 | Constance De Castile |  |
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CANTO III.
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I.
But yesterday loud yell'd the ocean blast,And to the roar of the tempestuous tide
The cliffs and all the mountain caves reply'd.
The spirit of the storm in darkness past,
And more than midnight gloom o'erhung the waters wide.
II.
Night and her stormy train are flown:Peace and silence reign alone.
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And lonely sought the eastern tow'r.
She went, as wonted, to inhale
The spirit of the vernal gale,
And to the Lord of life and day
Hymn on her lyre the matin lay,
Ere from the murmuring world below
Rose on the breeze the voice of woe.
III.
Yet—happier far the village maidWho peaceful in her native shade,
Wakes at the gay bird's early call
And wreathes her dewy coronal:
Or where fresh flow'rs the turf o'erspread,
And wild thyme breathes beneath her tread,
Sports in the wood-lands, fancy-free,
And threads the green maze merrily,
Than Constance, at that fatal hour,
Who lonely sought the sea-girt tow'r.
IV.
Ah! lovely maid!—that face so fair,That cheek soft-flush'd with vermeil glow,
The light wave of thy ebon hair
Shadowing that bosom's unsunn'd snow,
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That form like Dian's in the dance:
These, still thy bane, thy misery prove,
And doom thee to Almanzor's love.
For thee, Castilian fair! again
The Paynim squadrons cross the main:
Thou, reckless, at the dawn of day
To the lone watch-tow'r shap'st thy way.
V.
Bright in the heav'ns one beauteous starShone, heralding Aurora's car,
When Constance, on th' embattled keep,
Hung o'er Corunna hush'd in sleep.
Beneath her, where the champaign spread,
From each deep glen, each mountain head,
Gray mists on mists began to rise
Wafting pure incense to the skies.
While lull'd on Ocean's heaving breast
Lay the wild winds in halcyon rest,
To fancy's ear the sea-maid's song
Came on the flowing of the tide,
Wave leading wave, soft stole along,
Touch'd the low level sands, and died:
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So thick the dun haze hung below,
Now slowly melting into day
Vapour and mist dissolv'd away,
And the blue world of waters round
Met the far heav'n's o'er-arching bound:
And, gleaming through the gorgeous fold
Of clouds, around his glory roll'd,
The orb of gold, far off, half seen,
Levell'd his rays of tremulous sheen,
That widely as the billows roll
Glanc'd quivering on their distant goal.
VI.
Enraptur'd Constance o'er the lyreBow'd to breathe forth her pray'r in song,
Her flying fingers woke each wire,
And in swift prelude swept along:
When a shrill watch-note on the gale
Warn'd of a swift advancing sail.
On to Corunna steers the prow.
What friend to Pedro ploughs the way?
If hostile, whence that bright array,
Tilting along in stately show,
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And pomp of pennons widely streaming.
Borne by fair gales in fulness of the tide
Why proudly o'er the main yon painted galleys ride?
VII.
At anchor, in the deep, afar,The bulk of many a vessel brave,
Each a sov'reign of the wave
Seem'd meditating war.
Chieftains there that wait the foe
Poise the lance and bend the bow,
These, the huge iron mace uprear,
Those, edge the steel that points the spear,
Or catch the sun-beam as it play'd
Along the bright Damascus blade.
VIII.
Deeply furrowing up the floodThe burden of the galleys rode.
'Twas joy to see each lifted oar
That to the cymbal's flash and chime
Duly told the measur'd time,
And as it glanc'd, stroke after stroke,
The mirror of the ocean broke,
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Through show'rs of golden sparks each painted galley bore.
IX.
The warriors from Corunna's heightRush'd down the cliff in wild delight,
Now, shouting on the sea-beach stood,
Now, wav'd their signals o'er the flood,
Now, breathless paus'd a sound to hear,
That seem'd by fits to mock the ear,
The low of kine, and murmuring bleat,
That echoes of the rock repeat.
X.
Near, and more near each galley drew,And freely gave its freight to view.
Gaunt famine fix'd his wishful gaze
On the pil'd grain, and yellow maize:
Its rind of gold the orange show'd,
The ripe pomegranate richly glow'd,
And clust'rous grapes of Libya's shore
Gleam'd with bright sun-beams purpled o'er.
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XI.
All, joyous, hail'd the answ'ring bandWhose pinnace anchor'd on the strand.
All, save the Maid, who lonely bent
In anguish o'er the battlement,
And from the watch-tow'r's topmost brow
Saw, waving o'er the host below,
Bright in the sun's resplendent beam
Almanzor's silver crescent gleam.
