Gon. It must not fail thee yet, Daughter of heroes !-thine inheritance Isstrength 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! [and not Why, heaven but claim'd their blood, their lives, 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, [pangs?
On their good swords! Think'st thou I feel no
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 [foot
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its
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.
I know not what I ask.

My brain grows wild; 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 [aid,
When leagued with armèd foes? Where now the
Where the long-promised lances of Castile?
We are forsaken in our utmost need-

By heaven and earth forsaken!

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 beenfound 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 1-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. [gentle words,

Elm. Love! love !-there are soft smiles and
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?

Elm. Thy heart-thy heart! Away! it feels not
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 [board
Of eyes that laugh'd with youth, and made your
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!

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,

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 dimand 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.

[and sounds But these are sights

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 [air
Faint swelling through the streets. Then e'en the
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