Part 2 — Scene III.—A Street in the City.

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.