■S^-yy 'M*, 
 
 rr -v^

 
 .•fclf».
 
 f-
 
 i
 
 GEBIR, 
 
 COUNT JULIAN, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, ESQ. 
 
 LONDON : 
 EDWARD MOXON, 64, NEW BOND STREET. 
 
 183L
 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, 
 BOUVKRIE STRBET.
 
 
 TO 
 
 FRANCIS GEORGE HARE, ESQ. 
 
 Dear Hare, 
 
 There are people who speak to 
 many what they wish a single one in particular to 
 hear : I am now speaking to a single one what I 
 wish to be heard by many. 
 
 It was at your persuasion, and through your 
 attention, that I publisht my Imaginary Conver- 
 sations; most of which, unless you had animated 
 and excited me, would have remained for ever 
 
 a2
 
 IV DEDICATION. 
 
 \iiitiiiisht. Accei)t this volume, wliicli, if it has 
 no olhci- uoitli, at leasst enables me to make this 
 acknowle(l<rement of my regard for you. 
 
 My works have been commended by you 
 frequently. Be assured that your company lias 
 ^iven me at least as much pleasure, and a plea- 
 sui'e, 1 hope, more often to be renewed. If the 
 writings of your friend are ill received by the 
 public, be consoled by having in your own family 
 more persons distinguisht for literature than any 
 other in England. To say nothing of yourself, 
 (for you have some vanity, and I would not tickle 
 it), your two brothers stand high among the orna- 
 ments of our Universities. Before them went 
 your father, and your great-grandfather, the Ship- 
 leys, Sir W. Jones, and lately Reginald Heber, 
 bishop of Calcutta, the prudent and liberal man, 
 the wise and witty, the convivial and inoffensive,
 
 DEDICATION. V^ 
 
 and than wliom none ever died more extensively 
 lamented, none more deeply by the friend and the 
 scholar, by the indigent and the afflicted, none 
 with better liopes by all the religions and the 
 good. 
 
 Believe me. 
 
 Dear Hare, 
 
 Yonrs faithfully, 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 Florence, Janunnj 1, 1827.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Gebir was written in my twentietli year. 
 Many parts were first composed in Latin ; and 
 I doubted in wliieli language to complete it. 
 I had lost the manuscript : finding it four years 
 after in a box of letters, I reduced it nearly 
 to half, inserting a few verses in some places 
 to give it its proportions. Count Julian is 
 rather a dialogue than a drama, and ne^-er was 
 offered to the stage. The Poems on the Dead 
 occupy but little of the reader's time, and are 
 placed here to gratify my feelings.
 
 Vin PREFACE. 
 
 There are many thing's iu this vohime of 
 little weight and value : the only reason why 
 they are collected is, that more, and worse, 
 either written by me in youth, or with equal 
 idleness afterward, may never be raked together 
 by the avarice of venal editors and bankrupt 
 publishers ; such as have lately disinterred the 
 rankest garbage of Swift and Dryden, who had 
 already left too much aboveground. It is oidy 
 the wretchedest of poets that wish all tliey ever 
 wrote to be remembered : some of the best 
 would be willing to lose the most.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Gebir .... 
 
 Paob 
 1 
 
 Count Julian, a Tragedy 
 
 . 75 
 
 Ines de Castro at Cintra 
 
 . 193 
 
 Inks de Castro at Coimbra . 
 
 . 223 
 
 Ippolito di Este 
 
 . 245 
 
 GUNLAUG .... 
 
 . 261 
 
 Ianthe .... 
 
 . 285 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems 
 
 . .315 
 
 On the Dead .... 
 
 . 375
 
 ADDITIONS. 
 
 Page 205, liae 20, after "They cannot enter Pedro's." add 
 
 "If indeed 
 You have quite ceastto love me, say it not," &c. 
 
 Page 236, line 4, after " O horrible! O blasphemy! O lust 
 Of change in princes," add 
 
 " You would fain become," &c. 
 
 Page 236, line 22, after " Pull thy loose curls around." add 
 " Exactly like. . " &c. 
 
 Page 236, after the 27th line insert 
 
 (To Pedro aside.') 
 " Thou art perhaps," &c.
 
 GEBIR.
 
 G E B I R 
 
 FIRST BOOK. 
 
 I SING the fates of Gebir. He had dwelt 
 ^mong those mountain-caverns which retain 
 His labours yet, vast halls and flowing wells, 
 Nor have forgotten their old master's name 
 Tho' severed from his people : here, incens'd 
 By meditating on primeval wrongs. 
 He blew his battle-horn, at which uprose 
 Whole nations ; here, ten thousand of most might 
 He call'd aloud, and soon Charoba saw 
 His dark helm hover o'er the land of Nile. 
 
 What should the virgin do ? should royal knees 
 Bend suppliant, or defenseless hands engage 
 Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms ? 
 For 'twas reported that nor sword sufHced, 
 
 B
 
 2 GEBIR. 
 
 Nor shield immense nor coat of massive mail, 
 But that upon their tow 'ring heads they bore 
 Each a huge stone, refulgent as the stars. 
 This told she Dalica, then cried aloud : 
 " If on your bosom laying down my head 
 I sobb'd away the sorrows of a child, 
 If I have always, and Heav'n knows I have, 
 Next to a mother's held a nurse's name. 
 Succour this one distress, recall those days, 
 Love me, tho' 'twere because you lov'd me then." 
 
 But whether confident in magic rites 
 Or toucht with sexual pride to stand ifnplored, 
 Dalica smiled, then spake : " Away those fears, 
 ,Tho' stronger than the strongest of his kind, 
 He falls . . on me devolve that charge ; he falls. 
 Rather than fly him, stoop thou to allure ; 
 Nay, journey to his tents : a city stood 
 Upon that coast, they say, by Sidad built, 
 Whose father Gad built Gadir ; on this ground 
 Perhaps he sees an ample room for war. 
 Persuade him to restore the walls himself 
 In honour of his ancestors, persuade . . 
 But wherefor this advice ? young, unespoused, 
 Charoba want persuasions ! and a queen ! " 
 
 " O Dalica ! " the shuddering maid exclamed, 
 " Could I encounter that fierce frightful man ? 
 Could I speak ? no, nor sigh ! " 
 
 " And canst thou reign ?"
 
 GEBIR, 
 
 Cried Dalica ; " yield empire or comply." 
 
 Unfixt tho' seeming fixt, her eyes down-cast, 
 The wonted buz and bustle of the court 
 From far thro' sculptur'd galleries met her ear ; 
 Then lifting up her head, the evening sun 
 Pour'd a fresh splendour on her burnisht throne. . 
 The fair Charoba, the young queen, complied. 
 
 But Gebir when he heard of her approach 
 Laid by his orbed shield, his vizor-helm, 
 His buckler and his corset he laid by, 
 And bade that none attend him ; at his side 
 Two faithful dogs that urge the silent course, 
 Shaggy, deep-chested, croucht ; the crocodile, 
 Crying, oft made them raise their flaccid ears 
 And push their heads within their master's hand. 
 There was a brightening paleness in his face, 
 Such as Diana rising o'er the rocks 
 Shower'd on the lonely Latmian; on his brow 
 Sorrow there was, yet nought was there severe. 
 But when the royal damsel first he saw, 
 Faint, hanging on her handmaids, and her knees 
 Tottering, as from the motion of the car, 
 His eyes looked earnest on her, and those eyes 
 Shew'd, if they had not, that they might have lov'd. 
 For there was pity in them at that hour. 
 With gentle speech, and more with gentle looks. 
 He sooth'd her, but lest Pity go beyond 
 And crost Ambition lose her lofty aim, 
 
 B 2
 
 4 GEBIR. 
 
 Bending-, he kist her garment, and retired. 
 He went, nor slumber'd in the sultry noon 
 When viands, couches, generous wines persuade, 
 And slumber most refreshes, nor at night, 
 When heavy dews are laden with disease, 
 And blindness waits not there for lingering age. 
 Ere morning dawn'd behind him, he arrived 
 At those rich meadows where young Tamar fed 
 The royal flocks entrusted to his care. 
 Now, said he to himself, will I repose 
 At least this burthen on a brother's breast. 
 His brother stood before him. He, amaz'd, 
 Rear'd suddenly his head, and thus began : 
 " Is it thou, brother ! Tamar, is it thou ! 
 Why, standing on the valley's utmost verge, 
 Lookest thou on that dull and dreary shore 
 Where many a league Nile blackens all the sand. 
 And why that sadness ? when I passed our sheep 
 The dew drops were not shaken off the bar, 
 Therefor if one be wanting 'tis untold. 
 
 " Yes, one is wanting, nor is that untold," 
 Said Tamar; " and this dull and dreary shore 
 Is neither dull nor dreary at all hours." 
 Wheron the tear stole silent down his cheek, 
 Silent, but not by Gebir unobserv'd : 
 W^ondering he gazed awhile, and pitying spake : 
 " Let me approach thee ; does the morning light 
 Scatter this wan suffusion o'er thy brow,
 
 GEBIR. 5 
 
 This faint blue luster under both thine eyes?" 
 
 " O, brother, is this pity or reproach ?" 
 Cried Tamar, " cruel if it be reproach, 
 If pity, O how vain ! " 
 
 " Whate'er it be 
 That grieves thee, I will pity : thou but speak. 
 And I can tell thee, Tamar, pang for pang." 
 
 " Gebir ! then more than brothers are we now ! 
 Every thing, take my hand, will I confess. 
 I neither feed the flock nor watch the fold ; 
 How can I, lost in love ? But, Gebir, why 
 That anger which has risen to your cheek ? 
 Can other men ? could you ? what, no reply ! 
 And stil more anger, and stil worse conceal'd ! 
 Are these your promises, your pity this?" 
 
 " Tamar, I well may pity what I feel . . 
 Mark me aright. . I feel for thee. . procede. . 
 Relate me all." 
 
 " Then will I all relate," 
 Said the young shepherd, gladden'd from his heart. 
 " 'Twas evening, tho' not sunset, and spring-tide* 
 Level with these green meadows, seem'd stil higher. 
 'Twas pleasant ; and I loosen'd from my neck 
 
 * Along the Mediterranean the tides are sensible of hardly any 
 variation. The coasts of Egypt are so flat, and the water so nearly 
 on a level with 'em, that Tamar maybe supposed to fancy it arising 
 from spring-tide. Those who have ever from a low and even coun- 
 try looked upon the sea, will have observed that it seemed higher 
 than the ground where they stood.
 
 6 GEBIR. 
 
 The pipe you gave me, and began to play. 
 
 that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art ! 
 It always brings us enemies or love ! 
 Well, I was playing, vphen above the waves 
 Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend ; 
 I, sitting still, survcy'd it, with my pipe 
 Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed. 
 Gebir ! it was a nymph ! a nymph divine ! 
 
 1 cannot wait describing how she came. 
 How I was sitting, how she first assum'd 
 The sailor ; of what happened there remains 
 Enough to say, and too much to forget. 
 The sweet deceiver slept upon this bank 
 Before I was aware ; for with surprise 
 Moments fly rapid as with love itself. 
 Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, 
 
 I heard a rustling, and where that arose 
 My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. 
 Her feet resembled those long shells explored 
 By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight 
 Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. 
 Her eyes too ! O immortal Gods ! her eyes 
 Resembled, .what could they resemble? what 
 Ever resemble those ! E'en her attire 
 Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art : 
 Her mantle shew'd the yellow samphire-pod 
 Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serene. 
 Shepherd, said she, and will you wrestle now
 
 GEBIR. 
 
 A7id with the sailor s hardier race engage 9 
 I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived 
 How to keep up contention ; could I fail 
 By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ? 
 Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem, 
 Or whether of the hardier race ijou boast, 
 I am not daunted, no ; I will engage. 
 But first said she what wager will you lay ? 
 A sheep I answered add whatever you will. 
 I cannot she replied make that return : 
 Our hided vessels in their pitchy round 
 Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. 
 But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
 Within, and they that lustre have itnbibed 
 In the suns palace-porch, where when unyoked 
 His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave : 
 Shake one and it awakens, then apply 
 Its polisht lips to your attentive ear, 
 And it remembers its august abodes, 
 And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. 
 And I have others given me by the nymphs. 
 Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have. 
 But we, by Neptune, for no pipe contend, . 
 This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next. 
 Now came she forward eager to engage, 
 But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd, 
 And heav'd it, doubting if she could deceive. 
 Her bosom seem'd, inclos'd in haze like heav'n,
 
 8 GEBIK. 
 
 To baffle touch, and rose forth undefined : 
 Above her knees she drew the robe succinct, 
 Above her breast, and just below her arms. 
 This will preserve my breath when tifjhtly bound, 
 If strwjgle and equal strength should so constrain. 
 Thus, pulHng- hard to fasten it, she spake, 
 And, rushing at me, closed : I thrill'd throughout 
 And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with cold. 
 Again with violent impulse gushed my blood, 
 And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd, 
 I heard it, rushing thro' each turbid vein, 
 Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air. 
 Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms 
 I clung around her neck ; the vest beneath 
 Rustled against our slippery limbs entwined : 
 Often mine springing with eluded force 
 Started aside, and trembled til replaced : 
 And when I most succeded, as I thought, 
 My bosom and my throat felt so comprest 
 That life was almost quivering on my lips, 
 Yet nothing was there painful ! these are signs 
 Of secret arts and not of human might. . 
 What arts I cannot tell. . I only know 
 My eyes grew dizzy, and my strength decay 'd. 
 I was indeed o'ercome ! with what regret. 
 And more, with what confusion, when I reached 
 The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she cried : 
 This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid.
 
 GEBIR. £ 
 
 She smil'd, and more of pleasure than disdain 
 
 "Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip. 
 
 And eyes that languisht, lengthening, just like love. 
 
 She went away ; I on the wicker gate 
 
 Leant, and could follow with my eyes alone. 
 
