University of Virginia Library

SECOND SCENE.

Sisabert enters.
Sisabert.
Uncle, and is it true, say, can it be,
That thou art leader of these faithless Moors?
That thou impeachest thy own daughter's fame
Thro' the whole land, to seize upon the throne
By the permission of these recreant slaves?
What shall I call thee? art thou, speak Count Julian,
A father, or a soldier, or a man?

Julian.
All, or this day had never seen me here.

Sisabert.
Of falsehood! worse than woman's!

Covilla.
Once, my cousin,
Far gentler words were utter'd from your lips.
If you loved me, you loved my father first,
More justly and more steadily, ere love
Was passion and illusion and deceit.

Sisabert.
I boast not that I never was deceived,
Covilla, which beyond all boasts were base,
Nor that I never loved; let this be thine.
Illusions! just to stop us, not delay,
Amuse, not occupy! Too true! when love
Scatters its brilliant foam, and passes on
To some fresh object in its natural course,
Widely and openly and wanderingly,
'Tis better: narrow it, and it pours its gloom
In one fierce cataract that stuns the soul.
Ye hate the wretch ye make so, while ye choose
Whoever knows you best and shuns you most.

Covilla.
Shun me then: be beloved more and more.
Honour the hand that show'd you honour first,
Love . . O my father! speak, proceed, persuade,
Your voice alone can utter it . . another.

Sisabert.
Ah lost Covilla! can a thirst of power
Alter thy heart thus to abandon mine,
And change my very nature at one blow?

Covilla.
I told you, dearest Sisabert, 'twas vain
To urge me more, to question or confute.

Sisabert.
I know it, for another wears the crown
Of Witiza my father; who succeeds
To king Roderigo will succeed to me.
Yet thy cold perfidy still calls me dear,
And o'er my aching temples breathes one gale
Of days departed to return no more.

Julian.
Young man, avenge our cause.

Sisabert.
What cause avenge?

Covilla.
If I was ever dear to you, hear me,
Not vengeance; heaven will give that signal soon.
O Sisabert, the pangs I have endured
On your long absence . .

Sisabert.
Will be now consoled.
Thy father comes to mount my father's throne;
But though I would not a usurper king,
I prize his valour and defend his crown:
No stranger and no traitor rules o'er me,
Or unchastised inveigles humble Spain.
Covilla, gavest thou no promises?
Nor thou, Don Julian? Seek not to reply.
Too well I know, too justly I despise,
Thy false excuse, thy coward effrontery;
Yes, when thou gavest them across the sea,
An enemy wert thou to Mahomet,
And no appellant to his faith or leagues.

Julian.
'Tis well: a soldier hears throughout in silence.
I urge no answer: to those words, I fear,
Thy heart with sharp compunction will reply.

Sisabert
(to Covilla).
Then I demand of thee, before thou reign,
Answer me . . while I fought against the Frank
Who dared to sue thee? blazon'd in the court,
Not trailed thro' darkness, were our nuptial bands;
No; Egilona joined our hands herself,
The peers applauded and the king approved.

Julian.
Hast thou yet seen that king since thy return?

Covilla.
Father! O Father!

Sisabert.
I will not implore
Of him or thee what I have lost for ever.
These were not, when we parted, thy alarms;
Far other, and far worthier of thy heart
Were they, which Sisabert could banish then.
Fear me not now, Covilla! thou hast changed,
I am changed too. I lived but where thou livedst,
My very life was portion'd off from thine:
Upon the surface of thy happiness
Day after day I gazed, I doted, there
Was all I had, was all I coveted;
So pure, serene, and boundless it appear'd:
Yet, for we told each other every thought,
Thou knowest well, if thou rememberest,
At times I fear'd; as tho' some demon sent
Suspicion without form into the world,
To whisper unimaginary things.
Then thy fond arguing banisht all but hope,
Each wish and every feeling was with thine,
Till I partook thy nature, and became
Credulous and incredulous like thee.
We, who have met so alter'd, meet no more.
Mountains and seas! ye are not separation:
Death! thou dividest, but unitest too
In everlasting peace and faith sincere.
Confiding love! where is thy resting-place?
Where is thy truth, Covilla? where? . . Go, go . .
I should believe thee and adore thee still.

[Goes.
Covilla.
O Heaven! support me, or desert me quite,
And leave me lifeless this too trying hour!
He thinks me faithless.

Julian.
He must think thee so.

