Part 2 — Scene II.—The Aisle of a Gothic Church.

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.

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.