain, Deep dyed—but not with wine! “The ground is wet—but not with rain— We have been in war-array, And the noblest blood of Christian Spain Hath bathed her soil to-day. I have seen the strong man die, And the stripling meet his fate, Where the mountain-winds go sounding by In the Roncesvalles’ Strait. “In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait There are helms and lances cleft; And they that moved at morn elate On a bed of heath are left! There’s many a fair young face Which the war-steed hath gone o’er; At many a board there is kept a place For those that come no more!” “Alas! for love, for woman’s breast, If woe like this must be! Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle-crest, And a white plume waving free? With his proud quick-flashing eye, And his mien of knightly state? Doth he come from where the swords flash’d high In the Roncesvalles’ Strait?” “In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait I saw, and mark’d him well; For nobly on his steed he sate, When the pride of manhood fell! But it is not youth which turns From the field of spears again; For the boy’s high heart too wildly burns, Till it rests amidst the slain!” “Thou canst not say that he lies low, The lovely and the brave: Oh! none could look on his joyous brow, And think upon the grave! Dark, dark perchance the day Hath been with valour’s fate; But he is on his homeward way From the Roncesvalles’ Strait!” “There is dust upon his joyous brow, And o’er his graceful head; And the war-horse will not wake him now, Though it browse his greensward bed! I have seen the stripling die, And the strong man meet his fate Where the mountain-winds go sounding by In the Roncesvalles’ Strait!” Elmina enters. Elm. Your songs are not as those of other days, Mine own Ximena! Where is now the young And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke Joy’s echo from all hearts? Xim. My mother, this Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds; And these are not the halls wherein my voice First pour’d those gladd’ning strains. Elm. Alas! thy heart (I see it well) doth sicken for the pure Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills, Where thy young brothers, o’er the rock and heath, Bound in glad boyhood, e’en as torrent-streams Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been Within these walls thus suddenly begirt, Thou shouldst have track’d ere now, with step as light, Their wild-wood paths. Xim. I would not but have shared These hours of woe and peril, though the deep And solemn feelings wakening at their voice Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves, And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild O’ th’ summer-forest, filling earth and heaven With its own awful music. And ’tis well! Should not a hero’s child be train’d to hear The trumpet’s blast unstartled, and to look In the fix’d face of death without dismay? Elm. Woe! woe! that aught so gentle and so young Should thus be call’d to stand i’ the tempest’s path, And bear the token and the hue of death On a bright soul so soon! I had not shrunk From mine own lot; but thou, my child, shouldst move As a light breeze of heaven, through summer-bowers, And not o’er foaming billows. We are fall’n On dark and evil days! Xim. Ay, days that wake All to their tasks!—Youth may not loiter now In the green walks of spring; and womanhood Is summon’d unto conflicts, heretofore The lot of warrior-spirits. Strength is born In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts; Not amidst joy. Elm. Hast thou some secret woe That thus thou speak’st? Xim. What sorrow should be mine, Unknown to thee? Elm. Alas! the baleful air, Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks Through the devoted city, like a blight Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall’n, And wrought an early withering. Thou hast cross’d The paths of death, and minister’d to those O’er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still, Deep, solemn radiance; and thy brow hath caught A wild and high expression, which at times Fades into desolate calmness, most unlike What youth’s bright mien should wear. My gentle child! I look on thee in fear! Xim. Thou hast no cause To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel, And the deep tambour, and the heavy step Of armèd men, break on our morning dreams— When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave Are falling round us, and we deem it much To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest If the good sword, in its own stormy hour, Hath done its work upon them, ere disease Had chill’d their fiery blood;—it is no time For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours, We trode the woodland mazes, when young leaves Were whispering in the gale.—My father comes— Oh! speak of me no more. I would not shade His princely aspect with a thought less high Than his proud duties claim. Gonzalez enters. Elm. My noble lord! Welcome from this day’s toil! It is the hour Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose Unto all weary men; and wilt not thou Free thy mail’d bosom from the corslet’s weight, To rest at fall of eve? Gon. There may be rest For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath His vine and olive he may sit at eve, Watching his children’s sport: but unto him Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain-height, When heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms —Who speaks of rest? Xim. My father, shall I fill The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute Whose sounds thou lovest? Gon. If there be strains of power To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn May cast off nature’s feebleness, and hold Its proud career unshackled, dashing down Tears and fond thoughts to earth; give voice to those! I have need of such, Ximena!