University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—A STREET IN FEZ.
DON JUAN COUTIÑO, BRITO, and other Captives, enter, supporting DON FERNANDO: they place him on a mat upon the ground.
FERNANDO.
Place me here, where I can view,
With gladdened heart and will subdued,
The cloudless light of heaven's pure blue.
O mighty Lord! so great and good,
To thee what boundless thanks are due!
When Job, as I, in anguish lay,
He curses on the day did pray,
But then it was because of sin
Which he had been engendered in;
But I, far different, bless the day
For all the graces God doth cheer
Our hearts through it—for it is clear
That every beauteous roseate hue,
And every beam that gilds the blue,
But living tongues of fire appear
To praise and bless him without end.

BRITO.
Does then your lordship feel so well?

FERNANDO.
Better than I deserve, my friend:
O Lord of Heaven! what tongue can tell
The mercies that to me you send?—
When from a dungeon's darksome gleam
Thou lead'st me forth, thou dost impart
To my chill blood the sun's warm beam.
O Lord! how liberal thou art!—

FIRST CAPTIVE.
Heaven knows, how great a boon we'd deem
The favour of being left with thee;
But the hour warns us, we must be
At work.

FERNANDO.
My sons, adieu!—

SECOND CAPTIVE.
What bitter grief!

THIRD CAPTIVE.
What sight to see!

Exeunt.
FERNANDO.
Will you remain with me, ye two?—

JUAN.
I too must also leave you now.

FERNANDO.
What can I do when thou art gone?—

JUAN.
My lord, I will return anon;
I only go to seek, somehow,
A little food; for since Muléy
From Fez was forced to go away,
On us has fallen a total dearth
Of human help upon the earth;
But I will go without delay
To try and gain it, even although
I make impossible demands;
For all who see me, fear to go
Against the edict, which commands
That even to a drop of water, no
Hand should give, or sell me aught,
Because they know it is for thee;—
To such a state has fortune brought
Our sad condition: but I see
People advancing hither.

Exit.
FERNANDO.
Oh!
Would my voice could move to pity
Any heart in all this city!—
That the brief moments I may live
To greater suffering I may give!—

Enter the KING, TARUDANTE, PHENIX, and SELIM.
SELIM.
By a street, my lord, you've gone,
Where, perforce, you needs must be,
By the Infante, seen and known.

KING,
to Tarudante.
Thou hast come for this alone,
That my greatness thou mayst see.

TARUDANTE.
Honours still thou showest me.

FERNANDO.
Give a wretch in charity
Some relief, however scant;
Look, a fellow-man am I,
In affliction and in want,
And with very hunger die.
Men, take pity on a man;
Wild beasts pity one another;
Will not man a suffering brother?

BRITO.
This I think is not the plan
Here of asking—try another.

FERNANDO.
How?

BRITO.
You should have thus began:—
Let your pity, Moors, be shown
Now unto this poor man's profit,
Let some food to him be thrown;
I ask it by the holiest bone
Of Mahomet, the great Prophet.

KING,
aside.
That his constancy received
Naught of change, though thus bereaved,
Offends, insults me more than all;
Infante! Prince! [Aloud].


BRITO.
The king doth call.

FERNANDO.
On me?—no, Brito, thou'rt deceived,
No Prince, no proud Infante, I,—
But the poor corse of what were they.—
And since almost in earth I lie,
Their names are not my names to-day,
Whate'er they've been in days gone by.

KING.
Since you disown your rank and birth,
Then, as Fernando, answer me.

FERNANDO.
Now must I raise me from the earth,
And slowly creeping unto thee,
Embrace thy feet.

KING.
Thy constancy
Continues still to vex me so;
Is thy obedience humbleness
Or resolution?

