University of Virginia Library

MINA, A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

1. PART I.

Scene—The Rancho del Venadito, on the hacienda of Tlachiquera, near the city of Guanaxuato, in New Spain. Time—evening and the night succeeding. Mina seated by an open lattice, and Rosario, his page, dimly seen at the extremity of the room.
MINA.
In this lone mansion of my youthful friend,
Don Mariano, will I rest awhile
From war's tumultuous turmoil and the rage
Of sanguinary horrors, and forget
For some brief space, 'mid nature's still repose,
The miseries of nations. O thou blest Spirit,
Immutable, eternal Liberty!
Thy home is on the mountains and thy sons
Must toil and bleed to gain thy holy shrine,
And break the tyrant's sceptre and bestrew
Their gory pathway with the murderous tools
Of fiendlike dominance;—their midnight couch
Must be the cold damp earth—their bosom friends
The full-charged carabine and sheathless brand,
And the wild cries of forest animals
Or lone responses of tired sentinels,
Their broken slumbers' lullaby. The roar
Of enfiladed musquetry—the clash
Of gleaming sabres, and the shrieks and shouts
Of onset, triumph, agony and death,
Must be the softest accents that awake
The patriot soldier from his tented bed,
And break his feverish dreams of distant loves.
But, oh! where breathes the base degenerate wretch
Who dares not vindicate the holy laws
Of all presiding nature, trampled on?
Who crouches at the tyrant's beck and does
The tyrant's bidding on his suffering peers,
Hath lost the privilege of man and sunk
Nature below her just prerogative.
Where'er one man by conquest or descent
Doth lord it o'er his fellows, and usurp
Power from the nation, who alone may rule,
There let the patriot rise in wrath and hurl
The despot to the dust from which he sprung.
For thee, O heaven descended goddess! thron'd
In man's expanding soul e'en at his birth,
The pride, the glory of his being—long
And deeply hath my heart in silence bled.
Torn from life's best affections—from the love
Of mother, kindred, friend—and, more than all,
Of her who was the birth-star of my fate—
I have devoted my best years to thee:
But now awhile I may count back the links
Of fortune's cankered chain—and trace the clue
Of being through the sufferings and the woes
Of ever-varying destiny, till again
I may behold in memory's light the scenes
Of other days. Alas!

ROSA.
My lord, did'st call?

MINA.
No, good Rosario; dastard nature seeks
To play the tyrant, and perchance I shrunk
A moment from my spirit's dignity.
Prisoned in gross material substance oft
The heav'n-born soul will droop beneath the weight
Of its vast energies, and leave the heart
Sole lord of all its powers; but now 't is past,
The encroaching weakness.—But thy fragile frame,
My little page, unused to war's rude life,
And wasting toils and dangers imminent,
Claims due repose; for me, since early youth
The starred heaven hath been my canopy,
The rock or heath my bed; and I have slept
Among blood-dripping banners, shattered arms,
And corses not yet cold in death, so long
That 't is a luxury, unknown for years,
To slumber 'neath a roof;—guerilla chiefs
Not often find a rancho for the night.
Go to thy slumbers, lovely boy!

ROSA.
My lord,
Can I do nought to serve thee—nought to give
Relief to thy fatigued and war-worn frame,
That may assist thy tranquilizing sleep?
Could I but soothe thy spirit into soft
Repose or by most fearful venture find
An opiate for thy heart, I should indeed
Be blest—oh, more than blest, my dearest lord!

MINA.
Thou art a faithful and sweet boy; but what
Canst thou, with all thy tenderness and kind
Observance, do to heal a broken heart
Or still the torrent of a warlike soul?
Canst thou allay the anguish of the past
Or kindle hope into fruition?—On
Thy youthful brow there hangs the solemn shade
Of something ill by-gone; and canst thou pour
Balm o'er a bosom robbed of all its joys?
Thou well mayst turn away when such a task,
Beyond all skill of mortal surgery,
Is set before thee.

ROSA.
Good my lord, didst say
Thy heart was robbed of all its former joys?

MINA.
Ay, thus I said in bitterness; I was
So happy once, it poisons all my speech
To tell my present sorrows. Wouldst thou know,
Rosario, all the pleasures of my youth
And all my past enjoyments—go and ask
The Alpine solitudes of bold Monreal,
The groves that skirt the vallies of Navarre,
The cliff-arched grottoes of the Pyrenees,
And many a bower of bliss that blossoms yet,
And all will tell the tale. But what avails
Weak reminiscence? I have wedded war—
War for the rights of man, and holy bands
Have hallowed my espousals—o'er crossed swords
The irrevocable vow hath soared to heaven,
And deeds have stamped it with the seal of fate,
Unchangeable as Deity! Let the past
Sleep in the unfathomed ocean of the soul
Amid the wreck of glorious things, till time
And chance and change no more have influence
O'er man's fresh budding hopes—to blast and wither!
But why so sad and pale, Rosario?

