 | The Constant Prince |  |
SCENE I.
—A MOUNTAIN DISTRICT NEAR FEZ.Enter PHENIX.
PHENIX.
Estrella! Zara! Rosa! no,
No one answers to my calling!
MULÉY,
entering.
One attends thee, like the falling
Shadow which the sun doth throw
Off its radiant disk. For thou
Dost a sun to me appear—
Who am the shadow that it hath.
As I roamed this mountain path,
Thy sweet voice re-echoed near.
What hath happened lady?
PHENIX.
Hear,
If I can its nature state:
Flattering, free, ungrateful, glides
Sweet and smooth, with peaceful tides,
A crystal fountain, all elate
With waves of molten silver plate.
Flattering, for it proferreth
Speech enough, yet doth not feel;
Smooth, for it can well conceal;
Free, for loud it uttereth;
Sweet, because it murmureth;
And ungrateful, for it flies!
To that fountain's shady place,
Wearied with a wild beast's chase,
Came I with a glad surprise,
For its fresh green canopies
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Being upon one side bound
By a gentle hillock, crowned
With (as if for jubilation)
Wreaths of jasmine and carnation,
Which a shade of crimson light
Flung upon my emerald bed.
Scarcely had I render'd
Up my soul to the delight
Of solitude, when, 'mid the bright
Leaves, did me a sound alarm;
I attentive looked, and saw
An ancient dame of Africa—
A spirit in a human form,
Marked with all that can deform—
Wrinkles, scowling, haggard, dark—
A living skeleton, a shade;
But as if with features made
Of a tree's trunk, rude and stark,
Wrapt in rough, unpolished bark;
With mingled melancholy and
Sadness—doleful passions these,
That my heart's blood she might freeze,
She did take me by the hand,
I, to be like her, did stand
Tree-like, rooted to the ground;
Ice ran freezing through each vein
At her touch, and through my brain
Venomed horror flew its round.
She, with scarce articulate sound,
Thus appeared to speak to me—
“Hapless woman! fated woe!
Since, with all thy beauteous show,
All the graces crowning thee,
Thou a corse's prize must be!”
Thus she said, and thus I live
Sadly since, or rather die,
Waiting till the prophecy
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Did with doubtful meaning give—
Which that prophet, through the force
Of fate fulfilled without remorse—
Is fulfilled by destiny.
Woe is me! for I must be
The worthless guerdon of a corse!
Exit.
MULÉY.
It is easy to explain
This illusion, or this dream,
Since, indeed, it doth but seem
An image of my bosom's pain:
Tarudante is to gain
Thee; but though my heart doth burst
At the thought, my wrath and hate
Shall compel his joy to wait.
Never shall occur the worst,
Until he shall slay me first!
I may lose thee, that may be,
But I cannot lose and live:
Since my life I then must give,
Ere I come that hour to see,
The life that must abandon me
Is the price that buyeth thee;
Thou wilt then too surely be
The guerdon of a corse—for I
Shall be seen to pine and die
Through envy, love, and jealousy.
Enter three Christian captives with the Infante DON FERNANDO.
FIRST CAPTIVE.
From the royal gardens near,
Where we work, we saw your Grace
Lately going to the chase,
And together we come here,
At your feet, in tears, to throw us.
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'Tis the only consolation
Heaven doth grant our situation.
THIRD CAPTIVE.
It, in this, doth pity show us.
FERNANDO.
Friends, come, let my arms enfold you;
And, God knows, if I, with these,
Could your necks a moment ease
Of the knots and bonds that hold you,
They would give you liberty,
Even before myself. But heaven
May this punishment have given
As a favour, it may be,
As a blessing, if we knew it.
Fate may better grow ere long;
No misfortune is so strong
But that patience may subdue it.
Bear with that whatever sorrow
Time or fortune makes you see;
For that fickle deity,
Now a flower, a corse to-morrow,
Ever changing o'er and o'er—
Yours may alter in a trice;
But, O God! to give advice
To the needy, and no more,
Is not wisdom. I would give
Gladly aught that would relieve you,
But, alas, I've naught to give you;
You the want, my friends, forgive.
I, from Portugal, expect
Succour—it will quickly come;
Yours will be whatever sum
May be sent for that effect.
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If they come to lead away
Me from slavery, I say
That you all must come with me:—
Go, in God's name, to your tasks,
No offence, your masters giving.
FIRST CAPTIVE.
Lord, to know that thou art living,
Is the only joy that asks
Our enslavement.
SECOND CAPTIVE.
May the years
Of the Phenix be but few
To those granted unto you,
Gracious lord, to live.