 The sheep she carried easy as a cloak ; 
 
 But when I heard its bleating, as I did, 
 
 And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet 
 
 Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip . . 
 
 One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd . . 
 
 Then all my passions mingling fell in tears ; 
 
 Restless then ran I to the highest ground 
 
 To watch her . . she was gone . . gone down the tide . . 
 
 And the long moon beam on the hard wet sand 
 
 Lay like a jasper column half-uprear'd." 
 
 " But, Tamar ! tell me, will she not return ?" 
 " She will return, yet not before the moon 
 
 Again is at the full ; she promis'd this, 
 
 Tho' when she promis'd I could not reply." 
 " By all the Gods I pity thee ! go on . . 
 
 Fear not my anger, look not on my shame ; 
 
 For when a lover only hears of love 
 
 He finds his folly out, and is ashamed. 
 
 Away with watchful nights and lonely days, 
 
 Contempt of earth and aspect up to heaven, 
 
 With contemplation, with humility, 
 
 A tatter'd cloak that pride wears when deform'd, 
 
 Away with all that hides me from myself,
 
 10 GEIJIR. 
 
 Parts me from others, whispers I am wise . . 
 From our own wisdom less is to be reapt 
 Than from the barest folly of our friend. 
 Tamar ! thy pastures, large and rich, aftbrd 
 Flowers to thy bees and herbage to thy sheep, 
 But, battened on too much, the poorest croft 
 Of thy poor neighbour yields what thine denies." 
 
 They hastened to the camp, and Gebir there 
 Resolved his native country to forgo. 
 And ordered, from those ruins to the right 
 They forthwith raise a city : Tamar heard 
 With wonder, tho' in passing 'twas half- told. 
 His brother's love, and sigh'd upon his own.
 
 GEB I R. 
 
 SECOND BOOK, 
 
 The Gadite men the royal charge obey. 
 Now fragments weigh 'd up from th' uneven streets 
 Leave the ground black beneath ; again the sun 
 Shines into what were porches, and on steps 
 Once warm with frequentation . . clients, friends. 
 All morning, satchel'd idlers all mid-day, 
 Lying half-up and languid tho' at games. 
 
 Some raise the painted pavement, some on wheels 
 Draw slow its laminous length, some intersperse 
 Salt waters thro' the sordid heaps, and seize 
 The flowers and figures starting fresh to view. 
 Others rub hard large masses, and essay 
 To polish into white what they misdeem 
 The growing green of many trackless years.* 
 
 * The Verde Antico is of this country.
 
 12 GEBIR. 
 
 Far off at intervals the ax resounds 
 With regular strong stroke, and nearer home 
 Dull falls the mallet with long labour fringed. 
 Here arches are discover'd, there huge beams 
 Resist the hatchet, but in fresher air 
 Soon drop away : there spreads a marble squared 
 And smoothen'd ; some high pillar for its base 
 Chose it, which now lies ruin'd in the dust. 
 Clearing the soil at bottom, they espy 
 A crevice : they, intent on treasure, strive 
 Strenuous, and groan, to move it : one exclames 
 " I hear the rusty metal grate ; it moves ! " 
 Now, overturning it, backward they start, 
 And stop again, and see a serpent pant. 
 See his throat thicken, and the crisped scales 
 ■Rise ruffled, while upon the middle fold 
 He keeps his wary head and blinking eye, 
 Curling more close and crouching ere he strike. 
 Go mighty men, invade far cities, go . . 
 And be such treasure portions to your heirs. 
 
 Six days they labour'd : on the seventh day 
 Returning, all their labours were destroyed. 
 *Twas not by mortal hand, or from their tents 
 'Twere visible ; for these were now removed 
 Above, where neither noxious mist ascends 
 Nor the way wearies ere the work begin. 
 There Gebir, pierced with sorrow, spake these words 
 ""' Ye men of Gades, armed with brazen shields.
 
 GEBIR. 13 
 
 And ye of near Tartessus, where the shore 
 Stoops to receive the tribute which all owe 
 To Boetis and his banks for their attire, 
 Ye too whom Durius bore on level meads, 
 Inherent in your hearts is bravery : 
 For earth contains no nation where abounds 
 The generous horse and not the warlike man. 
 But neither soldier now nor steed avails : 
 Nor steed nor soldier can oppose the Gods : 
 Nor is there aught above like Jove himself. 
 Nor weighs against his purpose, when once fixt, 
 Aught but, with supplicating knee, the Prayers. 
 Swifter than light are they, and every face, 
 Tho' diiFerent, glows with beauty ; at the throne 
 Of mercy, when clouds shut it from mankind, 
 They fall bare-bosom'd, and indignant Jove 
 Drops at the soothing sweetness of their voice 
 The thunder from his hand : let us arise 
 On these high places daily, beat our breast, 
 Prostrate ourselves and deprecate his wrath." 
 The people bow'd their bodies and obey'd : 
 Nine mornings with white ashes on their heads 
 Lamented they their toil each night o'erthrown. 
 And now the largest orbit of the year, 
 Leaning o'er black Mocattam's rubied brow, * 
 Proceeded slow, majestic, and serene, 
 
 * Mocattam is a ridge of mountains, the boundary of Egypt. The 
 summits in many places are of a deep-red marble.
 
 14 GEBIR. 
 
 Now seem'd not further than the nearest cliff, 
 And crimson light struck soft the phosphor wave. 
 Then Gebir spake to Tamar in these words : 
 " Tamar ! I am thy elder and thy king, 
 But am thy brother too, nor ever said 
 Give me thy secret and become my slave : 
 But haste thee not away ; I will myself 
 Await the nymph, disguised in thy attire." 
 
 Then starting from attention Tamar cried : 
 " Brother ! in sacred truth it cannot be ! 
 My life is yours, my love nmst be my own : 
 O surely he who seeks a second love 
 Never felt one, or 'tis not one I feel." 
 
 But Gebir with complacent smile replied : 
 " Go then, fond Tamar, go in happy hour . . 
 But ere thou partest ponder in thy breast 
 And well bethink thee, lest thou part deceiv'd. 
 Will she disclose to thee the mysteries 
 Of our calamity ? and unconstrain'd ? 
 When even her love thy strength had to disclose. 
 My heart indeed is full, but witness heaven ! 
 My people, not my passion, fills my heart." 
 
 " Then let me kiss thy garment" said the youth, 
 " And heaven be with thee, and on me thy grace." 
 
 Him then the monarc thus once more addrest : 
 " Be of good courage : hast thou yet forgot 
 What chaplets languisht round thy unburnt hair, 
 In colour like some tall smooth beechis leaves
 
 GEBIR. 15 
 
 Curl'd by autumnal suns?" 
 
 How flattery 
 Excites a pleasant, soothes a painful shame ! 
 
 " These" amid stifled blushes Tamar said, 
 " Were of the flowering rasberry and vine : 
 But ah ! the seasons will not wait for love. 
 Seek out some other now." 
 
 They parted here : 
 And Gebir bending through the woodlands cull'd 
 The creeping vine and viscous rasberry, 
 Less green and less compliant than they were ; 
 And twisted in those mossy tufts that grow 
 On brakes of roses when the roses fade : 
 And as he passes on, the little hinds 
 That shake for bristly herds the foodful bough, 
 Wonder, stand still, gaze, and trip satisfied ; 
 Pleas'd more if chesmit, out of prickly husk 
 Shot from the sandal, roll along the glade. 
 
 And thus unnoticed went he, and untired 
 Stept up the acclivity; and as he stept, 
 And as the garlands nodded o'er his brow, 
 Sudden from under a close alder sprang 
 Th' expectant nymph, and seiz'd him unaware. 
 He stagger'd at the shock ; his feet at once 
 Slipt backward from the wither'd grass short-graz'd ; 
 But striking out one arm, tho' without aim, 
 Then grasping with his other, he enclos'd 
 The struggler ; she gain'd not one step's retreat,
 
 16 GEBIR. 
 
 Urging with open hands against his throat 
 Intense, now holding in her breath constrain'd, 
 Now pusliing witli quick impulse and by starts, 
 Til the dust blackened upon every pore. 
 Nearer he drew her and yet nearer, claspt 
 Above the knees midway, and now one arm 
 Fell, and her other lapsing o'er the neck 
 Of Gebir swung against his back incurved. 
 The swoln veins glowing deep, and with a groan 
 On his broad shoulder fell her face reclined. 
 But ah she knew not whom that roseate face 
 Cool'd with its breath ambrosial ; for she stood 
 High on the bank, and often swept and broke 
 His chaplets mingled with her loosen'd hair. 
 Whether while Tamar tarried came desire, 
 And she grown languid loos'd the wings of love, 
 Which she before held proudly at her will, 
 And nought but Tamar in her soul, and nought 
 Where Tamar was that seem'd or fear'd deceit, 
 To fraud she yielded what no force had gain'd — 
 Or whether Jove in pity to mankind, 
 When from his crystal fount the visual orbs 
 He fill'd with piercing ether and endued 
 With somewhat of omnipotence, ordain'd 
 That never two fair forms at once torment 
 The human heart and draw it different ways, 
 And thus in prowess like a god the chief 
 Subdued her strength nor soften'd at her charms-
 
 GEBIR. 17 
 
 The nymph divine, the magic mistress, fail'd. 
 Recovering', stil half resting on the turf, 
 She look'd up wildly, and could now descry 
 The kingly brow, arched lofty for command. 
 
 " Traitor!" said she, undaunted, tho' amaze 
 Threw o'er her varying cheek the air of fear, 
 " Thinkest thou thus that with impunity 
 Thou hast forsooth deceived me ? dar'st thou deem 
 Those eyes not hateful that have seen me fall ? 
 
 heaven ! soon may they close on my disgrace. 
 Merciless man, what ! for one sheep estranged 
 Hast thou thrown into dungeons and of day 
 Amerst thy shepherd ? hast thou, while the iron 
 Pierced thro' his tender limbs into his soul, 
 
 By threats, by tortures, torn out that offense, 
 And heard him (O could I) avow his love? 
 Say, hast thou ? cruel, hateful ! . . ah my fears ! 
 
 1 feel them true ! speak, tell me, are they true ?" 
 
 She blending thus entreaty with reproach 
 Bent forward, as tho' falling on her knee 
 Whence she had hardly risen, and at this pause 
 Shed from her large dark eyes a shower of tears. 
 
 Th' Iberian King her sorrow thus consoled. 
 " Weep no more, heavenly damsel, weep no more : 
 Neither by force witheld, or choice estranged 
 Thy Tamar lives, and only lives for thee. 
 Happy, thrice happy, you! 'tis me alone 
 Whom heaven and earth and ocean with one liate 
 
 c
 
 18 GEBIR. 
 
 Conspire on, ;ind throughont each path pursue. 
 
 Whether in waves beneath or skies above 
 
 Thou hast tliy habitation, 'tis from heaven, 
 
 From heaven alone, such power, such charms, descend. 
 
 Then oh ! discover whence that ruin comes 
 
 Each night upon our city, whence are heard 
 
 Those yells of rapture round our fallen walls : 
 
 In our afliiction can the Gods dehght. 
 
 Or meet oblation for the Nymphs are tears ?" 
 
 He spake, and indignation sank in woe. 
 Which she perceiving, pride refresht her heart, 
 Hope wreath'd her mouth with smiles, and she 
 
 exclamed : 
 " Neither the Gods afflict you, nor the Nymphs, 
 Return me him who won my heart, return 
 Him whom my bosom pants for, as the steeds 
 In the sun's chariot for the western wave, 
 The Gods will prosper thee, and Tamar prove 
 How Nymphs the torments that they cause assuage. 
 Promise me this! indeed I think thou hast. 
 But 'tis so pleasing, promise it once more." 
 
 " Once more I promise," cried the gladdened king, 
 " By my right hand and by myself I swear. 
 And ocean's Gods and heaven's Gods I adjure, 
 Thou shalt be Tamar's, Tamar shall be thine." 
 
 Then she, regarding him long Hxt, replied : 
 " I have thy promise, take thou my advice. 
 Gebir, this land of Egypt is a land
 
 GEBIR. 19 
 
 Of incantation, demons rule these waves; 
 
 These are against thee, these thy works destroy. 
 
 Where thou hast built thy palace, and hast left 
 
 The seven pillars to remain in front. 
 
 Sacrifice there, and all these rites observe. 
 
 Go, but go early, ere the gladsome Hours 
 
 Strew saffron in the path of rising Morn, 
 
 Ere the bee buzzing o'er flowers fresh disclosed 
 
 Examine where he may the best alight 
 
 Nor scatter off the bloom, ere cold-lipt herds 
 
 Crop the pale herbage round each other's bed, 
 
 Lead seven bulls well pastur'd and well form'd, 
 
 Their neck unblemisht and their horns unring'd, 
 
 And at each pillar sacrifice thou one. 
 
 Around each base rub thrice the black'ning blood, 
 
 And burn the curling shavings of the hoof; 
 
 And of the forehead locks thou also burn : 
 
 The yellow galls, with equal care preserv'd. 
 
 Pour at the seventh statue from the north." 
 
 He listen'd, and on her his eyes intent 
 Perceiv'd her not, and she had disappear'd . . 
 So deep he ponder'd her important words. 
 
 And now had morn aris'n and he per form'd 
 Almost the whole enjoined him: he had reacht 
 The seventh statue, poured the yellow galls, 
 The forelock from his left he had releast 
 And liurnt the curling shavings of the hoof 
 Moisten'd with myrrh ; when suddenly a flame 
 
 c 2
 
 20 GEBIR. 
 
 Spired from the fragrant smoke, nor sooner spired 
 
 Down sank the brazen fabric at his feet. 
 
 He started back, gazed, nor could aught but gaze, 
 
 And cold dread stiffen'd up his hair flower-twined ; 
 
 Then with a long and tacit step, one arm 
 
 Behind, and every finger wide outspred, 
 
 He look'd and totter'd on a black abyss. 
 
