Ximena, Theresa.
_Ther._ Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the limes,
And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs,
Than waits you in the city.
_Xim._ There are those
In their last need, and on their bed of death,--
At which no hand doth minister but mine,--
That wait me in the city. Let us hence.
_Ther._ You have been wont to love the music made
By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds,
Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn
From these to scenes of death?
_Xim._ To me the voice
Of summer, whispering through young flowers and leaves,
Now speaks too deep a language! and of all
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies,
The breathing soul is sadness! I have felt
That summons through my spirit, after which
The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds
Seem fraught with secret warnings. There is cause
That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes
Where Death is busy, taming warrior-hearts,
And pouring winter through the fiery blood,
And fettering the strong arm! For now no sigh
In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven,
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf,
But of his angel’s silent coming bears
Some token to my soul. But naught of this
Unto my mother! These are awful hours!
And on their heavy steps afflictions crowd
With such dark pressure, there is left no room
For one grief more.
_Ther._ Sweet lady, talk not thus!
Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light,
There’s more of life in its clear tremulous ray
Than I have mark’d of late. Nay, go not yet;
Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring
From the transparent waters, dashing round
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness,
O’er the pale glistening marble. ’Twill call up
Faint bloom, if but a moment’s, to your cheek.
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing
The melody you love.
Theresa _sings_.
Why is the Spanish maiden’s grave
So far from her own bright land?
The sunny flowers that o’er it wave
Were sown by no kindred hand.
’Tis not the orange-bough that sends
Its breath on the sultry air,
’Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends
To the breeze of evening there!
But the rose of Sharon’s eastern bloom
By the silent dwelling fades,
And none but strangers pass the tomb
Which the palm of Judah shades.
The lowly Cross, with flowers o’ergrown,
Marks well that place of rest;
But who hath graved, on its mossy stone,
A sword, a helm, a crest?
These are the trophies of a chief,
A lord of the axe and spear!
--Some blossom pluck’d, some faded leaf,
Should grace a maiden’s bier!
Scorn not her tomb--deny not her
The honours of the brave!
O’er that forsaken sepulchre
Banner and plume might wave.
She bound the steel, in battle tried,
Her fearless heart above,
And stood with brave men side by side,
In the strength and faith of love!
That strength prevail’d--that faith was bless’d!
True was the javelin thrown,
Yet pierced it not her warrior’s breast--
She met it with her own!
And nobly won, where heroes fell
In arms for the holy shrine,
A death which saved what she loved so well,
And a grave in Palestine.
Then let the rose of Sharon spread
Its breast to the glowing air,
And the palm of Judah lift its head,
Green and immortal there!
And let yon gray stone, undefaced,
With its trophy mark the scene,
Telling the pilgrim of the waste
Where Love and Death have been.
_Xim._ Those notes were wont to make my heart
beat quick,
As at a voice of victory; but to-day
The spirit of the song is changed, and seems
All mournful. Oh! that, ere my early grave
Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal
Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth
Beneath my father’s banner! In that sound
Were life to you, sweet brothers!--But for me--
Come on--our tasks await us. They who know
Their hours are number’d out, have little time
To give the vague and slumberous languor way,
Which doth steal o’er them in the breath of flowers,
And whisper of soft winds.
[Elmina _enters hurriedly_.
_Elm._ The air will calm my spirit, ere yet I meet
His eye, which must be met.--Thou here, Ximena!
[_She starts back on seeing_ Ximena.
_Xim._ Alas! my mother! in that hurrying step
And troubled glance I read----
_Elm._ (_wildly._) Thou read’st it not!
Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye
The things lay glaring, which within our hearts
We treasure up for God’s? Thou read’st it not!
I say, thou canst not! There’s not one on earth
Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves have made
And kept dark places in the very breast
Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour
When the graves open!
_Xim._ Mother! what is this!
Alas! your eye is wandering, and your cheek
Flush’d, as with fever! To your woes the night
Hath brought no rest.
