University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Near Toledo.
DON JUAN DE PADILLA and DON FRANCIS.
Don Francis.

Don Juan de Padilla.
Methinks some languor hangs about thy steps,
Too like despair, though not alli'd to fear;
When virtue arms, and liberty's the prize,
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,
And self degraded, wear the badge of slaves.
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,
To teach him what from man to man is due.
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.