University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

THE GARDENS OF THE KING OF FEZ, BY THE SEA.
Enter some Christian captives singing, and ZARA.
ZARA.
Sing, from out this thicket here,
While the beauteous Phenix dresses;—
Those sweet songs, whose air expresses
Fond regrets; which pleased her ear
Often in the baths,—those strains
Full of grief and sentiment.—

FIRST CAPTIVE.
Can Music, whose strange instrument
Was our clanking gyves and chains—
Can it be, our wail could bring
Joy unto her heart? our woe
Be to her delight?—

ZARA.
'Tis so:—
She from this will hear you; sing.

SECOND CAPTIVE.
Ah! this anguish doth exceed,
Beauteous Zara, all the rest—
Since from out a captive's breast
(Save a soulless bird's indeed)
Never has a willing strain
Of music burst.

ZARA.
But have not you
Yourselves sung many a time?—

THIRD CAPTIVE.
'Tis true;
But then it was no stranger's pain
To which we hoped some ease to bring,
It was our own too bitter grief
For which in song we sought relief.

ZARA.
She is listening now—then sing.

The captives sing:—
Age doth not respect
The fair or the sublime;
Nothing stands erect
Before the face of time.

Enter ROSA.
ROSA.
Captives, you can now retire,
And your pleasing concert end,
For fair Phenix doth descend
To this garden, to inspire
Joy, where'er her footsteps stray:—
Coming like a second morn,
Young Aurora newly born.—

The captives go out.
Enter PHENIX, attended by her Moorish maidens, ESTRELLA and ZELIMA, &c. dressing her.
ESTRELLA.
Beauteous have you risen to-day.

ZARA.
Let the dawn, so purely bright,
Boast no more, this garden owes
To her its beauty—that the rose
Draws from her its purple light,
Or the jessamine its whiteness.

PHENIX.
The glass.

ESTRELLA.
Thou should'st not strive to find
Specks the pencil ne'er designed
In its artificial brightness.

They present her with a mirror.
PHENIX.
What does loveliness avail me,
(If, indeed, 'tis mine to vaunt it)—
If my joy of heart be wanted?—
If life's happiest feelings fail me?—

ZELIMA.
How dost thou feel?

PHENIX.
If I but knew,
Ah! my Zelima, how I feel,
That certain knowledge soon would steal
Half of the grief that pains me through:—
I do not know its nature wholly,
Although it robs my heart of gladness;
For now it seemeth tearful sadness,—
And now 'tis pensive melancholy:—
I only know, I know I feel—
But what I feel I do not know,—
The sweet illusions mock me so.

ZARA.
Since these gardens cannot steal
Away your oft-returning woes—
Though to beauteous spring, they build
Snow-white jasmine temples filled
With radiant statues of the rose,
Come unto the sea, and make
Thy bark the chariot of the sun.—

ROSA.
And when the golden splendours run
Athwart the waves, along thy wake—
The garden to the sea will say
(By melancholy fears deprest),
The sun already gilds the west,
How very short has been this day!—

PHENIX.
Ah! no more can gladden me
Sunny shores, or dark projections,
Where in emulous reflections
Blend the rival land and sea;
When, alike in charms and powers,
Where the woods and waves are meeting—
Flowers with foam are seen competing—
Sparkling foam with snow-white flowers;
For the garden, envious grown
Of the curling waves of ocean,
Loves to imitate their motion;
And the amorous zephyr, blown
Out to sea from fragrant bowers,
In the shining waters laving
Back returns, and makes the waving
Leaves an ocean of bright flowers:
When the sea too, sad to view
Its barren waste of waves forlorn,
Striveth swiftly to adorn
All its realm, and to subdue
The pride of its majestic mien,
To second laws it doth subject
Its nature, and with sweet effect
Blends fields of blue with waves of green.
Coloured now like heaven's blue dome,
Now plumed as if from verdant bowers,
The garden seems a sea of flowers,
The sea a garden of bright foam:
How deep my pain must be, is plain,
Since naught delights my heart or eye,
Nor earth, nor air, nor sea, nor sky.

ZARA.
Ah! deep, indeed, must be your pain!—

Enter the KING with a portrait in his hand.
KING.
If perchance the fever fit,
Quartan of thy beauty, let
Thee thy sadness to forget,—
This fair original (for it
Is too full of life, to be
But a picture) is the Infante
Of Morocco, Tarudante,
Who doth come to offer thee
His hand and crown; do not reprove
The ambassador who pleads his suit—
Do not doubt that he, though mute,
Bringeth messages of love:—
With favour I his wish behold,
For he hath sent to me, as liege,
Ten thousand horsemen, to besiege
Ceuta, which I long to hold:—
Let nor fears, nor vain alarms,
Nor coldness in your heart be found;
But let him soon in Fez be crowned
King of all thy beauteous charms.

