 | Poems, dramatic and miscellaneous |  |
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ACT I.
SCENE I.
Near Toledo.DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DON FRANCIS.
Don Francis.
The furious courser lifts his dauntless head,
Fierce snaps the bit, and rolls his eye abroad,
Sees death and carnage mark th' empurpled field,
Neighs for his prey, and tramples o'er the dead.
Fierce snaps the bit, and rolls his eye abroad,
Sees death and carnage mark th' empurpled field,
Neighs for his prey, and tramples o'er the dead.
The happy steed may bite the blood stain'd ground,
Untaught by reason, sympathy or love—
Unconscious of the pains—the ten fold pangs,
That check the warrior in his bold career.
Untaught by reason, sympathy or love—
Unconscious of the pains—the ten fold pangs,
That check the warrior in his bold career.
Don Juan de Padilla.
Methinks some languor hangs about thy steps,
Too like despair, though not alli'd to fear;
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No cloud should set on brave Don Francis' brow.
The love of glory, victory and fame,
A noble sense of dignity and worth,
Is the best birth right of Castilia's sons:—
Inur'd to glory, and the feats of war,
Our fathers held their freedom from the gods.
A jealousy for freedom kept alive
Precludes the softer passions of the mind.
Don Francis.
Nurs'd in the fierce and hostile field of war,
I, from long ancestry, may boldly claim
That innate force and vigour of the mind
Which mocks the sense of danger or of death;
But yet Louisa wakes my soul to love.
De Haro's sister has ten thousand charms;
But ah!—the daughter of Velasco chills,
And horror opes the gates of wild despair,
As if the fates forbad a distant hope.
Don Juan de Padilla.
Spurn these soft fetters—fly the fond disguise,
Ere it unnerves the vigour of thine arm—
Let freedom be the mistress of thy heart:—
She calls to arms, and bids us draw the sword:—
Come, clear thy brow, and whet the pointed steel,
To crush the foes of liberty and Spain.
Don Francis.
I would suspend, but ne'er exterminate
The noblest passion of the human soul;
That softens the ferocious breast of man,
And checks the ruder billows of the mind.
Don Juan de Padilla.
Not like the lover, but the hero talk—
The sword must rescue, or the nation sink,
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We boast a cause of glory and renown;
We arm to purchase the sublimest gift
The mind of man is capable to taste.
'Tis not a factious, or a fickle rout,
That calls their kindred out to private war,
With hearts envenom'd by a thirst of blood—
Nor burns ambition, rancour, or revenge,
As in the bosom of some lordly chief
Who throws his gauntlet at his sov'reign's foot,
And bids defiance in his wanton rage:—
'Tis freedom's genius, nurs'd from age to age,
Matur'd in schools of liberty and law,
On virtue's page from sire to son convey'd,
E'er since the savage, fierce, barbarian hords,
Pour'd in, and chas'd beyond Narvasia's mount,
The hardy chiefs who govern'd ancient Spain.
Our independent ancestors disdain'd
All servile homage to despotick lords.
Don Francis.
I own my weakness—yet forgive my love;
My life and honour sacredly I plight,
To aid a brave and veteran band of chiefs,
Whose fathers fearless, dip'd the glittering sword,
Whet with revenge, in tides of Moorish blood,
To save their sons from servitude and chains.
Don Juan de Padilla.
But we have not a moment's time to lose.
The pageant mounted on his gilded car,
Sweeps all the fickle multitude along:
Inaction or delay will ruin all,
And place the fav'rite nurs'd in fortune's lap,
Beyond the reach of aught but heaven itself,
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A battle ere tomorrow's sun retires
Shall shew the world our pedigree and fame;
The Celtiberian race shall ne'er be slaves,
Nor blush to own Don Juan for their son.
[Exeunts.
SCENE II.
Palace of Velasco.Enter DON VELASCO and CONDE HARO.
Don Velasco.
The brighten'd dawn lifts up its cheerful face:
The sun beams play to lighten thee to fame;
The hill tops smile, and each propitious gale,
Wafts victory onward, with expanded wing,
To crown the glory of Velasco's house.
Conde Haro.
Unhappy Spain, by civil factions torn,
Assaulting friends, while foreigners invade.
Her burning cities, and her reeking sons,
Are drench'd in blood, our valour should protect;
While fierce disunion scowls on every brow,
And rancour whets the sword against ourselves,
The Turkish banners spread the German plains,
And France, resolv'd to humble Charles's pride,
Unites the crescent with the sacred cross.
Don Velasco.
Francis indeed may triumph at our gates,
Unless Don Juan, and the restless Cortes,
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One glorious conflict, one successful day,
Will shew the world the heir of Ferdinand
For empire born, in spite of all his foes.
Conde Haro.