FERNANDO.
'Tis to show
What great respect a slave doth owe
Unto his lord, nor more nor less;
And since I am thy slave at present,
And in thy presence now appear,
I will e'en venture to address thee,
My lord and King, and pray thee hear:
King I call thee, though thou beest
Of another law, for so august
Is the divinity of monarchs—
So strong and absolute—it must
Ever pitying minds engender,
And make all noble blood display
Pity and wisdom, as its nature.
For even 'mong brutes and beasts of prey
This name, authority so ample
Does in its wondrous way enforce,
That, by a certain law, obedience
Follows in Nature's usual course;
And thus, within his rude republics,
We read the lion-king doth reign,
Who, when his horrid front he wrinkleth,
And crowns him with his royal mane,
Feels pity, for he ne'er abuseth
Whatever prey his wrath hath slain.
So on the sea's salt foam the dolphin,
Who is the king of fish, we're told,
Worketh upon his azure shoulder,
In scales of silver and of gold,
The shape of crowns; and we behold him,
When the wild tempest shrieks with glee,
Bear on his back the sinking seaman,
Lest he should perish in the sea.
The eagle, too, so proud and noble,
He, with his tuft of plumes upcurled,
Diadem-like, by winds, is king
Of all the birds that from this world
Rise to salute the sun in heaven;
And he, through pity just and brave,
Downwards darts, lest man in drinking,
Should, amid the silver wave,
Drink his death; for o'er the crystal
Oft the snake his poison flings,
Which he scatters by the motion
Of his disturbing beak and wings.
So 'mong plants and precious stones
Is extended and deciphered
This imperial law of thrones.
The pomegranate which o'ershoots,
Crowned with flowers, the topmast branches,
Proof that it is queen of fruits,
Withers all its poisoned berries,
Which, like rubies, glisten through,
Turning them to yellow topaz,
Of a pale and sickly hue.
And the diamond, in whose presence
Even the loadstone turns away
From its beloved north, thus showing
How its true king it doth obey,
Is so noble, that the treason
Of its lord it cannot hide,
And its hardness, which the burin
Finds too flinty to divide,
Of its own accord dissolveth
Into small and shining dust.
If then, among beasts and fishes,
Plants, and stones, and birds, the august
Majesty of King, is pity—
It, my lord, were not unjust
That men's bosoms should possess it—
A different faith does not withdraw
You from this rule; since, to be cruel
Is condemned by every law.
Think not I desire to move thee
By my anguish and my pain,
To the end that life you give me:
This, my voice seeks not to gain;
For I know that I must perish
Of this malady which dims
All my senses, and which, frost-like,
Creepeth o'er my weary limbs;
I know well that I am wounded
By death's hand, for every word
That my feeble breath can utter
Cuts me like a keen-edged sword:
For I know that I am mortal,
Not secure of life one hour,
And 'tis doubtless to exhibit
Life and death's divided power,
That the cradle and the coffin
Are so like each other wrought;
For it is a natural action
When a man receiveth aught,
That his hands he raiseth upward,
Joined together in this way.
But should he express refusal,
By a similar action, may
His intent be known, by simply
Turning them averted down;
So, the world, to prove it seeks us
When we're born, without a frown
In a cradle doth receive us,
Leaving us securely lain
In its open arms: but should it,
Or through fury or disdain,
Wish to drive us forth, it turneth
Back her hands, with the intent,
That the coffin's mute material
Be of that same instrument,
For an upturned open cradle
When reversed, becomes a tomb.
Since we live in such assurance
Of our death—the common doom—
That when we are born, together
We our first and last bed see;
What expects he who this heareth?
Who that knows this, what waits he?
It is certain, that it cannot
Be to live; undoubtedly,
Then, 'tis death, and this I ask thee,
That the heavens may thus comply
With my earnest wish of dying
For the faith. But think not, I
Seek this boon through desperation,
Or from a dislike to live;
No, but from the strongest impulse
That I feel, my life to give
In the defence of my religion,
And to lay before God's feet
Life and soul breathed out together:
Thus, although I death entreat,
Will this impulse exculpate me.
If, through pity, thou dost slight
This request, let anger move thee.
Art thou a lion? then 'tis right,
That thou roar and tear in pieces
Him who in thy wrathful mood
Injures, wrongeth, and offends thee.
Art thou an eagle? then you should
Wound with vengeful beak and talons
Him who would dare despoil thy nest.
Art thou a dolphin? then be herald
Of storms to move the seaman's breast,
How that the sea this huge world furrows.
Art thou a kingly tree? then show
Through all your bare and naked branches,
How wildly Time's dark tempests blow—
The ministers who work God's vengeance.
Art thou a diamond? then by
Thy own dust make deadliest poison,
Weary thyself out in wrath: but I,
Though I suffer greater torments,
Though I greater rigours see,
Though I weep still greater anguish,
Though I go through more misery,
Though I experience more misfortunes,
Though I more hunger must endure,
Though my poor body have no covering
But these few rags; and this impure
Dungeon be still my only dwelling,
All for the faith my soul derides;
For it is the sun that lights me,
For it is the star that guides!
It is the laurel that doth crown me;
No triumph o'er the Church thou'lt have;
O'er me, if you desire it, triumph:
God will my cause defend and save,
Since it is his for which I struggle.