PHENIX,
aside.
Protect me, Allah!

KING.
What abhorred
Terror thus suspends thy breath?—

PHENIX,
aside.
It is the sentence of my death!

KING.
What is it you say?

PHENIX,
aloud.
My lord,
My master, and my king, to thee,
My father, what have I to say?—
Aside.
What a happy chance, Muléy,
Hast thou lost! Ah! woe is me.
Aloud.
Let my silence be a token
Of my dutiful reply.
Aside.
In thinking it, my soul would lie,
My tongue would lie, if it had spoken.

KING.
Take the picture.

PHENIX,
aside.
Being desired,
My hand the hated gift hath got,
But my heart receives it not.

The report of a cannon is heard.
ZARA.
This salute, my lord, is fired
For Muléy, arrived to-day
In the Sea of Fez.

KING.
'Tis meet.

Enter MULÉY with the truncheon of a general.
MULÉY.
Give me, mighty lord, thy feet.

KING.
You are welcome home, Muléy.

MULÉY.
He who penetrates the light
Of so sovereign a sphere,
He who homeward drawing near
Finds a sun and dawn so sweet,
Well hath homeward come, indeed:—
Lady, let me kiss thy hand,
For his love and faith demand
Such reward, whose heart would bleed
To work his sovereign's least intent.
To the King.
For newer triumphs still he burns
In thy service.—He returns
More thy lover than he went.

Aside to Phenix.
PHENIX,
aside.
Heaven protect me! [To Muléy.]
Thou, indeed,
Art most welcome. [Aside.]
Life doth leave me!

MULÉY,
aside.
If my eyes do not deceive me,
Rather the reverse I read.

KING.
Well, Muléy, what news from sea?—

MULÉY.
Now thou'lt test thy suffering
Of misfortune: for I bring
Saddest news; [aside]
as mine must be.

KING.
What thou knowest, let me hear,
For a firm and constant mind
Lets both good and evil find
Equal entrance: sit thou here,
Phenix.

PHENIX.
Yes.

KING.
Let all be seated.
Now proceed thy news to tell,
Hiding nothing.

The King and ladies sit down.
MULÉY.
I, nor well
Can conceal it, or repeat it;— [aside.]

