University of Virginia Library

FIRST ACT

FIRST SCENE.

Camp of Julian.
Opas. Julian.
Opas.
See her, Count Julian: if thou lovest God,
See thy lost child.

Julian.
I have avenged me, Opas,
More than enough: I only sought to hurl
The brand of war on one detested head,
And die upon his ruin. O my country!
O lost to honour, to thyself, to me,
Why on barbarian hands devolves thy cause,
Spoilers, blasphemers!

Opas.
Is it thus, Don Julian,
When thy own offspring, that beloved child
For whom alone these very acts were done
By them and thee, when thy Covilla stands
An outcast and a suppliant at thy gate,
Why that still stubborn agony of soul,
Those struggles with the bars thyself imposed?
Is she not thine? not dear to thee as ever?

Julian.
Father of mercies! show me none, whene'er
The wrongs she suffers cease to wring my heart,
Or I seek solace ever, but in death.

Opas.
What wilt thou do then, too unhappy man?

Julian.
What have I done already? All my peace
Has vanisht; my fair fame in aftertime
Will wear an alien and uncomely form,
Seen o'er the cities I have laid in dust,
Countrymen slaughtered, friends abjured!

Opas.
And faith?

Julian.
Alone now left me, filling up in part
The narrow and waste interval of grief:
It promises that I shall see again
My own lost child.

Opas.
Yes, at this very hour.

Julian.
Till I have met the tyrant face to face,
And gain'd a conquest greater than the last,
Till he no longer rules one rood of Spain,
And not one Spaniard, not one enemy,
The least relenting, flags upon his flight,
Till we are equal in the eyes of men,
The humblest and most wretched of our kind,
No peace for me, no comfort, no . . no child!

Opas.
No pity for the thousands fatherless,
The thousands childless like thyself, nay more,
The thousands friendless, helpless, comfortless . .
Such thou wilt make them, little thinking so,
Who now perhaps, round their first winter fire,
Banish, to talk of thee, the tales of old,
Shedding true honest tears for thee unknown:
Precious be these and sacred in thy sight,
Mingle them not with blood from hearts thus kind.
If only warlike spirits were evoked
By the war-demon, I would not complain,
Or dissolute and discontented men;
But wherefore hurry down into the square
The neighbourly, saluting, warm-clad race,
Who would not injure us, and can not serve;
Who, from their short and measured slumber risen,
In the faint sunshine of their balconies,
With a half-legend of a martyrdom
And some weak wine and withered grapes before them,
Note by their foot the wheel of melody
That catches and rolls on the Sabbath dance.
To drag the steady prop from failing age,
Break the young stem that fondness twines around,
Widen the solitude of lonely sighs,
And scatter to the broad bleak wastes of day
The ruins and the phantoms that replied,
Ne'er be it thine.

Julian.
Arise, and save me, Spain!

SECOND SCENE.

Muza enters.
Muza.
Infidel chief, thou tarriest here too long,
And art perhaps repining at the days
Of nine continued victories o'er men
Dear to thy soul, tho' reprobate and base.
Away!

[He retires.
Julian.
I follow. Could my bitterest foes
Hear this! ye Spaniards, this! which I foreknew
And yet encounter'd; could they see your Julian
Receiving orders from and answering
These desperate and heaven-abandoned slaves,
They might perceive some few external pangs,
Some glimpses of the hell wherein I move,
Who never have been fathers.

Opas.
These are they
To whom brave Spaniards must refer their wrongs!

Julian.
Muza, that cruel and suspicious chief,
Distrusts his friends more than his enemies,
Me more than either; fraud he loves and fears,
And watches her still footfall day and night.

Opas.
O Julian! such a refuge! such a race!

Julian.
. . Calamities like mine alone implore.
No virtues have redeem'd them from their bonds;
Wily ferocity, keen idleness,
And the close cringes of ill-whispering want,
Educate them to plunder and obey:
Active to serve him best whom most they fear,
They show no mercy to the merciful,
And racks alone remind them of the name.

Opas.
O everlasting curse for Spain and thee!

Julian.
Spain should have vindicated then her wrongs
In mine, a Spaniard's and a soldier's wrongs.

Opas.
Julian, are thine the only wrongs on earth?
And shall each Spaniard rather vindicate
Thine than his own? is there no Judge of all?
Shall mortal hand seize with impunity
The sword of vengeance from the armoury
Of the Most High? easy to wield, and starred
With glory it appears; but all the host
Of the archangels, should they strive at once,
Would never close again its widening blade.

Julian.
He who provokes it hath so much to rue.
Where'er he turn, whether to earth or heaven,
He finds an enemy, or raises one.

Opas.
I never yet have seen where long success
Hath followed him who warred upon his king.

Julian.
Because the virtue that inflicts the stroke
Dies with him, and the rank ignoble heads
Of plundering faction soon unite again,
And prince-protected share the spoil at rest.

THIRD SCENE.

Guard announces a Herald. Opas departs.
Guard.
A messenger of peace is at the gate,
My lord, safe access, private audience,
And free return, he claims.