Rush'd on her mind that fatal day,
When at her feet Almanzor lay,
And, Victor, claim'd the tourney prize,
That crown'd the proud solemnities.
Rush'd on her mind the Paynim host
That seized her on Corunna's coast:
Her guardian page, before her eyes,
Bath'd in his blood, her Julian lies.
XII.
“Be death my doom!”—the Virgin cried.“Oh! be the ocean bed my grave,
“My shroud, th' unfathomable wave,
“Ere the Moor hail me Afric's bride!”
She spake, and turning from the view,
Swift to St. Agnes' cell withdrew.
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XIII.
The trumpet sounds; along the strand,A white flag waving in his hand,
Paces a Herald still and slow.
All know him by his turband brow,
A Saracen from Libya's shore.
Thrice sounds the trump their gates before.
“Christain!—safe conduct to thy King!
“Or peace, or war, his choice, I bring.”
The warder, as the draw-bridge falls,
Admits the Moor within the walls;
Victims of want and dire distress
Round him Corunna's warriors press.
“The Moor, the Moor shall yield relief,
“Or death for ever still our grief.”
XIV.
Pedro, the while, from all apartHeard a dire tale of bitter woe:
Tears, that like the life-blood start,
Down his dark cheek were seen to flow.
Before him bows an aged man,
His friend, his faithful Castellan,
“All the barons and knights of Spain, save Ferdinand de Castro, deserted Pedro, in favour of his brother the bastard.” Froissart, vol. i. p. 675.
“Don Fernando de Castro, after the death of King Peter made his escape into Portugal, and afterwards retired to Guyenne, where he died. Over his tomb was placed the following inscription: AQUI YACE DON FERNANDO PEREZ DE CASTRO TODA LA FIDELIDAD DE ESPANA.” Dillon's History of Peter, vol. ii. p. 119.
A far-fam'd chief, by day by night
In iron harness rudely dight.
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Castro had neer unclasp'd the mail.
XV.
He tells—how ruthless TrastamerePour'd desolation on the coast,
While treachery, avarice, and fear,
Had thinn'd Corunna's host.—
Tells—how the ships of Arragon
Had join'd the foe, and triumphs won,
While Bocca-negra's rebel fleet
Heap'd tribute at th' usurper's feet.
How—Beau-jeu had his pow'r defied,
And Bourbon—to Queen Blanche allied.
“Curse on the Bourbon!”—Pedro cried.
“No more of Blanche—but, say, brave chief!
“Where, at this hour of hopeless grief,
“When Fate's dark storms my brow surround,
“Where Julian, once so faithful found?
“Why, from his King now basely flown?
“Faith dwells with thee—and thee alone.”
And Pedro closely to his breast
The chief in bitterest anguish prest.
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XVI.
“Oh King! in Julian's soul enshrin'd,“Firm faith, and grateful love are join'd.
“At midnight, at the secret hour,
“Ere thy brave bark recrost the main,
“Julian, alone of all thy train,
“Adventurous left Corunna's tow'r;
“And shrouded in a palmer's gown,
“Dar'd the dread host, and ways unknown
“That lead to Bourdeaux' far-fam'd Lord.
“Thy fate now hangs on Edward's word.
“His Heralds far and wide around
“(Corunna's turrets heard the sound)
“Summon each knight from tow'r and hall
“To Bourdeaux' solemn festival.
“Save to the dark-mail'd Victor's court,
“Where shall dethroned Kings resort?
“But—if fell death lay Julian low,
“Nor Edward's arm thy crown sustain,
“Oh King! resistance all is vain.
“The brave, who yet withstand the foe,
“Worn out by vigils, want, and woe,
“Must perish by one common doom,
“And famine close the warrior's tomb.”
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XVII.
Pierc'd to the soul with Castro's tale,As grief, and rage the King assail,
The Paynim Herald entrance sought,
And thus Almanzor's mandate brought.
“Once more, oh Monarch! Afric's pow'r
“Seeks thee in misery's trying hour.
“Or peace, or war, thy choice I bring,
“This hostile spear, or nuptial ring.
“Now, yield consent, too long denied,
“This ring proclaims Almanzor's bride.
“If thou refuse, Almanzor's spear
“Flames in the van of Trastamere.”—
He spake, and laid before the King
The hostile spear and nuptial ring.
XVIII.
And lo! that hapless King around,All, whom Corunna's tow'rs contain;
Like captives, suppliant on the ground,
Before him kneel the loyal train.
To Pedro each faint hand is rais'd,
Each haggard eye on Pedro gaz'd,
Around him rung one bitter cry,
“Save!—for thou canst—for thee we die!”
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XIX.
The Paynim steps before the King,And holds on high the spear and ring.