With two galliasses only,
By command, my lord, of thee,
I departed to examine
All the coast of Barbary,
With the intention of approaching
That famed city of the South,
Known of old time as Eliza,
And which nearly at the mouth
Of the Herculean strait is founded;
Ceido is its latter name,—
For this Hebrew word and Ceuta
In the Arabic are the same,
Both expressive but of beauty,
Or the ever-beauteous town,—
That fair town, that, like a jewel,
Heaven has snatched from out thy crown.
Through, perhaps, Mahomet's anger,
Through the mighty prophet's wrath,
Which, opprobrium of our valour!
Now a foreign ruler hath.
Where we tamely gape and gaze at,
Where our slavish eye-sight sees,
Floating from its topmast turrets,
Banners of the Portuguese.
'Neath our very eyes prescribing
Limits that our arms deride—
'Tis a mockery of our praises,
'Tis a bridle to our pride,
'Tis a Caucasus, which, lying
Midway, doth the stream detain;
Back thy Nile of victory turning
From its onward course to Spain.
Hither, then, I went with orders
To examine, and to see
What the form and disposition
Of the place to-day might be;
How, with less expense and danger,
You might undertake its siege.
May heaven grant its restoration
Quickly unto you, my liege!
Though it be delayed a little
By a threatened new disgrace;
For this doubtful undertaking
To another must give place,
Far more pressing and important,
Since the thousand swords and spears
That for Ceuta you have marshall'd
Must be drawn around Tangiers
For that threatened city weepeth
Equal suffering, equal woe,
Equal ruin, equal trouble—
This, my gracious lord, I know.
For one morning on the ocean,
When the half-awaken'd sun,
Trampling down the lingering shadows
Of the western vapours dun,
Spread his ruby-tinted tresses
Over jessamine and rose,
Dried with cloths of gold, Aurora's
Tears of mingled fire and snows,
Which to pearls his glance converted.
It was then that, in the light
Of the horizon, a vast navy
Rose upon my startled sight:
First (so many a fair illusion
Oft the wandering seaman mocks),
I could not determine truly
Whether they were ships or rocks;
For, as on the coloured canvass
Subtle pencils softly blend
Dark and bright, in such proportions
That the dim perspectives end—
Now, perhaps, like famous cities,
Now, like caves or misty capes,
For remoteness ever formeth
Monstrous and unreal shapes.
Thus, athwart the fields of azure,
Lights and shades alternate fly;
Clouds and waves in rich confusion,
Intermingling sea and sky,
Mock the sight with fair deceptions.
So it was, while I, alone,
Saw their bulk and vast proportions,
Though their form remained unknown.
First they seemed to us uplifting
High in heaven their pointed towers,
Clouds that to the sea descended,
To conceive in sapphire showers
What they would bring forth in crystal.
And this fancy seemed more true,
As from their untold abundance
They, methought, could drink the blue
Drop by drop. Again, sea-monsters,
Seemed to us the wandering droves,
Which, to form the train of Neptune,
Issued from their green alcoves.
For the sails, when lightly shaken,
Fanned by zephyrs as by slaves,
Seemed to us like outspread pinions,
Fluttering o'er the darkened waves;
Then the mass, approaching nearer,
Seemed a mighty Babylon,
With its hanging gardens pictured
By the streamers floating down.
But, although our certain vision
Undeceived, becoming true,
Showed it was a great armada,
For I saw the prows cut through
Foam, that, sparkling in the sunshine,
Like the fleece of snow-white flocks,
Rolled itself in silver mountains,
Curdled into crystal rocks.
I, so great a foe, beholding,
Turned my prow with utmost speed,
For a timely flight doth often
But to quicker victory lead—
And from being more experienced
In those seas, the entrance made,
Of a little creek, where, hidden
In the shelter and the shade,
I could best resist the powerful
Fury of a power so vast,
Which sea, sky and earth o'ershadowed;
Without seeing us, they passed:—
I, desiring to discover
(Who would not desire to know?)
Whither did this great armada
O'er the darkened ocean go—
Once again my anchor weighing,
Sought the blue sea's level plain,
And full knowledge, in this manner,
Heaven permitted me to gain:—
For I saw, of this armada
But one ship remained behind,
Which with difficulty struggled
With the warring wave and wind:
Since, as afterwards was told me,
From a tempest which had blown
Over all the fleet, it issued
Rent, disabled, and o'erthrown;
And so full of water was she,
That the men that worked thereat,
Scarcely baled her out, and reeling
Now on this side, now on that,
Seemed, with every fluctuation,
On the point of going down.
I approached, and though my Moorish
Garb and colours made them frown,
Still my company consoled them,
For companionship in woes
Ever gives alleviation,
Even though it be a foe's.
The desire of life arising
So provoked the hearts of some,
That by ladders made of twisted
Cords and cables, did they come
To our ship, although a prison;
But the rest, resisting, cried,
“Life is but to live with honour!”—
Proof of Portuguese vain pride!—
One of those who left the vessel
Thus informed me in detail:
Lately, thus he said, from Lisbon
Did the great armada sail
For Tangiers: and its heroic
Resolution seems to be,
To besiege it with such valour,
That upon its towers you'll see
The five shields, you see at Ceuta
Every time the sun doth rise.
Edward, Portugal's great monarch,
Whose renown of conquest flies
As on wings of Roman eagles,
Has sent thither to preside
Over them his own two brothers,
Fernando and Enrique,—pride
Of this age, which early sees them
Crowned with conquest: and each chief
Is Grand Master both of Avis
And of Christ: in white relief
On their breasts they bear two crosses,
One of green, the other red;
Fourteen thousand is the number
Of the paid troops, thither led—
Without mentioning the many
Volunteers, that with them serve,
At their own expense; a thousand
Are the steeds—whose fire and nerve,
Mixed with Spanish mettle, clothe them
With the tiger's glossy skin
And the swift foot of the panther:—
Now perhaps they enter in
Tangiers' waters,—at this moment,
If its shore they have not made,
They at least cleave through its waters:
Let us hasten to its aid:
You yourself, your arms assuming,
Mahomet's dread scourges bear—
And the brightest leaf it carries,
From death's mystic volume, tear:—
That this day may be accomplished
That brave prophecy of yore—
Of the Moors, which says, 'tis destined
That upon the sandy shore
Of our Africa, the glory
Of the crown of Portugal
There its hapless grave must meet with.
And these proud invaders shall
See thee, as thy curved sword waveth
O'er each prostrate foeman's head,
Turn the fields, both green and azure,
With their gushing hearts—blood red.

KING.
Silence! do not speak the rest,
For my heart such wrath is feeling,
That each word is like the stealing
Of strong poison through my breast:
Graves amid the deserts yonder
I will ope, by sure disasters,
For the Infantes, those Grand Masters
Who have hither dared to wander:—
You, Muléy, along the coast
With a troop of horse depart,
And by every means that art
Can devise, engage the host
In such skirmishes of skill
That they cannot make the land
Until I can be at hand:—
And in doing so, you will
Show the blood that fills your veins.
I shall follow with all speed,
And the gallant rear-guard lead
Of the troops that fill these plains:
Thus, to-day, my many cares
And quarrels shall in one combine,
For great Ceuta shall be mine
And Tangiers shall not be theirs.

