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
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.[276] 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 shame!--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[277] clear’d its way through turban’d hosts,
And captured Afric’s kings, and how he won
Valencia from the Moor.[278] I will not shame
The blood we draw from him!
[_A Moorish soldier enters._
_Sol._ Valencia’s lord
Sends messengers, my chief.
_Abd._ Conduct them hither.
[_The soldier goes out and re-enters with_
Elmina, _disguised, and an attendant_.
_Car._ (_springing forward to the attendant._)
Oh! take me hence, Diego! take me hence
With thee, that I may see my mother’s face
At morning when I wake. Here dark-brow’d men
Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us.
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind,
And well I know thou lov’st me, my Diego!
_Abd._ Peace, boy!--What tidings, Christian, from thy lord?
Is he grown humbler?--doth he set the lives
Of these fair nurslings at a city’s worth?
_Alph._ (_rushing forward impatiently._)
Say not he doth!--Yet wherefore art thou here?
If it be so, I could weep burning tears
For very shame! If this _can_ be, return!
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils,
I will but ask a war-horse and a sword,
And that beside him in the mountain-chase,
And in his halls, and at his stately feasts,
My place shall be no more! But no!--I wrong,
I wrong my father! Moor, believe it not:
He is a champion of the Cross and Spain,
Sprung from the Cid!--and I, too, I can die
As a warrior’s high-born child!
_Elm._ Alas, alas!
And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy?
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst cast
Its flower away, in very scorn of heart,
Ere yet the blight be come?
_Alph._ That voice doth sound----
_Abd._ Stranger, who art thou?--this is mockery! speak!
_Elm._ (_throwing off a mantle and helmet, and embracing her sons._)
My boys! whom I have rear’d through many hours
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts
Untold and unimagined; let me die
With you, now I have held you to my heart,
And seen once more the faces, in whose light
My soul hath lived for years!
_Car._ Sweet mother! now
Thou shalt not leave us more.
_Abd._ Enough of this!
Woman! what seek’st thou here? How hast thou dared
To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts?
_Elm._ Think’st thou there dwells no courage but in breasts
That set their mail against the ringing spears,
When helmets are struck down? Thou little know’st
Of nature’s marvels. Chief! my heart is nerved
To make its way through things which warrior men,
Ay, they that master death by field or flood,
Would look on, ere they braved! I have no thought,
No sense of fear! Thou’rt mighty! but a soul
Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power
Of that one feeling pour’d through all its depths,
Than monarchs with their hosts? Am I not come
To die with these my children?
_Abd._ Doth thy faith
Bid thee do this, fond Christian? Hast thou not
The means to save them?
_Elm._ I have prayers, and tears,
And agonies!--and he, my God--the God
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour
To bow the crested head--hath made these things
Most powerful in a world where all must learn
That one deep language, by the storm call’d forth
From the bruised reeds of earth! For thee, perchance,
Affliction’s chastening lesson hath not yet
Been laid upon thy heart; and thou may’st love
To see the creatures, by its might brought low,
Humbled before thee.
[_She throws herself at his feet._
Conqueror, I can kneel!
I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself
E’en to thy feet! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves,
If this will swell thy triumph, to behold
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased!
Do this, but spare my sons!
_Alph._ (_attempting to raise her._) Thou shouldst not kneel
Unto this infidel! Rise, rise, my mother!
This sight doth shame our house!
_Abd._ Thou daring boy!
They that in arms have taught thy father’s land
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty mien
Unto another language.
_Elm._ Peace, my son!
Have pity on my heart! Oh, pardon, chief!
He is of noble blood. Hear, hear me yet!
Are there no lives through which the shafts of heaven
May reach your soul? He that loves aught on earth,
Dares far too much, if he be merciless!
Is it for those, whose frail mortality
Must one day strive alone with God and death,
To shut their souls against th’ appealing voice
Of nature, in her anguish? Warrior, man,
To you, too, ay, and haply with your hosts,
By thousands and ten thousands marshall’d round,
And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke
Which the lance wards not! Where shall your high heart
Find refuge then, if in the day of might
Woe hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet,
And you have pitied not?
_Abd._ These are vain words.