ROSA.
A thought passed o'er my mind, as thou didst speak,
And I unwittingly upon my brow
Did picture it—but now 't is gone.

MINA.
It was
A thought of gloom: I may reciprocate
Thy generous offering now and seek the cause
Of sorrow in thy soul; perchance, my fate
May teach thee moral warfare with the foes
That make the heart their battlefield, while thou
Art day by day familiar with the strife
That nature's children wage for liberty.
Thou well dost know that this my warring life
Suits not the feelings of my heart; had Spain
Been other than a dungeon of despair,
Contending hosts had never known my name.

ROSA.
I thought, my noble lord, of thy bold deeds
Of high emprise, and as I followed on
From great to greater—from Marina's walls
To San Gregorio, I could but think,
Had'st thou in either of thy battles fall'n,
How many eyes the story of thy fate
Had filled with bitter tears; how many hearts
Writhed in deep anguish at thine early doom!

MINA.
Thanks for thy friendly thought; but why forestall
What fortune's chances may too soon achieve?
Or why imagine, were I gone, no chief
More worthy would be left to wage the war?

ROSA.
But, Signor, thou ere while didst speak of loves;
Their hearts would surely bleed if thou wert gone.

MINA.
There thou art certain and thou well may'st be.
Yes, many would bewail me—many weep
And mourn awhile and then resume their smiles;
There is but one who never would forget
Or cease to sorrow for the daring chief
Who fell on foreign strand; but she's afar
And dead, perchance—away! thy boding speech
Would make a dastard of immortal Mars.
Go, bear my best affection to our host,
The gallant Mariano, and desire
The chief for converse of avail and high
Import to meet me here ev'n now; and then,
Rosario, seek thy couch and court repose,
Drowning thy fancies and thy fears alike.

ROSA.
Be heaven the guardian of my noble chief!

MINA.
Amen, my little page! good-night, Rosario!
(Exit Rosario.)
So he hath gone, poor boy! his gentle heart
Owns not the warrior's ardour in the rage
And havoc of conflicting elements;
But, oh, how often hath he soothed the last
Dread moments of the soldier's agonies—
Stanched the deep wound, allayed the burning thirst,
Composed the bloody pillow, raised the head
Delirious with anguish, and with soft
Assuasives lulled the fevered pulse! How oft,
Bent o'er the gory bed, hath he upheld
The blessed crucifix before the eyes
Of dying patriots and warmly breathed
Their parting orison when o'er them came
The shadows of untravelled worlds—the deep
Darkness that wraps the spirit in the vale
Of cold obliviating death, where yet
Chaos maintains its old dominion dire.
I fondly love that sad mysterious youth.
Until this eve he hath been silent—watched
My wants and answered to my wishes ere
Articulated; ever by my side,
In thoughtful silence he hath glided on,
Searching for foes and warning their approach
Long ere they came. So much devotion flows
From some o'ermantled cause, beyond the grasp
Of calculating thought—but I will search—
Enter Don Mariano.
Friend of my youth, I greet thee well! 't is long
Since the wild waves of desolating war
Sundered our fortunes, but again we meet
The same as in the antique halls and towers
Of venerable Saragossa.

MARIANO.
Ay, the same,
Or more, O lion-hearted chief! thy praise
Fills every heart that feels for human weal,
And every tongue breathes eloquence when thou
And thy achievements are the inspiring theme.
Eternal glory and undying fame—

MINA.
Beshrew thy present speech, my noble friend,
And cull thy words more carefully. It ne'er
Doth appertain to principles of true
And genuine liberty thus to o'erween
The simplest acts of duty; freedom's sons
Should never mimic royal pageantries,
Nor deal in adulation, nor indulge
In undue forms of reverence to those
Whose names are heralded by bugle-horns,
The eternal order of revolving worlds
Is simple as sublime; let man's applause,
When due, be the still look of gratitude!

MARIANO.
Disclaim, with such high terms and looks sincere,
The extorted homage of the world, and thou
Might'st reign in every human heart, the lord
Of mind—an empire tyrants ne'er enslaved.