Exit.
MULÉY.
Though I must depart, yet I,
Lady, first would let thee hear,
Since my death approacheth near,
The malady with which I die.
And although my jealous fear
Disrespectful seem to thee,
Since my disease is jealousy,
Courtesy must disappear.
What picture—(ah! fair enemy!)
Is this thy beauteous fingers bear?
What is his happy name?—declare,
This favoured being, who is he?
But no; let not thy tongue eclipse
The pain thy touch hath made me bear;
Since in thy hand I see him there,
Thou needst not name him with thy lips!

PHENIX.
Although, Muléy, thou hast from me
Leave to love and to attend me,
Thou hast not any to offend me.

MULÉY.
'Tis true, fair Phenix, yes, I see
That this is not the mode or style
Of speaking to thee; but the skies
Know, when jealous thoughts arise
Respect is overborne a while.
With utmost caution—secret pride—
I've hid the passion that I feel;
But, though my love I could conceal,
My jealousy I cannot hide—
In truth I cannot.

PHENIX.
Though thy crime
Deserves not to be satisfied,
Still, will I, through wounded pride,
Satisfy thee this one time.
Friends their friendship ne'er should lose,
When a word might keep it still.

MULÉY.
And wilt thou speak the word?

PHENIX.
I will.

MULÉY.
God grant thee ever happy news!

PHENIX.
This picture has to me been sent.....

MULÉY.
By whom?

PHENIX.
His Highness the Infante
Of Morocco, Tarudante.

MULÉY.
And why?

PHENIX.
It seems with this intent,—
My father, being ignorant
Of my feelings ....

MULÉY.
Well?—

PHENIX.
Pretends
That their realms ....

MULÉY.
Is this the amends,
The satisfaction, thou dost grant?—
God grant thee evil news instead!—

PHENIX.
Why for a fault must I atone
That was my father's act alone?

MULÉY.
For taking, though he left thee dead,
This picture as a willing bride?

PHENIX.
Could I prevent it?

MULÉY.
Yes, 'tis plain.

PHENIX.
How?

MULÉY.
Some excuse thou well couldst feign.

PHENIX.
What could I do?

MULÉY.
Thou couldst have died,
As I would gladly do for thee.

PHENIX.
'Twas force prevailed.

MULÉY.
A mere pretence—
'Twas fickleness.

PHENIX.
'Twas violence.

MULÉY.
Nor violence.

PHENIX.
What could it be?

MULÉY.
Absence has been my hope's dark tomb;
And since I cannot be secure,
Nor fix thy changing fancy sure,
I must return and meet my doom.
Thou wilt return, fair Phenix, too,
Once more to grieve me to the heart.

PHENIX.
We now must separate: depart....

MULÉY.
My soul first separates in two.

PHENIX.
Thou to Tangiers, and I shall wait
In Fez—to hear thee make an end
Of thy complaints.

MULÉY.
And I'll attend,
If I am spared till then by fate.

PHENIX.
Adieu! for it is heaven's decree
We taste this bitter parting's woe.

MULÉY.
But listen—wilt thou let me go,
Nor give that portrait up to me?

PHENIX.
'Twere thine but for the king's request.

MULÉY.
Release it—justice doth demand
That I should pluck from out thy hand
Him who has plucked me from thy breast.

Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—THE SEA-COAST NEAR TANGIERS. Amid the sound of trumpets and the noise of disembarking, enter DON FERNANDO, DON ENRIQUE, DON JUAN COUTIÑO, and Souldiers successively from their ships.
FERNANDO.
I must be first, fair Africa, to tread
Upon the sandy margin of thy shore;
That as thou feelest on thy prostrate head
The weight of my proud footsteps trampling o'er,
Thou may'st perceive to whom thy sway is given.

ENRIQUE.
I am the second whom the swift waves bore
To tread this Africa!
He stumbles and falls.
Preserve me, Heaven!
Even here my evil auguries pursue.

FERNANDO.
Let not, Enrique, thy stout heart be riven
By fancied omens, as weak women do;
This fall should waken hopes and not alarms.
The land a fitting welcome gives to you,
For, as its lord, it takes you to its arms.

ENRIQUE.
The sight of us the Moorish herd appals,
And they have fled, deserting fields and farms.

JUAN.
Tangiers has closed the gates around its walls.

FERNANDO.
They all have fled for safer shelter there.
On you, Don Juan, Count Miralva, falls
The duty of examining with care
All the approaches of the land, before
The sultry sun, o'ercoming with its glare
The temperate dawn, oppress and wound us more.
Salute the city; call on it to yield;
Say 'tis in vain to squander human gore
In its defence; for though each conquered field
Ran red with blood, and burning blew the wind,
And 'neath our tread the tottering ramparts reeled,
We still would take it.