 He thought he sometimes heard a distant voice 
 
 Breathe thro' the cavern's mouth, and further on 
 
 Faint murmurs now^, now hollow groans reply. 
 
 Therefor suspended he his crook above, 
 
 Dropt it, and heard it rolling step by step : 
 
 He enter'd, and a mingled sound arose 
 
 Like one (when shaken from some temple's roof 
 
 By zealous hand, they and their fretted nest) 
 
 Of birds that wintering watch in Memnon's tomb, 
 
 And tell the halcyons when spring first returns.
 
 GEB I R. 
 
 THIRD BOOK. 
 
 FOR the spirit of that matchless man 
 
 Whom Nature led throughout her whole domain, 
 While he embodied breath'd etherial air ! 
 Tho' panting in the play-hour of my youth 
 
 1 drank of Avon too, a dangerous draught. 
 That rous'd within the feverish thirst of song, 
 Yet never may I trespass o'er the stream 
 
 Of jealous Acheron, nor alive descend 
 The silent and unsearchable abodes 
 Of Erebus and Night, nor unchastised 
 Lead up long-absent heroes into day. 
 When on the pausing theater of earth 
 Eve's shadowy curtain falls, can any man 
 Bring back the far-ofF intercepted hills.
 
 22 GEBIR. 
 
 Grasp the round rock-built turret, or arrest 
 
 The glittering spires that pierce the brow of Heav'n ? 
 
 Rather can any with outstripping voice 
 
 The parting Sun's gigantic strides recall ? 
 
 Twice sounded Gebir! twice th' Iberian king 
 Thought it the strong vibration of the brain 
 That struck upon his ear ; but now descried 
 A form, a man, come nearer : as he came 
 His unshorn hair grown soft in these abodes 
 Waved Ijack, and scattcr'd thin and hoary light. 
 Living, men called him Aroar, but no more 
 In celebration or recording verse 
 His name is heard, no more by Arnon's side 
 The well-wall'd city which he rear'd remains. 
 Gebir was now undaunted, for the brave 
 When they no longer doubt no longer fear, 
 And would have spoken, but the shade began. 
 
 " Brave son of Hesperus ! no mortal hand 
 Has led thee hither, nor without the Gods 
 Penetrate thy firm feet the vast profound. 
 Thou knowest not that here thy fathers he. 
 The race of Sidad ; their's was loud acclame 
 When living, but their pleasure was in war ; 
 Triumphs and hatred followed : I myself 
 Bore, men imagin'd, no inglorious part : 
 The Gods thought otherwise, by whose decree 
 Depriv'd of life, and more, of death depriv'd, 
 I stil hear shrieking thro' the moonless night
 
 GEBIR. 23 
 
 Their discontented and deserted shades. 
 Observe these horrid walls, this ruful waste ! 
 Here some refresh the vigour of the mind 
 With contemplation and cold penitence : 
 Nor wonder while thou hearest that the soul 
 Thus purified hereafter may ascend 
 Surmounting all obstruction, nor ascribe 
 The sentence to indulgence ; each extreme 
 Has tortures for ambition ; to dissolve 
 In everlasting languour, to resist 
 Its impulse, but in vain : to be enclosed 
 Within a limit, and that limit fire ; 
 Sever'd from happiness, from eminence. 
 And flying, but hell bars us, from ourselves. 
 Yet rather all these torments most endure 
 Than solitary pain and sad remorse 
 And tow'ring thoughts on their own breast o'erturn'd 
 And piercing to the heart : such penitence, 
 Such contemplation theirs ! thy ancestors 
 Bear up against them, nor will they submit 
 To conquering Time the asperities of Fate : 
 Yet could they but revisit earth once more. 
 How gladly would they poverty embrace, 
 How labour, even for their deadliest foe ! 
 It little now avails them to have rais'd 
 Beyond the Syrian regions, and beyond 
 Phenicia, tropliies, tributes, colonies : 
 Follow thou me . . mark what it all avails."
 
 24 GElilR. 
 
 Him Gebir followed, and a roar confused 
 Rose from a river rolling in its bed, 
 Not rapid, that would rouse the wretched souls, 
 Nor calmly, that niijiht lull them to repose; 
 But with dull weary lapses it upheaved 
 Billows of bale, heard low, yet heard afar. 
 For when hell's iron portals let out night, 
 Often men start and shiver at the sound, 
 And lie so silent on the restless couch 
 They hear their own hearts beat. Now Gebir breath 'd 
 Another air, another sky beheld : 
 Twilight broods here, lull'd by no nightingale 
 Nor waken'd by the shrill lark dewy-winged, 
 But glowing with one sullen sunless heat. 
 Beneath his foot nor sprouted flower nor herb 
 Nor chirpt a grasshopper ; above his head 
 Phlegethon form'd a firy firmament ; 
 Part were sulphurous clouds involving, part 
 Shining like solid ribs of molten brass ; 
 For the fierce element which else aspires 
 Higher and higher and lessens to the sky. 
 Below, Earth's adamantine arch rebuft. 
 
 Gebir, tho' now such languour held his limbs, 
 Scarce aught admir'd he, yet he this admir'd ; 
 And thus addrest him then the conscious guide. 
 *' Beyond that river lie the happy fields ; 
 From them fly gentle breezes, which when drawn 
 Against yon crescent convex, but unite
 
 GEBIR. 25 
 
 Stronger with what they could not overcome. 
 Thus they that scatter freshness thro' the groves 
 And meadows of the fortunate, and fill 
 With liquid light the marble bowl of Earth, 
 And give her blooming health and spritely force, 
 Their fire no more diluted, nor its darts 
 Blunted by passing thro' thick myrtle bowers. 
 Neither from odours rising half dissolved, 
 Point forward Phlegethon's eternal flame ; 
 And this horizon is the spacious bow 
 Whence each ray reaches to the world above." 
 
 The hero pausing, Gebir then besought 
 What region held his ancestors, what clouds, 
 What waters, or what Gods, from his embrace. 
 Aroar then sudden, as tho' rous'd, renew'd. 
 
 " Come thou, if ardour urges thee and force 
 Suffices .. mark me, Gebir, I unfold 
 No fable to allure thee . . on ! behold 
 Thy ancestors ! " and lo ! with horrid gasp 
 The panting flame above his head recoil'd, 
 And thunder thro' his heart and life blood throb'd. 
 Such sound could human organs once conceive. 
 Cold, speechless, palsied, not the soothing voice 
 Of friendship or almost of Deity 
 Could raise the wretched mortal from the dust ; 
 Beyond man's home condition they ! with eyes 
 Intent, and voice desponding, and unheard 
 By Aroar, tho' he tarried at his side.
 
 26 CiEBlK. 
 
 " They know me not," cried Gebir, " O my sires, 
 Ye know me not ! they answer not, nor hear. 
 How distant are they stil ! what sad extent 
 Of desolation must we overcome ! 
 Aroar, what wretch that nearest us ? what wretch 
 Is that with eyebrows white, and slanting brow ? 
 Listen ! him yonder who bound down supine. 
 Shrinks yelling from that sword there engine-hung ; 
 He too among my ancestors ?" 
 
 " O King ! 
 Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 
 Inclement wmds blew blighting from north-east." 
 *' He was a warrior then, nor feared the Gods ?" 
 " Gebir, he feared the Demons, not the Gods ; 
 Tho' them indeed his daily face adored, 
 And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 
 Squander'd as stones to exercise a sling ! 
 And the tame cruelty and cold caprice . . 
 Oh madness of mankind ! addrest, adored ! 
 O Gebir ! what are men, or where are Gods ! 
 Behold the giant next him, how his feet 
 Plunge floundering mid the marshes yellow-flower'd, 
 His restless head just reaching to the rocks. 
 His bosom tossing with black weeds besmear'd, 
 How writhes he 'twixt the continent and ile ! 
 What tyrant with more insolence e'er claim'd 
 Dominion? when from the heart of Usury 
 Rose more intense the pale-flamed thirst for gold I
 
 GEBIR. 27 
 
 And call'd forsooth Deliverer ! False or fools 
 Who praised the duU-ear'd miscreant, or who hoped 
 To soothe your folly and disgrace with praise ! 
 
 Hearest thou not the harp's gay simpering air 
 And merriment afar ? then come, advance ; 
 And now behold him! mark the wretch accurst 
 Who sold his people to a rival king . . 
 Self-yoked they stood two ages unredeem'd." 
 
 " O horror ! what pale visage rises there ! 
 Speak, Aroar ! me perhaps mine eyes deceive, 
 Inured not, yet methinlis they there descry 
 
 Such crimson haze as sometimes drowns the moon. 
 What is yon awful sight? why thus appears 
 That space between the purple and the crown ?" 
 " I will relate their stories when we reach 
 
 Our confines" said the guide ; " for thou, O king, 
 
 Differing in both from all thy countrymen, 
 
 Seest not their stories and hast seen their fates. 
 
 But while we tarry, lo again the flame 
 
 Riseth, and murmuring hoarse, points straighter, haste ! 
 
 'Tis urgent, we must hence." 
 
 " Then O adieu !" 
 
 Cried Gebir and groan'd loud, at last a tear 
 
 Burst from his eyes turn'd back, and he exclamed : 
 
 " Am I deluded ? O ye powers of hell ! 
 
 Suffer me . . O my fathers ! . . am I torne" . . 
 
 He spake, and would have spoken more, but flames 
 
 Enwrapt him round and round intense ; he turn'd . ,
 
 28 GEBIR. 
 
 And stood held breathless in a ghost's embrace. 
 " Gebir, my son, desert me not ! I heard 
 Thy calling voice, nor fate withcld me more : 
 One moment yet remains ; enough to know 
 Soon will my torments, soon will thine, expire. 
 O that I e'er exacted such a vow ! 
 When dipping in the victim's blood thy hand. 
 First thou withdrew'st it, looking in my face 
 Wondering ; but when the priest my will explaned, 
 Then swarest thou, repeating what he said, 
 How against Egypt thou wouldst raise that hand 
 And bruise the seed first risen from our line. 
 Therefor in death what pangs have I endured ! 
 Rackt on the firy center of the sun. 
 Twelve years I saw the ruin'd world roll round. 
 Shudder not . . I have borne it . . I deserved 
 My wretched fate . . be better thine . . farewell." 
 
 " O stay, my father ! stay one moment more. . 
 Let me return thee that embrace. . 'tis past. . 
 Aroar ! how could I quit it unreturn'd ! 
 And now the gulf divides us, and the waves 
 Of sulphur bellow thro' the blue abyss. 
 And is he gone for ever ! and I come 
 In vain ? " Then sternly said the guide : " In vain ! 
 Sayst thou ? what wouldst thou more ? alas, O prince, 
 None come for pastime here ! but is it nought 
 To turn thy feet from evil ? is it nought 
 Of pleasure to that shade if they are turn'd ?
 
 GEBIR. 29 
 
 For this thou earnest hither : he who dares 
 
 To penetrate this darkness, nor regards 
 
 The dangers of the way, shall reascend 
 
 In glory, nor the gates of hell retard 
 
 His steps, nor demon's nor man's art prevail. 
 
 Once in each hundred years, and only once, 
 
 Whether by some rotation of the world, 
 
 Or whether will'd so by some pow'r above, 
 
 This flaming arch starts back, each realm descries 
 
 Its opposite, and Bliss from her repose 
 
 Freshens and feels her own security." 
 
 " Security !" cried out the Gadite king, 
 " And feel they not compassion ? " 
 
 " Child of Earth," 
 Calmly said Aroar at his guest's surprise, 
 " Some so disfigur'd by habitual crimes, 
 Others are so exalted, so refined, 
 So permeated by heaven, no trace remains 
 Graven on earth : here Justice is supreme ; 
 Compassion can be but where passions are. 
 Here are discover'd those who tortured Law 
 To silence or to speech, as pleas'd themselves : 
 Here also those who boasted of their zeal 
 And lov'd their country for the spoils it gave. 
 Hundreds, whose glitt'ring merchandise the lyre 
 Dazzled vain wretches drunk with flattery, 
 And wafted them in softest airs to Heav'n, 
 Doom'd to be stil deceiv'd, here stil attune
 
 30 GEBIK. 
 
 The wonted strings and fondly woo applause : 
 Their wish half granted, they retain their own, 
 But madden at the mockery of the shades. 
 Upon the river's other side there grow 
 Deep olive groves ; there other ghosts abide, 
 Blest indeed they, but not supremely blest. 
 We cannot see beyond, we cannot see 
 Aught but our opposite, and here are fates 
 How opposite to ours ! here some observ'd 
 Religious rights, some hospitality : 
 Strangers, who from the good old men retired, 
 Closed the gate gently, lest from generous use 
 Shutting and opening of its own accord. 
 It shake unsettled slumbers off their couch : 
 Some stopt revenge athirst for slaughter, some 
 Sow'd the slow olive for a race unborn. 
 These had no wishes, therefor none are crown'd : 
 But theirs are tufted banks, theirs umbrage, theirs 
 Enough of sunshine to enjoy the shade, 
 And breeze enough to lull them to repose." 
 
 Then Gebir cried : " Illustrious host, procede. 
 Bring me among the wonders of a realm 
 Admired by all, but like a tale admired. 
 We take our children from their cradled sleep, 
 And on their fancy from our own impress 
 Etherial forms and adulating fates : 
 But ere departing for such scenes ourselves 
 We seize their hands, we hang upon their neck,
 
 GEBIR. 31 
 
 Our beds cling heavy round i\s with our tears, 
 Agony strives with agony. . Just Gods ! 
 Wherefor should wretched mortals thus believe, 
 Or wherefor should they hesitate to die ? " 
 
 Thus while he question'd, all his strength dissolv'd 
 Within him, thunder shook his troubled brain, 
 He started, and the cavern's mouth survey'd 
 Near, and beyond his people ; he arose, 
 And bent toward them his bewilder'd way.
 
