Scene II.
Sunset on a spur of Mount Hood. Lamonte
contemplates the scene.
Lamonte.
A flushed and weary messenger a-west
Is standing at the half-closed door of day,
As he would say, Good night; and now his bright
Red cap he tips to me and turns his face,
Were it an unholy thing to say, an angel now
Beside the door stood with uplifted seal?
Behold the door seal'd with that blood red seal
Now burning, spreading o'er the mighty West.
Never again shall that dead day arise
Therefrom, but must be born and come anew.
The tawny, solemn Night, child of the East,
Her mournful robe trails o'er the distant woods,
And comes this way with firm and stately step.
Afront, and very high, she wears a shield,
A plate of silver, and upon her brow
The radiant Venus burns, a pretty lamp.
Behold! how in her gorgeous flow of hair
Do gleam a million mellow yellow gems,
That spill their molten gold upon the dewy grass.
Now throned on boundless plains, and gazing down
So calmly on the red-seal'd tomb of day,
She rests her form against the Rocky Mountains,
And rules with silent power a peaceful world.
'Tis midnight now. The bent and broken moon,
All batter'd, black, as from a thousand battles,
Hangs silent on the purple walls of heaven.
The angel warrior, guard of the gates eternal,
In battle-harness girt, sleeps on the field:
But when tomorrow comes, when wicked men
That fret the patient earth are all astir,
He will resume his shield, and, facing earthward,
The gates of heaven guard from sins of earth.
'Tis morn. Behold the kingly day now leaps
The eastern wall of earth, bright sword in hand,
And clad in flowing robe of mellow light,
Like to a king that has regain'd his throne,
He warms his drooping subjects into joy,
That rise renewed to do him fealty,
And rules with pomp the universal world.
Don Carlos ascends the mountain, gesticulating
and talking to himself.
Don Carlos.
Oh, for a name that black-eyed maids would sigh
And lean with parted lips at mention of;
That I should seem so tall in minds of men
That I might walk beneath the arch of heaven,
And pluck the ripe red stars as I pass'd on,
As favor'd guests do pluck the purple grapes
That hang above the humble entrance way
Of palm-thatch'd mountain inn of Mexico.
Oh, I would give the green leaves of my life
For something grand, for real and undream'd deeds!
To wear a mantle, broad and richly gemm'd
As purple heaven fringed with gold at sunset;
To wear a crown as dazzling as the sun,
And, holding up a scepter lightning-charged,
Stride out among the stars as I once strode
A barefoot boy among the buttercups.
Alas! I am so restless. There is that
Within me doth rebel and rise against
The all I am and half I see in others;
And were't not for contempt of coward act
Of flying all defeated from the world,
As if I feared and dared not face its ills,
I should ere this have known, known more or less
Than any flesh that frets this sullen earth.
I know not where such thoughts will lead me to:
I have had fear that they would drive me mad,
And then have flattered my weak self, and said
The soul's outgrown the body—yea, the soul
Aspires to the stars, and in its struggles upward
Make the dull flesh quiver as an aspen.
Lamonte.
What waif is this cast here upon my shore,
From seas of subtle and most selfish men?
Don Carlos.
Of subtle and most selfish men!—ah, that's the term!
And if you be but earnest in your spleen,
And other sex across man's shoulders lash,
I'll stand beside you on this crag and howl
And hurl my clenched fists down upon their heads,
Till I am hoarse as yonder cataract.
Lamonte.
Why, no, my friend, I'll not consent to that.
No true man yet has ever woman cursed.
And I—I do not hate my fellow man,
For man by nature bears within himself
Nobility that makes him half a god;
But as in somewise he hath made himself,
His universal thirst for gold and pomp,
And purchased fleeting fame and bubble honors,
Forgetting good, so mocking helpless age,
And rushing roughshod o'er lowly merit,
I hold him but a sorry worm indeed;
And so have turn'd me quietly aside
To know the majesty of peaceful woods.
Don Carlos
(as if alone).
The fabled font of youth led many fools,
Zealous in its pursuit, to hapless death;
And yet this thirst for fame, this hot ambition,
This soft-toned syren-tongue, enchanting Fame,
Doth lead me headlong on to equal folly,
Like to a wild bird charm'd by shining coils
And swift mesmeric glance of deadly snake:
I would not break the charm, but win a world
Or die with curses blistering my lips.
Lamonte.
Give up ambition, petty pride—
By pride the angels fell.
Don Carlos.
By pride they reached a place from whence to fall.
Lamonte.
You startle me! I am unused to hear
Men talk these fierce and bitter thoughts; and yet
In closed recesses of my soul was once
A dark and gloomy chamber where they dwelt.
Give up ambition—yea, crush such thoughts
As you would crush from hearth a scorpion brood;
For, mark me well, they'll get the mastery,
And drive you on to death—or worse, across
A thousand ruin'd homes and broken hearts.
Don Carlos.
Give up ambition! Oh, rather than to die
And glide a lonely, nameless, shivering ghost
Down time's dark tide of utter nothingness,
I'd write a name in blood and orphans' tears.
The temple-burner wiser was than kings.
Lamonte.
And would you dare the curse of man and—
Don Carlos.
Dare the curse of man!
I'd dare the fearful curse of God!
I'd build a pyramid of whitest skulls,
And step therefrom unto the spotted moon,
And thence to stars, and thence to central suns.
Then with one grand and mighty leap would land
Unhinder'd on the shining shore of heaven,
And, sword in hand, unbared and unabash'd,
Would stand bold forth in presence of the God
Of gods, and on the jewel'd inner side
The walls of heaven, carve with keen Damascus steel
And, highest up, a grand and titled name
That time nor tide could touch or tarnish ever.
Lamonte.
Seek not to crop above the heads of men
To be a better mark for envy's shafts.
Come to my peaceful home, and leave behind
These stormy thoughts and daring aspirations.
All earthly power is but a thing comparative.
Is not a petty chief of some lone isle,
With half a dozen nude and starving subjects,
As much a king as he the Czar of Rusk?
In yonder sweet retreat and balmy place
I'll abdicate, and you be chief indeed.
There you will reign and tell me of the world,
Its life and lights, its sins and sickly shadows.
The pheasant will reveille beat at morn,
And rouse us to the battle of the day.
My swarthy subjects will in circle sit,
And, gazing on your noble presence, deem
You great indeed, and call you chief of chiefs;
And, knowing no one greater than yourself
In all the leafy borders of your realm,
'Gainst what can pride or poor ambition chafe?
'Twill be a kingdom without king, save you,
More broad than that the cruel Cortes won,
With subjects truer than he ever knew,
That know no law but only nature's law,
And no religion know but that of love.
There truth and beauty are, for there is Nature,
Serene and simple. She will be our priestess,
And in her calm and uncomplaining face
We two will read her rubric and be wise. ...
Don Carlos.
Why, truly now, this fierce and broken land,
Seen through your eyes, assumes a fairer shape.
Lead up, for you are nearer God than I.
