University of Virginia Library

FOURTH ACT

FIRST SCENE.

Tent of Julian. Roderigo and Julian.
Julian.
The people had deserted thee, and throng'd
My standard, had I raised it, at the first;
But once subsiding, and no voice of mine
Calling by name each grievance to each man,
They, silent and submissive by degrees,
Bore thy hard yoke, and hadst thou but opprest,
Would still have borne it: thou hast now deceived;
Thou hast done all a foreign foe could do
And more against them; with ingratitude
Not hell itself could arm the foreign foe;
'Tis forged at home and kills not from afar.
Amid whate'er vain glories fell upon
Thy rainbow span of power, which I dissolve,
Boast not how thou conferredst wealth and rank,
How thou preservedst me, my family,
All my distinctions, all my offices,
When Witiza was murder'd; that I stand
Count Julian at this hour by special grace.
The sword of Julian saved the walls of Ceuta,
And not the shadow that attends his name:
It was no badge, no title, that o'erthrew
Soldier and steed and engine. Don Roderigo!
The truly and the falsely great here differ:
These by dull wealth or daring fraud advance;
Him the Almighty calls amid his people
To sway the wills and passions of mankind.
The weak of heart and intellect beheld
Thy splendour, and adored thee lord of Spain:
I rose . . Roderigo lords o'er Spain no more.

Roderigo.
Now to a traitor's add a boaster's name.

Julian.
Shameless and arrogant, dost thou believe
I boast for pride or pastime? forced to boast,
Truth cost me more than falsehood e'er cost thee.
Divested of that purple of the soul,
That potency, that palm of wise ambition,
Cast headlong by thy madness from that high,
That only eminence 'twixt earth and heaven,
Virtue, which some desert, but none despise,
Whether thou art beheld again on earth,
Whether a captive or a fugitive,
Miner or galley-slave, depends on me;
But he alone who made me what I am
Can make me greater or can make me less.

Roderigo.
Chance, and chance only, threw me in thy power;
Give me my sword again and try my strength.

Julian.
I tried it in the front of thousands.

Roderigo.
Death
At least vouchsafe me from a soldier's hand.

Julian.
I love to hear thee ask it: now my own
Would not be bitter; no, nor immature.

Roderigo.
Defy it, say thou rather.

Julian.
Death itself
Shall not be granted thee, unless from God;
A dole from his and from no other hand.
Thou shalt now hear and own thine infamy.

Roderigo.
Chains, dungeons, tortures . . but I hear no more.

Julian.
Silence, thou wretch! live on . . ay, live . . abhorr'd.
Thou shalt have tortures, dungeons, chains enough;
They naturally rise and grow around
Monsters like thee, everywhere, and for ever.

Roderigo.
Insulter of the fallen! must I endure
Commands as well as threats? my vassal's too?
Nor breathe from underneath his trampling feet?

Julian.
Could I speak patiently who speak to thee,
I would say more: part of thy punishment
It should be, to be taught.

Roderigo.
Reserve thy wisdom
Until thy patience come, its best ally:
I learn no lore, of peace or war, from thee.

Julian.
No, thou shalt study soon another tongue,
And suns more ardent shall mature thy mind.
Either the cross thou bearest, and thy knees
Among the silent caves of Palestine
Wear the sharp flints away with midnight prayer,
Or thou shalt keep the fasts of Barbary,
Shalt wait amid the crowds that throng the well
From sultry noon till the skies fade again,
To draw up water and to bring it home
In the crackt gourd of some vile testy knave,
Who spurns thee back with bastinaded foot
For ignorance or delay of his command.

Roderigo.
Rather the poison or the bowstring.

Julian.
Slaves
To other's passions die such deaths as those:
Slaves to their own should die . .

Roderigo.
What worse?

Julian.
Their own.

Roderigo.
Is this thy counsel, renegade?

Julian.
Not mine:
I point a better path, nay, force thee on.
I shelter thee from every brave man's sword
While I am near thee: I bestow on thee
Life: if thou die, 'tis when thou sojournest
Protected by this arm and voice no more:
'Tis slavishly, 'tis ignominiously,
'Tis by a villian's knive.

Roderigo.
By whose?

Julian.
Roderigo's.

Roderigo.
O powers of vengeance! must I hear? . . endure? . .
Live?

Julian.
Call thy vassals: no? then wipe the drops
Of froward childhood from thy shameless eyes.
So! thou canst weep for passion; not for pity.

Roderigo.
One hour ago I ruled all Spain! a camp
Not larger than a sheepfold stood alone
Against me: now, no friend throughout the world
Follows my steps or hearkens to my call.
Behold the turns of fortune, and expect
No better: of all faithless men the Moors
Are the most faithless: from thy own experience
Thou canst not value nor rely on them.

Julian.
I value not the mass that makes my sword,
Yet while I use it I rely on it.