 GEBIR 
 
 FOURTH BOOK. 
 
 The king's lone road, his visit, his return, 
 Were not unknown to Dalica, nor long 
 The wondrous tale from royal ears delaid. 
 When the young queen had heard who taught the rites 
 Her mind was shaken, and what first she asked 
 Was, whether the sea-maids were very fair, 
 And was it true that even gods were moved 
 By female charms beneath the waves profound. 
 And joined to them in marriage, and had sons. . 
 Who knows but Gebir sprang then from the Gods ! 
 He that could pity, he that could obey, 
 Flatter'd both female youth and princely pride. 
 The same ascending from amid the shades 
 Shew'd Pow'r in frightful attitude : the queen 
 
 D
 
 34 GEBIR. 
 
 Marks the surpassing prodigy, and strives 
 To shake off terrour in her crowded court, 
 And wonders why she trembles, nor suspects 
 How Fear and Love assume each other's form. 
 By birth and secret compact how allied. 
 Vainly (to conscious virgins I appeal) 
 Vainly with crouching tigers, prowling wolves 
 Rocks, precipices, waves, storms, thunderbolts, 
 All his immense inheritance, would Fear 
 The simplest heart, should Love refuse, assail : 
 Consent, .the maiden's pillowed ear imbibes 
 Constancy, honour, truth, fidelity. 
 Beauty and ardent lips and longing arms ; 
 Then fades in glimmering distance half the scene, 
 Then her heart quails and flutters and would fly. . 
 'Tis her beloved ! not to her ! ye Pow'rs ! 
 What doubting maid exacts the vow ? behold 
 Above the myrtles his protesting hand ! 
 Such ebbs of doubt and swells of jealousy 
 Toss the fond bosom in its hour of sleep 
 And float around the eyelids and sink thro'. 
 
 Lo ! mirror of delight in cloudless days, 
 Lo ! thy reflexion : 'twas when I exclamed, 
 With kisses hurried as if each foresaw 
 Their end, and reckon'd on our broken bonds. 
 And could at such a price such loss endure : 
 " O what to faithful lovers met at morn. 
 What half so pleasant as imparted fears !"
 
 GEBIR. 35 
 
 Looking recumbent how Love's column rose 
 
 Marmoreal, trophied round with golden hair, 
 
 How in the valley of one lip unseen 
 
 He slumber'd, one his unstrung bow imprest. 
 
 Sv\'eet wilderness of soul-entangling charms ! 
 
 Led back by Memory, and each blissful maze 
 
 Retracing, me with magic power detain 
 
 Those dimpled cheeks, those temples violet-tinged. 
 
 Those lips of nectar and those eyes of heav'n ! 
 
 Charoba, tho' indeed she never drank * 
 The liquid pearl, or twined the nodding crown. 
 Or when she wanted cool and calm repose 
 Dreamt of the crawling asp and grated tomb. 
 Was wretched up to royalty : the jibe 
 Struck her, most piercing where love pierc'd before, 
 From those whose freedom centers in their tongue, 
 Handmaidens, pages, courtiers, priests, buffoons. 
 Congratulations here, there prophecies. 
 Here children, not repining at neglect 
 While tumult sweeps them ample room for play, 
 Every-where questions aaswer'd ere begun, 
 Every-where crowds, for every-where alarm. 
 
 * Antonius was afraid of poison: Cleopatra, to prove the in- 
 justice of his suspicions, and the ease with which the poison might 
 be administered, if such had been her intention, shook it from the 
 crown of flowers upon her head, into a goblet of wine which she 
 presented to him. Before he had raised it to his lips, she represt 
 him, told him it, and establisht his confidence for ever. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 GEBIR. 
 
 Thus winter gone, nor spring (tho' near) arriv'd, 
 Urged slanting onward by the bickering breeze 
 That issues from beneath Aurora's car, 
 Shudder the sombrous waves ; at every beam 
 More vivid, more by every breath impell'd, 
 Higher and higher up the fretted rocks 
 Their turbulent refulgence they display. 
 Madness, which like the spiral element 
 The more it seizes on the fiercer burns. 
 Hurried them blindly forward, and involved 
 In flame the senses and in gloom the soul. 
 Determin'd to protect the country's gods 
 And asking their protection, they adjure 
 Each other to stand forward, and insist 
 With zeal, and trample under foot the slow ; 
 And disregardful of the Sympathies 
 Divine, those Sympathies whose delicate hand 
 Touching the very eyeball of the heart. 
 Awakens it, not wounds it nor inflames, 
 Blind wretches ! they with desperate embrace 
 Hang on the pillar til the temple fall. 
 Oft the grave judge alarms religious wealth 
 And rouses anger under gentle words. 
 Woe to the wiser few who dare to cry 
 " People ! these men are not your enemies, 
 Enquire their errand, and resist when wrong'd." 
 Together childhood, priesthood, womanhood, 
 The scribes and elders of the land, exclame
 
 GEBIR. 37 
 
 '* Seek they not hidden treasure in the tombs? 
 
 Raising the ruins, levelHng the dust, 
 
 Who can declare whose ashes they disturb ! 
 
 Build they not fairer cities than our own, 
 
 Extravagant enormous apertures 
 
 For light, and portals larger, open courts 
 
 Where all ascending all are unconfin'd, 
 
 And wider streets in purer air than ours ? 
 
 Temples quite plain with equal architraves 
 
 They build, nor bearing gods like ours imbost. 
 
 O profanation ! O our ancestors !" 
 
 Tho' all the vulgar hate a forein face, 
 It more offends weak eyes and homely age, 
 Dalica most, who thus her aim pursued. 
 " My promise, O Charoba, I perform. 
 Proclame to gods and men a festival 
 Throughout the land, and bid the strangers eat ; 
 Their anger thus we haply may disarm." 
 
 " O Dalica," the grateful queen rephed, 
 " Nurse of my childhood, soother of my cares, 
 Preventer of my wishes, of my thoughts, 
 O pardon youth, O pardon royalty ! 
 If hastily to Dalica I sued. 
 Fear might impell me, never could distrust. 
 Go then, for wisdom guides thee, take my name. 
 Issue what most imports and best beseems. 
 And sovranty shall sanction the decree." 
 
 And now Charoba was alone, her heart
 
 38 GEBIR. 
 
 Grew lighter ; she sat down, and she arose, 
 
 She felt voluptuous tenderness, but felt 
 
 That tenderness for Dalica ; she prais'd 
 
 Her kind attention, warm solicitude, 
 
 Her wisdom . . for what wisdom pleas'd like her's ! 
 
 She was delighted ; should she not behold 
 
 Gebir ? she blusht ; but she had words to speak, 
 
 She form'd them and reform'd them, with regret 
 
 That there was somewhat lost with every change ; 
 
 She could replace them . . what would that avail ? . . 
 
 Moved from their order they have lost their charm. 
 
 While thus she strew'd her way with softest words, 
 
 Others grew up before her, but appear'd 
 
 A plenteous rather than perplexing choice : 
 
 She rub'd her palms with pleasure, heav'd a sigh. 
 
 Grew calm again, and thus her thoughts revolv'd . . 
 
 " But he descended to the tombs ! the thought 
 Thrills me, I must avow it, with affright. 
 And wherefor? shews he not the more belov'd 
 Of heaven ? or how ascends he back to day ? 
 Then has he wrong'd me ? could he want a cause 
 Who has an army and was bred to reign ? 
 And yet no reasons against rights he urged. 
 He threaten'd not, prociamed not ; I approacht, 
 He hasten'd on ; 1 spake, he listen'd ; wept. 
 He pity'd me ; he lov'd me, he obey'd ; 
 He was a conqueror, stil am I a queen." 
 
 She thus indulged fond fancies, when the sound
 
 GEBIR. 39 
 
 Of timbrels and of cymbals struck her ear, 
 And horns and bowlings of wild jubilee. 
 She fear'd, and listen'd to confirm her fears ; 
 One breath sufficed, and shook her refluent soul. 
 Smiting, with simulated smile constrain'd, 
 Her beauteous bosom, " O perfidious man, 
 O cruel foe !" she twice and thrice exclamed, 
 " O my companions equal-aged ! my throne, 
 My people ! O how wretched to presage 
 This day, how tenfold wretched to endure ! " 
 
 She ceast, and instantly the palace rang 
 With gratulation roaring into rage . . 
 'Twas her own people. " Health to Gebir ! health 
 To our compatriot subjects ! to our queen 
 Health and unfaded youth ten thousand years ! " 
 Then went the victims forward crown'S with flowers, 
 Crown'd were tame crocodiles, and boys white-robed 
 Guided their creaking crests across the stream. 
 In gilded barges went the female train. 
 And, hearing others ripple near, undrew 
 The veil of sea-green awning : if they found 
 Whom they desired, how pleasant was the breeze ! 
 If not, the frightful water forced a sigh. 
 Sweet airs of music ruled the rowing palms, 
 Now rose they glistening and aslant reclined, 
 Now they descended and with one consent 
 Plunging, seem'd swift each other to pursue.
 
 40 GEBIR. 
 
 And now to tremble wearied o'er the wave. 
 Beyond and in the suburbs might be seen 
 Crowds of all ages: here in triumph passed 
 Not without pomp, tho' raised with rude device, 
 The monarch and Charoba ; there a throng 
 Shone out in sunny whiteness o'er the reeds. 
 Nor could luxuriant youth, or lapsing age 
 Propt by the corner of the nearest street, 
 With aching eyes and tottering knees intent, 
 Loose leathery neck and wormlike lip outstretcht, 
 Fix long the ken upon one form, so swift 
 Thro' the gay vestures fluttering on the bank. 
 And thro' the bright-eyed waters dancing round, 
 Wove they their wanton wiles and disappear'd. 
 
 Meantime, with pomp august and solemn, borne 
 On four white camels tinkling plates of gold, 
 Heralds before and Ethiop slaves behind, 
 Each with the signs of office in his hand, 
 Each on his brow the sacred stamp of years, 
 The four ambassadors of peace procede. 
 Rich carpets bear they, corn and generous wine, 
 The Syrian olive's cheerful gift they bear. 
 With stubborn goats that eye the mountain tops 
 Askance and riot with reluctant horn. 
 And steeds and stately camels in their train. 
 The king, who sat before his tent, descried 
 The dust rise redden'd from the setting sun :
 
 GEBIR. 41 
 
 Thro' all the plains below the Gadite men 
 Were resting from their labour : some surveyed 
 The spacious site ere yet obstructed.. walls 
 Already, soon will roofs have interposed ; 
 Some ate their frugal viands on the steps 
 Contented ; some, remembering home, prefer 
 The cot's bare rafters o'er the gilded dome, 
 And sing, for often sighs too end in song: 
 " In smiling meads how sweet the brook's repose. 
 To the rough ocean and red restless sands ! 
 Where are the woodland voices that increast 
 Along the unseen path on festal days, 
 When lay the dry and outcast arbutus 
 On the fane-step, and the first privet-flowers 
 Threw their white light upon the vernal shrine ? " 
 Some heedless trip along with hasty step 
 Whistling, and fix too soon on their abodes : 
 Haply and one among them with his spear 
 Measures the lintel, if so great its highth 
 As will receive him with his helm unlower'd. 
 
 But silence went throughout, e'en thoughts were husht, 
 When to full view of navy and of camp 
 Now first expanded the bare-headed train. 
 Majestic, unpresuming, unappall'd, 
 Onward they marched, and neither to the right 
 Nor to the left, tho' there the city stood, 
 Turn'd they their sober eyes ; and now they reacht
 
 42 GEBIR. 
 
 Within a few steep paces of ascent 
 
 The lone pavilion of the Iberian king- : 
 
 He saw them, he awaited them, he rose, 
 
 He hail'd them, " Peace be with Tfou .-" they rephed 
 
 " King- of the western world, be with you peace."
 
 GEBIR. 
 
 FIFTH BOOK. 
 
 Once a fair city, courted then by kings, 
 Mistress of nations, throng'd by palaces. 
 Raising- her head o'er destiny, her face 
 Glowing with pleasure and with palms refresh t, 
 Now pointed at by Wisdom or by Wealth, 
 Bereft of beauty, bare of ornaments. 
 Stood in the wilderness of woe, Masar. 
 Ere far advancing, all appear'd a plain ; 
 Treacherous and fearful mountains, far advanced. 
 Her glory so gone down, at human step 
 The fierce hyena frighted from the walls 
 Bristled his rising back, his teeth unsheathed. 
 Drew the long growl and with slow foot retired. 
 Yet were remaining some of ancient race,
 
 44 GEBIR. 
 
 And ancient arts were now their sole delight : 
 With Time's first sickle they had markt the hour 
 When at their incantation would the Moon 
 Start back, and shuddering shed blue blasted light. 
 The rifted rays they gather'd, and immerst 
 In potent portion of that wondrous wave, 
 Which, hearing rescued Israel, stood erect, 
 And led her armies thro' his crystal gates. 
 
 Hither (none shared her way, her counsel none) 
 Hied the Masarian Dalica : 'twas night, 
 And the still breeze fell languid on the waste. 
 She, tired with journey long and ardent thoughts, 
 Stopt; and before the city she descried 
 A female form emerge above the sands : 
 Intent she fixt her eyes, and on herself 
 Relying, with fresh vigour bent her way ; 
 Nor disappear'd the woman ; but exclamed, 
 One hand retaining tight her folded vest : 
 " Stranger ! who loathest life, there lies Masar. 
 Begone, nor tarry longer, or ere morn 
 The cormorant in his solitary haunt 
 Of insulated rock or sounding cove 
 Stands on thy bleached bones and screams for prey. 
 My lips can scatter them a hundred leagues. 
 So shrivel'd in one breath as all the sands 
 We tread on, could not in as many years. 
 Wretched who die nor raise their sepulcre ! 
 Therefor begone."
 
