University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Night—a Street in the City of Cordova—a Gothic gate in the back ground. A Monastery illuminated.
Hymn by the Monks.

[Sound of rejoicing without.
Enter Perez and Moncalde.
Mon.
Who is this youth—this stripling?—Can it be?—

Per.
Oh, welcome, father, in this hour of joy!

Mon.
And welcome thou, for I have much to ask:
These midnight voices tell a wond'rous tale
Of Spain deliver'd, and the Moors o'erthrown.
But, who has wrought this thing?

Per.
Who but Alonzo?
Aye, our Alonzo—our young warrior—
Our Lord Don Manuel's son.

Mon.
All-powerful Heav'n
Who to the task that splits the trenchant blade
Dost whet th'unapt and edgeless instrument—
Who by a stripling's arm deliv'rance wrought
Where manhood vailed its might!—Nay, tell me all—
From lone and distant pilgrimage I come,
And was from slumber startled by the shouts
That heralded your tidings—

Per.
Hear it, Spain!
Rescued Cordova, hear!—From Montiel's field
To Guadalquiver's mouth, by east and west
The Moor hath left the land, or stays to spread
The mountain-eagle's feast.—My native river,
Upon thy beautiful banks no swarthy brow
Uprears the turban-fold—no wild lelille
Makes answer to the gong and atabal—
And on the minaret the voice is still
That by pale twilight call'd to pray'r unholy
The misbelieving race!

Mon.
Praise ye the saints!
I am the ancient beadsman of his house,
And well remember with how many a pray'r
I bless'd his girded sword, and bid his arm
Gripe with unfailing might the crosletted shield
Against the foeman's dint.

Per.
Aye, father, such were easy ministry;—
I am the ancient vassal of his house,
And well remember with how proud a grasp
(While death rode harbinger) I bore his banner
High in the van of chivalry, when first
The youthful knight to battle rode—

Mon.
Enough, my son!—Yet well I love thy zeal:
Where dost thou hasten now?

Per.
I haste to cheer
Our ancient lord with his Alonzo's fame.
Oh, how he will fling back his aged locks,
And lift his eye, and lock his wither'd hands,
And, with the step and impulse of his youth,
Tread proudly in his halls.

Mon.
He loves him as no earthly thing should be,
In the scale of duty, lov'd—makes him a god
Shrined in his heart, and does him worship there—
And though all noble, lovely, honor'd qualities
Do grace the youth, yet, where to such is paid
The homage that diviner things do claim,
'Tis proud and fond idolatry.

Per.
Farewell!
Or will you journey onward in our company?

Mon.
I have vows to pay, and beads to tell—and here,
Within this city, gifted shrines there are
Mine orisons are vowed to;—yet I trust
These sandal'd footsteps, imped by joyful duty,
May yet o'ertake the march of mailed feet.

Per.
We'll do your greetings.

Mon.
Look, Perez, there is one, who of our joy
Is not susceptive or participant:—
That is De Zelos, kinsman to Don Manuel—
Long deem'd successor to his ample honors.
For many years without an heir he liv'd;
Alonzo's birth restor'd the father's hopes,
And crush'd the kinsman's.
Needy he lives, neglected by Don Manuel,
Who, in his idolized son, almost forgets
That human beings tread the earth.

Per.
I've heard he hates his kinsman's prosp'rous house;
Is it in man to hate the young Alonzo?

Mon.
Oh, sir, to needy men
The triumphs of the prosperous are crimes.

Per.
See how he strides and shoulders through the crowd,
Wrapping in jealous folds his scanty cloak,
As if a touch i'th'press pollution were
To his proud vesture's hem.—Aye, now he eyes us
With look of mute and sullen scorn, and smile,
Wrinkling his hollow cheek in mockery
At our glad burst of triumph. In good faith,
I'll ring a peal in his proud ear shall stun it.
[Exeunt. Shouts without.
Enter De Zelos, looking back.
Aye, shout, ye senseless crowd! torment the air!
Who but Alonzo? Nothing but Alonzo!
The very storks upon your steeple-tops
Do make more seemly clatter.
I have come forth, not that I love the light,
But that the broad beams of the laughing sun,
Which seem to mock the wretchedness they shine on,
Are yet less hateful than its sight at home.
The bed not form'd for rest—the untrimm'd hearth,
Where fire ne'er glows—the walls undeck'd by hanging,
Save what the spider weaves—the heedless lacquey,
Whose muttering service, half a threat, half insult,
The needy master dares not hear!—Oh, this—
This household hell to shun, I'd walk unhail'd—
Their foolery, bell-peal, and trumpet-bray,
I'd bear—aye, bear to hear Alonzo's praise!

Enter Mendizabel, the Justiza, with his train.
De Zel.
Good day.

Men.
Good day.

(carelessly, and exit.)
(De Zelos bows to the attendants, who scarce note him.)
De Zel.
No more!—Well, be it so.
Ye insects in my heat that basked and buzzed,
And sung your summer-songs of flattery,
But, parting, leave your stings.—They're gone,—all gone!
How desolate the poor man's path is left!
Oh! where's the spectre like grim Poverty,
Whose with'ring shade at height of noon can scare
The populous street, making its way a desert;
And leave the gaunt and lonely form to watch
The echo of his own sad steps?
Shall it be always thus?

Enter Torrismond.
De Zel.
Now, sir, what do you here?

Torris.
'Tis your will, sir,
I should do nothing, and should nothing be—
I am an idle, worthless, gazer here;
An empty shouter in the pageant's train,
Who should have led its van.

