Soldiers, many of them lying on the steps of a church. Arms scattered
on the ground around them._
_An Old Cit._ The air is sultry, as with thunder-clouds.
I left my desolate home, that I might breathe
More freely in heaven’s face, but my heart feels
With this hot gloom o’erburden’d. I have now
No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends,
Will bring the old man water from the fount,
To moisten his parch’d lip?
[_A citizen goes out._
_2d Cit._ This wasting siege,
Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you!
’Tis sad to hear no voices through the house,
Once peopled with fair sons!
_3d Cit._ Why, better thus,
Than to be haunted with their famish’d cries,
E’en in your very dreams!
_Old Cit._ Heaven’s will be done!
These are dark times! I have not been alone
In my affliction.
_3d Cit._ (_with bitterness._) Why, we have but this thought
Left for our gloomy comfort!--And ’tis well!
Ay, let the balance be awhile struck even
Between the noble’s palace and the hut,
Where the worn peasant sickens! They that bear
The humble dead unhonour’d to their homes,
Pass now i’ th’ streets no lordly bridal train
With its exulting music; and the wretch
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall
Flings himself down to die, in his last need
And agony of famine, doth behold
No scornful guests, with their long purple robes,
To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just!
These are the days when pomp is made to feel
Its human mould!
_4th Cit._ Heard you last night the sound
Of Saint Iago’s bell?--How sullenly
From the great tower it peal’d!
_5th Cit._ Ay, and ’tis said
No mortal hand was near when so it seem’d
To shake the midnight streets.
_Old Cit._ Too well I know
The sound of coming fate!--’Tis ever thus
When Death is on his way to make it night
In the Cid’s ancient house.[279] Oh! there are things
In this strange world of which we’ve all to learn
When its dark bounds are pass’d. Yon bell, untouch’d,
(Save by the hands we see not,) still doth speak--
When of that line some stately head is mark’d--
With a wild hollow peal, at dead of night,
Rocking Valencia’s towers. I’ve heard it oft,
Nor know its warning false.
_4th Cit._ And will our chief
Buy with the price of his fair children’s blood
A few more days of pining wretchedness
For this forsaken city?
_Old Cit._ Doubt it not!
--But with that ransom he may purchase still
Deliverance for the land! And yet ’tis sad
To think that such a race, with all its fame,
Should pass away! For she, his daughter too,
Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose time
To sojourn there is short.
_5th Cit._ Then woe for us
When she is gone! Her voice, the very sound
Of her soft step, was comfort, as she moved
Through the still house of mourning! Who like her
Shall give us hope again?
_Old Cit._ Be still!--she comes,
And with a mien how changed! A hurrying step,
And a flush’d cheek! What may this bode?--
Be still!
Ximena _enters, with Attendants carrying a Banner_.
_Xim._ Men of Valencia! in an hour like this,
What do ye here?
_A Cit._ We die!
_Xim._ Brave men die _now_
Girt for the toil, as travellers suddenly
By the dark night o’ertaken on their way!
These days require such death! It is too much
Of luxury for our wild and angry times,
To fold the mantle round us, and to sink
From life, as flowers that shut up silently,
When the sun’s heat doth scorch them! Hear ye not?
_A Cit._ Lady! what wouldst thou with us?
_Xim._ Rise and arm!
E’en now the children of your chief are led
Forth by the Moor to perish! Shall this be--
Shall the high sound of such a name be hush’d,
I’ th’ land to which for ages it hath been
A battle-word, as ’twere some passing note
Of shepherd-music? Must this work be done,
And ye lie pining here, as men in whom
The pulse which God hath made for noble thought
Can so be thrill’d no longer?
_A Cit._ ’Tis e’en so!
Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathed upon us,
Our hearts beat faint and low.
_Xim._ Are ye so poor
Of soul, my countrymen! that ye can draw
Strength from no deeper source than that which sends
The red blood mantling through the joyous veins,
And gives the fleet step wings? Why, how have age
And sensitive womanhood ere now endured,
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud cause,
Blessing that agony? Think ye the Power
Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach
The torturer where eternal heaven had set
Bounds to his sway, was earthy, of this earth--
This dull mortality? Nay, then look on me!
Death’s touch hath mark’d me, and I stand amongst you,
As one whose place, i’ th’ sunshine of your world,
Shall soon be left to fill!--I say, the breath
Of th’ incense, floating through yon fane, shall scarce
Pass from your path before me! But even now
I’ve that within me, kindling through the dust,
Which from all time hath made high deeds its voice
And token to the nations. Look on me!
Why hath heaven pour’d forth courage, as a flame
Wasting the womanish heart, which must be still’d
Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness,
If not to shame your doubt, and your despair,
And your soul’s torpor? Yet, arise and arm!
It may not be too late.
_A Cit._ Why, what are we,
To cope with hosts? Thus faint, and worn, and few,
O’ernumber’d and forsaken, is’t for us
To stand against the mighty?
_Xim._ And for whom
Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath
From their high places, made the fearfulness,
And ever-wakeful presence of his power
To the pale startled earth most manifest,
But for the weak? Was’t for the helm’d and crown’d
That suns were stay’d at noonday?--stormy seas
As a rill parted?--mail’d archangels sent
To wither up the strength of kings with death?
