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
Gonzalez' 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 weakMy 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, [sun,
When earth's young flowers were opening to the
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?
[my woes?

Why, what hath earth Shall they not live

Her. Woman! how darest thou taunt me with Thy children, too, shall perish, and I say [them? It shall be well! Why takest thou thought for 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? To pay thee back for this? (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 [blood Shall they not flush thy cheek with shame, whose 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

law

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?

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 tears
Heavy with deeper anguish! We endow [ness,
Those whom we love, in our fond passionate blind-
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,

-Death! Death! Why, earth should be a para-
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 [forth,
Came o'er my shuddering sense. The moon look'd
And I beheld-speak not !-twas he-my son !
My boy lay dying there! He raised one glance

And know'st thou wherefore? On my soul there
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,

[sands

That wert a father, and art now-alone!
Canst thou ask "wherefore?" Ask the wretch whose
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

AN

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! [array -Tis madness all! How wouldst thou pass th' Of armed foes?

Elm. Oh! free doth sorrow pass,

Free and unquestion'd, through a suffering world!1
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.

DIRGE, (heard without.)

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!

1 Frey geht das Unglück durch die ganze Erde." SCHILLER'S Death of Wallenstein, act iv. sc. 2.

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.

[Exeunt GONZALEZ and HERNANDEZ.

SCENE IV.-A Tent in the Moorish Camp.

ABDULLAH, ALPHONSO, CARLOS.

Abd. These are bold words: but hast thou look'd on death,

Fair stripling? On thy cheek and sunny brow Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced The ibex of the mountains, if thy step

Hath climb'd some eagle's nest, and thou hast made His nest thy spoil, 'tis much! And fear'st thou not The leader of the mighty?

Alph. I have been

Rear'd amongst fearless men, and midst the rocks And the wild hills, whereon my fathers fought And won their battles. There are glorious tales Told of their deeds, and I have learn'd them all. How should I fear thee, Moor?

Abd. So, thou hast seen

Fields, where the combat's roar hath died away

1 Tecbir, the war-cry of the Moors and Arabs.

2 Tizona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid's favourite sword, taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar.

3 Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged and taken by the armies of different nations, remained in possession of

Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flowers Bloom o'er forgotten graves! But know'st thou aught

Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes fire,

And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds Trample the life from out the mighty hearts That ruled the storm so late?-Speak not of death Till thou hast look'd on such.

Alph. I was not born

A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook,
And peasant men, amidst the lowly vales;
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears,
And crested knights! I am of princely race;
And, if my father would have heard my suit.
I tell thee, infidel, that long ere now

I should have seen how lances meet, and swords
Do the field's work.

Abd. Boy!-know'st thou there are sights A thousand times more fearful? Men may die Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring To battle-horn and tecbir. But not all So pass away in glory. There are those, Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes, Led forth in fetters-dost thou mark me, boy?To take their last look of th' all-gladdening sun, And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth Unto the death of shanie !-Hadst thou seen this

Alph. (to Carlos.) Sweet brother, God is with us -fear thou not!

We have had heroes for our sires:-this man
Should not behold us tremble.

Abd. There are means

To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again
I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls,
Sue to thy sire for life?-or would'st thou die
With this thy brother?

Alph. Moslem! on the hills,
Around my father's castle, I have heard
The mountain-peasants, as they dress'd the vines,
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home,
Singing their ancient songs; and these were all
Of the Cid Campeador; and how his sword
Tizona clear'd its way through turban'd hosts,
And captured Afric's kings, and how he won
Valencia from the Moor. 3 I will not shame
The blood we draw from him!

[A Moorish soldier enters.

the Moors for a hundred and seventy years after the Cid's death. It was regained from them by King Don Jayme of Aragon, surnamed the Conqueror; after whose success I have ventured to suppose it governed by a descendant of the Campeador.