JUAN.
You will quickly find
I'll reach its gates, although, volcano-like,
With thickest clouds it strikes the bright sun blind,
And lightnings flash and bolts around me strike!

Exit.
Enter BRITO.
BRITO.
Thanks be to God! that April and sweet May
Once more I walk on, and that, as I like,
Without unpleasant reelings and dismay
I go about upon the solid ground.
Not as just now at sea, when, yea or nay,
Within a wooden monster's caverns bound,
Though light of foot I could not get away
Even when in greatest fear of being drown'd.
So little weary of the world am I,
O dry land, mine! obtain for me, I pray,
That I may never in the water die,
Nor even on land till near to the last day.

ENRIQUE
(to Fernando).
Why dost thou listen to this fool?

FERNANDO.
And why,
Against all reason, dost thou persevere
In vague forebodings and unreal grief!

ENRIQUE.
My soul is full of some mysterious fear;—
That Fate frowns darkly is my fixed belief;
For since I saw fair Lisbon disappear,
Its well-known heights fast fading one by one—
Of all the thoughts that haunt me Death is chief!
Scarcely had we our enterprise begun,
Scarce had our ships commenced their onward chase,
When, in a paroxysm, the great sun,
Shrouded in clouds, concealed his golden face,
And angry waves in foaming madness wreck'd
Some of our fleet. Where'er I look I trace
The same disaster;—O'er the sea project
A thousand shadows;—If I view the sky,
Its azure veil with bloody drops seems fleck'd;—
If to the once glad air I turn mine eye,
Dark birds of night their mournful plumage wave;—
If on the earth, my fall doth prophesy
And represent my miserable grave.

FERNANDO.
Let me decipher with affectionate care,
And so your breast from dark forebodings save,
These fancied omens from earth, sea, and air:
'Tis true we lost one ship amid the main;
That is to say, that we had troops to spare
From the great conquest we have come to gain.
The purple light that stains the radiant sky
Foretels a day of jubilee, not pain.
The monstrous shapes that round us float or fly,
Flew here, and floated ere we came; and thus
If they reveal a fatal augury,
It is to those who live here, not to us.
These idle fancies and unfounded fears
Came from the Moors, so darkly credulous,
Not from the enlightened minds of Christian seers.
Those who believe in them may feel alarms,
Not those who shut them from their doubting ears.
We two are Christians; we have taken arms,
Not through vainglory, nor the common prize
With which young Fame the soldier's bosom charms;
Nor that, perchance, in deathless books, men's eyes
Hereafter read of this great victory.
The faith of God we come to aggrandise;
Whether it be our fate to live or die,
Be His alone the glory and the praise.
'Tis true, we should not God's dread vengeance try
Too rashly; but his anger knoweth ways
To curb the proud, and make the haughty bend.
You are a Christian; act a Christian's part:
We come to serve our God, and not offend.
But who is this?—

Enter DON JUAN.
JUAN.
My lord, obeying
Your commands, I sought the walls;
And when crossing o'er the mountain,
Where the sloping verdure falls,
I beheld a troop of horsemen
Riding by the road to Fez—
Riding with such wondrous fleetness
That the startled gazer says,
Are they birds, or are they horses?
Do they fly, or do they bound?
For the air doth not sustain them,
And they scarcely touch the ground.
Even the earth and air were doubtful
If they flew, or if they ran.

FERNANDO.
Let us hasten to receive them,
Placing foremost in the van
Those who bear the arquebusses;
Let the horsemen next advance,
With the customary splendour
Of the harness and the lance.
On, Enrique! fortune offers
Now a noble opening fight.
Courage!

ENRIQUE.
Am I not thy brother?
Nothing can my soul affright,
Nor the accidents of fortune,
Nor the countenance of death!

Exeunt.
BRITO,
alone.
I must somehow act the soldier,
And keep guard upon—my breath!
What a very noble skirmish!
How they spill their blood and brains!
It is best, from under cover
To survey this “Game of Canes!”—

Exit.

SCENE III.

—A charge is sounded: enter DON JUAN and DON ENRIQUE, fighting with the Moors.
ENRIQUE.
After them! The Moors already,
Vanquished, from the fight have flown!—

JUAN.
Spoils of mingled men and horses
Over all the fields are strown.

ENRIQUE.
Where has wandered Don Fernando,
That he cannot be descried?—

JUAN.
Doubtless his impatient valour
Leads him onward far and wide.

ENRIQUE.
Let us seek him out, Coutiño,

JUAN.
I am ever at thy side.