 GEBIR. 45 
 
 But Dalica unaw'd, 
 (Tho' in her wither'd but stil firm right-hand 
 Held up with imprecations hoarse and deep 
 Ghmmer'd her brazen sickle, and inclosed 
 Within its figur'd curve the fading moon) 
 Spake thus aloud. " By yon bright orb of Heaven, 
 In that most sacred moment when her beam 
 Guided first thither by the forked shaft. 
 Strikes thro' the crevice of Arishtah's tower . ." 
 
 " Sayst thou ?" astonisht cried the sorceress, 
 " Woman of outer darkness, fiend of death. 
 From what inhuman cave, what dire abyss, 
 Hast thou invisible that spell o'erheard ? 
 What potent hand hath toucht thy quicken'd corse, 
 What song dissolved thy cerements, who unclosed 
 Those faded eyes and fill'd them from the stars ? 
 But if with inextinguisht light of life 
 Thou breathest, soul and body unamerst. 
 Then whence that invocation ? who hath dared 
 Those hallow'd words, divulging, to profane ?" 
 
 Dalica cried, " To heaven not earth addrest, 
 Prayers for protection cannot be profane." 
 
 Here the pale sorceress turn'd her face aside 
 Wildly, and mutter'd to herself amazed; 
 " I dread her who, alone at such an hour. 
 Can speak so strangely, who can thus combine 
 The words of reason with our gifted rites, 
 Yet will I speak once more . . If thou hast seen
 
 46 GEBIR. 
 
 The city of Charoba, hast thou markt 
 The steps of Dalica ? " 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " The tongue 
 Of DaHca has then our rites divulged/'' 
 "Whose rites?" 
 
 " Her sister's, mother's, and her own." 
 " Never." 
 
 " How sayst thou never? one would think, 
 Presumptuous, thou wert Dalica." 
 
 " I am, 
 Woman, and who art thou ?" 
 
 With close embrace. 
 Clung the Masarian round her neck, and cried : 
 "Art thou then not my sister ? ah I fear 
 The golden lamps and jewels of a court 
 Deprive thine eyes of strength and purity : 
 O Dalica, mine watch the waning moon. 
 For ever patient in our mother's art. 
 And rest on Heaven suspended, where the founts 
 Of Wisdom rise, where sound the wings of Power ; 
 Studies intense of strong and stern delight ! 
 And thou too, Dalica, so many years 
 Wean'd from the bosom of thy native land, 
 Returnest back and seekest true repose. 
 O what more pleasant than the short-breath'd sigh 
 When laying down your burthen at the gate. 
 And dizzy with long wandering, you embrace
 
 GEBIR. 47 
 
 The cool and quiet of a homespun bed." 
 
 " Alas" said Dalica " tho' all commend 
 This choice, and many meet with no controul, 
 Yet none pursue it ! Age by Care opprest 
 Feels for the couch, and drops into the grave. 
 The tranquil scene lies further stil from Youth : 
 Frenzied Ambition and desponding- Love 
 Consume Youth's fairest flow'rs ; compared with Youth 
 Age has a something something like repose. 
 Myrthyr, I seek not here a boundary 
 Like the horizon, which, as you advance, 
 Keeping its form and colour, yet recedes : 
 But mind my errand, and my suit perform. 
 
 Twelve years ago Charoba first could speak : 
 If her indulgent father asked her name, 
 She would indulge him too, and would reply 
 What ? why, Charoba ! rais'd with sweet surprise. 
 And proud to shine a teacher in her turn. 
 Shew her the graven sceptre ; what its use ? 
 'Twas to beat dogs w^ith, and to gather flies. 
 She thought the crown a plaything to amuse 
 Herself, and not the people, for she thought 
 Who mimick infant words might infant toys : 
 But while she watched grave elders look with awe 
 On such a bauble, she witheld her breath ; 
 She was afraid her parents should suspect 
 They had caught childhood from her in a kiss ; 
 She blusht for shame, and fear'd. . for, she believ'd.
 
 48 GEBIR, 
 
 Yet was not courage wanting in the child, 
 r^o ; I have often seep her with both hands 
 Shake a dry crocodile of equal highth, 
 And listen to the shells within the scales, 
 And fancy there was life, and yet apply 
 The jagged jaws wide open to her ear. 
 Past are three summers since she first beheld 
 The ocean ; all around the child await 
 Some exclamation of amazement here : 
 She coldly said, her long-lashed eyes abased, 
 Is this the mighty ocean ? is this all ! 
 That wondrous soul Charoba once possest, 
 Capacious then as earth or heaven could hold, 
 Soul discontented with capacity, 
 Is gone, I fear, for ever. Need I say 
 She was enchanted by the wicked spells 
 Of Gebir, whom with lust of power inflamed 
 The western winds have landed on our coast, 
 I since have watcht her in each lone retreat, 
 Have heard her sigh and soften out the name, 
 Then would she change it for Egyptian sounds 
 More sweet, and seem to taste them on her lips, 
 Then loathe them. . Gebir, Gebir stil return'd. 
 Who would repine, of reason not bereft ! 
 For soon the sunny stream of Youth runs down, 
 And not a gadfly streaks the lake beyond. 
 Lone in the gardens, on her gather 'd vest 
 How gently would her languid arm recline !
 
 GEBIR. 49 
 
 How often have I seen her kiss a flower, 
 And on cool mosses press her glowing cheek ! 
 Nor was the stranger free from pangs himself. 
 Whether by spell imperfect, or while brew'cl 
 The swelling herbs infected him with foam, 
 Oft have the shepherds met him wandering 
 Thro' unfrequented paths, oft overheard 
 Deep groans, oft started from soliloquies 
 Which they believe assuredly were meant 
 For spirits who attended him unseen. 
 But when from his ilhided eyes retired 
 That figure Fancy fondly chose to raise, 
 He clasped the vacant air and stood and gazed ; 
 Then owning it was folly, strange to tell, 
 Burst into peals of laughter at his woes. 
 Next, when his passion had subsided, went 
 Where from a cistern, green and ruin'd, oozed 
 A little rill, soon lost ; there gather'd he 
 Violets, and harebells of a sister bloom, 
 Twining complacently their tender stems 
 With plants of kindest pliability. 
 These for a garland woven, for a crown 
 He platted pithy rushes, and ere dusk 
 The grass was whiten'd with their roots knipt off. 
 These threw he, finisht, in the little rill 
 And stood surveying them with steady smile : 
 But such a smile as that of Gebir bids 
 To Comfort a defiance, to Despair 
 
 E
 
 50 GEBIll 
 
 A welcome, iit whatever liour she please. 
 Had I observ'd him I had pitied him, 
 I have observed Charoba : I have asked 
 If she loved Gebir. 
 
 Love him ! she exclamed 
 With such a start of terror, such a flush 
 Of anger, I love Gehir ? I in love ? 
 And looked so piteous, so impatient looked . . 
 And burst, before I answer'd, into tears. 
 Then saw I, plainly saw I, 'twas not love ; 
 For such her natural temper, what she likes 
 She speaks it out, or rather she commands. 
 And could Charoba say with greater ease 
 Bring me a water-melon from the Nile, 
 Than, if she lov'd him, Bring me hvn I love. 
 Therefor the death of Gebir is resolv'd." 
 
 " Resolv'd indeed," cried Myrthyr, nought surprised, 
 " Precious my arts ! I could without remorse 
 Kill, tho' I hold thee dearer than the day. 
 E'en thee thyself, to exercise my arts. 
 Look yonder ! mark yon pomp of funeral ! 
 Is tliis from fortune or from favouring stars ? 
 Dalica, look thou yonder, what a train ! 
 What weeping ! O what luxury ! come, haste, 
 Gather me quickly up these herbs I dropt. 
 And then away . . hush ! I must unobserved 
 From those two maiden sisters pull the spleen : 
 Dissemblers ! how invidious they surround
 
 GEBIR. 51 
 
 The virgin's tomb, where all but virgins weep." 
 
 "Nay, hear me first," cried Dalica, " tis bard 
 To perish to attend a forein king." 
 
 " Perish ! and may not then mine eye alone 
 Draw out the venom drop, and yet remain 
 Enough ? the portion cannot be perceived." 
 Away she hasten'd with it to her home, 
 And, sprinkling thrice fresh sulphur o'er the hearth, 
 Took up a spindle with malignant smile, 
 And pointed to a woof, nor spake a word ; 
 'Twas a dark purple, and its dye was dread. 
 
 Plunged in a lonely house, to her unknown, 
 Now Dalica first trembled : o'er the roof 
 Wander'd her haggard eyes . . 'twas some relief. 
 The massy stones, tho' hewn most roughly, shew'd 
 The hand of man had once at least been there : 
 But from this object sinking back amazed, 
 Her bosom lost all consciousness, and shook 
 As if suspended in unbounded space. 
 Her thus entranced the sister's voice recall'd, 
 " Behold it here dyed once again ! 'tis done." 
 Dalica stept, and felt beneath her feet 
 The slippery floor, with moulder'd dust bestrewn : 
 But Myrthyr seized with bare bold-sinew'd arm 
 The grey cerastes, writhing from her grasp, 
 And twisted off his horn, nor fear'd to squeeze 
 The viscous poison from his glowing gums. 
 
 E 2
 
 52 GEBIR. 
 
 Nor wanted there the root of stunted shrub * 
 Which he lays ragged, hanging o'er the sands, 
 And whence the weapons of his wrath are deatli : 
 Nor the blue urchin that with clammy fin f 
 Holds down the tossing vessel for the tides. 
 Together these her scient hand combined. 
 And more she added, dared I mention more. 
 Which done, with words most potent, thrice she dipt 
 The reeking garb ; thrice waved it thro' the air : 
 She ceast ; and suddenly the creeping wool 
 Shrunk up with crisped dryness in her hands : 
 "Take this" she cried " and Gebir is no more," 
 
 * Bruce metitions the kind of shrub under which mostly the 
 cerastes burrows. 
 
 t The ancients supposed the echinus marinus could sink ships by 
 fastening itself to the keel.
 
 GE B I R. 
 
 SIXTH BOOK. 
 
 Now to Aurora borne by dappled steeds 
 The sacred gate of orient pearl and gold, 
 Smitten with Lucifer's light silver wand, 
 Expanded slow to strains of harmony ; 
 The waves beneath in purpling rows, like doves 
 Glancing with wanton coyness tow'rd their queen, 
 Heav'd softly ; thus the damsel's bosom heaves 
 When from her sleeping lover's downy cheek, 
 To which so warily her own she brings 
 Each moment nearer, she perceives the warmth 
 Of coming kisses fann'd by playful Dreams. 
 Ocean and earth and heaven was jubilee. 
 For 'twas the morning pointed out by Fate 
 When an immortal maid and mortal man
 
 54 CJElilR. 
 
 Should share each other's nature knit in bliss. 
 The brave Iberians far the beach o'erspreacl 
 Ere dawn, with distant awe ; none hear the mew, 
 None mark the curlew flapping o'er the field; 
 Silence held all, and fond expectancy. 
 Now suddenly the conch above the sea 
 Sounds, and goes sounding thro' the woods profound. 
 They, where they hear the echo, turn their eyes, 
 But nothing see they, save a purple mist 
 Roll from the distant mountain down the shore : 
 It rolls, it sails, it settles, it dissolves . . 
 Now shines the Nymph to human eye reveal'd. 
 And leads her Tamar timorous o'er the waves. 
 Immortals crowding round congratulate 
 The shepherd ; he shrinks back, of breath bereft : 
 His vesture clinging closely round his limbs 
 Unfelt, while they the whole fair form admire. 
 He fears that he has lost it, then he fears 
 The wave has mov'd it, most to look he fears. 
 Scarce the sweet-flowing music he imbibes. 
 Or sees the peopled ocean ; scarce he sees 
 Spio with sparkling eyes, and Beroe 
 Demure, and young lone, less renown'd, 
 Not less divine, mild-natured. Beauty forni'd 
 Her face, her heart Fidelity ; for Gods 
 Design'd, a mortal too lone loved. 
 These were the Nymphs elected for the hour 
 Of Hesperus and Hymen ; these had strewn
 
 GEBIR, 55 
 
 The bridal bed, these tuned afresh the shells, 
 
 Wiping the green that hoarsen'd them within : 
 
 These wove the chaplets, and at night resolved 
 
 To drive the dolphins from the wreathed door. 
 
 Gebir surveyed the concourse from the tents, 
 
 The Egyptian men around him ; 'twas observ'd 
 
 By those below how wistfully he lookt, 
 
 From what attention with what earnestness 
 
 Now to his city, now to theirs, he waved 
 
 His hand, and held it, while they spake, outspred. 
 
 They tarried with him and they shared the feast. 
 
 They stoopt with trembling hand from heavy jars 
 
 The wines of Gades gurgling in the bowl ; 
 
 Nor bent they homeward til the moon appear'd 
 
 To hang midway betwixt the earth and skies. 
 
 'Twas then that leaning o'er the boy beloved, 
 
 In Ocean's grot where Ocean was unheard, 
 
 " Tamar !" the Nymph said gently, " come awake ! 
 
 Enough to love, enough to sleep, is given, 
 
 Haste we away," This Tamar deem'd deceit. 
 
 Spoken so fondly, and he kist her lips, 
 
 Nor blusht he then, for he was then unseen. 
 
 But she arising bade the youth arise. 
 
 " What cause to fly ?" said Tamar ; she replied 
 
 " Ask none for flight, and feign none for delay." 
 
 " O am I then deceived ! or am I cast 
 From dreams of pleasure to eternal sleep. 
 And, when I cease to shudder, cease to be !"
 
 56 GE13IK. 
 
 She held the downcast bridegroom to her breast, 
 
 Lookt in his face and charm'd away his fears. 
 