_Elm._ Have you no children?--fear ye not to bring
The lightning on their heads? In your own land
Doth no fond mother, from the tents beneath
Your native palms, look o’er the deserts out,
To greet your homeward step? You have not yet
Forgot so utterly her patient love--
For is not woman’s in all climes the same?--
That you should scorn _my_ prayer! Oh heaven! his eye
Doth wear no mercy!
_Abd._ Then it mocks you not.
I have swept o’er the mountains of your land,
Leaving my traces, as the visitings
Of storms upon them! Shall I now be stay’d?
Know, unto me it were as light a thing,
In this my course, to quench your children’s lives,
As, journeying through a forest, to break off
The young wild branches that obstruct the way
With their green sprays and leaves.
_Elm._ Are there such hearts
Amongst thy works, O God?
_Abd._ Kneel not to me.
Kneel to your lord! on his resolves doth hang
His children’s doom. He may be lightly won
By a few bursts of passionate tears and words.
_Elm._ (_rising indignantly._) Speak not of noble men! He bears a soul
Stronger than love or death.
_Alph._ (_with exultation._) I knew ’twas thus!
He could not fail!
_Elm._ There is no mercy, none,
On this cold earth! To strive with such a world,
Hearts should be void of love! We will go hence,
My children! we are summon’d. Lay your heads,
In their young radiant beauty, once again
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells
Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round,
Will yet have pity, and before His face
We three will stand together! Moslem! now
Let the stroke fall at once!
_Abd._ ’Tis thine own will.
These might e’en yet be spared.
_Elm._ _Thou_ wilt not spare!
And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew,
And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear
From their first lisping accents caught the sound
Of that word--_Father_--once a name of love--
Is----Men shall call him _steadfast_.
_Abd._ Hath the blast
Of sudden trumpets ne’er at dead of night,
When the land’s watchers fear’d no hostile step,
Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world,
In cities, whose heroic lords have been
_Steadfast_ as thine?
_Elm._ There’s meaning in thine eye,
More than thy words.
_Abd._ (_pointing to the city._) Look to yon towers and walls!
Think you no hearts within their limits pine,
Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared
To burst the feeble links which bind them still
Unto endurance.
_Elm._ Thou hast said too well.
But what of this?
_Abd._ Then there are those, to whom
The Prophet’s armies not as foes would pass
Yon gates, but as deliverers. Might they not
In some still hour, when weariness takes rest,
Be won to welcome us? Your children’s steps
May yet bound lightly through their father’s halls!
_Alph._ (_indignantly._) Thou treacherous Moor!
_Elm._ Let me not thus be tried
Beyond all strength, O heaven!
_Abd._ Now, ’tis for _thee_,
Thou Christian mother! on thy sons to pass
The sentence--life or death! The price is set
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands.
_Alph._ Mother! thou tremblest!
_Abd._ Hath thy heart resolved?
_Elm._ (_covering her face with her hands._)
My boy’s proud eye is on me, and the things
Which rush in stormy darkness through my soul
Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer _here_.
_Abd._ Come forth. We’ll commune elsewhere.
_Car._ (_to his mother._) Wilt thou go?
Oh! let me follow thee!
_Elm._ Mine own fair child!
Now that thine eyes have pour’d once more on mine
The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice
Hath sent its gentle music through my soul,
And I have felt the twining of thine arms--
How shall I leave thee?
_Abd._ Leave him, as ’twere but
For a brief slumber, to behold his face
At morning, with the sun’s.
_Alph._ Thou hast no look
For me, my mother!
_Elm._ Oh! that I should live
To say, I _dare_ not look on thee! Farewell,
My first-born, fare thee well!
_Alph._ Yet, yet beware!
It were a grief more heavy on thy soul,
That I should blush for thee, than o’er my grave
That thou shouldst proudly weep!
_Abd._ Away! we trifle here. The night wanes fast.
Come forth!
_Elm._ One more embrace! My sons, farewell!
[_Exeunt_ Abdullah _with_ Elmina _and her Attendant_.
_Alph._ Hear me yet once, my mother! Art thou gone?
But one word more!
[_He rushes out, followed by_ Carlos.
[276] _Tecbir_, the war-cry of the Moors and Arabs.
[277] Tizona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid’s favourite sword,
taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar.
[278] Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged and taken by the
armies of different nations, remained in possession of 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.