University of Virginia Library

SECOND ACT

FIRST SCENE.

Camp of Julian. Julian and Covilla.
Julian.
Obdurate? I am not as I appear.
Weep, my beloved child! Covilla, weep
Into my bosom; every drop be mine
Of this most bitter soul-empoisoning cup:
Into no other bosom than thy father's
Canst thou or wouldst thou pour it.

Covilla.
Cease, my lord,
My father, angel of my youth, when all
Was innocence and peace.

Julian.
Arise, my love,
Look up to heaven . . where else are souls like thine!
Mingle in sweet communion with its children,
Trust in its providence, its retribution,
And I will cease to mourn; for, O my child,
These tears corrode, but thine assuage, the heart.

Covilla.
And never shall I see my mother too,
My own, my blessed mother?

Julian.
Thou shalt see
Her and thy brothers.

Covilla.
No! I can not look
On them, I can not meet their lovely eyes,
I can not lift mine up from under theirs.
We all were children when they went away;
They now have fought hard battles, and are men,
And camps and kings they know, and woes and crimes.
Sir, will they never venture from the walls
Into the plain? Remember, they are young,
Hardy and emulous and hazardous,
And who is left to guard them in the town?

Julian.
Peace is throughout the land: the various tribes
Of that vast region sink at once to rest,
Like one wide wood when every wind lies husht.

Covilla.
And war, in all its fury, roams o'er Spain!

Julian.
Alas! and will for ages: crimes are loose
At which ensanguined War stands shuddering,
And calls for vengeance from the powers above,
Impatient of inflicting it himself.
Nature in these new horrors is aghast
At her own progeny, and knows them not.
I am the minister of wrath; the hands
That tremble at me, shall applaud me too,
And seal their condemnation.

Covilla.
O kind father,
Pursue the guilty, but remember Spain.

Julian.
Child, thou wert in thy nursery short time since,
And latterly hast past the vacant hour
Where the familiar voice of history
Is hardly known, however nigh, attuned
In softer accents to the sickened ear;
But thou hast heard, for nurses tell these tales,
Whether I drew my sword for Witiza
Abandoned by the people he betrayed,
Tho' brother to the woman who of all
Was ever dearest to this broken heart,
Till thou, my daughter, wert a prey to grief,
And a brave country brookt the wrongs I bore.
For I had seen Rusilla guide the steps
Of her Theodofred, when burning brass
Plunged its fierce fang into the fount of light,
And Witiza's the guilt! when, bent with age,
He knew the voice again, and told the name
Of those whose proffer'd fortunes had been laid
Before his throne, while happiness was there,
And strain'd the sightless nerve tow'rd where they stood,
At the forced memory of the very oaths
He heard renew'd from each, but heard afar,
For they were loud, and him the throng spurn'd off.

Covilla.
Who were all these?

Julian.
All who are seen to-day
On prancing steeds richly caparisoned
In loyal acclamation round Roderigo;
Their sons beside them, loving one another
Unfeignedly, thro' joy, while they themselves
In mutual homage mutual scorn suppress.
Their very walls and roofs are welcoming
The king's approach, their storied tapestry
Swells its rich arch for him triumphantly
At every clarion blowing from below.

Covilla.
Such wicked men will never leave his side.

Julian.
For they are insects which see nought beyond
Where they now crawl; whose changes are complete,
Unless of habitation.

Covilla.
Whither go
Creatures unfit for better or for worse?

Julian.
Some to the grave, where peace be with them! some
Across the Pyrenean mountains far,
Into the plains of France; suspicion there
Will hang on every step from rich and poor,
Grey quickly-glancing eyes will wrinkle round
And courtesy will watch them, day and night.
Shameless they are, yet will they blush amid
A nation that ne'er blushes: some will drag
The captive's chain, repair the shatter'd bark,
Or heave it from a quicksand to the shore
Among the marbles of the Lybian coast,
Teach patience to the lion in his cage,
And, by the order of a higher slave,
Hold to the elephant their scanty fare
To please the children while the parent sleeps.

Covilla.
Spaniards? Must they, dear father, lead such lives?

Julian.
All are not Spaniards who draw breath in Spain,
Those are, who live for her, who die for her,
Who love her glory, and lament her fall.
O may I too . .

Covilla.
But peacefully, and late,
Live and die here!

Julian.
I have, alas! myself
Laid waste the hopes where my fond fancy stray'd,
And view their ruins with unalter'd eyes.

