University of Virginia Library

SCENE THIRD.

DONNA ISABELLA, DONNA LEONORA, DONNA ELVIRA, BLANCHE.
D. LEONORA.
What news brings Blanche, with that astonish'd look?
Is my Son found?

BLANCHE.
No, Madam! no!—

D. ISABELLA.
What agitates thee thus?

BLANCHE.
O cruel fate!—Oh! Why did Carlos stay?

D. ISABELLA.
Speak! What of Him?

BLANCHE.
Dishonour'd! and undone!

D. ELVIRA.
Dishonour'd, Blanche!—Carlos dishonour'd?—
It cannot be!

BLANCHE.
His Father is arriv'd—
A peasant Shepherd is the Sire of Carlos.

D. ISABELLA.
Who told thee this?

BLANCHE.
I saw their meeting, Madam!
And all the court is witness to the fact.

D. ISABELLA.
I scarcely know to credit thy report.

D. ELVIRA.
Ah! fortune, how unjust!

D. ISABELLA.
Unjust indeed!
Is this great soul and virtue so sublime,
Sprung from a beggar's race?—What then is blood?
If Carlos, He, whose high, heroic worth
Deserves the Throne, his prowess oft has guarded,
Was in a cottage born, from shepherd parents?
Has Manrique's blood, or my own royal stream,
E'er form'd a hero that transcends this Carlos?
And, though he sprung in an ungenial soil,
His vigorous soul throve midst its scanty nurture,
And pair'd with princes nurs'd by fortune's hand.

D. ELVIRA.
And must this true-born Eagle be disdain'd,
Because his aërie was not plac'd on high?
Men should take rank, not from their birth, but virtue.

D. ISABELLA.
But how did Carlos bear this sad reverse?

BLANCHE.
Oh! with deep anguish, and exalted courage.
Along the audience-hall he graceful walk'd,
And, ever and anon, with courteous speech,
Check'd the false rumour, as he pass'd the crowd:
But all your court was bent to change his name;
And murmur'd round, “Don Sancho, Prince of Arragon.”
When a poor, mean, old, man, in shepherd's garb,
Burst through your guards, and clasp'd him in his arms.
“Why didst thou leave me in my age?” he cried.
Carlos turn'd pale; then blush'd from pride and shame.
But duty triumph'd, and the hero wept;
He clasp'd his aged Parent to his breast;
And “O my Father!” “O my long-lost Son!”
Echo'd responsive, midst their sighs and tears.

D. ISABELLA.
Disdainful of his birth, he loves his Sire;
Nature and Virtue, rule his noble soul.

BLANCHE.
Though strange to tell, these cries of grief and joy
Were disbeliev'd. The court around them gather'd,
And this poor, peasant Shepherd, spite of Carlos,
Is deem'd dishonest, torn from his arms,
And roughly treated. 'T is a cheat they cry,
A dark impostor, by the Counts suborn'd,
To throw disgrace on Carlos, and excuse
Their proud refusal of the proffer'd combat.

D. ELVIRA.
'T is surely so!

D. ISABELLA.
We must examine this;
And, if the Counts be guilty, they shall find,
Such malice sins beyond a Prince's mercy.

BLANCHE.
The Counts themselves deserve your admiration;
With pains this incredulity they strengthen,
And generously attest the whole a cheat.
Not, Madam! that they take this mean, low malice
Upon themselves; but they declare, that one
Of their domestics is the guilty author;
Who, hoping thus to please them, has instructed
This poor, mean wretch, how to affront brave Carlos.
Each, with avidity, believes this tale;
The Counts, to gain more credence to their story,
Have caus'd this aged man to be imprison'd.

D. ISABELLA.
What must we think of this?

BLANCHE.