The sword is drawn, and down the gulph of time,
Perhaps, its useless scabbard may be toss'd,
'Till years roll on, and revolution's wheel
Whirls nations down, and empire sweeps away,
Ere peace benignant smiles on hapless Spain.
Don Velasco.
Then lose no time to crush this rebel race.
Conde Haro.
The noblest blood that ancient Spain can boast,
Thrills through their veins, and warms their gallant chiefe
With great ideas of liberty and law.
Thrills through their veins, and warms their gallant chiefe
With great ideas of liberty and law.
They claim the rights their ancient fires possess'd,
When, ere allegiance sworn, or fealty paid,
They bade the sov'reign recollect the claim,
That each, as good by nature as himself,
Were, when united, arm'd with power replete,
To smite the brow, and dash the scepter'd hand
That dare invade the meanest subject's right.
When, ere allegiance sworn, or fealty paid,
They bade the sov'reign recollect the claim,
That each, as good by nature as himself,
Were, when united, arm'd with power replete,
To smite the brow, and dash the scepter'd hand
That dare invade the meanest subject's right.
Don Velasco.
'Tis but a faction of cabal and strife,
Bound by no ties of dignity or worth;
Devoid of honour, discipline, or faith;
Discord will waste, and jealousy divide.
And drive them backward from the routed field,
Dispers'd by thee, as dust before the wind.
Conde Haro.
Inur'd to arms, my soul's estrang'd to fear;
Yet I lament my fate;—my sire and prince,
Point me to glory, combating my will,
And make my duty lead to deeds I hate.
Yet I lament my fate;—my sire and prince,
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And make my duty lead to deeds I hate.
This contest is no democratic rage,
No lewd tumultuous fury just let loose—
Dauntless and bold as fam'd Numantia's sons,
They wield the lance and bear the target high,
And boast their ancient independent race;
Unfold their pedigree, in freedom's line,
E'er since for liberty, the haughty Celts
In blood contested with the furious Goths.
No lewd tumultuous fury just let loose—
Dauntless and bold as fam'd Numantia's sons,
They wield the lance and bear the target high,
And boast their ancient independent race;
Unfold their pedigree, in freedom's line,
E'er since for liberty, the haughty Celts
In blood contested with the furious Goths.
Don Velasco.
Methinks some latent cause beclouds thy zeal
And checks the vigour of thy val'rous arm,
Retards thy glory, and may blast thy fame.
Conde Haro.
Not less resolv'd, or fearless than thyself,
No tongue shall e'er reproach thy house or name
With glory tarnish'd by De Haro's fall
From valour, virtue, dignity, or fame,
Don Velasco.
Then haste, and chase these miscreants from the land—
Cut down their line, and blast their idle hopes,
And extirpate the bold seditious race.
Their houses wrap in one devouring flame—
The sword shall quell all factions in the land.
Conde Haro.
When virtue's vanquish'd, justice bids us spare,
And lend compassion to an hapless foe.
I ne'er will tinge the field with human blood,
If milder means can bloodless victory win.
Don Velasco.
Adieu, my son—my soul is all on fire.
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By promis'd triumphs ere the morrow close.
De Haro.
Urg'd on by thee, by glory and renown,
I'll serve my sov'reign as a soldier ought,
And take the field against my former friends,
But in the hero ne'er forget the man.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DON PEDRO.Don Juan.
The kingdoms of great Ferdinand are left,
To hunt for crowns in Germany and France,
While here Velasco plunders all the states.
Our delegates have yesterday return'd,
Without an audience at the sov'reign's court;
Stop'd on the way—forbid on pain of death,
With their complaints—their idle tales of wrong—
T' invade the regal dignity of thrones,
Or whisper murmurs in a monarch's ear.
Resentment, and a noble thirst of fame,
Must rouse the bold, reanimate the brave,
And brace the arm with vigour to repel
These bold invasions on great nature's rights.
Pedro.
Has then the band of Dutch and Flemish race,
Who hover round, clos'd up the monarch's ear,
And steel'd his heart against the cries of Spain?
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May yet subdue the citizens of Spain.
Don Juan.
Valencia arm'd, and Arragon arous'd,
Hold their's and Castile's righteous cause the same.
The trump of war is echo'd through the land,
Wrought up to tempests by the cruel arm
Of base oppression, breaking o'er the mounds
Of law—of justice—equity and truth.
Is thy mind firm—irrevocably fix'd,
Or, to secure the sacred rights of Spain,
Or die a martyr in her glorious cause.
Pedro.
The storm beats high—yet, will I hazard all,
My honour, fortune, freedom and my fame:—
I, by thy side, all danger will defy.
Don Juan.
Then reconnoitre round De Haro's posts;
The noble house of Albert's overcome,
Navarre's subdu'd—dismantled all her towns—
Peasants and nobles, citizens and slaves,
Promiscuously enroll'd in Charles's pay,
Sullen and fierce, disdain th'ignoble service:
Ripe for revolt, they, at my signal join,
And list themselves in a more noble cause:
Prepare their leaders for tomorrow's work.