Covilla.
My mother will at last return to you.
Might I once more, but . . could I now? behold her
Tell her . . ah me! what was my rash desire?
No, never tell her these inhuman things,
For they would waste her tender heart away
As they waste mine; or tell when I have died,
Only to show her that her every care
Could not have saved, could not have comforted;
That she herself, clasping me once again
To her sad breast, had said, Covilla! go,
Go, hide them in the bosom of thy God!
Sweet mother! that far-distant voice I hear,
And, passing out of youth and out of life,
I would not turn at last, and disobey.

SECOND SCENE.

Sisabert enters.
Sisabert.
Uncle, and is it true, say, can it be,
That thou art leader of these faithless Moors?
That thou impeachest thy own daughter's fame
Thro' the whole land, to seize upon the throne
By the permission of these recreant slaves?
What shall I call thee? art thou, speak Count Julian,
A father, or a soldier, or a man?

Julian.
All, or this day had never seen me here.

Sisabert.
Of falsehood! worse than woman's!

Covilla.
Once, my cousin,
Far gentler words were utter'd from your lips.
If you loved me, you loved my father first,
More justly and more steadily, ere love
Was passion and illusion and deceit.

Sisabert.
I boast not that I never was deceived,
Covilla, which beyond all boasts were base,
Nor that I never loved; let this be thine.
Illusions! just to stop us, not delay,
Amuse, not occupy! Too true! when love
Scatters its brilliant foam, and passes on
To some fresh object in its natural course,
Widely and openly and wanderingly,
'Tis better: narrow it, and it pours its gloom
In one fierce cataract that stuns the soul.
Ye hate the wretch ye make so, while ye choose
Whoever knows you best and shuns you most.

Covilla.
Shun me then: be beloved more and more.
Honour the hand that show'd you honour first,
Love . . O my father! speak, proceed, persuade,
Your voice alone can utter it . . another.

Sisabert.
Ah lost Covilla! can a thirst of power
Alter thy heart thus to abandon mine,
And change my very nature at one blow?

Covilla.
I told you, dearest Sisabert, 'twas vain
To urge me more, to question or confute.

Sisabert.
I know it, for another wears the crown
Of Witiza my father; who succeeds
To king Roderigo will succeed to me.
Yet thy cold perfidy still calls me dear,
And o'er my aching temples breathes one gale
Of days departed to return no more.

Julian.
Young man, avenge our cause.

Sisabert.
What cause avenge?

Covilla.
If I was ever dear to you, hear me,
Not vengeance; heaven will give that signal soon.
O Sisabert, the pangs I have endured
On your long absence . .

Sisabert.
Will be now consoled.
Thy father comes to mount my father's throne;
But though I would not a usurper king,
I prize his valour and defend his crown:
No stranger and no traitor rules o'er me,
Or unchastised inveigles humble Spain.
Covilla, gavest thou no promises?
Nor thou, Don Julian? Seek not to reply.
Too well I know, too justly I despise,
Thy false excuse, thy coward effrontery;
Yes, when thou gavest them across the sea,
An enemy wert thou to Mahomet,
And no appellant to his faith or leagues.

Julian.
'Tis well: a soldier hears throughout in silence.
I urge no answer: to those words, I fear,
Thy heart with sharp compunction will reply.

Sisabert
(to Covilla).
Then I demand of thee, before thou reign,
Answer me . . while I fought against the Frank
Who dared to sue thee? blazon'd in the court,
Not trailed thro' darkness, were our nuptial bands;
No; Egilona joined our hands herself,
The peers applauded and the king approved.

Julian.
Hast thou yet seen that king since thy return?

Covilla.
Father! O Father!

Sisabert.
I will not implore
Of him or thee what I have lost for ever.
These were not, when we parted, thy alarms;
Far other, and far worthier of thy heart
Were they, which Sisabert could banish then.
Fear me not now, Covilla! thou hast changed,
I am changed too. I lived but where thou livedst,
My very life was portion'd off from thine:
Upon the surface of thy happiness
Day after day I gazed, I doted, there
Was all I had, was all I coveted;
So pure, serene, and boundless it appear'd:
Yet, for we told each other every thought,
Thou knowest well, if thou rememberest,
At times I fear'd; as tho' some demon sent
Suspicion without form into the world,
To whisper unimaginary things.
Then thy fond arguing banisht all but hope,
Each wish and every feeling was with thine,
Till I partook thy nature, and became
Credulous and incredulous like thee.
We, who have met so alter'd, meet no more.
Mountains and seas! ye are not separation:
Death! thou dividest, but unitest too
In everlasting peace and faith sincere.
Confiding love! where is thy resting-place?
Where is thy truth, Covilla? where? . . Go, go . .
I should believe thee and adore thee still.

