Hernandez, Gonzalez.
_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.