Exeunt.
Enter DON FERNANDO with the sword of MULÉY, and MULÉY with his shield alone.
FERNANDO.
In this desolate campagna,
Where, devoid of sense or breath,
Lie so many dead, or rather
In this theatre of death,
You alone, of all your people,
You alone, brave Moor, have stood:
All have fled, and even your war-horse,
After shedding seas of blood,
'Mid the dust and foam encircled,
Which it raised, and which it laid,
Leaves you here to be a trophy,
By my valorous right-hand made,
'Mid your late companions' horses,
Loosely flying o'er the ground.
I am prouder of this conquest,
Which to me doth more redound,
Than to see this broad campagna,
As with bright carnations crowned;
For so great has been the flowing
Of red blood on all around,
That my eyes, through deepest pity,
At beholding naught but dead—
Naught but ever new misfortunes—
Naught but ruins round me spread,—
O'er the desert plain went seeking
One green spot amid the red.
In effect, my arm subduing
Your courageous strength to mine,
'Mid the horses loosely flying,
One I seized, who was, in fine,
Such a prodigy, a wonder,
That, although he had for sire
Even the wind, his proud ambition
Claimed adoption of the fire;
Falsely thus, by both denying
His own hue, which being white,
Said the water, “'Tis the offspring
Of my sphere so silver white.
I alone could thus have moulded
Such a form of curdled snow!”
Like the wind he went in fleetness,
Lightning-like flashed to and fro;
Like the swan his dazzling whiteness,
Speckled like the snake with blood,
Proud of his unrivall'd beauty,
Fearless in his haughtier mood;
Full of spirit in his neighing;
In his fetlocks firm and strong,
In the saddle, on his haunches,
You and I thus borne along—
On a sea of blood we entered,
Through whose cruel waves we steered,
Like an animated vessel,
For his head a prow appeared,
Breaking through the pearl-hued water.
And his mane and tail did float,
Blood and foam besprinkled over,
So that once again a boat,
Wounded by four spurs, he bounded,
As if heaven's four winds impelled;
He at length fell down exhausted
By the Atlas he upheld;—
For so great are some misfortunes,
That even brutes themselves must feel,
Or it may be, that some instinct
Through his softened soul did steal,
Saying, “Sad Arabia journeys,
And with joy departeth Spain;
Can I then betray my country,
Swelling the proud conqueror's train?
No, I do not wish to wander
One step farther from this spot.”
And since thou thyself art coming
In such sorrow, though 'tis not
By the mouth or eyes acknowledged,
Still the smothered fire appears,
Of the bosom's hid volcanos,
By those flowing tender tears;
And the burning sighs thou heavest,
Wonderingly my valour views,
When I turn me round, how fortune
With one single blow subdues
Valour such as thine. Another
Cause, methinks, must sadden thee;
Since it is not just nor proper,
Even though for liberty,
That the man should weep so fondly,
Who so heavily can wound;
And, as in communicating
Evils, there is ever found
Something soothing to the feelings,
While we to my people go,
If I merit such a favour,
My desire is now to know,—
And with reason it entreats it,
Gently and with courtesy,—
What doth grieve thee? since 'tis certain
'Tis not thy captivity.
Sorrow, when communicated,
Is appeased, if not subdued,—
And since I have been the occasion
Partly of what hath ensued
From the accident of fortune,
I would wish to be likewise
Prompt in bringing consolation
To the cause of all thy sighs,
If the cause itself consenteth.

MULÉY.
Thou art truly valiant, Spaniard,
Victor both in act and word,
With the tongue as skilled to conquer,
As to conquer with the sword;
For my life was thine, when lately
With the sword my race among,
You subdued me, but this moment,
Since you take me with the tongue,
Even my soul is thine; with reason
Must my life and soul confess
They are thine, and thou their master.
For your arms and your address,
Cruel now, and now too clement,
Twice my soul have captive made.
Moved with pity to behold me,
Spaniard, you the cause have prayed
Of the burning sighs I'm breathing.
And although I own that woe,
When repeated, is accustomed
To grow lighter, still I know
That the person who repeats it
Wisheth that it should be so;
But my woe is such a master
Of my pleasures, that to keep
Them from any diminution,
Though itself be wide and deep,
It would rather not repeat it;
But 'tis needful I obey;
Grateful for the care you've shown me.
I am called the Cheik Muléy,
And the King of Fez's nephew.
Of an illustrious race and high,
Boasting many a Bey and Pasha.
But misfortune's son am I;
Being on life's early threshold
Folded in the arms of death,
On that plain, where many Spaniards
Found their graves, I first drew breath;
Hopeless boon to me that breathing!
For at Gelves, which you know,
I was born the year that witnessed
There, thy nation's overthrow.
To attend the King my uncle,
Came I young,—but since increase
Day by day my pains and sorrows,
Cease enjoyments, wholly cease!
I to Fez came, and a beauty,
Whom since then my wondering eye
Worshipped, in the house adjoining
Lived, that I might, near her, die.
From the early years of childhood,
(For this love of mine became
Soon so constant, Time was powerless
To consume or quench its flame,)
We grew up beside each other.
Love within our childish hearts
Was not like the rapid lightning,
Which with greater fury darts
On the tender, weak, and humble,
Than upon the proud and strong;
So that he to show the varied
Powers that to love belong
Struck our hearts with different arrows;
But as water in its course
Dropping down on stone, doth mark it,
Not indeed through its own force,
No, but by continual falling,
So those tears of mine, for aye
On her heart's-stone downward dropping,
Finally did work their way
To it, though than diamond harder.
And by dint of constant love,
And through no excelling merits,
Finally did make it move.
In this state I lived a season,
Oh! how swift has been its flight!
Tasting, in their sweet aurora,
Many an amorous delight—
In an evil hour I left her,
Left her! more I need not say,
Since in my absence came another
Lover, all my peace to slay;
He is happy, I am wretched.
He is present, I away.
I a captive, he a freeman.
Ah! our fates how different,
Since your arm hath made me captive,
See how justly I lament.