[Goes.
Covilla.
O Heaven! support me, or desert me quite,
And leave me lifeless this too trying hour!
He thinks me faithless.

Julian.
He must think thee so.

Covilla.
O tell him, tell him all, when I am dead . .
He will die too, and we shall meet again.
He will know all when these sad eyes are closed.
Ah can not he before? must I appear
The vilest . . O just Heaven! can it be thus?
I am . . all earth resounds it . . lost, despised,
Anguish and shame unutterable seize me.
'Tis palpable, no phantom, no delusion,
No dream that wakens with o'erwhelming horror;
Spaniard and Moor fight on this ground alone,
And tear the arrow from my bleeding breast
To pierce my father's, for alike they fear.

Julian.
Invulnerable, unassailable
Are we, alone perhaps of human kind,
Nor life allures us more nor death alarms.

Covilla.
Fallen, unpitied, unbelieved, unheard!
I should have died long earlier. Gracious God!
Desert me to my sufferings, but sustain
My faith in thee! O hide me from the world,
And from yourself, my father, from your fondness,
That opened in this wilderness of woe
A source of tears . . it else had burst my heart,
Setting me free for ever: then perhaps
A cruel war had not divided Spain,
Had not o'erturn'd her cities and her altars,
Had not endanger'd you! O haste afar
Ere the last dreadful conflict that decides
Whether we live beneath a foreign sway . .

Julian.
Or under him whose tyranny brought down
The curse upon his people. O child! child!
Urge me no further, talk not of the war,
Remember not our country.

Covilla.
Not remember!
What have the wretched else for consolation?
What else have they who pining feed their woe?
Can I, or should I, drive from memory
All that was dear and sacred? all the joys
Of innocence and peace? When no debate
Was in the convent, but what hymn, whose voice,
To whom among the blessed it arose,
Swelling so sweet; when rang the vesper-bell
And every finger ceast from the guitar,
And every tongue was silent through our land;
When, from remotest earth, friends met again,
Hung on each other's neck, and but embraced,
So sacred, still, and peaceful was the hour.
Now, in what climate of the wasted world,
Not unmolested long by the profane,
Can I pour forth in secrecy to God
My prayers and my repentance? where beside
Is the last solace of the parting soul?
Friends, brethren, parents, dear indeed, too dear
Are they, but somewhat yet the heart requires,
That it may leave them lighter and more blest.

Julian.
Wide are the regions of our far-famed land:
Thou shalt arrive at her remotest bounds,
See her best people, choose some holiest house;
Whether where Castro from surrounding vines
Hears the hoarse ocean roar among his caves,
And, thro' the fissure in the green churchyard,
The wind wail loud the calmest summer day;
Or where Santona leans against the hill,
Hidden from sea and land by groves and bowers.

Covilla.
O! for one moment in those pleasant scenes
Thou placest me, and lighter air I breathe:
Why could I not have rested, and heard on!
My voice dissolves the vision quite away,
Outcast from virtue, and from nature too!

Julian.
Nature and virtue! they shall perish first.
God destined them for thee, and thee for them,
Inseparably and eternally!
The wisest and the best will prize thee most,
And solitudes and cities will contend
Which shall receive thee kindliest. Sigh not so:
Violence and fraud will never penetrate
Where piety and poverty retire,
Intractable to them and valueless,
And lookt at idly like the face of heaven.
If strength be wanted for security,
Mountains the guard, forbidding all approach
With iron-pointed and uplifted gates,
Thou wilt be welcome too in Aguilar,
Impenetrable, marble-turreted,
Surveying from aloft the limpid ford,
The massive fane, the sylvan avenue;
Whose hospitality I proved myself,
A willing leader in no impious war
When fame and freedom urged me; or mayst dwell
In Reÿnosa's dry and thriftless dale,
Unharvested beneath October moons,
Among those frank and cordial villagers.
They never saw us, and, poor simple souls!
So little know they whom they call the great,
Would pity one another less than us,
In injury, disaster, or distress.

Covilla.
But they would ask each other whence our grief,
That they might pity.

Julian.
Rest then just beyond,
In the secluded scenes where Ebro springs
And drives not from his fount the fallen leaf,
So motionless and tranquil its repose.

Covilla.
Thither let us depart, and speedily.

Julian.
I can not go: I live not in the land
I have reduced beneath such wretchedness:
And who could leave the brave whose lives and fortunes
Hang on his sword?

Covilla.
Me hou canst leave, my father;
Ah yes, for it is past; too well thou seest
My life and fortunes rest not upon thee.
Long, happily . . could it be gloriously!
Still mayst thou live, and save thy country still!