The captives go out.
FERNANDO.
With tears
Must the soul refuse relief,
Which their wretched state demands,
Bearing nothing from my hands;
Who will succour them? What grief!
MULÉY.
I have stood with admiration,
Seeing the humane affection
With which you the deep dejection
Of these captives' situation
Have relieved.
FERNANDO.
My grief was shown
Truly for the hapless state
Of these captives. By their fate
I may learn to bear my own;
It may be, perhaps, that some
Day the lesson I may need.
46
Says your Highness this indeed?
FERNANDO.
Born an Infante, I have come
To be a slave; and thus, I fear,
That from this, I yet may know
Even a lower depth of woe;
For the distance is less near
From an Infante, a king's brother,
And a captive, than can be
'Twixt degrees of slavery.
One day followeth another,
And thus sorrow follows sorrow,
Pains with pains thus intertwine.
MULÉY.
Would no heavier pain were mine!
You, your Highness, may to-morrow
(Though to-day you here remain
In a brief captivity),
Your dear native country see;
But for me all hope is vain,
Fortune never will be seen
To grow kinder unto me,
Though the moon less fickle be.
FERNANDO.
At the court of Fez I've been
Now some time, yet you have not,
Of the love you once confest,
Told me aught.
MULÉY.
Within my breast
Lie the favours I have got;
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But to friendship's laws I bow,
Without breaking of my vow,
I a little may reveal:—
Without equal is her scorn,
So the grief my heart doth prove,
For the Phenix and my love
Were without their fellow born.
In seeing, hearing, and concealing
A Phenix, is my every thought;
A Phenix every love-distraught
Apprehension, fear, and feeling;
It is a Phenix that doth ope
The source of every pain and tear.
To feel I merit her yet fear,
A Phenix also is my hope.
The passion that I late revealed
Is now the Phenix I discover;
Thus, as a friend, and as a lover,
I both have spoken and concealed.
Exit.
FERNANDO.
With heart as skilful as discreet,
He thus his lady's name makes plain,
But if a Phenix be his pain,
I with it cannot compete:—
Mine is but a common pain,
And calmly should be borne as such,
Many have endured as much
Without boasts or wailings vain.
Enter the KING.
KING.
By this mountain's brow, your Highness,
Have I to overtake you ridden,
That before the sun in coral
And in pearly clouds is hidden,
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In the meshes might admire,
For a circle now is closing
Round it by the huntsmen.
FERNANDO.
Sire,
Every moment art thou planning
Means of pleasing me. If this
Is the way thy slaves thou fêtest,
They will not their country miss.
KING.
Captives of such rare endowments,
That they to their owner pay
Highest honour, is the reason
They are treated in this way.
Enter DON JUAN.
DON JUAN.
Come, my lord, unto the sea-shore,
And behold the fairest creature
That the hand of art e'er fashioned,
Or the mystic power of nature.
For, but now, a Christian galley
To our port has come; so fair,
That although her darkened bulwarks
Black and mournful colours wear,
Still, the wonder is how sorrow,
Thus, the eye, like gladness, charms.
From her topmasts gaily flutter
Portugal's emblazoned arms;
Since their Infante is a captive,
Thus they mourn his slavery—
Thus express the people's sorrow,
Though they come to set him free.
49
No, my friend, Don Juan, no;
This is not their cause of mourning,
If they came to set me free,
On the faith of my returning,
Joyful would their signals be.
Enter DON ENRIQUE dressed in mourning, and holding an open paper in his hand.
ENRIQUE
(to the King).
Let me, mighty lord, embrace thee!
KING.
May your Highness' years endure;
FERNANDO
(to Don Juan).
Ah! my death is sure, Don Juan.
KING
(to Muléy).
Ah! Muléy, my joy is sure!
ENRIQUE.
Now that of your royal welfare,
I, your presence may believe;
Thou wilt, to embrace my brother,
Mighty monarch, give me leave.
Ah! Fernando!
They embrace.
FERNANDO.
My Enrique,
Ah! what garb is this?—but stay,
Fully have your eyes informed me,
Nothing need your tongue now say;
Do not weep: if 'tis to tell me
Ever must my slavery be—
50
Thanks you should have asked from me,
And in place of grief and mourning
Worn a gala festal suit.
How is my lord, the King? If well,
Nothing can I dread:—thou'rt mute!
ENRIQUE.
Since our sorrows, when repeated,
Doubly touch affliction's chord,
I desire that you should feel them
Only once. Attend, great lord,
To the King.