—we must hear No melting music now! Xim. I know all high Heroic ditties of the elder-time, Sung by the mountain-Christians,[273] in the holds Of th’ everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear The print of Freedom’s step; and all wild strains Wherein the dark serranos[274] teach the rocks And the pine-forests deeply to resound The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid? Gon. Ay, speak of him; for in that name is power, Such as might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him! We are his children! They that can look back I’ th’ annals of their house on such a name, How should they take Dishonour by the hand, And o’er the threshold of their fathers’ halls First lead her as a guest? Elm. Oh, why is this? How my heart sinks! Gon. It must not fail thee yet, Daughter of heroes!—thine inheritance Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst number In thy long line of glorious ancestry Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made The ground it bathed e’en as an altar, whence High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not, Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, With its victorious inspiration girt As with a conqueror’s robe, till th’ infidel, O’erawed, shrank back before them? Ay, the earth Doth call them martyrs; but their agonies Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope Lay naught but dust. And earth doth call them martyrs! Why, heaven but claim’d their blood, their lives, and not The things which grew as tendrils round their hearts; No, not their children! Elm. Mean’st thou? know’st thou aught?— I cannot utter it—my sons! my sons! Is it of them? Oh! wouldst thou speak of them? Gon. A mother’s heart divineth but too well! Elm. Speak, I adjure thee! I can bear it all. Where are my children? Gon. In the Moorish camp Whose lines have girt the city. Xim. But they live? —All is not lost, my mother! Elm. Say, they live. Gon. Elmina, still they live. Elm. But captives! They Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself Bounding from cliff to cliff, amidst the wilds Where the rock-eagle seem’d not more secure In its rejoicing freedom! And my boys Are captives with the Moor!—oh! how was this? Gon. Alas! our brave Alphonso, in the pride Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls, With his young brother, eager to behold The face of noble war. Thence on their way Were the rash wanderers captured. Elm. ’Tis enough. —And when shall they be ransom’d? Gon. There is ask’d A ransom far too high. Elm. What! have we wealth Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons The while wear fetters? Take thou all for them, And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us As ’twere a cumbrous robe! Why, thou art one, To whose high nature pomp hath ever been But as the plumage to a warrior’s helm, Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me, Thou knowst not how serenely I could take The peasant’s lot upon me, so my heart, Amidst its deep affections undisturb’d, May dwell in silence. Xim. Father! doubt thou not But we will bind ourselves to poverty, With glad devotedness, if this, but this, May win them back. Distrust us not, my father! We can bear all things. Gon. Can ye bear disgrace? Xim. We were not born for this. Gon. No, thou say’st well! Hold to that lofty faith. My wife, my child! Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems Torn from her secret caverns? If by them Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring Rejoicing to the light! But he for whom Freedom and life may but be won with shame, Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to fix His steadfast look on the majestic heavens, And proudly die! Elm. Gonzalez, who must die? Gon. (hurriedly.) They on whose lives a fearful price is set, But to be paid by treason! Is’t enough? Or must I yet seek words? Elm. That look saith more! Thou canst not mean—— Gon. I do! why dwells there not Power in a glance to speak it? They must die! They—must their names be told?—our sons must die, Unless I yield the city! Xim. Oh, look up! My mother, sink not thus! Until the grave Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope. Elm. (in a low voice.) Whose knell was in the breeze? No, no, not theirs! Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope? —And there is hope! I will not be subdued— I will not hear a whisper of despair! For nature is all-powerful, and her breath Moves like a quickening spirit o’er the depths Within a father’s heart. Thou too, Gonzalez, Wilt tell me there is hope! Gon. (solemnly.) Hope but in Him Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when The bright steel quiver’d in the father’s hand Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice Through the still clouds and on the breathless air, Commanding to withhold! Earth has no hope: It rests with Him. Elm. Thou canst not tell me this! Thou, father of my sons, within whose hands Doth lie thy children’s fate. Gon. If there have been Men in whose bosoms nature’s voice hath made Its accents as the solitary sound Of an o’erpowering torrent, silencing Th’ austere and yet divine remonstrances Whisper’d by faith and honour, lift thy hands; And, to that Heaven which arms the brave with strength, Pray that the father of thy sons may ne’er Be thus found wanting! Elm. Then their doom is seal’d! Thou wilt not save thy children? Gon. Hast thou cause, Wife of my youth! to deem it lies within The bounds of possible things, that I should link My name to that word—traitor? They that sleep On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine, Died not for this! Elm. Oh, cold and hard of heart! Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul Thus lightly from all human bonds can free Its haughty flight! Men! men! too much is yours Of vantage; ye that with a sound, a breath, A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space Of rooted-up affections, o’er whose void Our yearning hearts must wither! So it is, Dominion must be won! Nay, leave me not— My heart is bursting, and I must be heard! Heaven hath given power to mortal agony, As to the elements in their hour of might And mastery o’er creation! Who shall dare To mock that fearful strength! I must be heard! Give me my sons. Gon. That they may live to hide With covering hands th’ indignant flush of shame On their young brows, when men shall speak of him They call’d their father! Was the oath whereby, On th’ altar of my faith, I bound myself With an unswerving spirit to maintain This free and Christian city for my God And for my king, a writing traced on sand? That passionate tears should wash it from the earth, Or e’en the life-drops of a bleeding heart Efface it, as a billow sweeps away The last light vessel’s wake? Then never more Let man’s deep vows be trusted!—though enforced By all th’ appeals of high remembrances, And silent claims o’ th’ sepulchres wherein His fathers with their stainless glory sleep, On their good swords! Think’st thou I feel no pangs? He that hath given me sons doth know the heart Whose treasure he recalls. Of this no more: ’Tis vain. I tell thee that th’ inviolate Cross Still from our ancient temples must look up Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its foot I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask That I, the son of warriors—men who died To fix it on that proud supremacy— Should tear the sign of our victorious faith From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor In impious joy to trample! Elm. Scorn me not In mine extreme of misery! Thou art strong— Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild; I know not what I ask. And yet ’twere but Anticipating fate—since it must fall, That Cross must fall at last! There is no power, No hope within this city of the grave, To keep its place on high. Her sultry air Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor Hath bent his bow against them; for the shaft Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark, Than th’ arrow of the desert. Even the skies O’erhang the desolate splendour of her domes With an ill omen’s aspect, shaping forth, From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and signs Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood, But who shall cope with famine and disease When leagued with armèd foes? Where now the aid, Where the long-promised lances of Castile? We are forsaken in our utmost need— By heaven and earth forsaken! Gon. If this be, (And yet I will not deem it,) we must fall As men that in severe devotedness Have chosen their part, and bound themselves to death, Through high conviction that their suffering land By the free blood of martyrdom alone Shall call deliverance down. Elm. Oh! I have stood Beside thee through the beating storms of life With the true heart of unrepining love— As the poor peasant’s mate doth cheerily, In the parch’d vineyard, or the harvest field, Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat And burden of the day. But now the hour, The heavy hour is come, when human strength Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust, Owning that woe is mightier! Spare me yet This bitter cup, my husband! Let not her, The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn In her unpeopled home—a broken stem, O’er its fallen roses dying! Gon. Urge me not, Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found Worthy a brave man’s love!—oh, urge me not To guilt, which, through the midst of blinding tears, In its own hues thou seest not! Death may scarce Bring aught like this! Elm. All, all thy gentle race, The beautiful beings that around thee grew, Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all? She, too, thy daughter—doth her smile unmark’d Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day? Shadows are gathering round her: seest thou not The misty dimness of the spoiler’s breath Hangs o’er her beauty; and the face which made The summer of our hearts, now doth but send, With every glance, deep bodings through the soul, Telling of early fate? Gon. I see a change Far nobler on her brow! She is as one, Who, at the trumpet’s sudden call, hath risen From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm, Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost The beam which laugh’d upon th’ awakening heart, E’en as morn breaks o’er earth. But far within Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch, Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade! The altar-flame, i’ th’ sanctuary’s recess, Burns quenchless, being of heaven! She hath put on Courage, and faith, and generous constancy, Even as a breastplate. Ay! men look on her, As she goes forth serenely to her tasks, Binding the warrior’s wounds, and bearing fresh Cool draughts to fever’d lips—they look on her, Thus moving in her beautiful array Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn Unto their heavy toils. Elm. And seest thou not In that high faith and strong collectedness, A fearful inspiration? They have cause To tremble, who behold th’ unearthly light Of high and, it may be, prophetic thought Investing youth with grandeur! From the grave It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child Waits but a father’s hand to snatch her back Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me; Ximena! kneel beside me, and implore That which a deeper, more prevailing voice Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied, —His children’s lives! Xim. Alas! this may not be: Mother!