MINA.
Thy pardon, Signor! but I wished to speak
Of things essential to the present weal
Of myriads. Thou know'st the nature close,
Subtle and envious of Torres' soul;
How by most guileful artifice he worked
My misadventures in the vicinage
Of Sombrero; and how, when Linan drew
His lines of siege round San Gregorio,
And threatened ruin to the coward priest,
He violently retained my choicest troops
To guard his Reverence; and sent me forth
With clowns undisciplined and unobeying,
To urge the siege of Guanaxuato. There,
First deed of shame that e'er befel me—there
Disgrace frowned on my once victorious banner!
But I'll not think of that discomfiture,
For I would yet preserve my reason clear.
Now for thy counsel—thou art wise in war;
Abide we here or seek the open plains
Of ever-blooming Silao?

MARIANO.
No foes
Can thread yon deep barrancas unbeheld,
And none dare force the pass that intervenes
Us and Orrantia; therefore danger seems
Afar from thee and thy guerilla band
For a brief time; thou canst augment thy strength
In silence here, and burst upon the foe
Again in all thy terrors when he sleeps
In lethargy of fancied safe repose.

MINA.
So be it then; Orrantia I despise
Ev'n as the Pyrenean huntsman doth
The spectre-haunted hind; 't would better fit
The pampered parasites of ruthless power
To play the matador, than thus to lead
Things human to the war of sacrilege.
The dastard cravens dare not wield the brand
In manly fight, but steal behind and stab
I' the darkness—and if by the sheerest chance
They seize a prisoner, straight they bear him on
To the camp's centre and display their valour
In cruel slaughter of a pinioned man:
Mother of God! it is beyond the calm
Endurance of my nature to behold
Such demons triumph in a nation's wrongs.

MARIANO.
Heaven speed the day when they shall meet the doom
Their cruelties have earned. But, noble chief!
Or if thou wilt, good friend! 't is time that thou
Should'st woo thy needful rest.

MINA.
Thou dost not err,
For well thou know'st the soldier's wakeful nights.
But first I'll post videttes upon yon cliffs
To guard contingencies. 'T is ever thus;
Our safety must be bought with others' danger,
And their's with ours; peace cannot reign below
With holy liberty, but men will sigh
For dignities beyond the common lot,
And spurn the holiest laws, and trample down
The highest principles of things to gain
The privilege of being cursed by broken hearts
With all the bitterness of hopeless woe.

MARIANO.
When I think o'er thy sufferings and thy deeds,
My noble friend, since last we met, I scarce
Can reason wonder to belief of fact.

MINA.
The warrior's course is like the boiling torrent,
Roaring and flashing through tumultuous scenes,
Till the uncertain fountain disappears.
Come, Signor, we will tread the camp of death
Again together; 't is perhaps the last
Meeting of two oppressed and injured men
Whose boyhood passed in words and acts of love.

2. PART II.

Scene—A grove in the rear of the Patriot camp, before the Rancho del Venadito.
MINA
—solus.
Since waking thought doth mar my quiet sleep
With dreams of horror and strange visionry
Of coming ill, 't is fitting that I watch
And meditate in silence on the ways
Of changeful destiny. There is a gloom
Unwonted on my heart; my nature's spirit,
Erst active, vigilant and unsubdued
By danger in most dread extremity,
Doth listen now to fancy's whisperings
And the half-uttered oracles of dreams.
Dim visionary shapes around me flit
Like shadows of futurity, and seem
To hold dominion o'er my cowering soul,
As 't were their right to tyrannize. Unused
Am I to all fantastic visitings
Of wild imagination, working on
The temporary ills of human life
And turning petty woes to agonies.
I will disrobe my spirit of the spell
Of fancy's wizardry by converse high
With things aërial, and so forget
These dark presentiments and auguries
Of gathering sorrows.—On this lovely grove
How softly gleams the waning moon! the leaves
Dance in the autumnal night-breeze pure and fresh,
And gleam in dewy radiance as they turn
Their silken texture to the glimmering light,
And breathe such music as the spirits of air
And water love to drink; and stillness sleeps
Upon the verdured earth and azure heaven,
Like holy thoughts of heavenly love within
The cloistered vestal's bosom.—But, alas!
Man's warring passions blot the fairest scenes
Of heaven's creation; and his curst ambition
Corrupts and desecrates all human rights
And natural prerogatives, till the slave
Robes him in panoply of dire revenge,
And rushes forth to deeds of wo and death.
And thus doth grief turn every lovely sight
And sound in heaven and earth to its own mood,
Desponding, dark and desolate. The world
Wears just the hue the spirit's robed withal,
And is not gay or gloomy in itself.
His heart is man's world, and as that is full
Of joy or sorrow, so doth nature seem
Or dark or beautiful. Ah, me! how sad,
Whene'er the warrior sinks into the man,
Appears this penal planet, where hopes, fears,
And loves and agonies forever war!
How little know the multitude that hail
The conquering chieftain in the pride and pomp
And power of victory, and send his name
In shouts triumphant o'er the echoing skies—
What sorrows in his bosom's inmost core
Dwell—silently corroding life away!
The most exalted deeds that ever blazed
Amid the trophies of immortal fame,
Have sprung from woes that sought relief and found
Alleviation in the loud uproar
And rage and slaughter of embattled armies.
Oft from the dun obscurity of life
Driven by hopeless passions, men have gone
Forth to the spirit-stirring field of blood,
And raised proud monuments, on which their names
Live 'mid the eternal blazonry of fame,
From individual sorrow, when the world
Weened all their greatness sprung from purest thoughts,
Or patriotic or aspiring. Deep
Within the human breast unseen, the seeds
Of actions lie; the first growth of our thoughts
And feelings none can trace—beneath the veil
Of motives undefinable they spring
And flourish into being unbeheld;
'Tis only when they shoot up full and strong
That their existence is perceptible;
And then as they bear fruitage, good or bad,
Beholders cultivate or check their growth.
Discharging duty, I have blessed myself,
And, while absorbed in general misery,
Forgot my own. Rosalia's love hath been
The exciting cause of my most famous feats
In this exterminating war, though power
Tyrannic forced me to the battle's shock.
But now, amid this moonlight grove, my love!
I'll think of thee in silence!

