University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A Battle without—the City taken by Conde Haro—Donna Maria fled to the Citadel—the little Son of Don Juan asleep on a Sofa—Maria weeping over him.
Maria.
Enter CONDE HARO.

De Haro.
O hear me once, and then pronounce my doom.

Maria.
Thy every word accumulates thy guilt,
And barbs the pointed dagger in my breast.

De Haro.
Fain would I sooth and mitigate thy grief.

[Advancing.
Maria.
O death relieve, and shroud from mortal eye—
Give my indignant soul a larger field—
It burns—it beats—it bursts—oh! give it way,
Ere it in atoms tears thy trembling frame—
This shatter'd casement opes— [Lays her hand on her breast.

Traitor, stand off—
Or, like a furious spectre, bath'd in blood,
Arm'd with the fangs of horror and despair,
It hastens on, and drags thee down to hell.

[Runs wildly across the stage.
De Haro.
Though nature works this storm of passion up,
Reason must calm, and justice hear my plea.

[Follows, and detains her.
Maria.
By force detain'd a prisoner—a slave—
Oh! heavens and earth, and gods and men relieve—
Revenge this outrage on my feeble sex!

De Haro.
Not disrespect—'tis veneration holds;—
The Conde Haro's not the guilty thing,
Thy sufferings, fate, and fortune represent.
I fought Don Juan as my duty urg'd,
Yet my heart bled when brave Padilla fell;—
Now once permit—I'll lay a bosom ope,
And bare a breast that heaven itself may read.
The purest passion had subdu'd my heart,
Before ill fortune made me Juan's foe;
O! heav'n forgive—I lov'd his virtuous wife,
And secret bore the heart corroding pangs.
I lov'd in silence—smother'd all my flame—
While honour—justice—every sacred tie,
Had made its utterance the blackest crime.

Maria.
And dost thou think to mitigate thy guilt,
Thus to torment the brave Don Juan's wife?—
To add to wretchedness—to fill up woe—
Force her to hear thy black adulterous tongue?—
Alas! the dismal croak—the voice of love
From hell's dark gloom, would less dismay than thine.

De Haro.
I wept the pangs that thy great soul must feel
When thy Padilla was my prisoner made.
Just heaven can witness what my soul endur'd
When martial law announc'd his forfeit, life—
A debt his sovereign and the state might claim.
My ear reluctant, heard the sentence pass'd,
And instant death decreed to worth like his.

Maria.
Forbear thy false dissimulating strains;
Thy tongue pronounc'd the vile inglorious doom,
That wrap'd in death the hero and the saint?
And now complet'st the measure of thy guilt,
Thus by compulsion, to detain his wife,
To hear a moment thy detested love.

De Haro.
What furious passions play in that fair breast!—

Maria.
Old time shall tell, and every age record,
Don Juan's worth, contrasted with thy guilt,
When curious eyes shall seek the mouldering tomb;
Where freedom wastes in tears beside the turf,
And points the stranger to the sacred spot,
Where death enrols her last distinguish'd son,
Urg'd to his fate by probity and zeal,
To save his country from a servile yoke.

De Haro.
I, the first witness of his merit stand—
A generous wish to save and bless mankind,
Urg'd him to glory in a devious path;
No man can tread, but on perdition's brink,
While standing armies swell the monarch's train,
And kingdoms bend, and empires own the claim,
Of mighty Charles, to keep the world in awe.

Maria.
Away, thou coward!—cringing, dastard slave!
Go fawn on kings, and boast thy prowess there;
Tell that the brave, who ne'er could meanly bend,
By cowardice were hurry'd to the block:
'Twas coward fear that hasten'd Juan's death:
As fortune play'd him once a losing game,
Thou durst not let him live another day.
Lest his good genius might have lent the means
To extricate his country and himself,
Thou'st added murder to thy list of crimes.

De Haro.
Reproach like this from any tongue but thine,
Should on itself recoil, and blast the lip
That wounds my honour—ne'er before impeach'd.

Maria.
Resent it as thou ought—I'm not afraid
Of Conde Haro's sword—strike here, assassin!
[Lays her hand on her breast
And complete thy work—dar'st thou not strike,
Who hast beheld Don Juan on a scaffold,
Breathless and pale, and as a felon die?—
Give me a sword, I'll measure it with thine,
For by the powers above, to thee I swear,
Maria lives but to avenge his death.

De Haro.
What lioness has nurs'd thy tender years?
Or can'st thou feel for every pain but mine?

Maria.
Then let me haste, and fly thy sight forever.

De Haro.
Pardon me, madam, while I urge my suit;
I have some merit—so thy Juan thought—
When grateful tears ran down his manly cheek.
I have one plea that may restore my fame.
A short adieu permitted by Velasco,
I left my tent, and hasten'd to Don Juan,
To sooth the sorrows of his noble soul,
And make the tenders of a generous friend.
'Twas his last wish—the latest boon of life,
To see thee once, before the fatal stroke,
Sever'd forever from the world's best gift:—
I, in a soldier's habit, sent him on,
As with a message from De Haro's hand,
Myself a prisoner till he should return;
As well I knew, not wealth, or crowns, or life,
Nor thy superiour charms, would tempt abuse
Of confidence thus plac'd in honour's breast.

Maria.
Immortal powers!—am I a debtor made
For the last blissful moment of my life,
To him my soul, of all mankind, abhors?

De Haro.
The debt was cancell'd when he call'd me, friend,
And bade me, with a tender, gentle hand,
Wipe off Maria's tears, and save her son,
And guard them both from peril and disgrace:
Not honour's self, or gratitude, or love,
Can plead a claim his merit don't erase.
The godlike pleasure of conferring good
On hearts so worthy, leaves me in arrears:—
I stand indebted to thy noble lord.

Maria.
To what extremes is human nature wrought!—
Can dignity and real greatness dwell,
Thus mix'd and blended, in a servile soul?—
Or hast thou seen thy error, and renounc'd
The bloody standard of the tyrant Charles?—
To make atonement to the injur'd dead,
Come, wield thy sword in a more glorious cause,
And lend thine arm to make thy country free.

De Haro.
Tempt not my loyalty, nor wound my fame.—

Maria.
If there is aught of truth or love in thee—
Hast thou a wish to see Maria more—
These are the terms from which she'll ne'er recede.
But see thy vengeful sire bends this way;—
Where shall I find an asylum for woe?

De Haro.
Live as a queen in Don Emanuel's court.
A trusty friend escorts thy son and thee
To Portugal's more hospitable shore,
Beyond the reach of Don Velasco's rage,
Till time restore thy peace, and make thee mine.

[Maria and her son hurried off the stage by De Haro's friends and guards.
[Exit.