 She said not " wherefor have I then embraced 
 
 You a poor shepherd, or at most a man, 
 
 Myself a Nymph, that now I should deceive ?" 
 
 She said not . . Tamar did, and was ashamed. 
 
 Him overcome her serious voice bespake. 
 
 ** Grief favours all who bear the gift of tears ! 
 
 Mild at first sight he meets his votaries 
 
 And casts no shadow as he comes along ; 
 
 But after his embrace the marble chills 
 
 The pausing foot, the closing door sounds loud, 
 
 The fiend in triumph strikes the roof, then falls 
 
 The eye uplifted from his lurid shade. 
 
 Tamar, depress thyself, and miseries 
 
 Darken and widen : yes proud hearted man ! 
 
 The sea-bird rises as the billows rise ; 
 
 Nor otherwise when mountain floods descend 
 
 Smiles the unsullied lotus glossy-hair'd. 
 
 Thou, claiming all things, leanest on thy claim 
 
 Til overwhelmed thro' incompliancy. 
 
 Tamar, some silent tempest gathers round ! " 
 
 " Round whom ?" retorted Tamar " thou describe 
 The danger, I will dare it." 
 
 " Who will dare 
 What is unseen ? " 
 
 " The man that is unblest.'' 
 
 " But wherefor thou ? It threatens not thyself,
 
 GEBIR. 57 
 
 Nor me, but Gebir and the Gadite host." 
 
 " The more I know, the more a wretch am I," 
 Groan'd deep the troubled youth, " stil thou procede." 
 
 " Oh seek not destin'd evils to divine, 
 Found out at last too soon ! cease here the search, 
 Tis vain, 'tis impious, 'tis no gift of mine : 
 I will impart far better, will impart 
 What makes, when Winter comes, the Sun to rest 
 So soon on Ocean's bed his paler brow. 
 And Night to tarry so at Spring's return. 
 And I will lell sometimes the fate of men 
 Who loos'd from drooping neck the restless arm 
 Adventurous, ere long nights had satisfied 
 The sweet and honest avarice of love ; 
 How whirlpools have absorb'd them, storms o'erwhelm'd 
 And how amid their struggles and their prayers 
 The big wave blacken'd o'er the mouth supine : 
 Then, when my Taniar trembles at the tale, 
 Kissing his lips half open with surprise, 
 Glance from the gloomy story, and with glee 
 Light on the fairer fables of the Gods. 
 
 Thus we may sport at leisure when we go 
 Where, loved by Neptune and the Naid, loved 
 By pensive Dryad pale, and Oread 
 The spritely Nymph whom constant Zephyr woos, 
 Rhine rolls his beryl-colour'd wave ; than Rhine 
 What river from the mountains ever came 
 More stately ! most the simple crown adorns
 
 58 GEBIU. 
 
 Of rushes and of willows interwined 
 
 With here and there a flower : his lofty brow 
 
 Shaded with vines and mistleto and oak 
 
 He rears, and mystic bards his fame resound. 
 
 Or gliding opposite, th' lUyrian gulf 
 
 Will harbour us from ill." While thus she spake, 
 
 She toucht his eyelashes with libant lip, 
 
 And breath'd ambrosial odours, o'er his cheek 
 
 Celestial warmth suffusing: grief dispersed, 
 
 And strength and pleasure beam'd upon his brow. 
 
 Then pointed she before him : first arose 
 
 To his astonisht and delighted view 
 
 The sacred ile that shrines the queen of love. 
 
 It stood so near him, so acute each sense, 
 
 That not the symphony of lutes alone 
 
 Or coo serene or billing strife of doves. 
 
 But murmurs, whispers, nay the very sighs 
 
 Which he himself had utter'd once, he heard. 
 
 Next, but long after and far off, appear 
 
 The cloudlike cliffs and thousand towers of Crete, 
 
 And further to the right, the Cyclades : 
 
 Phoebus had rais'd and fixt them, to surround 
 
 His native Delos and aerial fane. 
 
 He saw the land of Pelops, host of Gods, 
 
 Saw the steep ridge where Corinth after stood 
 
 Beckoning the serious with the smiling Arts 
 
 Into the sunbright bay ; unborn the maid 
 
 That to assure the bent-up hand unskill'd
 
 GEBIR. 59 
 
 Lookt oft, but oftener fearing who might wake. 
 
 He heard the voice of rivers ; he descried 
 
 Pindan Peneus and the slender Nymphs 
 
 That tread his banks but fear the thundering tide ; 
 
 These, and Amphrysos and Apidanus 
 
 And poplar-crown'd Spercheus, and rechned 
 
 On restless rocks Enipeus, where the winds 
 
 Scatter'd above the weeds his hoary hair. 
 
 Then, with Pirene and with Panope, 
 
 Evenus, troubled from paternal tears, 
 
 And last was Achelous, king of iles. 
 
 Zacynthus here, above rose Ithaca, 
 
 Like a blue bubble floating in the bay. 
 
 Far onward to the left a glimm'ring light 
 
 Glanced out oblique, nor vanisht ; he inquired 
 
 Whence that arose, his consort thus replied. 
 
 " Behold the vast Eridanus ! ere long 
 
 We may again behold him and rejoice. 
 
 Of noble rivers none with mightier force 
 
 Rolls his unwearied torrent to the main." 
 
 And now Sicanian Etna rose to view : 
 
 Darkness with light more horrid she confounds. 
 
 Baffles the breath and dims the sight of day. 
 
 Tamar grew giddy with astonishment 
 
 And, looking up, held fast the bridal vest ; 
 
 He heard the roar above him, heard the roar 
 
 Beneath, and felt it too, as he beheld, 
 
 Hurl, from Earth's base, rocks, mountains, to the skies.
 
 60 CElilH. 
 
 Meanwhile the Nympli had fixt her eyes beyond, 
 As seemg somewhat, not intent on aught. 
 He, more amazed than ever, then exclamed 
 
 " Is there another flaming ile ? or this 
 Illusion, thus past over unobserved ?" 
 
 " Look yonder" cried the Nymph, without reply, 
 " Look yonder ! " Tamar lookt, and saw afar 
 Where the waves whiten'd on the desert shore. 
 When from amid grey ocean first he caught 
 The hights of Calpe, sadden'd he exclamed, 
 " Rock of Iberia ! fixt by Jove and hung 
 With all his thunder-bearing clouds, I hail 
 Thy ridges rough and cheerless ! what tho' Spring 
 Nor kiss thy brow nor cool it with a flower, 
 Yet will I hail thee, hail thy flinty couch 
 Where Valour and where Virtue have reposed." 
 
 The Nymph said, sweetly smiling " Fickle Man 
 Would not be happy could he not regret ! 
 And I confess how, looking back, a thought 
 Has toucht and tun'd or rather thrill'd my heart, 
 Too soft for sorrow and too strong for joy: 
 Fond foolish maid, 'twas with mine own accord 
 It sooth'd me, shook me, melted, drown'd, in tears. 
 But weep not thou ; what cause hast thou to weep ? 
 Would'st thou thy country? would'st those caves 
 
 abborr'd, 
 Dungeons and portals that exclude the day ? 
 Gebir, tho' generous, just, humane, inhaled
 
 GEBIR. 61 
 
 Rank venom from these mansions. Rest O King 
 In Egypt thou ! nor, Tamar ! pant for sway. 
 With horrid chorus, Pain, Diseases, Death, 
 Stamp on the slippery pavement of the proud, 
 And ring their sounding emptiness thro' earth. 
 Possess the ocean, me, thyself, and peace." 
 
 And now the chariot of the Sun descends, 
 The waves rush hurried from his foaming steeds, 
 Smoke issues from their nostrils at the gate, 
 Which when they enter, with huge golden bar 
 Atlas and Calpe close across the sea.
 
 G E B I R. 
 
 SEVENTH BOOK. 
 
 What mortal first by adverse fate assail'd, 
 Trampled by tyranny or scoft by scorn, 
 Stung; by remorse or wrung by poverty. 
 Bade with fond sigh his native land farewell ? 
 Wretched ! but tenfold wretched who resolv'd 
 Against the waves to plunge th' expatriate keel 
 Deep with the richest harvest of his land ! 
 
 Driven with that weak blast which Winter leaves 
 Closing his palace-gates on Caucasus, 
 Oft hath a berry risen forth a shade ; 
 From the same parent plant another lies 
 Deaf to the daily call of weary hind ; 
 Zephyrs pass by and laugh at his distress. 
 By every lake's and every river's side
 
 64 GEBin. 
 
 The nymphs and Naids teach EquaUty ; 
 
 In voices gently querulous they ask, 
 
 "Who would with aching head and toiling arms 
 
 Bear the full pitcher to the stream far off ? 
 
 Who would, of power intent on high emprise. 
 
 Deem less the praise to fill the vacant gulf 
 
 Then raise Charybdis upon Etna's brow ? " 
 
 Amid her darkest caverns most retired, 
 
 Nature calls forth her filial elements 
 
 To close around and crush that monster I 'aid: 
 
 Fire, springing fierce from his resplendent throne, 
 
 And Water, dashing the devoted wretch 
 
 Woundless and whole with iron-colour'd mace. 
 
 Or whirling headlong in his war-belt's fold. 
 
 Mark well the lesson, man ! and spare thy kind. 
 
 Go, from their midnight darkness wake the woods, 
 
 Woo the lone forest in her last retreat : 
 
 Many stil bend their beauteous heads unblest 
 
 And sigh aloud for elemental man. 
 
 Thro' palaces and porches evil eyes 
 
 Light upon e'en the wretched, who have fled 
 
 The house of bondage or the house of birth ; 
 
 Suspicions, murmurs, treacheries, taunts, retorts, 
 
 Attend the brighter banners that invade ; 
 
 And the first horn of hunter, pale with want, 
 
 Sounds to the chase, the second to the war. 
 
 The long awaited day at last arrived, 
 When, linkt together by the seven-arm'd Nile,
 
 GEBIR. 65 
 
 Egypt with proud Iberia should unite. 
 Here the Tartesian, there the Gadite tents 
 Rang- with impatient pleasure : here engaged 
 Woody Nebrissa's quiver-bearing crew, 
 Contending warm with amicable skill ; 
 While they of Durius raced along the beach 
 And scatter'd mud and jeers on all behind. 
 The strength of Beetis too removed the helm 
 And stript the corslet off, and stauncht the foot 
 Against the mossy maple, while they tore 
 Their quivering lances from the hissing wound. 
 Others push forth the prows of their compeers, 
 And the wave, parted by the pouncing beak, 
 Swells up the sides, and closes far astern : 
 The silent oars now dip their level wings. 
 And weary with strong stroke the whitening wave. 
 Others, afraid of tardiness, return : 
 Now, entering the still harbour, every surge 
 Runs with a louder murmur up their keel. 
 And the slack cordage rattles round the mast. 
 Sleepless with pleasure and expiring fears 
 Had Gebir risen ere the break of dawn, . 
 And o'er the plains appointed for the feast 
 Hurried with ardent step : the swains admired 
 What so transversely could have swept the dew ; 
 For never long one path had Gebir trod, 
 Nor long, unheeding man, one pace preserved. 
 Not thus Charoba : she despair'd the day : 
 
 V
 
 136 GEEIR. 
 
 The day was present ; true ; yet she despair' cl. 
 In the too tender and once tortured heart 
 Doubts gather strength from habit, hke disease ; 
 Fears, like the needle verging to the pole, 
 Tremble and tremble into certainty. 
 How often, when her maids with merry voice 
 Call'd her, and told the sleepless queen 'twas morn, 
 How often would she feign some fresh delay. 
 And tell 'em (tho' they saw) that she arose. 
 Next to her chamber, closed by cedar doors 
 A bath of purest marble, purest wave. 
 On its fair surface bore its pavement high : 
 Arabian gold enchased the crystal roof, 
 With fluttering boys adorn'd and girls unrobed : 
 These, when you touch the quiet water, start 
 From their aerial sunny arch, and pant 
 Entangled mid each other's flowery wreaths. 
 And each pursuing is in turn pursued. 
 
 Here came at last, as ever wont at morn, 
 Charoba : long she linger'd at the brink, 
 Often she sighed, and, naked as she was. 
 Sat down, and leaning on the couchis edge. 
 On the soft inward pillow of her arm 
 Rested her burning cheek : she moved her eyes ; 
 She blusht ; and blushing plunged into the wave. 
 
 Now brazen chariots thunder thro' each street, 
 And neighing steeds paw proudly from delay. 
 While o'er the palace breathes the dulcimer.
 
 GEBIR. 67 
 
 Lute, and aspiring harp, and lisping reed ; 
 Loud rush the trumpets bursting thro' the throng 
 And urge the high-shoulder'd vulgar ; now are heard 
 Curses and quarrels and constricted blows, 
 Threats and defiance and suburban war. 
 Hark ! the reiterated clangour sounds ! 
 Now murmurs, like the sea or like the storm 
 Or like the flames on forests, move and mount 
 From rank to rank, and loud and louder roll, 
 Til all the people is one vast applause. 
 Yes, 'tis herself, Charoba. . now the strife 
 To see again a form so often seen ! 
 Feel they some partial pang, some secret void, 
 Some doubt of feasting those fond eyes again ? 
 Panting imbibe they that refreshing sight 
 To reproduce in hour of bitterness ? 
 She goes, the king awaits her from the camp : 
 Him she descried, and trembled ere he reacht 
 Her car, but shudder'd paler at his voice. 
 So the pale silver at the festive board 
 Grows paler fill'd afresh and dew'd with wine ; 
 So seems the tenderest herbage of the spring 
 To whiten, bending from a balmy gale. 
 The beauteous queen alighting he received, 
 And sighed to loose her from his arms ; she hung 
 A little longer on them thro' her fears : 
 Her maidens followed her, and one that watcht, 
 One that had call'd her in the morn, observ'd 
 
 f2
 
 6S GEBIR. 
 