[Exeunt.
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SCENE IV.
DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DON FRANCIS.Francis.
Hast thou yet seen th' unhappy queen of Spain?
The vulgar ear, forever caught by sound,
Allur'd by pomp, by pageantry and show,
Revere her person and adore her name;
Her standard planted on the field of war,
Would sanction give to every bold design.
Don Juan.
I have beheld the ruins of a queen,
A sight too piteous for a soldier's eye—
Whose heart, unsteel'd by scenes of human woe,
Has yet a tender corner left for grief.
A sight too piteous for a soldier's eye—
Whose heart, unsteel'd by scenes of human woe,
Has yet a tender corner left for grief.
Rob'd of her crown, authority and peace—
Dethron'd, immur'd, neglected by her son,
Shut up in widow'd solitude to weep
Ungrateful Philip, who despis'd her charms,
She's but the weeping image of despair.
Dethron'd, immur'd, neglected by her son,
Shut up in widow'd solitude to weep
Ungrateful Philip, who despis'd her charms,
She's but the weeping image of despair.
Francis.
Does she yet know the miseries of Spain?—
The indignant wrongs and injuries we feel,
Beneath the reign of her oppressive son?—
Don Juan.
She, all attentive, listen'd to the tale;
And rous'd at once as from lethargic dreams,
And starting, cry'd—is Ferdinand no more!—
Is that great monarch slumbering in the tomb,
While I, a wretched prisoner of state,
Stand the sad monument of human ills?—
She wept and sigh'd, till strong resentment rose,
And kindled in her breast a noble flame.
And rous'd at once as from lethargic dreams,
And starting, cry'd—is Ferdinand no more!—
Is that great monarch slumbering in the tomb,
While I, a wretched prisoner of state,
Stand the sad monument of human ills?—
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And kindled in her breast a noble flame.
With, all the powers of eloquence and truth,
I strove to sooth her wandering mind to rest.
In justice' sacred name I urg'd her aid
To counteract the cruelties of Charles,
To reassume her rights, and reign again,
To extricate her subjects from despair;—
She gave assent with dignity and ease,
And, spite of nature, seem'd to be a queen.
I nam'd Calabria's injur'd noble prince,
The heir of Arragon, long since depriv'd
Of his paternal crown, and princely rights,
Which Ferdinand, by violence, had seiz'd,
And justice bade his daughter to restore;
I urg'd her marriage with so brave a prince,
Entitled, both by virtue and by blood,
To wield the sceptre that his fathers won,
And shield her person from all future wrongs;
But naming love, her dormant passions wak'd,
And kindled up her former flame for Philip;
She sunk despondent, and refus'd to aid,
To act in council, or to guide the realm.
I strove to sooth her wandering mind to rest.
In justice' sacred name I urg'd her aid
To counteract the cruelties of Charles,
To reassume her rights, and reign again,
To extricate her subjects from despair;—
She gave assent with dignity and ease,
And, spite of nature, seem'd to be a queen.
I nam'd Calabria's injur'd noble prince,
The heir of Arragon, long since depriv'd
Of his paternal crown, and princely rights,
Which Ferdinand, by violence, had seiz'd,
And justice bade his daughter to restore;
I urg'd her marriage with so brave a prince,
Entitled, both by virtue and by blood,
To wield the sceptre that his fathers won,
And shield her person from all future wrongs;
But naming love, her dormant passions wak'd,
And kindled up her former flame for Philip;
She sunk despondent, and refus'd to aid,
To act in council, or to guide the realm.
Francis.
Unhappy queen! thus to her people lost.
In melancholy's cell, let her remain,
While her son raves at large about the world,
Not less a madman than the Macedon,
Who kindled up the Grecian world in flame,
And rear'd a pile o'er all his murder'd friends.
Don Juan.
She, rescu'd from her guards, my prisoner is,
And, if we need, her signet is obtain'd.
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But malice whispers murmurs through the camp,
And half our soldiers clamour for their pay—
At least a part, before they take the field.
Don Juan.
Haste to Maria, whose undaunted soul
Reflects a lustre on her feeble sex;
By stratagem, she's gain'd an ample sum
To quiet mutiny, and pay the troops.
But ere the solemn midnight clock shall strike,
Return, and meet me at the gate of Toro.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
DON FRANCIS and DONNA MARIA.Maria.
To make atonement for the guilt of men,
Altars are dress'd, and saintly relics shine:—
Instead of real sanctity of heart
They churches decorate with costly gifts:—
But reason, bursting from a sable cloud,
On a bright throne erects her regal stand,
And gives new sanctions from the voice of God,
To free the mind from superstition's reign.
