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 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.
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!
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.
[275]
“Frey geht das Unglück durch die ganze Erde.”
Schiller’s _Death of Wallenstein_, act iv. sc. 2.