FERNANDO.
Valiant-hearted Moor and gallant,
If thou adorest in this way,
If, as thou speakest, thou dost worship
If thou dost love as thou dost say;
If thou art jealous as thou sighest,
If thou dost fear with true dismay,
If thou dost love as thou dost suffer,
Thou sufferest in the happiest way,
And the acceptance of thy freedom
Is all the ransom thou must pay,
Return at once unto thy people,
And this unto thy lady say,
“That thou dost take me as thy servant,
A knight of Portugal doth pray;”
If she pretends her obligation
For this, to me, some price must pay,
I give to thee whate'er is owing,
So let her love the debt repay.
And thine be all the arrears of interest.
And see thy horse, which lately lay
Exhausted on the ground, hath risen
Refreshed and rested by our stay;
And since I know love's longing nature,—
How ill the absent brook delay,
I wish no longer to detain thee,
Mount on thy steed and go away.

MULÉY.
My voice to thee, doth answer nothing;
The flattery of a liberal heart
Is the acceptance of its offer:
Only tell me who thou art?

FERNANDO.
A man of noble birth, no further.

MULÉY.
Whoe'er thou art, thy conduct gave
This answer: I, through good and evil,
Am eternally thy slave.

FERNANDO.
Take the horse; it groweth late.

MULÉY.
If it appeareth so to thee,
How more to him who came a captive,
And to his lady goeth free?

Exit.
FERNANDO.
'Tis generous to bestow a favour,
How much more, life?

MULÉY,
within.
Brave Portuguese.

FERNANDO.
'Tis from the horse's back he speaketh;
What is it now that thou dost please?

MULÉY,
within.
To pay thee for so many favours,
Some day the duty shall be mine.

FERNANDO.
May thou enjoy them!

MULÉY,
within.
A good action
Is never wholly lost; in fine,
Allah be thy protection, Spaniard!

FERNANDO.
If God be Allah, be he thine!
Trumpets resound from within.
But what trumpet's this, whose sound
Thus disturbs the air, and echoeth o'er the ground?
Drums from the opposite side.
And in this direction too
Drums are heard, the music of the two
Is that of Mars.

Enter DON ENRIQUE.
ENRIQUE.
As swift as thought,
Have I, Fernando, for thy presence sought.

FERNANDO.
Brother, what hath happened?

ENRIQUE.
These loud echoes
Rise from the troops of Fez, and from Morocco's,
For Tarudante hither flies
With succour to the king of Fez, who comes likewise,
Swollen with pride with all his troops around,
So that two mighty armies ours surround,
And their circling lines extend so far,
That we invaders and invaded are;
If upon one we turn our backs,
Badly we'll bear the other's fierce attacks,
For here and there around our leagured line
The dazzling lightnings of red Mars outshine:
What shall we do in such disastrous plight?

FERNANDO.
What? Why in the fight,
With fearless minds, we'll die as brave men should.
Are we not Masters?—Princes of the blood?
Although it were enough that we had been
Two Portuguese, that never could be seen
Upon our faces any mark of fear:
Let Avis, then, and Christ our Saviour dear,
Be our resounding battle-cry,
Let us for the faith now die,
Since our death was here foreseen.

Enter DON JUAN.
JUAN.
Our landing here has most unlucky been.

FERNANDO.
This is no time to think of means gone by,
Upon our swords alone for help let us rely,
Since we betwixt two armies' loud alarms
Are placed—Avis and Christ!—

JUAN.
To arms! to arms!