--I tell you, if these marvels have been done,
’Twas for the wearied and th’ oppress’d of men.
They needed such! And generous faith hath power
By her prevailing spirit, e’en yet to work
Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those
Of the great elder-time! Be of good heart!
_Who_ is forsaken? He that gives the thought
A place within his breast? ’Tis not for you.
--Know ye this banner?
_Cits._ (_murmuring to each other._) Is she not inspired?
Doth not heaven call us by her fervent voice?
_Xim._ Know ye this banner?
_Cits._ ’Tis the Cid’s.
_Xim._ The Cid’s!
Who breathes that name but in th’ exulting tone
Which the heart rings to? Why, the very wind,
As it swells out the noble standard’s fold,
Hath a triumphant sound! The Cid’s! it moved
Even as a sign of victory through the land,
From the free skies ne’er stooping to a foe!
_Old Cit._ Can ye still pause, my brethren! Oh! that youth
Through this worn frame were kindling once again!
_Xim._ Ye linger still? Upon this very air,
He that was born in happy hour for Spain[280]
Pour’d forth his conquering spirit! ’Twas the breeze
From your own mountains which came down to wave
This banner of his battles, as it droop’d
Above the champion’s deathbed. Nor even then
Its tale of glory closed. They made no moan
O’er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung,[281]
But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war
Told when the mighty pass’d! They wrapt him not
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior’s form
In war-array, and on his barded[282] steed,
As for a triumph, rear’d him; marching forth
In the hush’d midnight from Valencia’s walls,
Beleaguer’d then, as now. All silently
The stately funeral moved. But who was he
That follow’d, charging on the tall white horse,
And with the solemn standard, broad and pale,
Waving in sheets of snowlight? And the cross,
The bloody cross, far-blazing from his shield,
And the fierce meteor-sword? They fled, they fled!
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts,
Were dust in his red path. The scimitar
Was shiver’d as a reed;--for in that hour
The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spain,
Was arm’d betimes. And o’er that fiery field
The Cid’s high banner stream’d all joyously,
For still its lord was there.
_Cits._ (_rising tumultuously._) Even unto death
Again it shall be follow’d!
_Xim._ Will he see
The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-light
Which from his house for ages o’er the land
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus quench’d at once?
Will he not aid his children in the hour
Of this their utmost peril? Awful power
Is with the holy dead, and there are times
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst!
Is it a thing forgotten how he woke
From its deep rest of old; remembering Spain
In her great danger? At the night’s mid-watch
How Leon started, when the sound was heard
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets,
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men,
By thousands marching through. For he had risen!
The Campeador was on his march again,
And in his arms, and follow’d by his hosts
Of shadowy spearmen. He had left the world
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth,
And call’d his buried warriors from their sleep,
Gathering them round him to deliver Spain;
For Afric was upon her. Morning broke,
Day rush’d through clouds of battle; but at eve
Our God had triumph’d, and the rescued land
Sent up a shout of victory from the field,
That rock’d her ancient mountains.
_Cits._ Arm! to arms!
On to our chief! We have strength within us yet
To die with our blood roused! Now, be the word
For the Cid’s house! [_They begin to arm themselves._
_Xim._ Ye know his battle-song?
The old rude strain wherewith his bands went forth
To strike down Paynim swords! [_She sings._
THE CID’S BATTLE-SONG.
The Moor is on his way!
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout,
And the horn o’er the blue seas ringing out,
He hath marshall’d his dark array!
Shout through the vine-clad land!
That her sons on all their hills may hear;
And sharpen the point of the red wolf-spear,
And the sword for the brave man’s hand!
[_The_ Citizens _join in the song, while
they continue arming themselves_.
Banners are in the field!
The chief must rise from his joyous board,
And turn from the feast ere the wine be pour’d,
And take up his father’s shield!
The Moor is on his way!
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground,
And the goats roam wild through the pine-woods round:
There is nobler work to-day!
Send forth the trumpet’s call!
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down,
And the marriage-robe, and the flowery crown;
And arm in the banquet hall!
And stay the funeral-train:
Bid the chanted mass be hush’d awhile,
And the bier laid down in the holy aisle,
And the mourners girt for Spain.
[_They take up the banner and follow_ Ximena _out, their voices are
heard gradually dying away at a distance_.
Ere night must swords be red!
It is not an hour for knells and tears,
But for helmets braced and serried spears!
To-morrow for the dead!
The Cid is in array!
His steed is barded, his plume waves high,
His banner is up in the sunny sky--
Now, joy for the Cross to-day!
[279] It was a Spanish tradition that the great bell of the cathedral
of Saragossa always tolled spontaneously before a king of Spain died.
[280] “El que en buen hora nasco;” he that was born in happy hour. An
appellation given to the Cid in the ancient chronicles.
[281] For this, and the subsequent allusions to Spanish legends, see
_The Romances, and Chronicle of the Cid_.
[282] _Barded_, caparisoned for battle.