Julian.
Unconquerable land! unrival'd race!
Whose bravery, too enduring, rues alike
The power and weakness of accursed kings,
How cruelly hast thou neglected me!
Forcing me from thee, never to return,
Nor in thy pangs and struggles to partake!
I hear a voice! 'tis Egilona: come,
Recall thy courage, dear unhappy girl,
Let us away.

THIRD SCENE.

Egilona enters.
Egilona.
Remain; I order thee.
Attend, and do thy duty: I am queen,
Unbent to degradation.

Covilla.
I attend
Ever most humbly and most gratefully,
My too kind sovran, cousin now no more.
Could I perform but half the services
I owe her, I were happy for a time,
Or dared I show her half my love, 'twere bliss.

Egilona.
Oh! I sink under gentleness like thine.
Thy sight is death to me; and yet 'tis dear.
The gaudy trappings of assumptive state
Drop at the voice of nature to the earth,
Before thy feet. I can not force myself
To hate thee, to renounce thee; yet . . Covilla!
Yet . . O distracting thought! 'tis hard to see,
Hard to converse with, to admire, to love,
As from my soul I do, and must do, thee,
One who hath robb'd me of all pride and joy,
All dignity, all fondness. I adored
Roderigo. He was brave, and in discourse
Most voluble; the masses of his mind
Were vast, but varied; now absorb'd in gloom,
Majestic, not austere; now their extent
Opening and waving in bright levity . .

Julian.
Depart, my daughter. 'Twere as well to bear
His presence as his praise. Go; she will dream
This phantasm out, nor notice thee depart.

[Covilla goes.
Egilona.
What pliancy! what tenderness! what life!
O for the smiles of those who smile so seldom,
The love of those who know no other love!
Such he was, Egilona, who was thine.

Julian.
While he was worthy of the realm and thee.

Egilona.
Can it be true then, Julian, that thy aim
Is sovranty? not virtue nor revenge?

Julian.
I swear to heaven, nor I nor child of mine
Ever shall mount to this polluted throne.

Egilona.
Then am I yet a queen. The savage Moor
Who could not conquer Ceuta from thy sword
In his own country, not with every wile
Of his whole race, not with his myriad crests
Of cavalry, seen from the Calpian highths
Like locusts on the parcht and gleamy coast,
Will never conquer Spain.

Julian.
Spain then was conquer'd
When fell her laws before the traitor king.

FOURTH SCENE.

Officer announces Opas.
Egilona
(to Julian).
Adieu then; and whate'er betide the country,
Sustain at least the honours of our house.

[Julian goes before Opas enters.
Opas.
I can not but commend, O Egilona,
Such resignation and such dignity.
Indeed he is unworthy; yet a queen
Rather to look for peace, and live remote
From cities, and from courts, and from her lord,
I hardly could expect in one so young,
So early, widely, wondrously, admired.

Egilona.
I am resolv'd: religious men, good Opas,
In this resemble the vain libertine;
They find in woman no consistency,
No virtue but devotion, such as comes
To infancy or age or fear or love,
Seeking a place of rest, and finding none
Until it soar to heaven.

Opas.
A spring of mind
That rises when all pressure is removed,
Firmness in pious and in chaste resolves,
But weakness in much fondness; these, O queen,
I did expect, I own.

Egilona.
The better part
Be mine; the worse hath been, and is no more.

Opas.
But if Roderigo have at length prevail'd
That Egilona willingly resigns
All claim to royalty, and casts away,
Indifferent or estranged, the marriage-bond
His perjury tore asunder, still the church
Hardly can sanction his new nuptial rites.

Egilona.
What art thou saying? what new nuptial rites?

Opas.
Thou knowest not?

Egilona.
Am I a wife? a queen?
Abandon it! my claim to royalty!
Whose hand was on my head when I arose
Queen of this land? whose benediction sealed
My marriage-vow? who broke it? was it I?
And wouldst thou, virtuous Opas, wouldst thou dim
The glorious light of thy declining days?
Wouldst thou administer the sacred vows
And sanction them, and bless them, for another,
And bid her live in peace while I am living?
Go then? I execrate and banish him
For ever from my sight: we were not born
For happiness together; none on earth
Were ever so dissimilar as we.
He is not worth a tear, a wish, a thought;
Never was I deceived in him; I found
No tenderness, no fondness, from the first.
A love of power, a love of perfidy,
Such is the love that is return'd for mine.
Ungrateful man! 'twas not the pageantry
Of regal state, the clarions, nor the guard,
Nor loyal valour, nor submissive beauty,
Silence at my approach, awe at my voice,
Happiness at my smile, that led my youth
Toward Roderigo. I had lived obscure,
In humbleness, in poverty, in want,
Blest, O supremely blest, with him alone;
And he abandons me, rejects me, scorns me,
Insensible! inhuman! for another!
Thou shalt repent thy wretched choice, false man!
Crimes such as thine call loudly for perdition;
Heaven will inflict it, and not I; but I
Neither will fall alone nor live despised.