Roderigo.
Julian, thy gloomy soul still meditates . .
Plainly I see it . . death to me . . pursue
The dictates of thy leaders, let revenge
Have its full sway, let Barbary prevail,
And the pure creed her elders have embraced:
Those placid sages hold assassination
A most compendious supplement to law.

Julian.
Thou knowest not the one, nor I the other.
Torn hast thou from me all my soul held dear,
Her form, her voice, all, hast thou banisht from me,
Nor dare I, wretched as I am! recall
Those solaces of every grief erewhile.
I stand abased before insulting crime,
I falter like a criminal myself;
The hand that hurl'd thy chariot o'er its wheels,
That held thy steeds erect and motionless
As molten statues on some palace-gate,
Shakes as with palsied age before thee now.
Gone is the treasure of my heart for ever,
Without a father, mother, friend, or name.
Daughter of Julian . . Such was her delight . .
Such was mine too! what pride more innocent,
What surely less deserving pangs like these,
Than springs from filial and parental love!
Debarr'd from every hope that issues forth
To meet the balmy breath of early life,
Her sadden'd days, all cold and colourless,
Will stretch before her their whole weary length
Amid the sameness of obscurity.
She wanted not seclusion to unveil
Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell;
She found it in all places, at all hours:
While to assuage my labours she indulged
A playfulness that shunn'd a mother's eye,
Still to avert my perils there arose
A piety that even from me retired.

Roderigo.
Such was she! what am I! those are the arms
That are triumphant when the battle fails.
O Julian! Julian! all thy former words
Struck but the imbecile plumes of vanity,
These thro' its steely coverings pierce the heart.
I ask not life nor death; but, if I live,
Send my most bitter enemy to watch
My secret paths, send poverty, send pain . .
I will add more . . wise as thou art, thou knowest
No foe more furious than forgiven kings.
I ask not then what thou would'st never grant:
May heaven, O Julian, from thy hand receive
A pardon'd man, a chasten'd criminal.

Julian.
This further curse hast thou inflicted; wretch!
I can not pardon thee.

Roderigo.
Thy tone, thy mien,
Refute those words.

Julian.
No . . I can not forgive.

Roderigo.
Upon my knee, my conqueror, I implore!
Upon the earth, before thy feet . . hard heart!

Julian.
Audacious! hast thou never heard that prayer
And scorn'd it? 'tis the last thou shouldst repeat.
Upon the earth! upon her knees, O God?

Roderigo.
Resemble not a wretch so lost as I:
Be better; O! be happier; and pronounce it.

Julian.
I swerve not from my purpose: thou art mine,
Conquered; and I have sworn to dedicate,
Like a torn banner on my chapel's roof,
Thee to that power from whom thou hast rebell'd.
Expiate thy crimes by prayer, by penances.

Roderigo.
Hasten the hour of trial, speak of peace.
Pardon me not then, but with purer lips
Implore of God, who would hear thee, to pardon.

Julian.
Hope it I may . . pronounce it . . O Roderigo!
Ask it of him who can; I too will ask,
And, in my own transgressions, pray for thine.

Roderigo.
One name I dare not . .

Julian.
Go; abstain from that;
I do conjure thee, raise not in my soul
Again the tempest that has wreckt my fame;
Thou shalt not breathe in the same clime with her.
Far o'er the unebbing sea thou shalt adore
The eastern star, and may thy end be peace.

SECOND SCENE.

Roderigo goes: Hernando enters.
Hernando.
From the prince Tarik I am sent, my lord.

Julian.
A welcome messenger, my brave Hernando.
How fares it with the gallant soul of Tarik?

Hernando.
Most joyfully; he scarcely had pronounced
Your glorious name, and bid me urge your speed,
Than, with a voice as though it answer'd heaven,
‘He shall confound them in their dark designs,’
Cried he, and turn'd away, with that swift stride
Wherewith he meets and quells his enemies.

Julian.
Alas! I can not bear felicitation,
Who shunn'd it even in felicity.

Hernando.
Often we hardly think ourselves the happy
Unless we hear it said by those around.
O my lord Julian, how your praises cheer'd
Our poor endeavours! sure, all hearts are open,
Lofty and low, wise and unwise, to praise.
Even the departed spirit hovers round
Our blessings and our prayers: the corse itself
Hath shined with other light than the still stars
Shed on its rest, or the dim taper nigh.
My father, old men say who saw him dead,
And heard your lips pronounce him good and happy,
Smiled faintly through the quiet gloom that eve,
And the shroud throbb'd upon his grateful breast.
Howe'er it be, many who tell the tale
Are good and happy from that voice of praise.
His guidance and example were denied
My youth and childhood: what I am I owe . .

Julian.
Hernando, look not back: a narrow path
And arduous lies before thee: if thou stop
Thou fallest; go right onward, nor observe
Closely and rigidly another's way,
But, free and active, follow up thy own.

