 | Poems, dramatic and miscellaneous |  |
SCENE II.
DON JUAN DE PADILLA, solus.—In Prison.Don Juan.
True dignity may acquiese in ills,
None can foresee, nor value can repel;
Meekness becomes the Christian and the man,
Nor less the hero, when his God decrees
The palm of victory to a stronger hand.
None can foresee, nor value can repel;
Meekness becomes the Christian and the man,
Nor less the hero, when his God decrees
The palm of victory to a stronger hand.
Here mimic justice rears his scaffold high—
I feel the knife already at my throat;
Death is the certain doom of all mankind—
To learn to die is an heroic work:—
But thus to die an ignominious death—
Without a trial, or the forms of law,
Pronounc'd a traitor—hurry'd from the stage—
Torn from existence as an useless worm,
By a base, vile, assassinating hand,
Fires all my soul with fury and revenge.
I feel the knife already at my throat;
Death is the certain doom of all mankind—
To learn to die is an heroic work:—
But thus to die an ignominious death—
Without a trial, or the forms of law,
Pronounc'd a traitor—hurry'd from the stage—
Torn from existence as an useless worm,
By a base, vile, assassinating hand,
Fires all my soul with fury and revenge.
148
Had I have met my fate at Villabar,
And as a soldier fell, and mix'd my blood
With the rich stream that yesterday pour'd off,
(While freedom's genius stoop'd and drop'd a tear,
And held a golden urn in her right hand,
To catch the fluid from each gaping wound,
And rear'd her altar on the field of fame;)
I'd died content, and spurn'd this nether world,
And glori'd in the deathless name I left:—
But, though tomorrow severs me from time,
My soul is firm:—I view this little globe
Hung on a single, half extinguish'd point:—
That's not the sting which barbs the hand of death,
But my Maria—my lov'd, my virtuous wife:—
Oh! could oblivion wrap her from my thoughts
Until we meet where souls are free indeed.
Enter CONDE HARO.
And as a soldier fell, and mix'd my blood
With the rich stream that yesterday pour'd off,
(While freedom's genius stoop'd and drop'd a tear,
And held a golden urn in her right hand,
To catch the fluid from each gaping wound,
And rear'd her altar on the field of fame;)
I'd died content, and spurn'd this nether world,
And glori'd in the deathless name I left:—
But, though tomorrow severs me from time,
My soul is firm:—I view this little globe
Hung on a single, half extinguish'd point:—
That's not the sting which barbs the hand of death,
But my Maria—my lov'd, my virtuous wife:—
Oh! could oblivion wrap her from my thoughts
Until we meet where souls are free indeed.
Hah! who bends this way?—the Conde Haro—
Rank cowardice in guilt's gigantic garb!—
Has victory eras'd the noble flame
Of sympathy in thine heroic breast,
That thou can'st wish, mid'st glory and applause,
To taste the triumph of infernal minds,
And thus insult e'en in the pangs of death?—
Rank cowardice in guilt's gigantic garb!—
Has victory eras'd the noble flame
Of sympathy in thine heroic breast,
That thou can'st wish, mid'st glory and applause,
To taste the triumph of infernal minds,
And thus insult e'en in the pangs of death?—
De Haro.
Far other thoughts pervade my friendly breast.
Though in the field, the king commands my sword,
My heart I give to virtue in distress.
Though warmly urg'd thy pardon or reprieve,
Velasco's will, inexorably stern,
Has fix'd the moment that completes thy date.
What can I more—to sooth thy wounded mind?
Say—dost thou wish to see thy lov'd Maria?—
Or pour a blessing on the infant head
Of thy young son, and bid a last adieu?—
Though in the field, the king commands my sword,
My heart I give to virtue in distress.
Though warmly urg'd thy pardon or reprieve,
Velasco's will, inexorably stern,
Has fix'd the moment that completes thy date.
What can I more—to sooth thy wounded mind?
Say—dost thou wish to see thy lov'd Maria?—
149
Of thy young son, and bid a last adieu?—
But if this tender scene's too big with grief,
Then write whate'er conjugal love inspires,
Or the paternal heart would wish to say:—
De Haro's honour is the pledge of truth;
I'll sacredly transmit the precious charge,
Nor shall a mortal eye profane the seals.
Then write whate'er conjugal love inspires,
Or the paternal heart would wish to say:—
De Haro's honour is the pledge of truth;
I'll sacredly transmit the precious charge,
Nor shall a mortal eye profane the seals.
Don Juan.
Too generous De Haro!—my full heart,
In tears of blood, shall mark my gratitude;
And my last breath its benediction pour
On worth—on glory—dignify'd as thine,
With all that's noble in a human soul.
But ah!—too flattering to such a wretch—
To see Maria once, is fancy'd bliss
The Deity has plac'd beyond my reach.
De Haro.
A faithful friend shall lead thee safely on,
My sword—my vest—my helmet, thy defence;
If any curious prying eye pursues,
Or asks thy errand, or demands thy name,
Pause not, nor speak, but shew De Haro's seal.
My sword—my vest—my helmet, thy defence;
If any curious prying eye pursues,
Or asks thy errand, or demands thy name,
Pause not, nor speak, but shew De Haro's seal.
But on the moment that the midnight bell
Strikes its last note, and grates thy wounded ear,
With the severest pang thou yet hast felt,
Thou must return—and when we meet again,
Then say my friend—
If one base thought has e'er deform'd my soul.
Strikes its last note, and grates thy wounded ear,
With the severest pang thou yet hast felt,
Thou must return—and when we meet again,
Then say my friend—
If one base thought has e'er deform'd my soul.
[Hurries off Don Juan in his own habit.
[Exeunt.
| Poems, dramatic and miscellaneous | |