Enter Rosario, suddenly.
ROSA.
O, my lord!

MINA.
How now, my little page! why thus abroad,
Searching me out amid this lonely wood,
Not rather using the dear privilege
Of undisturbed repose, so seldom granted
To any of our troop?

ROSA.
I could not sleep!
My soul was harrowed up by fearful dreams
And visions of such dread import, I rose
And fled to shield me from their influence
To thy forsaken room; but thou wert gone,
My lord, and so I wandered forth to seek thee.

MINA.
Well, my sweet boy! sit down upon this knoll,
And tremble not so fearfully—thou wilt
Ne'er fail to find in me a guardian friend,
Ready to shield thee from worse foes than dreams.

ROSA.
O, my dear lord—oh, wilt thou never leave me?
How thy words gladden my affrighted heart!

MINA.
Why this emotion?—dost thou doubt my faith?
Or think thou hast just cause for gratitude
For that protection which each soldier claims
From me by right of service 'neath command?

ROSA.
No—yes—my lord! I thought that thou—indeed
I know not what I thought—but I hoped—

MINA.
What?
Thou seem'st in strange bewilderment; but tell
The dream that shook thy soul with such affright,
And I will be the prophet of thy visions,
And from thy fancy's revellings will draw
Such sage revealments of approaching joy
As shall dilate thy thrilling heart with rapture.

ROSA.
My dream was vision, and I saw two forms,
A youth and maid, reposing in a grove
Of flower-wreathed citrons, bordering a bright
And beautiful lagoon, and they did seem
Each other's heaven, so vividly their eyes
Gleamed in their hearts' light, so rapturous fond
Was every look, so passionate, and yet
Pure was their long communion of delight.
How blissful was their being! paradise
Could never bless faith's fondest votaries
With more ecstatic rapture. They appeared,
As thus they sat within that bowering grove,
Holding the eloquent converse of the heart,
Like two young seraphs who were twins in soul,
Whose every thought was melody. I watched
The lovers long; and, oh, how happy thus
Locked in each other's fond embrace, must be,
I said and sighed, those two congenial spirits!
That vision fled—the grove, the lake—were gone—
The lovers parted. In a distant land
Of sky crowned mountains and of ocean streams,
I saw the youth, in martial garb arrayed,
I' the van of a few high souled soldiers move
Undaunted through the phalanxed ranks of foes
Unsparing in their power, and like a god,
Bear victory upon his morion's plume.
I had not long beheld him glorying so
When by his side I saw the well-loved maid,
In stranger guise and aspect masked, with fond
Devotion following the uncertain track
Of him—the idol of her love—

MINA.
Strange dream,
Rosario—thy vision is most marvellous.
Go on—I hold my heart in deep observance.

