Part 2 — Scene V.—The Garden of a Palace in Valencia.

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.

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! Elm. Never more With a free soul. What have I said?—’twas naught! Take thou no heed! The words of wretchedness Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the speech Of troubled dreams? Gon. I have seen thee in the hour Of thy deep spirit’s joy, and when the breath Of grief hung chilling round thee; in all change, Bright health and drooping sickness; hope and fear; Youth and decline; but never yet, Elmina, Ne’er hath thine eye till now shrunk back, perturb’d With shame or dread, from mine! Elm. Thy glance doth search A wounded heart too deeply. Gon. Hast thou there Aught to conceal? Elm. Who hath not? Gon. Till this hour Thou never hadst! Yet hear me!—by the free And unattainted fame which wraps the dust Of thine heroic fathers—— Elm. This to me! —Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds Of festal music round a dying man! Will his heart echo them? But if thy words Were spells, to call up, with each lofty tone, The grave’s most awful spirits, they would stand Powerless, before my anguish! Gon. Then, by her, Who there looks on thee in the purity Of her devoted youth, and o’er whose name No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must ne’er Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully From the quick feeling of dishonour—Speak! Unfold this mystery! By thy sons—— Elm. My sons! And canst thou name them? Gon. Proudly! Better far They died with all the promise of their youth, And the fair honour of their house upon them, Than that, with manhood’s high and passionate soul To fearful strength unfolded, they should live, Barr’d from the lists of crested chivalry, And pining, in the silence of a woe, Which from the heart shuts daylight—o’er the shame Of those who gave them birth! But thou couldst ne’er Forget their lofty claims! Elm. (wildly.) ’Twas but for them! ’Twas for them only! Who shall dare arraign Madness of crime? And He who made us, knows There are dark moments of all hearts and lives, Which bear down reason! Gon. Thou, whom I have loved With such high trust as o’er our nature threw A glory scarce allow’d—what hast thou done? —Ximena, go thou hence! Elm. No, no! my child! There’s pity in thy look! All other eyes Are full of wrath and scorn! Oh, leave me not! Gon. That I should live to see thee thus abased! —Yet speak! What hast thou done? Elm. Look to the gate! Thou’rt worn with toil—but take no rest to-night! The western gate! Its watchers have been won— The Christian city hath been bought and sold!— They will admit the Moor! Gon. They have been won! Brave men and tried so long! Whose work was this? Elm. Think’st thou all hearts like thine? Can mothers stand To see their children perish? Gon. Then the guilt Was thine? Elm. Shall mortal dare to call it guilt? I tell thee, heaven, which made all holy things, Made naught more holy than the boundless love Which fills a mother’s heart! I say, ’tis woe Enough, with such an aching tenderness, To love aught earthly! and in vain! in vain! —We are press’d down too sorely! Gon. (in a low desponding voice.) Now my life Is struck to worthless ashes!—In my soul Suspicion hath ta’en root. The nobleness Henceforth is blotted from all human brows; And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, Almost like prophecy, is pour’d upon me, To read the guilty secrets in each eye That once look’d bright with truth! Why, then, I have gain’d What men call wisdom!—A new sense, to which All tales that speak of high fidelity, And holy courage, and proud honour, tried, Search’d, and found steadfast, even to martyrdom, Are food for mockery! Why should I not cast From my thinn’d locks the wearing helm at once, And in the heavy sickness of my soul Throw the sword down for ever? Is there aught In all this world of gilded hollowness, Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things, Worth striving for again? Xim. Father! look up! Turn unto me, thy child! Gon. Thy face is fair; And hath been unto me, in other days, As morning to the journeyer of the deep? But now—’tis too like hers! Elm. (falling at his feet.) Woe, shame and woe, Are on me in their might! Forgive! forgive! Gon. (starting up.) Doth the Moor deem that I have part or share Or counsel in his vileness? Stay me not! Let go thy hold—’tis powerless on me now: I linger here, while treason is at work! [Exit Gonzalez. Elm. Ximena, dost thou scorn me? Xim. I have found In mine own heart too much of feebleness, Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes But His whom naught can blind, to dare do aught But pity thee, dear mother! Elm. Blessings light On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this! Thou kind and merciful! My soul is faint— Worn with long strife! Is there aught else to do, Or suffer, ere we die?—Oh God! my sons! —I have betray’d them! All their innocent blood Is on my soul! Xim. How shall I comfort thee? —Oh! hark! what sounds come deepening on the wind, So full of solemn hope!

A sword is on the land! He that bears down young tree and glorious flower, Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in power! Where is the warrior’s hand? Our steps are in the shadows of the grave: Hear us, we perish!—Father, hear and save! If, in the days of song, The days of gladness, we have call’d on thee. When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea, And joyous hearts were strong; Now that alike the feeble and the brave Must cry, “We perish!”—Father, hear and save! The days of song are fled! The winds come loaded, wafting dirge-notes by; But they that linger soon unmourn’d must die— The dead weep not the dead! Wilt thou forsake us midst the stormy wave? We sink, we perish!—Father, hear and save! Helmet and lance are dust! Is not the strong man wither’d from our eye? The arm struck down that held our banners high?— Thine is our spirits’ trust! Look through the gathering shadows of the grave! Do we not perish?—Father, hear and save!

Elm. Why com’st thou, man of vengeance?— What have I To do with thee? Am I not bow’d enough? Thou art no mourner’s comforter! Her. Thy lord Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day’s task Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart! He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy ways Before heaven’s altar, and in penitence Make thy soul’s peace with God. Elm. Till this day’s task Be closed!—There is strange triumph in thine eyes— Is it that I have fall’n from that high place Whereon I stood in fame? But I can feel A wild and bitter pride in thus being past The power of thy dark glance! My spirit now Is wound about by one sole mighty grief; Thy scorn hath lost its sting. Thou may’st reproach—— Her. I come not to reproach thee. Heaven doth work By many agencies; and in its hour There is no insect which the summer breeze From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may serve Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well As the great ocean, or th’ eternal fires Pent in earth’s caves. Thou hast but speeded that, Which, in th’ infatuate blindness of thy heart, Thou wouldst have trampled o’er all holy ties But to avert one day! Elm. My senses fail. Thou said’st—speak yet again—I could not catch The meaning of thy words. Her. E’en now thy lord Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls He stands in conference with the boastful Moor, And awful strength is with him. Through the blood Which this day must be pour’d in sacrifice Shall Spain be free. On all her olive-hills Shall men set up the battle-sign of fire, And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the sense Of vengeance wakeful in each other’s hearts E’en with thy children’s tale! Xim. Peace, father! peace! Behold she sinks!—the storm hath done its work Upon the broken reed. Oh! lend thine aid To bear her hence. [They lead her away.