For, although a rustic palace
This wild rugged mountain be,
Still, I ask you give me audience,
To this captive liberty,
And attention to my tidings.
Torn, and tempest-tossed, the fleet,
Which, with empty pride, so lately
Trod the waves beneath its feet,
Leaving here in Africa—
Thine and his own thoughts the prey—
The Infante's person taken,
Back to Lisbon took its way.
From the moment that King Edward
Heard the tragic news he pined,
For his heart was covered over
With a sadness, and his mind
Passing from the melancholy
Which oppressed it first, gave way
To a lethargy, and dying,
Gave the lie to those who say
Human sorrows are not mortal—
(Ah! how vainly this is said!)
For our brother, Don Fernando,
For the King himself is dead!
51
Woe is me! how dear hath proved
My detention!
KING.
This misfortune,
Allah knows, my heart hath moved.
Continue:—
ENRIQUE.
In his will when dying,
Thus, my lord, the King did say:—
That for the Infante's person
Ceuta should be given straightway;
Thus it is, that with full powers
From Alphonso I have run
(He the rising star of morning
That supplies the absent sun)
Hither, to yield up that city;
And since .....
FERNANDO.
Ah! do not proceed;
Cease, Enrique, for such language
Is unworthy, not indeed
Of a Portuguese Infante,
Of a knight that doth profess
Christ's religion, but of even
The most vile, whose barbarousness
Never was illuminated
By Christ's everlasting laws.
If my brother, now in heaven,
In his will did leave this clause,
It was not that you should read it
Strictly, but he meant thereby,
That he so desired my freedom:
All proper methods you should try,
Whether peaceable or warlike,
52
For, to say, “Surrender, Ceuta,”
Is to say, to set him free
Prodigies should be effected.
Can it be? Oh! can it be,
That a just and Catholic monarch
Could surrender to a Moor
A fair city which did cost him
Even his own blood to secure;
When, with sword and buckler only,
On its ramparts he was first
To unfurl our country's standard?
And even this is not the worst:
But a city that confesses
The true Catholic faith in God,
Which has raised so many churches,
Consecrated to his laud,
With affection and devotion;—
Would it like a Catholic be?
Were it zeal for our religion?
Were it Christian piety,
Or a Portuguese achievement,
That these sovereign temples, which
Are the Atlases of Heaven,
All their golden glories rich,
Where the sun of grace is shining,
Should give place to Moorish shades,
And that their opposing crescents,
Through the churches' long arcades,
Thus should make these sad eclipses?
Is it right the sacred walls
Of their chapels become stables,
And their holy altars stalls?
Or if this should not so happen,
Turn to mosques! My cheek gross pale;
Here my tongue grows mute with horror,
Here my frightened breath doth fail,
Here the anguish overwhelms me;
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Such a thrill, my heart is cloven,
And my hair doth stand on end,
And my body trembles over,
For it was not the first time
Stalls and stables gave a lodging
Unto God. But oh! the crime
Of becoming mosques! It seemeth
Like an epitaph—a wide
Mark of infamy undying—
Saying, Here did God abide,
And the Christians now deny it,
Giving it a gift instead
To the demon! Scarcely ever
(As is ordinarily said)
Does a man offend another
In his own house. Can it be,
Crime should enter thus God's mansion,
To offend him there; and we—
We ourselves become his escort—
We admit his impious rout—
And, to let the demon enter,
Driving the Almighty out?
And the Catholics, there dwelling
With their goods and families,
Must prevaricate henceforward
With the faith, or peril these.
Were it proper to occasion
This contingency of sin
By our conduct? And the tender
Little ones that dwell therein,—
Were it right, these helpless Christians,
From the Moors, through our neglect
Should adopt their rites and customs,
And grow up as of their sect
In a miserable thraldom?
Is it right, one life should cost
Many lives? and that one being
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Who am I? Am I then greater
Than a man? for if to be
An Infante makes distinction,
I'm a slave. Nobility
Cannot be a slave's adornment.
I am one; then wrong is he
Who doth call me an Infante.
And, if so, who gives advice,
That the poor life of a captive
Should be bought at such a price?
Death is but the loss of being,—
I lost mine amid the fight;
That being gone, my life departed,—
Being dead, it is not right
That so many lives should perish
For the ransom of a corse!
So, these vain and idle powers,
Thus I tear without remorse.
Tears the paper.