_Elm._ Rest!--who should rest?--not he
That holds one earthly blessing to his heart
Nearer than life! No! if this world have aught
Of bright or precious, let not him, who calls
Such things his own, take rest!--Dark spirits keep watch;
And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame,
Were as heaven’s air, the vital element
Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their souls
Made marks for human scorn! Will they bear on
With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all
Its glorious drapery? Who shall tell us this?
--Will _he_ so bear it?
_Xim._ Mother! let us kneel
And blend our hearts in prayer! What else is left
To mortals when the dark hour’s might is on them?
--Leave us, Theresa.--Grief like this doth find
Its balm in solitude. [_Exit_ Theresa.
My mother! peace
Is heaven’s benignant answer to the cry
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me?
_Elm._ Away! ’tis but for souls unstain’d, to wear
Heaven’s tranquil image on their depths.--The stream
Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm,
Reflects but clouds and lightnings!--Didst thou speak
Of peace?--’tis fled from earth! But there is joy!
Wild, troubled joy! And who shall know, my child,
It is not happiness? Why, our own hearts
Will keep the secret close! Joy, joy! if but
To leave this desolate city, with its dull
Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again
Th’ untainted mountain-air!--But hush! the trees,
The flowers, the waters, must hear naught of this!
They are full of voices, and will whisper things----
--We’ll speak of it no more.
_Xim._ O pitying heaven!
This grief doth shake her reason!
_Elm._ (_starting._) Hark! a step!
’Tis--’tis thy father’s! Come away--not now--
He must not see us now!
_Xim._ Why should this be?
[Gonzalez _enters, and detains_ Elmina.
_Gon._ Elmina, dost thou shun me? Have we not
E’en from the hopeful and the sunny time
When youth was as a glory round our brows,
Held on through life together? And is this,
When eve is gathering round us, with the gloom
Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps
Upon the darkening wild?
_Elm._ (_coldly._) There needs not this.
Why shouldst thou think I shunn’d thee
_Gon._ Should the love
That shone o’er many years, th’ unfading love,
Whose only change hath been from gladdening smiles
To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength,
Thus lightly be forgotten?
_Elm._ Speak’st _thou_ thus?
--I have knelt before thee with that very plea,
When it avail’d me not! But there are things
Whose very breathings from the soul erase
All record of past love, save the chill sense,
Th’ unquiet memory of its wasted faith,
And vain devotedness! Ay! they that fix
Affection’s perfect trust on aught of earth,
Have many a dream to start from!
_Gon._ This is but
The wildness and the bitterness of grief,
Ere yet the unsettled heart hath closed its long
Impatient conflicts with a mightier power,
Which makes all conflict vain.
----Hark! was there not
A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond
The Moorish tents, and of another tone
Than th’ Afric horn, Ximena?
_Xim._ O my father!
I know that horn too well.--’Tis but the wind,
Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep
And savage war-note from us, wafting it
O’er the far hills.
_Gon._ Alas! this woe must be!
I do not shake my spirit from its height,
So startling it with hope! But the dread hour
Shall be met bravely still. I can keep down
Yet for a little while--and heaven will ask
No more--the passionate workings of my heart
--And thine, Elmina?
_Elm._ ’Tis--I am prepared.
I _have_ prepared for all.
_Gon._ Oh, well I knew
Thou wouldst not fail me! Not in vain my soul,
Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up
Unshaken trust.
_Elm._ (_wildly._) Away!--thou know’st me not!
Man dares too far--his rashness would invest
This our mortality with an attribute
Too high and awful, boasting that he knows
One human heart!
_Gon._ These are wild words, but yet
I will not doubt thee! Hast thou not been found
Noble in all things, pouring thy soul’s light
Undimm’d o’er every trial? And, as our fates,
So must our names be, undivided!--Thine,
I’ th’ record of a warrior’s life, shall find
Its place of stainless honour. By his side----
_Elm._ May this be borne! How much of agony
Hath the heart room for? Speak to me in wrath
--I can endure it! But no gentle words!
