University of Virginia Library

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.