Julian.
Conduct him in. Roderigo enters as a herald.

A messenger of peace! audacious man!
In what attire appearest thou? a herald's?
Under no garb can such a wretch be safe.

Roderigo.
Thy violence and fancied wrongs I know,
And what thy sacrilegious hands would do,
O traitor and apostate!

Julian.
What they would
They can not: thee of kingdom and of life
'Tis easy to despoil, thyself the traitor,
Thyself the violator of allegiance.
O would all-righteous Heaven they could restore
The joy of innocence, the calm of age,
The probity of manhood, pride of arms,
And confidence of honour! the august
And holy laws trampled beneath thy feet,
And Spain! O parent, I have lost thee too!
Yes, thou wilt curse me in thy latter days,
Me, thine avenger. I have fought her foe,
Roderigo, I have gloried in her sons,
Sublime in hardihood and piety:
Her strength was mine: I, sailing by her cliffs,
By promontory after promontory,
Opening like flags along some castle-tower,
Have sworn before the cross upon our mast
Ne'er shall invader wave his standard there.

Roderigo.
Yet there thou plantest it, false man, thyself.

Julian.
Accursed he who makes me this reproach,
And made it just! Had I been happy still,
I had been blameless: I had died with glory
Upon the walls of Ceuta.

Roderigo.
Which thy treason
Surrendered to the Infidel.

Julian.
'Tis hard
And base to live beneath a conqueror;
Yet, amid all this grief and infamy,
'Twere something to have rusht upon the ranks
In their advance; 'twere something to have stood
Defeat, discomfiture, and, when around
No beacon blazes, no far axle groans
Thro' the wide plain, no sound of sustenance
Or succour soothes the still-believing ear,
To fight upon the last dismantled tower,
And yield to valour, if we yield at all.
But rather should my neck lie trampled down
By every Saracen and Moor on earth,
Than my own country see her laws o'erturn'd
By those who should protect them. Sir, no prince
Shall ruin Spain, and, least of all, her own.
Is any just or glorious act in view,
Your oaths forbid it: is your avarice,
Or, if there be such, any viler passion
To have its giddy range and to be gorged,
It rises over all your sacraments,
A hooded mystery, holier than they all.

Roderigo.
Hear me, Don Julian; I have heard thy wrath
Who am thy king, nor heard man's wrath before.

Julian.
Thou shalt hear mine, for thou art not my king.

Roderigo.
Knowest thou not the altered face of war?
Xeres is ours; from every region round
True loyal Spaniards throng into our camp:
Nay, thy own friends and thy own family,
From the remotest provinces, advance
To crush rebellion: Sisabert is come,
Disclaiming thee and thine; the Asturian hills
Oppose to him their icy chains in vain;
But never wilt thou see him, never more,
Unless in adverse war and deadly hate.

Julian.
So lost to me! so generous, so deceived! I grieve to hear it.

Roderigo.
Come, I offer grace,
Honour, dominion: send away these slaves,
Or leave them to our sword, and all beyond
The distant Ebro to the towns of France
Shall bless thy name and bend before thy throne.
I will myself accompany thee, I,
The king, will hail thee brother.

Julian.
Ne'er shalt thou
Henceforth be king: the nation in thy name
May issue edicts, champions may command
The vassal multitudes of marshal'd war,
And the fierce charger shrink before the shouts,
Lower'd as if earth had open'd at his feet,
While thy mail'd semblance rises tow'rd the ranks,
But God alone sees thee.

Roderigo.
What hopest thou?
To conquer Spain, and rule a ravaged land?
To compass me around? to murder me?

Julian.
No, Don Roderigo: swear thou, in the fight
That thou wilt meet me, hand to hand, alone,
That, if I ever save thee from a foe . .

Roderigo.
I swear what honour asks. First, to Covilla
Do thou present my crown and dignity.

Julian.
Darest thou offer any price for shame?

Roderigo.
Love and repentance.

Julian.
Egilona lives;
And were she buried with her ancestors,
Covilla should not be the gaze of men,
Should not, despoil'd of honour, rule the free.

Roderigo.
Stern man! her virtues well deserve the throne.

Julian.
And Egilona, what hath she deserv'd,
The good, the lovely?

Roderigo.
But the realm in vain
Hoped a succession.

Julian.
Thou hast torn away
The roots of royalty.

Roderigo.
For her, for thee.

Julian.
Blind insolence! base insincerity!
Power and renown no mortal ever shared
Who could retain or grasp them to himself:
And, for Covilla? patience! peace! for her?
She call upon her God, and outrage him
At his own altar! she repeat the vows
She violates in repeating! who abhors
Thee and thy crimes, and wants no crown of thine.
Force may compel the abhorrent soul, or want
Lash and pursue it to the public ways;
Virtue looks back and weeps, and may return
To these, but never near the abandon'd one
Who drags religion to adultery's feet,
And rears the altar higher for her sake.

Roderigo.
Have then the Saracens possest thee quite?
And wilt thou never yield me thy consent?