No words of love! no praise! Thy sword might slay,
And be more merciful!
_Gon._ Wherefore art thou thus?
Elmina, my beloved!
_Elm._ No more of love!
--Have I not said there’s that within my heart,
Whereon it falls as living fire would fall
Upon an unclosed wound?
_Gon._ Nay, lift thine eyes,
That I may read _their_ meaning!
_Elm._ Never more
With a free soul. What have I said?--’twas naught!
Take thou no heed! The words of wretchedness
Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the speech
Of troubled dreams?
_Gon._ I have seen thee in the hour
Of thy deep spirit’s joy, and when the breath
Of grief hung chilling round thee; in all change,
Bright health and drooping sickness; hope and fear;
Youth and decline; but never yet, Elmina,
Ne’er hath thine eye till now shrunk back, perturb’d
With shame or dread, from mine!
_Elm._ Thy glance doth search
A wounded heart too deeply.
_Gon._ Hast thou there
Aught to conceal?
_Elm._ Who hath not?
_Gon._ Till this hour
_Thou_ never hadst! Yet hear me!--by the free
And unattainted fame which wraps the dust
Of thine heroic fathers----
_Elm._ This to me!
--Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds
Of festal music round a dying man!
Will his heart echo them? But if thy words
Were spells, to call up, with each lofty tone,
The grave’s most awful spirits, they would stand
Powerless, before my anguish!
_Gon._ Then, by her,
Who there looks on thee in the purity
Of her devoted youth, and o’er whose name
No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must ne’er
Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully
From the quick feeling of dishonour--Speak!
Unfold this mystery! By thy sons----
_Elm._ My sons!
And canst _thou_ name them?
_Gon._ Proudly! Better far
They died with all the promise of their youth,
And the fair honour of their house upon them,
Than that, with manhood’s high and passionate soul
To fearful strength unfolded, they should live,
Barr’d from the lists of crested chivalry,
And pining, in the silence of a woe,
Which from the heart shuts daylight--o’er the shame
Of those who gave them birth! But _thou_ couldst ne’er
Forget their lofty claims!
_Elm._ (_wildly._) ’Twas but for them!
’Twas for them only! Who shall dare arraign
Madness of crime? And He who made us, knows
There are dark moments of all hearts and lives,
Which bear down reason!
_Gon._ Thou, whom I have loved
With such high trust as o’er our nature threw
A glory scarce allow’d--what hast thou done?
--Ximena, go thou hence!
_Elm._ No, no! my child!
There’s pity in thy look! All other eyes
Are full of wrath and scorn! Oh, leave me not!
_Gon._ That I should live to see thee thus abased!
--Yet speak! What hast thou done?
_Elm._ Look to the gate!
Thou’rt worn with toil--but take no rest to-night!
The western gate! Its watchers have been won--
The Christian city hath been bought and sold!--
They will admit the Moor!
_Gon._ They have been won!
Brave men and tried so long! Whose work was this?
_Elm._ Think’st thou all hearts like thine? Can mothers stand
To see their children perish?
_Gon._ Then the guilt
Was thine?
_Elm._ Shall mortal dare to call it guilt?
I tell thee, heaven, which made all holy things,
Made naught more holy than the boundless love
Which fills a mother’s heart! I say, ’tis woe
Enough, with such an aching tenderness,
To love aught earthly! and in vain! in vain!
--We are press’d down too sorely!
_Gon._ (_in a low desponding voice._) Now my life
Is struck to worthless ashes!--In my soul
Suspicion hath ta’en root. The nobleness
Henceforth is blotted from all human brows;
And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift,
Almost like prophecy, is pour’d upon me,
To read the guilty secrets in each eye
That once look’d bright with truth!