Hernando.
The voice that urges now my manly step
Onward in life, recalls me to the past,
And from that fount I freshen for the goal.
Early in youth, among us villagers
Converse and ripen'd council you bestow'd.
O happy days of (far departed!) peace,
Days when the mighty Julian stoopt his brow
Entering our cottage-door; another air
Breath'd through the house, tired age and lightsome youth
Beheld him with intensest gaze; these felt
More chasten'd joy; they more profound repose.
Yes, my best lord, when labour sent them home
And midday suns, when from the social meal
The wicker window held the summer heat,
Prais'd have those been who, going unperceived,
Open'd it wide that all might see you well:
Nor were the children blamed, hurrying to watch
Upon the mat what rush would last arise
From your foot's pressure, ere the door was closed,
And not yet wondering how they dared to love.
Your counsels are more precious now than ever,
But are they . . pardon if I err . . the same?
Tarik is gallant, kind, the friend of Julian,
Can he be more? or ought he to be less?
Alas! his faith!

Julian.
In peace or war? Hernando.

Hernando.
O, neither; far above it; faith in God.

Julian.
'Tis God's, not thine: embrace it not, nor hate it.
Precious or vile, how dare we seize that offering,
Scatter it, spurn it, in its way to heaven,
Because we know it not? the sovran lord
Accepts his tribute, myrrh and frankincense
From some, from others penitence and prayer:
Why intercept them from his gracious hand?
Why dash them down? why smite the supplicant?

Hernando.
'Tis what they do.

Julian.
Avoid it thou the more.
If time were left me, I could hear well-pleased
How Tarik fought up Calpe's fabled cliff,
While I pursued the friends of Don Roderigo
Across the plain, and drew fresh force from mine.
O! had some other land, some other cause,
Invited him and me, I then could dwell
On this hard battle with unmixt delight.

Hernando.
Eternal is its glory, if the deed
Be not forgotten till it be surpast:
Much praise by land, by sea much more, he won,
For then a Julian was not at his side,
Nor led the van, nor awed the best before;
The whole, a mighty whole, was his alone.
There might be seen how far he shone above
All others of the day: old Muza watcht
From his own shore the richly laden fleet,
Ill-arm'd and scatter'd, and pursued the rear
Beyond those rocks that bear St Vincent's name,
Cutting the treasure, not the strength, away;
Valiant, where any prey lies undevour'd
In hostile creek or too confiding isle.
Tarik, with his small barks, but with such love
As never chief from rugged sailor won,
Smote their high masts and swelling rampires down,
And Cadiz wept in fear o'er Trafalgar.
Who that beheld our sails from off the highths,
Like the white birds, nor larger, tempt the gale
In sunshine and in shade, now almost touch
The solitary shore, glance, turn, retire,
Would think these lovely playmates could portend
Such mischief to the world, such blood, such woe;
Could draw to them from far the peaceful hinds,
Cull the gay flower of cities, and divide
Friends, children, every bond of human life;
Could dissipate whole families, could sink
Whole states in ruin, at one hour, one blow.

Julian.
Go, good Hernando? who would think these things?
Say to the valiant Tarik I depart
Forthwith: he knows not from what heaviness
Of soul I linger here; I could endure
No converse, no compassion, no approach,
Other than thine, whom the same cares improved
Beneath my father's roof, my foster-brother,
To brighter days and happier end, I hope;
In whose fidelity my own resides
With Tarik and with his compeers and chief.
I cannot share the gladness I excite,
Yet shall our Tarik's generous heart rejoice.

THIRD SCENE.

Egilona enters: Hernando goes.
Egilona.
O fly me not because I am unhappy,
Because I am deserted fly me not;
It was not so before, and can it be
Ever from Julian?

Julian.
What would Egilona
That Julian's power with her new lords can do?
Surely her own must there preponderate.

Egilona.
I hold no suit to them. Restore, restore Roderigo.

Julian.
He no longer is my prisoner.

Egilona.
Escapes he then?

Julian.
Escapes he, dost thou say?
O Egilona! what unworthy passion . .

Egilona.
Unworthy, when I loved him, was my passion;
The passion that now swells my heart is just.

Julian.
What fresh reproaches hath he merited?

Egilona.
Deep-rooted hatred shelters no reproach.
But whither is he gone?

Julian.
Far from the walls.

Egilona.
And I knew nothing?

Julian.
His offence was known
To thee at least.

Egilona.
Will it be expiated?

Julian.
I trust it will.

Egilona.
This withering calm consumes me.
He marries then Covilla! 'twas for this
His people were excited to rebell,
His sceptre was thrown by, his vows were scorn'd,
And I . . and I . .

Julian.
Cease, Egilona!

Egilona.
Cease?
Sooner shalt thou to live than I to reign.