ROSA.
The youthful hero through entangling snares
And guileful ambuscades and perils dire
Kept on his path of glory, and by love,
Stronger than death, upheld 'mid scenes of blood,
That agonized her soul, the gentle maid
Went on, the unknown companion of the chief;
Her sole delight to see him—hear him speak
Counsel to rashness—ardour to the weak—
Hope to despondency—to traitors death—
And watch the serpent wiles of coward foes
And blast them yet unformed. O, to be near
Her warrior-love and see his generous heart,
Unhardened by his wrongs, expand with true
Philanthropy e'en to his enemies—
'Twas holier bliss than all his private love!

MINA.
Thou seem'st, enthusiast, in thy wondrous dream,
To have beheld the secret springs of thought
And loneliest founts of feeling, well as deeds
That silently in wild meanders flow.

ROSA.
Ay, my good lord—thou dost surmise aright,
Such was my vision—but I'll tell thee all.
The youth and maid again each other knew,
And loved as in the springtime of their hearts,
Though changing years had passed; but as I watched
Fondly once more their mutual loves, I saw
A serpent wreathe his intertwisted folds
Around them as they sat, and strain his coil
Envenomed to its utmost dreadful power;
I heard their shrieks—their dying sobs—I heard
The sundering of their crushed and broken frames!
—My spirit fainted in its agony,
And, struggling in my terror, I awoke
And flew to thee, my own dear lord, for help.

MINA.
A story of romance clothed in a dream!
Methinks, howe'er, thy maid was passing bold
Thus to adventure in the ranks of war.

ROSA.
How could I stay in peace—enjoying all
The sweet delights of life save love, when thou
Wert borne upon the hurricane of war,
With none but mercenary hands to serve
Thy wants or soothe thy sufferings! How—

MINA.
Hark!
Rosario, heard'st thou that appalling shout?

ROSA.
I heard a hollow sound, my lord, as 't were
Voices commingled with the tramp of steeds;
Perchance, 't was but the gaunt wolf's midnight cry
Or wandering tread of trooping chargers—

MINA.
Hark!
Again! 't is some nocturnal fray—'t is base
Orrantia ambuscading round our camp—
The royal robber—the vindictive fiend
Who riots in the brave man's agonies.
We are betrayed by Torres—he did swear
Revenge when I denied his right to sack
And burn an unoffending pueblo—ah!
He hath not yet forgotten our duello
In earlier days, regarding Garza's child,
The beautiful Rosalia. Let him come
Within the compass of my Toledo,
And he and treachery will part for ever.
Away, Rosario! loose thy hold—I'll go
And smite the midnight bandit to the dust.
Dost hear me, boy? begone!—there—hark, again!
By heaven! thou well maintain'st thy hold—but thus
I free me! Now—

ROSA.
O Xavier, Xavier, stay!
Rosalia bids thee stay!

MINA.
Rosalia!

ROSA.
Yes!
Have this wan brow—these pale and hollow cheeks
No traces left of her thou once did'st love,
And oft hast named this melancholy night?
Hath my voice lost by use of foreign tones
Its well-known notes? O Xavier, look not thus
Wildly in doubt upon thine own—own love!
Say—dost thou know me now?

MINA.
O my sweet love!
Let my heart speak in throbs of eloquence
The holiest affection of my soul,
Since words are vain to give my feelings meaning!

ROSA.
Thou wilt not leave me, Xavier?—no, 't is not
In thy kind nature to forsake me now.
Come, sit upon this velvet-tufted lawn,
And I will tell thee all my wanderings
And chance escapes and wondrous masquerades,
In such a garb of speech as shall light up
Thy face with smiles even if hot briny tears
Were gushing from thy eyes. Come, dear love, come!

MINA.
Not now, Rosalia! Thou art more to me
Than aught, save honour, 'neath yon holy dome!
But slaughter rages—midnight massacre
Shrieks for the avenger. Hark! the deadly clash
Of sabres reeking with hearts' blood; the cries
Of leaguer'd patriots echoing through the sky,
And summoning their chief! I must be gone.
O dearest love—thou fondest, truest, best!
Let me from thy last looks endearing draw
Valour invincible to stem the shock
Of merciless Orrantia—courage such
As only they can feel who war for right
Eternal and unchangeable, linked with love
Whose light irradiates eternity.
Rosalia, be this kiss—and this—and this—
Pledge of my love, my honour and my faith.
Farewell! detain me not—I must be gone—
Farewell! till victory weaves thy bridal wreath.