KING.
Can it be, in such a state,
Thou canst boast thus and console thee?
Being thine own, why idly rate
Me, for condoling not a fate,
When thou thyself wilt not condole thee?
Since then you your life resign
By your own deed, and not by mine,
No pity need'st thou hope from me,
Merciful thou to thyself must be
Ere I can feel those pains of thine.

Exit.
FERNANDO
to TARUDANTE.
My lord, your gracious Majesty
Be my protector.

TARUDANTE.
What a sight!

FERNANDO
to PHENIX.
Since beauty owns no lovelier light,
Than when upon her face we see
Enthroned mild mercy's deity,—
Protect me with the king!

PHENIX.
What grief!

FERNANDO.
What! not a look!

PHENIX.
'Tis past belief!

FERNANDO.
'Tis well; those beauteous eyes I know
Were never made to look at woe.

PHENIX.
My very fear forbids relief!

FERNANDO.
Since thou wilt not turn thine eye
Towards me, and desire to fly;
Lady, it is well to know,
Though thy beauty prides thee so,
That thou canst do less than I,
And perhaps I more than thou.

PHENIX.
Horror comes, I know not how,
Wounding me, when thou dost speak.
Leave me man; what dost thou seek?
More I cannot suffer now!

Exit.
Enter DON JUAN with some bread.
This bread, I bring thee to assuage
Thy patient craving after food,
Have the cruel Moors pursued,—
Striking me with blows through rage.

FERNANDO.
It is Adam's heritage.

JUAN.
Take it.

FERNANDO.
Ah! my faithful friend,
'Tis too late; for now doth end
All my woes in death.

JUAN.
O heaven!
Now be thy consolation given.

FERNANDO.
But since deathwards all men doth wend,
What is there that ends not so?
In the world's confused abyss,
Sickness ever leads to this,
When death strikes the fatal blow.
Man, be mindful, here below,
Of thy soul's sublimer part;
Think upon eternity,
Wait not till infirmity
Suddenly that truth impart—
For infirmity itself thou art.
On the hard earth, year by year,
Man is treading, hopeful, brave,
But each step is o'er his grave,
Daily drawing near and near.
Mournful sentence—law severe—
But which cannot be mistaken,
Every step (what fears awaken!)
Is to that dark goal commissioned,
So that God is not sufficient
To prevent that step being taken:
Friends, my end approaches nigher;
Bear me from this public place
In your arms.

JUAN.
Life's last embrace
For me, is this.

FERNANDO.
What I desire,
Noble friend, is, when I expire,
That these garments you unbind:
In my dungeon, you will find
My religious cloak, which I
Bore so oft in days gone by.
Uncovered thus and unconfined
Bury me—his wrath passed by—
If from the fierce King you procure
Leave to give me sepulture.
Mark the spot, for although I
Here to-day a captive die,
Ransomed yet, I hope to share
The blessed altar's sacred prayer,
For, my God! since I have given
So many churches unto Heaven,
One to me 'twill surely spare.

They bear him out in their arms.