De Zel.
You wrong yourself, brave sir, you're here in place,
Train-bearer in your kinsman's pageantry;
Pointing with finger prompt, and patient office,
To its proud blazonry; and haply deeming,
As men who do some pompous palace shew,
That parting Wonder will requite thee well
With—“Here, good fellow, for thy pains!”

Torris.
Are you my father? Look at this untried arm:
Shame that its waving only cleaves the air,
And not the Moslem turban! Feel this breast:
It beats with anguish, yea, with agony,
To hear a father's cold unnatural taunts,
Mocking the shame his will has doom'd me to,
But never throbb'd with fear.

De Zel.
Degen'rate boy,
Who, to thy wild, unpractis'd chivalry,
Wouldst sacrifice the noble pride that hides
Its festering wounds even in its rags, and boasts
It is not hurt.—Aye, thou wouldst flaunt it bravely,
A tattered banner, and a rusty glaive
And lance, upon whose brown and blunted point
Dishonor sits to mock the baffled aim.
Wouldst thou not blush to hear the lackeys whisper,
“Is that Alonzo's henchman or his cousin?”—
What, burns thy cheek?—
Let me hold down thy fancy to the picture
Of gallants in their train, high-plumed helms,—
Bright harness, barded steeds, caparisons,—
And thou despised and lagging in the rear!

Torris.
I'd not be in the rear!
Give me the shield that on your chamber-walls
Doth as in mockery hang—give me the falchion
Whose massive and gigantic blade doth rust
In sheathed idleness—give me the banner
Whose drooping and unhonored folds Decay
Hath for her pale vest chosen—Give me these—
And, let them be my harness or my shroud,
I reck not!—

De Zel.
Away!—
Wert thou thy father's son, thou'dst starve, die, rot,
Before, to the cold, searching, pitiless blast,
Thou'dst bare the aching wound: it, passing, galls,
Then whistles by regardless.—We are poor—
Then let us hide it; for it is the crime
That men do loath.—Let me sit down in solitude,
Shunning and shunn'd—Let no man pass my door,
Or tread the grass Neglect hath planted there—
No prying eye o'erlook my scanty meal—
No hand uplift my latch, to greet or mock me;—
And, when I die, o'er my unburied corse
My lank and pitiful dog the requiem howl—
For Monks, unpaid, won't chant it.—See thy lot—
Bend thy proud soul to it—unless—perchance—

Torris.
Said you—unless?—

De Zel.
I did not speak to thee;
—Or, if I did, thou wast unwise to mark me—
For, from the mind by moody passion stirr'd,
Strange sounds break forth the will doth claim no share in,
And Memory dares not own.—How now, Ximena—
Enter Ximena, veiled, as from church.
Wearying the saints for young Alonzo's safety?—
Why should the poor rejoice?—
They have no country: it is Mockery's voice
Bids them rejoice, and gives them nought to joy in.—
But 'tis the age's foppery, and the beggar
Lights his last faggot for his country's glory—
Forgetting, while he eyes the straw-fed blaze,
He must be cold to-morrow!

Torris.
Oh, how the cursed selfishness of want
[Aside.
Dries up each spring Nature hath open'd in us!

Xim.
My sire would chide,
Thought his Ximena thus.
But tell me, is the young Alonzo safe?—

De Zel.
What boots it thee to know?—Go, ply thy distaff—
Thy weeds are thin and rent—'twill better suit thee.

Xim.
I ask but is Alonzo safe—

De Zel.
Alonzo!
How's this? That name again!—What dost thou mean?
Come hither, girl; shrink not, but listen to me:—
In Fate's dark quiver there doth lurk no dart,
Barbed and triple-edg'd with want, shame, scorn,
But I would rather bear its keenest rankling
Than meet that thought even in my dreams.—No; hate him;
That may be for thy peace.

[Ximena falls weeping into the arms of Torrismond.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes.
My lord, Don Manuel greets his kinsmen well,
And bids them to a feast he holds to-night,
In honor of his brave son's victory.

Torris.
By heaven, I'll hail him with a brother's love!
Hath the young warrior reached his father's halls?

Mes.
He trusts to win them by the setting sun.

De Zel.
(Aside.)
An' if he do—

Mes.
Your answer, sir; so please you—

De Zel.
Sir, we will go—and therefore will we go
That the chill aspect of his needy kinsmen
May add a zest to his luxurious banquet—
As revellers crown their summer-cups with ice,
To make the draught delicious.—Sir we'll go.
[Exit Messenger.
Yes, we will go, and shame him in these vestments.
And canst thou, Torrismond, where gallants brave
Their jewell'd barrets bear, rear thy dark locks
Without a blush, in Nature's negligence?

Torris.
I go to greet a warrior, not a Galliard.

De Zel.
And thou, Ximena, art thou too divested
Of all that to thy sex's bosom clings?
Canst thou in those poor weeds?—No, go, make suit
To proud Victoria, that her humblest handmaid
Will, of her grace, accord thee meet adornments
To take a lute, and mix among her minstrels.

Xim.
Oh, speak not thus of that most gentle maid.

Torris.
By heaven, my father, you do wrong Victoria.

De Zel.
What! thou, too—madman?—

Xim.
Wring not your daughter's heart; she is your child,
And shames not by her father's side to stand
In weeds that suit his state.

De Zel.
Away! away!
The spirit's wound doth never fester more
Than when the helpless, but officious, hand
Tortures it with vain soothings.—
Was it not told me, when my hasty mood
Slighted thy tale last night, how the late storm
Wrench'd from its fair and fertile bed a pine,
And flung it in a low unsightly bottom?
Chance-rooted there, the stranger-branches wave,
And nod in uncouth beauty.—Was't not so?—

Xim.
It was, my lord.

De Zel.
Why, then, such things may be.
Come, to the feast—Away!

[Exeunt.