Julian.
Never.

Roderigo.
So deep in guilt, in treachery!
Forced to acknowledge it! forced to avow
The traitor!

Julian.
Not to thee, who reignest not,
But to a country ever dear to me,
And dearer now than ever! What we love
Is loveliest in departure! One I thought,
As every father thinks, the best of all,
Graceful and mild and sensible and chaste:
Now all these qualities of form and soul
Fade from before me, nor on any one
Can I repose, or be consoled by any.
And yet in this torn heart I love her more
Than I could love her when I dwelt on each,
Or claspt them all united, and thankt God,
Without a wish beyond. Away, thou fiend!
O ignominy, last and worst of all!
I weep before thee . . like a child . . like mine . .
And tell my woes, fount of them all! to thee!

FOURTH SCENE.

Abdalazis enters.
Abdalazis.
Julian, to thee, the terror of the faithless,
I bring my father's order to prepare
For the bright day that crowns thy brave exploits.
Our enemy is at the very gate,
And art thou here, with women in thy train,
Crouching to gain admittance to their lord,
And mourning the unkindness of delay!

Julian
(agitated, goes toward the door, and returns).
I am prepared: Prince, judge not hastily.

Abdalazis.
Whether I should not promise all they ask,
I too could hesitate, though earlier taught
The duty to obey, and should rejoice
To shelter in the universal storm
A frame so delicate, so full of fears,
So little used to outrage and to arms,
As one of these, so humble, so uncheer'd
At the gay pomp that smooths the track of war.
When she beheld me from afar dismount,
And heard my trumpet, she alone drew back,
And, as though doubtful of the help she seeks,
Shudder'd to see the jewels on my brow,
And turn'd her eyes away, and wept aloud.
The other stood awhile, and then advanced:
I would have spoken; but she waved her hand
And said, “Proceed, protect us, and avenge,
And be thou worthier of the crown thou wearest.”
Hopeful and happy is indeed our cause,
When the most timid of the lovely hail
Stranger and foe.

Roderigo
(unnoticed by Abdalazis).
And shrink but to advance.

Abdalazis.
Thou tremblest? whence, O Julian! whence this change?
Thou lovest still thy country.

Julian.
Abdalazis!
All men with human feelings love their country.
Not the highborn or wealthy man alone,
Who looks upon his children, each one led
By its gay handmaid from the high alcove,
And hears them once a-day; not only he
Who hath forgotten, when his guest inquires
The name of some far village all his own;
Whose rivers bound the province, and whose hills
Touch the last cloud upon the level sky:
No; better men still better love their country.
'Tis the old mansion of their earliest friends,
The chapel of their first and best devotions.
When violence or perfidy invades,
Or when unworthy lords hold wassail there,
And wiser heads are drooping round its moats,
At last they fix their steady and stiff eye
There, there alone, stand while the trumpet blows
And view the hostile flames above its towers
Spire, with a bitter and severe delight.

Abdalazis
(taking his hand).
Thou feelest what thou speakest, and thy Spain
Will ne'er be shelter'd from her fate by thee.
We, whom the Prophet sends o'er many lands,
Love none above another; Heaven assigns
Their fields and harvests to our valiant swords,
And 'tis enough: we love while we enjoy.
Whence is the man in that fantastic guise?
Suppliant? or herald? he who stalks about,
And once was even seated while we spoke:
For never came he with us o'er the sea.

Julian.
He comes as herald.

Roderigo.
Thou shalt know full soon,
Insulting Moor!

Abdalazis.
He ill endures the grief
His country suffers: I will pardon him.
He lost his courage first, and then his mind;
His courage rushes back, his mind yet wanders.
The guest of heaven was piteous to these men,
And princes stoop to feed them in their courts.

FIFTH SCENE.

Roderigo is going: Muza enters with Egilona: Roderigo starts back.
Muza
(sternly to Egilona).
Enter, since 'tis the custom in this land.

Egilona
(passing Muza, points to Abdalazis).
Is this our future monarch, or art thou?

Julian.
'Tis Abdalazis, son of Muza, prince
Commanding Africa, from Abyla
To where Tunisian pilots bend the eye
O'er ruin'd temples in the glassy wave.
Till quiet times and ancient laws return
He comes to govern here.

Roderigo.
To-morrow's dawn
Proves that.

Muza.
What art thou?

Roderigo
(drawing his sword).
King.

Abdalazis.
Amazement!

Muza.
Treason!

Egilona.
O horror!

Muza.
Seize him.

Egilona.
Spare him! fly to me!

Julian.
Urge me not to protect a guest, a herald,
The blasts of war roar over him unfelt.

Egilona.
Ah fly, unhappy!

Roderigo.
Fly! no, Egilona!
Dost thou forgive me? dost thou love me? still?

Egilona.
I hate, abominate, abhor thee . . go,
Or my own vengeance . .

Roderigo
(takes Julian's hand; invites him to attack Muza and Abdalazis.)
Julian!

Julian.
Hence, or die.