Let them be the sunbeam's atoms,
Or the sparkles of the fire,—
No, 'tis best that I devour them,
For my soul doth not desire
That there should survive a letter
Which would tell the world, the brave
Lusitanian spirit ever
Thought of this. I am thy slave,
And, O King, dispose and order
Of my freedom as you please,
For I would, nor could accept it
On unworthy terms like these:
Thou, Enrique, home returning,
Say, in Africa I lie
Buried, for my life I'll fashion
As if I did truly die:—
Christians, dead is Don Fernando;
Moors, a slave to you remains;
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Who to-day doth share your pains:
Heaven, a man restores your churches
Back to holy calm and peace;
Sea, a wretch remains, with weeping
All your billows to increase;
Mountains, on ye dwells a mourner
Like the wild beasts soon to grow;
Wind, a poor man with his sighing
Doubleth all that thou canst blow;
Earth, a corse within thy entrails
Comes to-day to lay his bones.
For King, Brother, Moors and Christians,
Sun, and moon, and starry zones,
Wind and sea, and earth and heaven,
Wild beasts, hills—let this convince
All of ye, in pains and sorrows,
How to-day a constant Prince
Loves the Catholic faith to honour,
And the law of God to hold.
If there were no other reason,
But that Ceuta doth enfold
A divine church consecrated
To the eternal reverence
Of the Conception of our Lady,
Queen of heaven and earth's events,
I would lose, so she be honoured,
Myriad lives in her defence.
KING.
Thankless, thoughtless, both of us,
And of the great pride and glory
Of our kingdom; Is it thus
You deprive me, you deny me
What my heart desires so much?
But if in my realms you govern
More than in your own, can such
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But that I may now engrave
On your mind, you are my captive,
I will treat you as my slave,—
That your friends here, that your brother,
To their eyes may give belief,
That you kiss my feet as vassal.
Fernando kneels at the King's feet.
ENRIQUE.
What misfortune!—
MULÉY,
aside.
Oh! what grief!
ENRIQUE.
What calamity!
JUAN.
What anguish!
KING.
Now thou art my slave.
FERNANDO.
'Tis true,
Small in this, though, is your vengeance,
For as if all mankind do,
Man one day doth leave earth's bosom,
'Tis but to return to her
At the end of various journeys;
But to thank you, I prefer
To reproachings. Since you teach me,
Even in this way, how best
By the shortest road to reach to
My eternal wished-for rest.
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Being now a slave, you cannot
Titles hold, or rents possess;
Ceuta now is in thy power,
If, as slave, thou dost confess
That as master I am thine,
Why not, therefore, give me Ceuta?
FERNANDO.
Because 'tis God's, and is not mine.
KING.
Is it not a well-known precept,
That a slave in all things must
Be obedient to his master?
Be so now.
FERNANDO.
In all things just,
Heaven, no doubt, commands obedience,
And no slave should fail therein;
But, if it should chance, the master
Should command the slave to sin,
Then there is no obligation
To obey him: he who sins
When commanded, no less sinneth.
KING.
Thou must die.
FERNANDO.
Then life begins.
KING.
That this blessing may not happen,
Rather dying live: thou'lt see
I can be cruel.
FERNANDO.
And I patient.
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Thou'lt never gain thy liberty.
FERNANDO.
Thou'lt never be the lord of Ceuta.
KING.
Ho! there.
Enter SELIM.
SELIM.
My lord?
KING.
Immediately
Let this captive here be treated
Like the others: let him be
Laden neck and feet with fetters;
Let him tend my horses' stall,
And the baths and gardens; so that
He be humbled as are all;
Let him wear no silken dresses,
But poor lowly serge instead;
Let him eat black bread, and swallow
Brackish water; let his bed
Be in dark and humid dungeons,
And to all who on him wait,
Let this sentence be extended:—
Hence remove them!
ENRIQUE.
What a fate!
MULÉY,
aside.
How unmerited!
JUAN.
What sorrow!
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Now I'll see, 'twixt thee and me,
Barbarian, if thy patience lasteth
Like my wrath.
FERNANDO.
Yes, thou shalt see,
For with me it is eternal.
He is led out.
KING.
Enrique, as my hand is given,
I permit thee to withdraw,
And to Lisbon, back returning,
Leave the sea of Africa;
Say at home, that their Infante,
Their Grand Master, dwells with me,
Occupied about my horses,
Let them come to set him free.
ENRIQUE.
They will do so. If I leave him
In this wretched misery,
And my heart bleeds, that I cannot
In it his companion be,
'Tis because I hope the sooner,
Coming in an army's van,
To return to give him freedom.
KING.
Well, thou'lt do so, if you can.
MULÉY,
aside.
Now has come a fit occasion
All my gratitude to show,
Life I owe unto Fernando,
And I'll pay the debt I owe.
Exeunt.
| The Constant Prince | |