Altars are dress'd, and saintly relics shine:—
Instead of real sanctity of heart
They churches decorate with costly gifts:—
But reason, bursting from a sable cloud,
On a bright throne erects her regal stand,
And gives new sanctions from the voice of God,
To free the mind from superstition's reign.
No fables, legends, dreams, or monkish tales,
Shake my firm purpose, or disarm my mind,
When duty calls to make my country free.
Shake my firm purpose, or disarm my mind,
When duty calls to make my country free.
The churches' treasures were our last resort,
And, join'd by all the matrons of my train,
In weeds of woe, and sable garments dress'd,
I kneel'd before the consecrated shrines,
And ask'd a blessing on my country's cause;
But 'twas to him whose sanction seals the claim,
Of peace and freedom to the human race,
I bow'd my soul, and rais'd my suppliant prayer,
That when a spark from chaos' womb had burst,
And light diffus'd o'er all the western world,
It might not be to gild a tyrant's car,
And make mankind the pageants of his will;
I then dismantled all the sacred shrines.
And, join'd by all the matrons of my train,
In weeds of woe, and sable garments dress'd,
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And ask'd a blessing on my country's cause;
But 'twas to him whose sanction seals the claim,
Of peace and freedom to the human race,
I bow'd my soul, and rais'd my suppliant prayer,
That when a spark from chaos' womb had burst,
And light diffus'd o'er all the western world,
It might not be to gild a tyrant's car,
And make mankind the pageants of his will;
I then dismantled all the sacred shrines.
Francis.
Hah!—durst thou venture on so bold a deed!—
Leap priestly bounds—invade the churches' rights—
Disrobe the saints, and risque the public hate!—
Maria.
Necessity must sanctify the deed.—
Francis.
Thy soul was form'd to animate the arm
Of some illustrious, bold, heroic chief,
And not to waste its glorious fire away,
Beneath the weakness of a female form.
Maria.
Men rail at weaknesses themselves create,
And boldly stigmatize the female mind,
As though kind nature's just impartial hand
Had form'd its features in a baser mould:
But nice distinctions in the human soul,
Adopted follies, or inherent vice,
May be discuss'd in calmer times than these:—
We'll reason then—if possible regain
Whatever nature, or its author gave.
But Juan waits, and fortune's on the wing:
The fickle goddess waves her glossy plume,
And holds an era in the life of man,
When all is hung suspended on his choice;
Election made, judiciously he stands
On the proud summit of all human fame;
But judgment once erroneously form'd
Oft fixes his ill fate through life's career;
While a strong current bears him down the tide,
And wrecks his peace on every ripling stream.
And boldly stigmatize the female mind,
As though kind nature's just impartial hand
Had form'd its features in a baser mould:
But nice distinctions in the human soul,
Adopted follies, or inherent vice,
May be discuss'd in calmer times than these:—
We'll reason then—if possible regain
Whatever nature, or its author gave.
But Juan waits, and fortune's on the wing:
The fickle goddess waves her glossy plume,
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When all is hung suspended on his choice;
Election made, judiciously he stands
On the proud summit of all human fame;
But judgment once erroneously form'd
Oft fixes his ill fate through life's career;
While a strong current bears him down the tide,
And wrecks his peace on every ripling stream.
The morn may smile propitious on our cause—
May make us free, or more completely slaves:—
Unrive the manacles, or drive the bolts,
And clank the shackles round the Spanish world.
Canst thou forget the soft Louisa's tears,
And chase her brother through the field of blood?
Thou, like a lion leaping on his prey,
Must aim thy javelin at De Haro's heart.
May make us free, or more completely slaves:—
Unrive the manacles, or drive the bolts,
And clank the shackles round the Spanish world.
Canst thou forget the soft Louisa's tears,
And chase her brother through the field of blood?
Thou, like a lion leaping on his prey,
Must aim thy javelin at De Haro's heart.
Francis.
Name not Louisa—I would forget she lives—
Or that she is the sister of my foe
Mistaken man!—he deprecates this war
That lights his country in a wasting flame;
But thinks the era of her freedom lost,
Since first Ximenes' artful subtile wiles,
Threw such a weight in the despotic scale,
A standing army at the sov'reign's nod,
Which makes the monarch master of the laws,
And gives at will both liberty and life.
Yet Conde Haro has a noble soul,
Nor is less virtuous than truly brave.
Maria.
Virtue must spring from the maternal line
If it adorns the Conde Haro's breast.
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Tomorrow proves him what the world reports,
And weaves a garland to adorn his brow,
Or leaves his trunk a headless sacrifice,
To stamp fresh glory on Don Juan's name.
Maria.
Go, hasten on, and not a moment lose;
Remind the soldiers of Segovia's rights—
Review the battles fought on Ebro's banks—
Assure them all is safe, if they're but brave.
The sword maintains what their forefathers won.
[Exeunt.
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