Exit.
ROSA.
—sola.
Alas!—and why alas? Hath he not gone
To prove his fond devotion to my love
By strict fulfilment of his duty, faith,
And spotless honour? O, I love him more
The less he heeds my womanhood of soul
When glory tears him from my arms! From heaven
Angels look down on nothing that so much
Assimilates material things to pure
Intelligences, as when man surmounts
His selfish nature and in duty's cause
Scorns low indulgence of his own desire.
I would again encounter all the toils
And sufferings and perils I have past
Since last I saw the mountains of Navarre,
To witness such a hero in the best
And holiest cause that ever sanctioned war,
As that dear youth, who spurns the encroaching power
Of private feeling at the warning voice
Of liberty—the life of life—the soul
Of soul to man below. And yet, ah, yet
A dread hangs o'er my heart—an omen dire
Shadows my spirit that I ne'er shall see
The conquering chieftain in his pride again.
—Jesu Maria! what a yell of death!
On the still air of night come screams and shouts
And shrieks of agony and trumpet blasts,
And short, quick orisons and curses fell,
And notes of loud command and rallying cries,
And thunder of dread musquetry, and groans
Dreadful—commingled in one horrid mass
Of rending sound! Amid yon glaring fires
Of death, dark forms are grappling in the mad
Struggle of desperation; there they tug
And strain and stab and wield the clotted brand,
Horseman to horseman in the latest strife
That either foe will wage: and there—oh, there
Upon his coal-black steed, through fire and smoke,
O'er dead and dying, Mina hurtles on
Mid bristling lances, bayonets and brands,
Like the death-angel, while the Vive el Rey,
Where'er he moves, becomes the loud, the wild,
The joyful Viva la Republica!
Ah, he hath vanished from my wondering eye
On his career of victory, but still
His voice in louder tones above the noise
And din of battle like a clarion rings.
I'll look no more—my hero-love will come
Soon from the field of glory and receive
His own loved maid. I see an armed band
Approaching now like victors and their plumes
Wave in the morning twilight as they come
Careering on, like harbingers of good
Tidings to me—O Xavier! they are here.

Enter Don Pedro Negrette and soldiers.
PEDRO.
A delicate warrior, by the mass! no doubt
The sage of sages in the council-hall
Of conquering Mina! Art thou well prepared
To hail the victor from his glorious field
Of slaughter, and to chant triumphal songs
In honour of his name, O prophet-boy?
Guards! seize the rebel youth and onward wend
To Don Francisco's central camp, where soon
The wisdom of the beardless wizard will be shown
And proved—if in his art abides the power
To avert his master's or his own sure fate.

ROSA.
O Virgin Mother! have my fears come true?
Is Mina vanquished? May the eternal ban
Of heaven rest on the traitor Torres!

PEDRO.
Ha!
Thou art a very prophet, but thy curse
Falls harmless on the corse of Padre Torres.

ROSA.
O jubilate! Mina is avenged!
His own tried sabre clove the traitor's brain!

PEDRO.
Prophet again! thou soon wilt know the art
Of ruling traitors—onward to the camp!

3. PART III.

Scene—The camp of Don Francisco de Orrantia, the royal commander. Don Xavier Mina and Officers, prisoners, pinioned and manacled.
FRANCISCO.
So, Traitor! justice claims its own at last!
Audacious rebel to the best of kings!
In what close-woven mail of hardihood
Could'st thou infold thy conscious soul to dare
The vengeance due to most abandoned guilt,
Thou renegado robber? When we laid
With righteous arm thy base assassin horde
I' th' dust beneath our conquering chargers' hoofs,
And thou alone fled'st from our dreadful might,
Did never vain repentance of thy crimes
Torture and madden thee? Did'st never feel
How impotent was all thy wrath and rage
Against the anointed monarch of the Lord?
Answer, bold rebel! ere the stroke of fate
Fall like a thunderbolt upon thy head!