—I cannot. [Exit Ximena. Gon. My heroic child! —A terrible sacrifice thou claim’st, O God! From creatures in whose agonising hearts Nature is strong as death! Elm. Is ’t thus in thine? Away! What time is given thee to resolve On—what I cannot utter? Speak! thou know’st Too well what I would say. Gon. Until—ask not! The time is brief. Elm. Thou said’st—I heard not right—— Gon. The time is brief. Elm. What! must we burst all ties Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined! And, for this task’s fulfilment, can it be That man in his cold heartlessness, hath dared, To number and to mete us forth the sands Of hours, nay, moments? Why, the sentenced wretch, He on whose soul there rests a brother’s blood Pour’d forth in slumber, is allow’d more time To wean his turbulent passions from the world His presence doth pollute! It is not thus? We must have time to school us. Gon. We have but To bow the head in silence, when heaven’s voice Calls back the things we love. Elm. Love! love!—there are soft smiles and gentle words, And there are faces, skilful to put on The look we trust in—and ’tis mockery all! —A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat The thirst that semblance kindled! There is none, In all this cold and hollow world—no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother’s heart. It is but pride, wherewith To his fair son the father’s eye doth turn, Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, The bright glad creature springing in his path, But as the heir of his great name—the young And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love! This is man’s love! What marvel!—you ne’er made Your breast the pillow of his infancy, While to the fulness of your heart’s glad heavings His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair Waved softly to your breath! You ne’er kept watch Beside him, till the last pale star had set, And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke On your dim weary eye; not yours the face Which, early faded through fond care for him, Hung o’er his sleep, and, duly as heaven’s light, Was there to greet his wak’ning! You ne’er smooth’d His couch, ne’er sang him to his rosy rest; Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours Had learn’d soft utterance; press’d your lip to his, When fever parch’d it; hush’d his wayward cries, With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love! No! these are woman’s tasks!—in these her youth, And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, Steal from her all unmark’d! My boys! my boys! Hath vain affection borne with all for this? —Why were ye given me? Gon. Is there strength in man Thus to endure? That thou couldst read, through all Its depths of silent agony, the heart Thy voice of woe doth rend! Elm. Thy heart—thy heart! Away! it feels not now! But an hour comes to tame the mighty man Unto the infant’s weakness; nor shall heaven Spare you that bitter chastening! May you live To be alone, when loneliness doth seem Most heavy to sustain! For me, my voice Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon With all forgotten sounds—my quiet place Low with my lovely ones; and we shall sleep, Though kings lead armies o’er us—we shall sleep, Wrapt in earth’s covering mantle! You the while Shall sit within your vast forsaken halls, And hear the wild and melancholy winds Moan through their drooping banners, never more To wave above your race. Ay, then call up Shadows—dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, But all, all—glorious,—conquerors, chieftains, kings, To people that cold void! And when the strength From your right arm hath melted, when the blast Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more A fiery wakening,—if at last you pine For the glad voices and the bounding steps Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp Of twining arms, and all the joyous light Of eyes that laugh’d with youth, and made your board A place of sunshine,—when those days are come, Then, in your utter desolation, turn To the cold world—the smiling, faithless world, Which hath swept past you long—and bid it quench Your soul’s deep thirst with fame! immortal fame! Fame to the sick of heart!—a gorgeous robe, A crown of victory, unto him that dies I’ th’ burning waste, for water! Gon. This from thee! Now the last drop of bitterness is pour’d. Elmina—I forgive thee! [Exit Elmina. Aid me, Heaven! From whom alone is power! Oh! thou hast set Duties so stern of aspect in my path, They almost to my startled gaze assume The hue of things less hallow’d! Men have sunk Unblamed beneath such trials! Doth not He Who made us know the limits of our strength? My wife! my sons! Away! I must not pause To give my heart one moment’s mastery thus! [Exit Gonzalez.