Covilla.
O tell him, tell him all, when I am dead . .
He will die too, and we shall meet again.
He will know all when these sad eyes are closed.
Ah can not he before? must I appear
The vilest . . O just Heaven! can it be thus?
I am . . all earth resounds it . . lost, despised,
Anguish and shame unutterable seize me.
'Tis palpable, no phantom, no delusion,
No dream that wakens with o'erwhelming horror;
Spaniard and Moor fight on this ground alone,
And tear the arrow from my bleeding breast
To pierce my father's, for alike they fear.

Julian.
Invulnerable, unassailable
Are we, alone perhaps of human kind,
Nor life allures us more nor death alarms.

Covilla.
Fallen, unpitied, unbelieved, unheard!
I should have died long earlier. Gracious God!
Desert me to my sufferings, but sustain
My faith in thee! O hide me from the world,
And from yourself, my father, from your fondness,
That opened in this wilderness of woe
A source of tears . . it else had burst my heart,
Setting me free for ever: then perhaps
A cruel war had not divided Spain,
Had not o'erturn'd her cities and her altars,
Had not endanger'd you! O haste afar
Ere the last dreadful conflict that decides
Whether we live beneath a foreign sway . .

Julian.
Or under him whose tyranny brought down
The curse upon his people. O child! child!
Urge me no further, talk not of the war,
Remember not our country.

Covilla.
Not remember!
What have the wretched else for consolation?
What else have they who pining feed their woe?
Can I, or should I, drive from memory
All that was dear and sacred? all the joys
Of innocence and peace? When no debate
Was in the convent, but what hymn, whose voice,
To whom among the blessed it arose,
Swelling so sweet; when rang the vesper-bell
And every finger ceast from the guitar,
And every tongue was silent through our land;
When, from remotest earth, friends met again,
Hung on each other's neck, and but embraced,
So sacred, still, and peaceful was the hour.
Now, in what climate of the wasted world,
Not unmolested long by the profane,
Can I pour forth in secrecy to God
My prayers and my repentance? where beside
Is the last solace of the parting soul?
Friends, brethren, parents, dear indeed, too dear
Are they, but somewhat yet the heart requires,
That it may leave them lighter and more blest.

Julian.
Wide are the regions of our far-famed land:
Thou shalt arrive at her remotest bounds,
See her best people, choose some holiest house;
Whether where Castro from surrounding vines
Hears the hoarse ocean roar among his caves,
And, thro' the fissure in the green churchyard,
The wind wail loud the calmest summer day;
Or where Santona leans against the hill,
Hidden from sea and land by groves and bowers.

Covilla.
O! for one moment in those pleasant scenes
Thou placest me, and lighter air I breathe:
Why could I not have rested, and heard on!
My voice dissolves the vision quite away,
Outcast from virtue, and from nature too!

Julian.
Nature and virtue! they shall perish first.
God destined them for thee, and thee for them,
Inseparably and eternally!
The wisest and the best will prize thee most,
And solitudes and cities will contend
Which shall receive thee kindliest. Sigh not so:
Violence and fraud will never penetrate
Where piety and poverty retire,
Intractable to them and valueless,
And lookt at idly like the face of heaven.
If strength be wanted for security,
Mountains the guard, forbidding all approach
With iron-pointed and uplifted gates,
Thou wilt be welcome too in Aguilar,
Impenetrable, marble-turreted,
Surveying from aloft the limpid ford,
The massive fane, the sylvan avenue;
Whose hospitality I proved myself,
A willing leader in no impious war
When fame and freedom urged me; or mayst dwell
In Reÿnosa's dry and thriftless dale,
Unharvested beneath October moons,
Among those frank and cordial villagers.
They never saw us, and, poor simple souls!
So little know they whom they call the great,
Would pity one another less than us,
In injury, disaster, or distress.

Covilla.
But they would ask each other whence our grief,
That they might pity.

Julian.
Rest then just beyond,
In the secluded scenes where Ebro springs
And drives not from his fount the fallen leaf,
So motionless and tranquil its repose.

Covilla.
Thither let us depart, and speedily.

Julian.
I can not go: I live not in the land
I have reduced beneath such wretchedness:
And who could leave the brave whose lives and fortunes
Hang on his sword?

Covilla.
Me hou canst leave, my father;
Ah yes, for it is past; too well thou seest
My life and fortunes rest not upon thee.
Long, happily . . could it be gloriously!
Still mayst thou live, and save thy country still!

Julian.
Unconquerable land! unrival'd race!
Whose bravery, too enduring, rues alike
The power and weakness of accursed kings,
How cruelly hast thou neglected me!
Forcing me from thee, never to return,
Nor in thy pangs and struggles to partake!
I hear a voice! 'tis Egilona: come,
Recall thy courage, dear unhappy girl,
Let us away.