 How virgin passion with unfiiel'd flame 
 Burns into whiteness, while the blushing cheek 
 Imagination heats and Shame imbues. 
 
 Between both nations drawn in ranks they pass : 
 The priests, with linen ephods, linen ^obes. 
 Attend their steps, some follow, some precede. 
 Where cloath'd with purple intertwined with gold 
 Two lofty thrones commanded land and main. 
 Behind and near them numerous were the tents 
 As freckled clouds o'erfloat our vernal skies, 
 Numerous as wander in warm moonlight nights. 
 Along Meander's or Cayster's marsh, 
 Swans pliant-neckt and village storks revered. 
 Throughout each nation moved the hum confused. 
 Like that from myriad wings o'er Scythian cups 
 Of frothy milk, concreted soon with blood. 
 Throughout the fields the savoury smoke ascends. 
 And boughs and branches shade the hides unbroacht. 
 Some roll the flowery turf into a seat. 
 And others press the helmet. . now resounds 
 The signal !. . queen and monarch mount the thrones. 
 The brazen clarion hoarsens: many leagues 
 Above them, many to the south, the hern 
 Rising with hurried croak and throat outstretcht. 
 Plows up the silvering surface of her plain. 
 
 Tottering with age's zeal and mischief's haste 
 Now was discover'd Dalica ; she reacht 
 The throne, she leant against the pedestal,
 
 GEBIR. 69 
 
 And now ascending stood before the king. 
 Prayers for his health and safety she prefer'd, 
 And o'er his head and o'er his feet she threw 
 Myrrh, nard, and cassia, from three golden urns ; 
 His robe of native woof she next removed, 
 And round his shoulders drew the garb accurst. 
 And bow'd her head and parted : soon the queen 
 Saw the blood mantle in his manly cheeks, 
 And fear'd, and faltering sought her lost replies, 
 And blest the silence that she wisht were broke. 
 Alas ! unconscious maiden ! night shall close. 
 And love and sovranty and life dissolve. 
 And Egypt be one desert drencht in blood. 
 
 When thunder overhangs the fountain's head. 
 Losing its wonted freshness every stream 
 Grows turbid, grows with sickly warmth suffused : 
 Thus were the brave Iberians when they saw 
 The king of nations from his throne descend. 
 Scarcely, with pace uneven, knees unnerved, 
 Reacht he the waters : in his troubled ear 
 They sounded murmuring drearily ; they rose 
 Wild, in strange colours, to his parching eyes ; 
 They seem'd to rush around him, seem'd to lift 
 From the receding earth his helpless feet. 
 He fell . . Charoba shriekt aloud . . she ran . . 
 Frantic with fears and fondness, mazed with woe, 
 Nothing but Gebir dying she beheld. 
 The turban that betray 'd its golden charge
 
 7Q GEBIR. 
 
 Within, the veil that down her shoulders hung, 
 All fallen at her feet ! the furthest wave 
 Creeping with silent progress up the sand, 
 Glided thro' all, and rais'd their hollow folds. 
 In vain they bore him to the sea, in vani 
 Rub'd they his temples with the briny warmth : 
 He struggled from them, strong with agony. 
 He rose half up, he fell again, he cried 
 " Charoba ! Charoba .'" She embraced 
 His neck, and raising on her knee one arm. 
 Sighed when it moved not, when it fell she shriekt. 
 And clasping loud both hands above her head. 
 She call'd on Gebir, call'd on earth, on heaven. 
 " Who will believe me? what shall I protest ? 
 How innocent, thus wretched ! God of Gods, 
 Strike me. . who most offend thee most defy. . 
 Charoba most offends thee. . strike me, hurl 
 From this accursed land, this faithless throne. 
 O Dalica ! see here the royal feast ! 
 See here the gorgeous robe ! you little thought 
 How have the demons dyed that robe with death. 
 Where are ye, dear fond parents ! when ye heard 
 My feet in childhood pat the palace-floor. 
 Ye started forth and kist away surprise : 
 Will ye no%v meet me ! how, and where, and when ? 
 And must I fill your bosom with my tears, 
 And, what 1 never have done, with your own ! 
 Why have the Gods thus punisht me ? what harm
 
 GEBIR. 71 
 
 Have ever I done them ? have I profaned 
 Their temples, askt too little, or too much ? 
 Proud if they granted, griev'd if they witheld ? 
 O mother ! stand between your child and them ! 
 Appease them, soothe them, soften their revenge. 
 Melt them to pity with maternal tears. . 
 Alas, but if you cannot ! they themselves 
 Will then want pity rather than your child. 
 O Gebir ! best of monarchs, best of men, 
 What realm hath ever thy firm even hand 
 Or lost by feebleness or held by force ! 
 Behold thy cares and perils how repaid ! 
 Behold the festive day, the nuptial hour ! " 
 
 Thus raved Charoba : horrour, grief, amaze. 
 Pervaded all the host; all eyes were fixt; 
 All stricken motionless and mute : the feast 
 Was like the feast of Cepheus, when the sword 
 Of Phineus, white with wonder, shook restrain'd, 
 And the hilt rattled in his marble hand. 
 She heard not, saw not, every sense was gone ; 
 One passion banisht all ; dominion, praise, 
 The world itself was nothing. Senseless man ! 
 What would thy fancy figure now from worlds ? 
 There is no world to those that grieve and love. 
 She hung upon his bosom, prest his lips, 
 Breath'd, and would feign it his that she resorbed, 
 She chafed the feathery softness of his veins, 
 That swell'd out black, like tendrils round their vase
 
 72 GEBUl. 
 
 After libation : lo ! he moves ! he grofins ! 
 
 He seems to struggle from the grasp of death. 
 
 Charoba shriekt and fell away, her hand 
 
 Stil clasping his, a sudden blush o'erspred 
 
 Her pallid humid cheek, and disappear'd. 
 
 'Twas not the blush of shame. . wliat shame has woe ?. 
 
 'Twas not the genuine ray of hope, it flasht 
 
 With shuddering glimmer thro' unscatter'd clouds, 
 
 It flasht from passions rapidly opposed. 
 
 Never so eager, when the world was waves. 
 Stood the less daughter of the ark, and tried 
 (Innocent this temptation!) to recall 
 With folded vest and casting arm the dove ; 
 Never so fearful, wlicn amid the vines 
 Rattled the hail, and when the light of heaven 
 Closed, since the wreck of Nature, first eclipst, 
 As she was eager for his life's return. 
 As she was fearful how his groans miaht end. 
 They ended: cold and languid calm succedes; 
 His eyes have lost their luster, but his voice 
 Is not unheard, tho' short : he spake these words. 
 
 " And weepest thou, Charoba ! shedding tears 
 More precious than the jewels that surround 
 The neck of kings entomb'd ! then weep, fair queen. 
 At once thy pity and my pangs assuage. 
 Ah ! what is grandour, glory. . they are past ! 
 When nothing else, not life itself, remains, 
 Stil the fond mourner may be call'd our own.
 
 GEBIR. 73 
 
 Should I complain of Fortune ? how she errs, 
 Scattering her bounty upon barren ground, 
 Slow to allay the lingering thirst of toil ? 
 Foitune, 'tis true, may err, may hesitate, 
 Death follows close nor hesitates nor errs. 
 I feel the stroke ! I die ! " He would extend 
 His dying arm, it fell upon his breast : 
 Cold sweat and shivering ran o'er every limb, 
 His eyes grew stiff, he struggled and expired,
 
 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 A TRAGEDY.
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Count Julian 
 
 RoDERiGo King of Spain. 
 
 Opas Metropolitan of Seville. 
 
 SiSABERT betrothed to CoviLhA. 
 
 MuzA Prince of Mauritania. 
 
 AbDALAZIS SOHO/MUZA. 
 
 Tarik Moorish Chieftain. 
 
 CoviLLA daughter of J vhiAy. 
 
 Egilona trife of B.ODER1GO. 
 
 Hernando, Osma, 1 
 
 r Officers. 
 Ramiro, \c. . . J 
 
 The daughter of Count Julian is usually called Florinda — a fictitious 
 appellation, unsuitable to the person and to the period. Never was one 
 devised more incompatible with tlie appearance of truth, or more fatal to 
 the illusions of sympathy. The citj- of Covilla, it is reported, was named 
 after her. Here is no improbability : there would be a gross one in deriv- 
 ing the word, as is also pretended, from La. Cava. Cities, in adopting a 
 name, bear it usuaUy as a testimony of victories or as an augurj" of virtues. 
 Small and obscure places occasionally receive what their neighbours 
 throw against them ; as Puerto de la mala muger in Murcia. A generous 
 and enthusiastic people, beyond all others in existence or on record, would 
 afSx no stigma to innocence and misfortune. 
 
 It is remarkable that the most important era in Spanisli liistory should 
 be the most obscm-e. This is propitious to the poet, and above all to the 
 tragedian. Few characters of such an era can be glaringly misrepresented, 
 few facts offensively perverted .
 
 COUNT JULIAN. 
 
 FIRST ACT : FIRST SCENE. 
 
 Camp of Julian. 
 Opas. Julian. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 See her, Count Julian: if thou lovest God, 
 See thy lost child. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I have aveng-ed me, Opas, 
 More than enough : I only sought to hurl 
 The brands of war on one detested head, 
 And die upon his ruin. O my country ! 
 O lost to honour, to thyself, to me, 
 Why on barbarian hands devolves thy cause, 
 Spoilers, blasphemers !
 
 80 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Is it thus, Don Julian, 
 When thy own ofspring, that beloved child, 
 For whom alone these very acts were done 
 By them and thee, when thy Covilla stands 
 An outcast and a supi)Hant at thy gate, 
 Why that still stubborn agony of soul, 
 Those struggles v^ith the bars thyself imposed ? 
 Is she not thine ? not dear to thee as ever ? 
 
 J1.ILJAN. 
 
 Father of mercies ! shew, me none, whene'er 
 The wrongs slie suffers cease to wring my heart. 
 Or I seek solace ever, but in death. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 What wilt thou do then, too unhappy man ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 What have I done already ? All my peace 
 Has vanisht ; my fair fame in aftertinies 
 Will wear an alien and uncomely form, 
 Seen o'er the cities I have laid in dust, 
 Countrymen slaughtered, friends abjured ! 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 And faith ? 
 
 JULIAN, 
 
 Alone now left me, filling up in part 
 The narrow and waste intervals of grief : 
 It promises that I shall see again 
 My own lost child.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 81 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Yes, at this very hour. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Till I have met the tyrant face to face, 
 And gain'd a conquest greater than the last ; 
 Till he no longer rules one rood of Spain, 
 And not one Spaniard, not one enemy, 
 The least relenting, flags upon his flight ; 
 Till we are equal in the eyes of men. 
 The humblest and most wretched of our kind, 
 No peace for me, no comfort, no . . no child ! 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 No pity for the thousands fatherless, 
 Hie thousands childless like thyself, nay more, 
 The thousands friendless, helpless, comfortless. . 
 Such thou wilt make them, little thinking so, 
 Who now perhaps, round their first winter fire. 
 Banish, to talk of thee, the tales of old. 
 Shedding true honest tears for thee unknown : 
 Precious be these, and sacred in thy sight, 
 Mingle them not with blood from hearts thus kind. 
 If only warlike spirits were evoked 
 By the war-demon, I would not complain, 
 Or dissolute and discontented men ; 
 But wherefor hurry down into the square 
 The neighbourly, saluting, warm-clad race. 
 Who would not injure us, and cannot serve ; 
 Who, from their short and measured slumber risen, 
 
 G
 
 82 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 In the faint sunshine of their balconies, 
 
 With a half-legend of a martyrdom 
 
 And some weak wine and withered grapes before them, 
 
 Note by their foot the wheel of melody 
 
 That catches and rolls on the sabbath dance. 
 
 To drag the steddy prop from failing age, 
 
 Break the young stem that fondness twines around, 
 
 Widen the solitude of lonely sighs, 
 
 And scatter to the broad bleak wastes of day 
 
 The ruins and the phantoms that replied, 
 
 Ne'er be it thine. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Arise, and save me, Spain ! 
 
 FIRST ACT: SECOND SCENE. 
 MuzA enters. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Infidel chief, thou tarriest here too long, 
 
 And art perhaps repining at the days 
 
 Of nine continued victories, o'er men 
 
 Dear to thy soul, tho' reprobate and base. 
 
 Away ! He retires. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I follow. Could my bitterest foes 
 Hear this ! ye Spaniards, this ! which I foreknew
 
 A TRAGEDY. . 83 
 
 And yet encounter'd ; could they see your Julian 
 Receiving orders from and answering 
 These desperate and heaven-abandoned slaves, 
 They might perceive some few external pangs, 
 Some glimpses of the hell wherin I move, 
 Who never have been fathers. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 These are they 
 To whom brave Spaniards must refer their wrongs ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Muza, that cruel and suspicious chief, 
 Distrusts his friends more than his enemies. 
 Me more than either ; fraud he loves and fears. 
 And watches her still footfall day and night. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 O Julian ! such a refuge ! such a race ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Calamities like mine alone implore. 
 