Pedro, rooted on the spot,
Seem'd as one who mark'd him not,
Then—with agony o'erprest
Sunk on brave Castro's faithful breast.
Conflicting storms his soul divide:
A Father's love, a Monarch's pride,
High honour for th' heroic train
Whose swords Castillia's throne sustain.
Shall Pedro's soul revenge forego?
Shall Castile crown the usurper's brow?
Yet—wed the Moor!—his daughter dies:
His child the public sacrifice!
How act?—what friend?—whose counsels guide?
Constance alone shall all decide.
XX.
Fair victim!—in St. Agnes' gloomThou mourn'dst the while thy bitter doom,
In hopeless anguish mourn'dst—alone—
Thy soothing friend—thy Julian—gone—
Gone each fair hope whose flattering beam
Illum'd thy birth with golden gleam.
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XXI.
“Why”—thou exclaim'dst—“why, o'er my brow,“When the hoar prophet breath'd the vow,
“His voice exulting hail'd the day,
“When o'er Castile my dawning ray
“Should beam, and happiest influence breathe,
“Like heav'n's fair orb, on all beneath?
“Ah! from that hour, when o'er thy bier,
“Blest Mother! fell my farewell tear,
“Deep woe, and ever-during night
“Have quench'd my inauspicious light.
“Where now shall Constance seek relief?
“Thou sleep'st in peace, nor hear'st my grief.
“Thy Julian too, the orphan child,
“On whom thy lip maternal smil'd,
“Who, with thy Constance fondly prest,
“Found refuge on thy fostering breast,
“Julian—the brother of my soul,
“Whose voice, whose look could woe control,
“Now—haply—dies—or, friendless, lone
“For Constance roams far lands unknown,
“While o'er me direst ills impend.
“Oh, holy Agnes! sainted maid!
“Here let my youth's fleet blossom fade;
“E'en now, as at thy shrine I bend,
“O'er me the shade of death extend!”
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XXII.
Thus, at the shrine the hopeless MaidKnelt, and in bitter anguish pray'd,
When—hark—a voice that rent the air,
Cry of Corunna's deep despair,
The tumult of the war-worn train
Fill'd with lament St. Agnes' fane.
“Lady!—Corunna's warriors save
“From famine, from th' unpitying grave.
“Shall Castile's King, thy lord, thy sire,
“The father for his child expire?”
XXIII.
Constance uprose, and o'er her threwA veil that hid her charms from view,
Dark as a cloud at starless night
Shrouding the moon's o'ershadow'd light.
XXIV.
Amid Corunna's suppliant throngAs the fair victim rush'd along,
Again the Moor before the King
Held up the spear and nuptial ring,
Again round Pedro rung the cry,
“Save!—for thou can'st—for thee we die!”
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“My doom is fix'd—Almanzor's bride.
“Hear me, ye blessed saints in heav'n!
“Be to my lip the chalice giv'n,
“Constance the bitter cup shall drain:
“Nor then—these tears shall stream in vain.”
At once the warriors at the word
Rose, and unsheath'd their battle sword,
Hail'd with loud shout th' heroic Maid,
And clash'd, exultant, blade on blade
XXV.
But Pedro, at that dreadful time,He, whose stern spirit, unreclaim'd,
Nor age had sooth'd, nor terror tam'd,
Felt all the horrors of his crime.
Heav'n's chast'ning vengeance touch'd his breast,
And tears his deep remorse exprest,
While o'er the victim's dark-veil'd brow
Burst from his soul the voice of woe.
XXVI.
“Thou, image of a saint above,“Sole relic of Maria's love,
“Last column of Pelayo's line,
“Bow'd down by weight of guilt, not thine!
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“And thou, redeem'd, shalt weep no more,
“Thus, underneath this shroud of night,
“Hid be thy charms from human sight,
“No daring hand thy veil remove,
“Doom'd victim of Almanzor's love.”
Then—with loud groan the Monarch cried,
“Moor, give the ring!”—the Moor complied.
“Paynim! ere yet yon sun go down,
“Store, amply store Corunna's town,
“Then—tell thy lord—if, ere the year
“Close o'er my head its fleet career,
“No Christian knight of royal race
“On Pedro's brow the crown replace,
“Nor claim, sole guerdon of his arms,
“My peerless daughter's rescu'd charms,
“The monkish cowl my woe shall hide,
“And Afric hail the plighted bride.
“Such the sole terms—all else are vain—
“These, these alone the bride obtain.
“Paynim! consent—by Mahmoud swear,
“Then—to thy lord this signet bear!”
“King! great Almanzor's bride I hail!”
He spake, and prostrate touch'd the veil.
| Constance De Castile | |