[A trumpet sounds.
Opas.
Peace, Egilona! he arrives: compose
Thy turbid thoughts, meet him with dignity.

Egilona.
He! in the camp of Julian! trust me, sir,
He comes not hither, dares no longer use
The signs of state, and flies from every foe.

[Retires some distance.

FIFTH SCENE.

Enter Muza and Abdalazis.
Muza
to Abdalazis.
I saw him but an instant, and disguised,
Yet this is not the traitor; on his brow
Observe the calm of wisdom and of years.

Opas.
Whom seekest thou?

Muza.
Him who was king I seek.
He came array'd as herald to this tent.

Abdalazis.
Thy daughter! was she nigh? perhaps for her
Was this disguise.

Muza.
Here, Abdalazis, kings
Disguise from other causes; they obtain
Beauty by violence, and power by fraud.
Treason was his intent: we must admit
Whoever come; our numbers are too small
For question or selection, and the blood
Of Spaniards shall win Spain for us to-day.

Abdalazis.
The wicked can not move from underneath
Thy ruling eye.

Muza.
Right! Julian and Roderigo
Are leagued against us, on these terms alone,
That Julian's daughter weds the Christian king.

Egilona
(rushing forward).
'Tis true . . and I proclaim it.

Abdalazis.
Heaven and earth!
Was it not thou, most lovely, most high-souled,
Who wishedst us success, and me a crown?

[Opas goes abruptly.
Egilona.
I give it . . I am Egilona, queen
Of that detested man.

Abdalazis.
I touch the hand
That chains down fortune to the throne of fate,
And will avenge thee; for 'twas thy command,
'Tis Heaven's. My father! what retards our bliss?
Why art thou silent?

Muza.
Inexperienced years
Rather would rest on the soft lap, I see,
Of pleasure, after the fierce gusts of war.
O destiny! that callest me alone,
Hapless, to keep the toilsome watch of state,
Painful to age, unnatural to youth,
Adverse to all society of friends,
Equality, and liberty, and ease,
The welcome cheer of the unbidden feast,
The gay reply, light, sudden, like the leap
Of the young forester's unbended bow,
But, above all, to tenderness at home,
And sweet security of kind concern
Even from those who seem most truly ours.
Who would resign all this, to be approacht,
Like a sick infant by a canting nurse,
To spread his arms in darkness, and to find
One universal hollowness around?
Forego a little while that bane of peace:
Love may be cherisht.

Abdalazis.
'Tis enough; I ask
No other boon.

Muza.
Not victory?

Abdalazis.
Farewell,
O queen! I will deserve thee; why do tears
Silently drop, and slowly, down thy veil?
I shall return to worship thee, and soon;
Why this affliction? O, that I alone
Could raise or could repress it!

Egilona.
We depart,
Nor interrupt your counsels, nor impede;
O may they prosper, whatsoe'er they be,
And perfidy soon meet its just reward!
The infirm and peaceful Opas . . whither gone?

Muza.
Stay, daughter; not for counsel are we met,
But to secure our arms from treachery,
O'erthrow and stifle base conspiracies,
Involve in his own toils our false ally . .

Egilona.
Author of every woe I have endured!
Ah sacrilegious man! he vowed to heaven
None of his blood should ever mount the throne.

Muza.
Herein his vow indeed is ratified;
Yet faithful ears have heard this offer made,
And weighty was the conference that ensued,
And long, not dubious; for what mortal e'er
Refused alliance with illustrious power,
Though some have given its enjoyments up,
Tired and enfeebled by satiety?
His friends and partisans, 'twas his pretence,
Should pass uninterrupted; hence his camp
Is open every day to enemies.
You look around, O queen, as though you fear'd
Their entrance. Julian I pursue no more;
You conquer him. Return we. I bequeath
Ruin, extermination, not reproach.
How we may best attain your peace and will
We must consider in some other place,
Not, lady, in the midst of snares and wiles
How to supplant your charms and seize your crown.
I rescue it; fear not. Yes, we retire.
Whatever is your wish becomes my own,
Nor is there in this land but who obeys.

[He leads her away.