 | Poems, dramatic and miscellaneous |  |
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.
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