They enter with drawn swords. Sounds of a battle are heard.
Enter BRITO.
Since betwixt two armies we
Are placed, there is no human remedy.
What a scurvy speech is this!
Would that the key that locks the realms of bliss
In yonder sky, would open but a chink,
Through which securely a poor wretch might slink
Who hath wandered to this spot,
Nor knoweth wherefore or for what;
But I will pretend to die,
Hoping, hereafter, death will pass me by.

He lies down on the ground.
Enter a Moor fighting with DON ENRIQUE.
MOOR.
Who is it that thus his breast defendeth
Against my arm, which like a bolt descendeth
From the fourth sphere of the skies?

ENRIQUE.
One who, though he stumbles, falls, and dies
Upon his fellow Christian's corses,—
Dreads no living foeman's forces,—
For who I am, let this be said.

They walk over BRITO and exeunt.
Enter MULÉY and DON JUAN COUTIÑO in conflict.
MULÉY.
Valiant Portuguese, to see
Thy strength so great doth grieve not me,
For I would wish that thou shouldst gain
The victory to-day.

JUAN.
Oh! bitter pain,
Without consideration do I tread
Upon these corses of the Christian dead!—

BRITO,
aside.
I would let him pardoned be,
If my lord would lightlier tread on me.

Muléy and Juan exeunt.
Enter DON FERNANDO retiring before the KING and the Moors.
KING.
Yield thy sword, brave Portuguese,
If my hand alive can seize
And keep you captive, I do vow
To be thy friend: say, who art thou?

FERNANDO.
A cavalier: no more reply
Expect to hear: now let me die!—

Enter DON JUAN and places himself by his side.
JUAN.
First, great lord, my breast will be
A diamond wall to shelter thee,
Placed before thee in the strife
I still will guard thy princely life.
Now, my Fernando, by thy deeds declare
The race of which thou art the heir.

KING.
If this I hear, what more do I expect?
Suspend your arms!—no happier effect
From this day's glory any more can be,
This prize is victory enough for me:—
If you must die, or else a captive be,
Accept the sentence given by fate's decree:
Thy sword, Fernando,—give it up to me,
The King of Fez.

Enter MULÉY.
MULEY,
aside.
Ah! who is this I see?—

FERNANDO.
Only unto a king's hand would I loose it:
Indeed, 'twere desperation to refuse it.

Enter DON ENRIQUE.
ENRIQUE.
Is my brother taken?—

FERNANDO.
Do not thou,
Enrique, add to my misfortune now
By your lamenting. Fate high lessons grants,
Even in the common accidents of chance.

KING.
Enrique, in my power
Lies Don Fernando, and although this hour,
Showing the vantage I have won
I could command your deaths; yet, as I've done
Naught to day, but in my own defence,
I can the easier with your blood dispense,
Since to me survives
A wider fame, by sparing of your lives;
And that you [to Enrique]
may bring
With greater speed his ransom from the king,
Do you return: but in my power
Fernando stays, until doth shine the hour
That you return to set him free:—
But say to Edward, that will never be,
That vain are all entreaties and demands,
Till Ceuta is surrendered to my hands;—
And now, your Highness, my illustrious foe,
To whom that greatness I shall owe,
Come to Fez with me.

FERNANDO.
I go
To that sphere, whose rays I follow here below.

MULÉY,
aside.
Must I ever mourn,
By friendship's ties, and love's suspicions torn!

FERNANDO.
Enrique, though a prisoner here,
Nor fate, nor fortune's malice do I fear:
Say to our brother, be thou of strong heart,
And firmly act a Christian prince's part
In my misfortunes.

ENRIQUE.
Who is so unjust,
That would his magnanimity distrust?

FERNANDO.
This again I charge you, and I say,
Let him act the Christian.

ENRIQUE.
I obey,
And vow full early to return as such.

FERNANDO.
Let me embrace thee.

ENRIQUE.
Is it not too much
That thou a captive still new bonds dost take?

Folds him in his arms.
FERNANDO.
Adieu, Don Juan.

JUAN.
I will not forsake
My gracious prince, so drive me not away!

FERNANDO.
O loyal friend!

ENRIQUE.
O most unhappy day!

FERNANDO.
Say to the king......but no, 'tis better say
Nothing; in silence, which my grief doth smother,
Bear thou these tears unto the king, my brother.

Exeunt.
Enter two Moors, who see BRITO lying as dead.
FIRST MOOR.
Here is a Christian lying dead.

SECOND MOOR.
Let us, lest a plague should spread,
Throw these corses in the sea.

BRITO,
starting up.
First your sculls must opened be
By such cuts and thrusts as these;
For, even dead, we still are Portuguese.

Exit, pursuing them with his sword.