MINA.
That I do answer suits my own desire
To tell thee what thou art—not thy command.
First to thy charge—I glory in a name
Which countless heroes by their blood have hallowed;
The wreathing incense of the eucharist
Is not more holy than the deeds of him
Who toils and bleeds and welcomes perils dire
That he may disenthral the sons of God
From murderous tyranny. Next thy quest—
My panoply through all this war hath been
An unstained spirit, resolute and free—
An uncorrupted heart that throbbed with love
To God and man, and longed to see mankind,
Unfettered by the tyrant's shackles, soar
To that proud station guaranteed by heaven
When first the sun burst on their infant eyes.
And next, thou tool of power! thy boastful vaunt—
Shall such as thou of war and victory prate?
Or boast of battles? 'Twere enough to call
The Cid from his long slumbers in the tomb
To hear thee talk of prowess! I have seen
Thee and thy thousands scattering like a flock
Of vultures when I sent El Giro forth
With one poor score of Creole peasantry,
Armed scarcely with a lance! Reserve thy vaunts
Orrantia, till thy mercenary troops,
Confiding in the might of multitudes,
Do that thou would'st not dare to do ev'n now,
Chained as I am!—Ay, writhe and foam and stamp,
Thou guilty coward! Wear thy haughtiest looks
And prate of bloodiest battles as thou wilt,
But, by the rood! the veriest boor that e'er
Battled beneath my banner's crimson shade,
Would with the flashing of a carbine fright
Thy soul into annihilation. Now
I've done with thee for ever, and with those
Who sent thee forth to massacre and burn.
I dare thee to the compass of thy power!
Death hath too long been my companion—now
To dread the shadows of another world.
For one score years and five I have desired
To do what laws or human or divine
Enjoined in justice; if I've erred and sinned
In passion's heat, the account remains with Him
Who made me—not with thee nor thy dread king.
Now take my dying words—and note them well—
Thy sovereign is a tyrant—Spain a den
Of slaves, to madness driven by fiends like thee,
Who batten on a dying nation's blood.

FRAN.
There is my answer to thy rebel speech.

(Strikes him.)
MINA.
Inglorious wretch! is this Castilian honour?

Enter Don Alva Argensola, mariscal de campo.
ALVA.
It ill befits a son of Spain, my lord,
Idly to look upon a deed so far
Beneath Hispania's martial character
As stroke of sabre on a pinioned man,
And he a prisoner.

FRAN.
Keep thy counsel, sage!
And leave my presence!

ALVA.
When it suits my will.
I quail not at thy frown, proud chief! I hold
Authority from higher powers than thee.

FRAN.
Leave me or ere I speak again, proud rebel!
Else—

ALVA.
Rebel—ha!—Don Pedro!

(Enter Pedro.)
PEDRO.
Well, my lord!

ALVA
, (aside.)
The youthful prisoner thou just hast seized
Bear thou in most observant courtesy
To yonder holy convent dimly seen
Of San Lorenzo; place thy tender charge
Safe in its holy walls—then point thy march
With all my powers toward Victoria's camp,
Boquilla's citadel. I'll meet thee there.
See it be done anon.

PEDRO.
I shall, my lord!

(Exit.
FRAN.
What meant thy silent converse?

ALVA.
Honour.

FRAN.
Ha!
Brief as the Spartan—bold as guilt; beware!

ALVA.
I shall beware of those who dare o'erstep
Humanity's prerogatives and laws
Of nations; threats from him, howe'er, who knows
No better using of his sword than on
A fettered captive, weigh not much with me.
I wait thy orders, be they such as man
Can execute.

FRAN.
Retire and call the guard!
(Exit Alva.
Now, Xavier Mina, for thy treason death
Instant awaits thee! Padre Buenventura
Will shrive thee of thy crimes as priests are wont,
Then righteous justice will exact its own;
Save that thou wilt accept Fernando's good
Indulto and thy troops array beneath
The royal standard.—Hear'st thou mercy's voice?

MINA.
I hear the voice of cowardice and shame;
I hear a voice that trembles at its own
Commands; the voice of him who dreads the sound
Of death; of him whose bones will lie i' th' sun
Bleaching or ere my corse is cold, if yet
A patriot breathes in this ensanguined land.

Re-enter Don Alva and guard.
FRAN.
Take yon base traitor outward of the camp
Fronting the convent and despatch him there.

ALVA.
Hath he been sentenced by the laws to die?

FRAN.
Dar'st thou discourse on my commands? My will
Is law not subject to appeal.

ALVA.
With slaves
It may be—not with me. All men have rights
Sworn to them by society when first
They enter on the world, and all may claim
Their native privilege; none can deny
Their just demand except by forfeiture
Of their own safety. Be the peril thine,
If the Count Mina fall unheard, unjudged,
Before his country's stern tribunal!

FRAN.
And mine it shall be!—and the peril thine
To answer bold infraction of the laws
Of war, ere yonder sun's last crimson beams
Fade from the western horizon. Away!
Bear on the traitor to the field of fate—
The pleasure's mine to certify his death.

(Exeunt
[To the arena before the convent; a stake in the midst to which Mina is bound—soldiers preparing for execution. Francisco approaches with a blinding cap; and at the same time a shriek is heard from the convent, and Rosalia is seen at a grated window, gazing wildly on the scene below.]
MINA.
Away! I've looked on death too long to fear
What man can do; no mortal power shall cloud
My eye till expiration's shadows dim
Its fire; it shall not close upon the earth
Until it flashes on eternity.
What shriek was that? ha!—soldiers—'t is the last
And only wish I e'er shall speak—be sure
Your aim err not—and let your signal be
My last word—Now!