Why, then, I have gain’d
What men call wisdom!--A new sense, to which
All tales that speak of high fidelity,
And holy courage, and proud honour, tried,
Search’d, and found steadfast, even to martyrdom,
Are food for mockery! Why should I not cast
From my thinn’d locks the wearing helm at once,
And in the heavy sickness of my soul
Throw the sword down for ever? Is there aught
In all this world of gilded hollowness,
Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things,
Worth striving for again?
_Xim._ Father! look up!
Turn unto me, thy child!
_Gon._ Thy face is fair;
And hath been unto me, in other days,
As morning to the journeyer of the deep?
But now--’tis too like hers!
_Elm._ (_falling at his feet._) Woe, shame and woe,
Are on me in their might! Forgive! forgive!
_Gon._ (_starting up._)
Doth the Moor deem that _I_ have part or share
Or counsel in his vileness? Stay me not!
Let go thy hold--’tis powerless on me now:
I linger here, while treason is at work!
[_Exit_ Gonzalez.
_Elm._ Ximena, dost _thou_ scorn me?
_Xim._ I have found
In mine own heart too much of feebleness,
Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes
But His whom naught can blind, to dare do aught
But pity thee, dear mother!
_Elm._ Blessings light
On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this!
Thou kind and merciful! My soul is faint--
Worn with long strife! Is there aught else to do,
Or suffer, ere we die?--Oh God! my sons!
--I have betray’d them! All their innocent blood
Is on my soul!
_Xim._ How shall I comfort thee?
--Oh! hark! what sounds come deepening on the wind,
So full of solemn hope!
_A procession of Nuns passes across the Scene, bearing relics, and
chanting._
CHANT.
A sword is on the land!
He that bears down young tree and glorious flower,
Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in power!
Where is the warrior’s hand?
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave:
Hear us, we perish!--Father, hear and save!
If, in the days of song,
The days of gladness, we have call’d on thee.
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea,
And joyous hearts were strong;
Now that alike the feeble and the brave
Must cry, “We perish!”--Father, hear and save!
The days of song are fled!
The winds come loaded, wafting dirge-notes by;
But they that linger soon unmourn’d must die--
The dead weep not the dead!
Wilt thou forsake us midst the stormy wave?
We sink, we perish!--Father, hear and save!
Helmet and lance are dust!
Is not the strong man wither’d from our eye?
The arm struck down that held our banners high?--
Thine is our spirits’ trust!
Look through the gathering shadows of the grave!
Do we not perish?--Father, hear and save!
Hernandez _enters._
_Elm._ Why com’st thou, man of vengeance?--
What have I
To do with thee? Am I not bow’d enough?
Thou art no mourner’s comforter!
_Her._ Thy lord
Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day’s task
Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart!
He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy ways
Before heaven’s altar, and in penitence
Make thy soul’s peace with God.
_Elm._ Till this day’s task
Be closed!--There is strange triumph in thine eyes--
Is it that I have fall’n from that high place
Whereon I stood in fame? But I can feel
A wild and bitter pride in thus being past
The power of thy dark glance! My spirit now
Is wound about by one sole mighty grief;
Thy scorn hath lost its sting. Thou may’st reproach----
_Her._ I come not to reproach thee. Heaven doth work
By many agencies; and in its hour
There is no insect which the summer breeze
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may serve
Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well
As the great ocean, or th’ eternal fires
Pent in earth’s caves. Thou hast but speeded that,
Which, in th’ infatuate blindness of thy heart,
Thou wouldst have trampled o’er all holy ties
But to avert one day!
_Elm._ My senses fail.
Thou said’st--speak yet again--I could not catch
The meaning of thy words.
_Her._ E’en now thy lord
Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls
He stands in conference with the boastful Moor,
And awful strength is with him. Through the blood
Which this day must be pour’d in sacrifice
Shall Spain be free. On all her olive-hills
Shall men set up the battle-sign of fire,
And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the sense
Of vengeance wakeful in each other’s hearts
E’en with thy children’s tale!
_Xim._ Peace, father! peace!
Behold she sinks!--the storm hath done its work
Upon the broken reed. Oh! lend thine aid
To bear her hence. [_They lead her away._