(They fire—he falls.)
ROSA.
O God! O God! he's dead!

FRAN.
So perish traitors! Take ye careful note
That life be utterly extinct, and word
All your averments with perspicuous art—
Then leave the unhallowed corse for vultures' food.
And make ye close inquest whence came that shriek
Of horror, and from whomsoe'er it came,
Straight bring the rebel to my camp.—And now
For potent Alva.

(Exit.
FIRST SOL.
Comrade, is he dead?

SEC. SOL.
Ay, the great chief hath gone! My trembling heart
Knocked 'gainst my ribs as 't would have rung a knell
For the great hero; how he stood and looked
And spake the death-word! Dost thou think our chief
Would dare a score of carbines so?

FIRST SOL.
Canst tell
Where is Don Alva?

SEC. SOL.
In the patriot camp
Of Count Victoria ere this hour of doom.

FIRST SOL.
Will follow, comrades?

ALL.
Alva is our chief!

SEC. SOL.
Lift then the hero's corse within the walls
Of holy San Lorenzo, where due rites
Will hallow the great warrior's burial;
Then follow on Don Alva's way and make
Report through all the land that Mina lives,
Devoted still to liberty and vengeance!

(Exeunt.
ROSA.
(Embracing the body of Mina, surrounded by the sisterhood and monks.)
Ah, he hath gone!—the great, the lovely one,
Even in his pride of fame! The voice that spake
Victory to nations in their glorious strife
For freedom—and to me in softest tones
Most holy love—is hushed for ever more!
His early hopes of quiet happiness—
Life's sweet affections and domestic joys,
In youth he quitted to subserve the cause
Of those who bled for freedom; long he warred
For liberty not his own—long he bore
Unmurmuring all the perils and the wants
Of march, encampment, siege and battle—what
Hath been the hero's recompense? His good
Deeds and pure thoughts all turned against himself!
O world! base world! thou changest at a breath
Virtue to vice, heroes to fiends, and heaven to hell.
The Holy One was scoffed and buffetted
And mocked and beat and crucified! To Him
Who was a Man of Sorrows while he dwelt
Incarnate, and, O Holy Virgin! unto thee,
In penance for the past, do I devote
My melancholy days; and here in lone
Seclusion o'er thy grave, my warrior-love!
I will revere thy memory, howe'er
Traduced and vilified by wicked men;
Thy name shall be the theme of all my thoughts,
The spell-word of my orisons; for long
As high heroic deeds and virtues, pure
As snow in upper air, shall claim regard,
The wise, the great, the good of humankind
Will chant the praises of the gallant Mina!
Ye holy men! now bear the glorious chief
To his last resting-place beneath yon lines
Of cypresses and near his tomb I'll rest
From all the feverish passions of the world,
Its cares, its sorrows and its calumnies,
With you, O holy virgins! From your shrine
My penitential prayers shall rise what time
The midnight tapers burn, and holy spirits
Delighted hover o'er the perfumed altar!
And, when the soul disrobes itself of clay,
With sacred rites and high observances,
Ye will my body lay not far from his
Who loved and fought and bled and died in vain!

INVOCATION.

SONNET.

Born in convulsions, nursed in grief and pain,
And doomed in childhood to endure the spite
Of hate long hoarded—earth had no delight
For me in all her ways of mirth—no strain
To soothe my heart; no charm to chain my sight;
No spell of pleasure and no hope of gain;
But all was bleak and dreary as the reign
Of scowling winter, robed in endless night;
Yet I have seen the world and known it well—
Its hopes, fears, follies, crimes—and I have been
The brother of affliction, and each scene
Of fate, though varied, still was miserable;
But I have learned to know myself and bow
Humbly to Him, who doth my sorrows know.

SONNET.

The man who feels the majesty of Mind,
And the omnipotence of Intellect,
But little recks of vulgar disrespect
And all the railings of a world unkind;
They pass him by e'en as the winter wind
Passes the towering ever-verdant pine,
Howling but harmless;—from the affluent mine
Of his proud spirit, by still care refined,
Issue ethereal riches—worthier far
Than if his earlier thoughts had wrought him fame,
And all had wreathed with fragrant flowers his name;
Triumphing thus o'er folly's fools, his star
Gathers new glory and his soul new powers,
Until he revels in Fame's heavenly bowers.

THE EVENING STAR.

THE SON OF GENIUS.

THE PROPHET'S MALISON.

TO LUZELLE.

RHIGAS.

SONNET.