 No virtues have redeemed them from their bonds ; 
 
 Wily ferocity, keen idleness, 
 
 And the close cringes of ill-whispering want, 
 
 Educate them to plunder and obey : 
 
 Active to serve him best whom most they fear, 
 
 They shew no mercy to the merciful, 
 
 And racks alone remind them of the name. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 O everlasting curse for Spain and thee ! 
 
 g2
 
 84 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Spain should have vindicated then her wrongs 
 In mine, a Spaniard's and a soldier's wrongs. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Julian, are thine the only wrongs on earth ? 
 And shall each Spaniard rather vindicate 
 Thine than his own ? is there no Judge of all ' 
 Shall mortal hand seize with impunity 
 The sword of vengeance, from the armory 
 Of the Most High ? easy to wield, and starred 
 With glory it appears ; but all the host 
 Of the archangels, should they strive at once. 
 Would never close again its widening blade. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 He who provokes it hath so much to rue. 
 Where'er he turn, whether to earth or heaven, 
 He finds an enemy, or raises one. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 I never yet have seen where long success 
 Hath followed him who warred upon his king. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Because the virtue that inflicts the stroke 
 Dies with him, and the rank ignoble heads 
 Of plundering faction soon unite again. 
 And prince-protected share the spoil at rest.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 85 
 
 FIRST ACT : THIRD SCENE. 
 Guard announces a Herald. Opas departs. 
 
 GUARD. 
 
 A messager of peace is at the gate, 
 My lord, safe access, private audience, 
 And free return, he claims. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Conduct him in. 
 
 RoDERiGO enters as a herald. 
 
 A messager of peace ! audacious man ! 
 In what attire appearest thou ? a herald's ? 
 Under no garb can such a wretch be safe. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Thy violence and fancied wrongs I know, 
 And what thy sacrilegious hands would do, 
 O traitor and apostate ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 What they would 
 They cannot : thee of kingdom and of life 
 'Tis easy to despoil, thyself the traitor. 
 Thyself the violator of allegiance. 
 O would all-righteous Heaven they could restore 
 The joy of innocence, the calm of age, 
 The probity of manhood, pride of arms. 
 And confidence of honour ! the august 
 And holy laws trampled beneath thy feet.
 
 86 COLiN'T JULIAN 
 
 And Spain ! O parent, I have lost thee too ! 
 
 Yes, thou wilt curse me in thy latter days. 
 
 Me, thine avenger. I have fought her foe, 
 
 Roderigo, I have gloried in her sons. 
 
 Sublime in hardihood and piety : 
 
 Her strength was mine : I, sailing by her cliffs, 
 
 By promontory after promontory, 
 
 Opening like flags along some castle-towers, 
 
 Have sworn before the cross upon our mast 
 
 Ne'er shall invader wave his standard there. 
 
 IIODERIGO. 
 
 Yet there thou plantest it, false man, thyself. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Accursed he who makes me this reproach. 
 And made it just! Had I been happy still, 
 I had been blameless : I had died with glory 
 Upon the walls of Ceuta. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Which thy treason 
 Surrendered to the Infidel. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 'Tis hard 
 And base to live beneath a conqueror : 
 Yet, amid all this grief and infamy, 
 'Twere something to have rusht upon the ranks 
 In their advance ; 'twere something to have stood 
 Defeat, discomfiture ; and, when around 
 No beacon blazes, no far axle groans
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Thro' the wide plain, no sound of sustenance 
 
 Or succour soothes the still-believing ear, 
 
 To fight upon the last dismantled tower, 
 
 And yield to valour, if we yield at all. 
 
 But rather should my neck lie trampled down 
 
 By every Saracen and Moor on earth. 
 
 Than my own country see her laws o'erturn'd 
 
 By those who should protect them: Sir, no prince 
 
 Shall ruin Spain ; and, least of all, her own. 
 
 Is any just or glorious act in view, 
 
 Your oaths forbid it : is your avarice. 
 
 Or, if there be such, any viler passion 
 
 To have its giddy range, and to be gorged, 
 
 It rises over all your sacraments, 
 
 A hooded mystery, holier than they all. 
 
 UODERIGO. 
 
 Hear me, Don Julian ; I have heard thy wrath 
 Who am thy king, nor heard man's wrath before. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Thou shalt hear mine, for thou art not my king. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Knowest thou not the altered face of war ? 
 Xeres is ours ; from every region round 
 True loyal Spaniards throng into our camp : 
 Nay, thy own friends and thy own family, 
 From the remotest provinces, advance 
 To crush rebellion : Sisabert is come,
 
 88 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Disclaiming thee and thine ; the Asturian hills 
 Opposed to him their icy chains in vain : 
 But never wilt thou see him, never more, 
 Unless in adverse war, and deadly hate. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 So lost to me ! So generous, so deceived ! 
 I grieve to hear it. 
 
 RODEllIGO. 
 
 Come, I offer grace, 
 Honour, dominion : send away these slaves. 
 Or leave them to our sword, and all beyond 
 The distant Ebro to the towns of France 
 Shall bless thy name, and bend before thy throne. 
 I will myself accompany thee, I, 
 The king, will hail thee brother. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Ne'er shalt thou 
 Henceforth be king: the nation in thy name 
 May issue edicts, champions may command 
 The vassal multitudes of marshall'd war, 
 And the fierce charger shrink before the shouts, 
 Lower'd as if earth had open'd at his feet, 
 While thy mail'd semblance rises tow'rd the ranks. 
 But God alone sees thee, 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 What hopest thou ? 
 To conquer Spain, and rule a ravaged land ?
 
 A TRAGEDY. 89 
 
 To compass me aroimd, to murder me ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 No, Don Roderigo : swear thou, in the fight 
 That thou wilt meet me, hand to hand, alone. 
 That, if I ever save thee from a foe — 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 I swear what honour asks. . First, to Covilla 
 Do thou present my crown and dignity. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Darest thou offer any price for shame ? 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Love and repentance. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Egilona lives : 
 And were she buried with her ancestors, 
 Covilla should not be the gaze of men, 
 Should not, despoilVl of honour, rule the free. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Stern man ! her virtues well deserve the throne. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 And Egilona, . what hath she deserved, 
 The good, the lovely? 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 But the realm in vain 
 
 Hoped a succession. 
 
 The roots of royalty. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Thou hast torn away
 
 90 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 UODEKIGO. 
 
 For her, for thee. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Blind insolence ! base insincerity ! 
 
 Power and renown no mortal ever shared, 
 
 Who could retain or grasp them to himself : 
 
 And, for Covilla? patience ! peace ! for her ? 
 
 She call upon her God, and outrage him 
 
 At his own altar ! she repeat the vows 
 
 She violates in repeating ! who abhors 
 
 Thee and thy crimes, and wants no crown of thine. 
 
 Force may compell the abhorrent soul, or want 
 
 Lash and pursue it to the public ways ; 
 
 Virtue looks back and weeps, and may return 
 
 To these, but never near the abandon'd one 
 
 Who drags religion to adultery's feet, 
 
 And rears the altar higher for her sase. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Have then the Saracens possest thee quite, 
 And wilt thou never yield me thy consent ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Never. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 So deep in guilt, in treachery ! 
 Forced to acknowledge it ! forced to avow 
 The traitor ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Not to thee, who reignest not,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 91 
 
 But to a country ever dear to me, 
 And dearer now than ever : what we love 
 Is lovehest in departure ! One I thought, 
 As every father thinks, the best of all. 
 Graceful, and mild, and sensible, and chaste : 
 Now all these qualities of form and soul 
 Fade from before me, nor on any one 
 Can I repose, or be consoled by any. 
 And yet in this torn heart I love her more 
 Than I could love her when I dwelt on each. 
 Or claspt them all united, and thankt God, 
 Without a wish beyond. — Away, thou fiend! 
 
 ignominy, last and worst of all ! 
 
 1 weep before thee . . like a child . . like mine . . 
 And tell my woes, fount of them all ! to thee ! 
 
 FIRST ACT : FOURTH SCENE. 
 Abdalazis enters. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Julian, to thee, the terrour of the faithless, 
 
 I bring my father's order, to prepare 
 
 For the bright day that crowns thy brave exploits 
 
 Our enemy is at the very gate ! 
 
 And art thou here, with women in thy train,
 
 92 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Crouching to gain admittance to their lord, 
 And mourning the unkindness of delay ! 
 
 JULIAN much agitated, goes toward the door, and 
 
 returns. 
 I am prepared : Prince, judge not hastily. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Whether I should not promise all they ask, 
 I too could hesitate, tho' earlier taught 
 The duty to obey, and should rejoice 
 To shelter in the universal storm 
 A frame so delicate, so full of fears. 
 So little used to outrage and to arms, 
 As one of these ; so humble, so uncheer'd 
 At the gay pomp that smooths the track of war. 
 When she beheld me from afar dismount. 
 And heard my trumpet, she alone drew back. 
 And, as tho' doubtful of the help she seeks, 
 Shudder'd to see the jewels on my brow, 
 And turn'd her eyes away, and wept aloud. 
 The other stood awhile, and then advanced : 
 I would have spoken ; but she waved her hand 
 And said. Proceed, protect us, and avenge, 
 And be thou worthier of the crown thou wearest. 
 Hopeful and happy is indeed our cause, 
 When the most timid of the lovely hail 
 Stranger and foe — 
 
 RODERiGO unnoticed by abdalazis. 
 And shrink but to advance.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 93 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Thou tremblest? whence, O Julian ! whence this 
 
 change ? 
 Thou lovest still thy country. 
 
 JULIAN, 
 
 Abdalazis ! 
 All men with human feelings love their country. 
 Not the highborn or wealthy man alone, 
 Who looks upon his children, each one led 
 By its gay handmaid, from the high alcove, 
 And hears them once a day ; not only he 
 Who hath forgotten, when his guest inquires 
 The name of some far village all his own ; 
 Whose rivers bound the province, and whose hills 
 Touch the last cloud upon the level sky : 
 No ; better men still better love their country. 
 'Tis the old mansion of their earliest friends, 
 "Hie chapel of their first and best devotions ; 
 When violence or perfidy invades, 
 Or when unworthy lords hold wassail there. 
 And wiser heads are drooping round its moats, 
 At last they fix their steddy and stiff eye 
 There, there alone, .stand while the trumpet blows, 
 And view the hostile flames above its towers 
 Spire, with a bitter and severe delight. 
 
 ABDALAZIS taking his hand. 
 Thou feelest what thou speakest, and thy Spain 
 Will ne'er be shelter'd from her fate by thee.
 
 94 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 We, whom the Prophet sends o'er many lands, 
 Love none above another ; Heaven assigns 
 Their fields and harvests to our valiant swords, 
 And 'tis enough. . we love while we enjoy. 
 Whence is the man in that fantastic guise ? 
 Suppliant ? or herald ? he who stalks about, 
 And once was even seated while we spoke : 
 For never came he with us o'er the sea. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 He comes as herald. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Thou shalt know full soon. 
 Insulting Moor. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 He cannot bear the grief 
 His country suffers ; I will pardon him. 
 He lost his courage first, and then his mind ; 
 His courage rushes back, his mind still wanders. 
 The guest of heaven was piteous to these men, 
 And princes stoop to feed them in their courts.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 95 
 
 FIRST ACT: FIFTH SCENE, 
 
 RoDERiGO is going out when Muza enters with Egi- 
 lona: Roderigo starts back. 
 
 Muza sternly to egilona. 
 Enter, since 'tis the custom in this land. 
 egilona passing mvz a disdainfully, points to abda- 
 lazis, and says to julian. 
 Is this our future monarch, or art thou ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Tis Abdalazis, son of Muza, prince 
 Commanding Africa, from Abyla 
 To where Tunisian pilots bend the eye 
 O'er ruin'd temples in the glassy wave. 
 'Till quiet times and ancient laws return, 
 He comes to govern here. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 To-morrow's dawn 
 Proves that. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 What art thou ? 
 roderigo drawing his sword. 
 King. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Amazement
 
 96 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Treason ! 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 horror! 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Seize him. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Spare him ! fly to me ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Urge me not to protect a guest, a herald . . 
 The blasts of war roar over him unfelt. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Ah fly, unhappy ! 
 
 IIODERIGO. 
 
 Fly ! no, Egilona. . 
 Dost thou forgive me ? dost thou love me ? still ? 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 1 hate, abominate, abhor thee. . go, 
 Or my own vengeance — 
 
 RODERIGO taking julian's hand, and inviting him to 
 attack MUZA and abdalazis. 
 Julian ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Hence, or die.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 97 
 
 SECOND ACT : FIRST SCENE. 
 
 Camp of Julian. 
 Julian and Covilla. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Obdurate ! I am not as I appear. 
 Weep, my beloved child, Covilla weep 
 Into my bosom ; every drop be mine 
 Of this most bitter soul-empoisoning cup : 
 Into no other bosom than thy father's 
 Canst thou, or wouldst thou, pour it. 
 
 COVILLA. 
 
 Cease, my lord, 
 My father, angel of my youth, when all 
 Was innocence and peace. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Arise, my love, 
 Look up to heaven . . where else are souls like thine ! 
 Mingle in sweet communion with its children, 
 Trust in its providence, its retribution, 
 
 H
 
 98 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 And T will cease to mourn; for, O my child, 
 These tears corrode, but thine assuage the heart. 
 
 CO VILLA. 
 
 And never shall I see my mother too, 
 My own, ray blessed mother ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Thou shalt see 
 Her and thy brothers. 
 
 COVILLA. 
 
 No ! I cannot look 
 On them, I cannot meet their lovely eyes, 
 I cannot lift mine up from under theirs. 
 We all were children when they went away ; 
 They now have fought hard battles, and are men. 
 And camps and kings they know, and woes and crimes. 
 Sir, will they never venture from the walls 
 Into the plain ? Remember, they are young, 
 Hardy and emulous and hazardous ; 
 And who is left to guard them in the town ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Peace is throughout the land : the various tribes 
 
 Of that vast region, sink at once to rest, 
 
 Like one wide wood when every wind lies husht. 
 
 COVILLA. 
 
 And war, in all its fury, roams o'er Spain. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Alas ! and will for ages : crimes are loose 
 
 At which ensanguined War stands shuddering;
 
 A TRAGEDY. 99 
 
 And calls for vengeance from the powers above, 
 Impatient of inflicting it himself. 
 Nature in these new horrours is aghast 
 At her own progeny, and knows them not. 
 I am the minister of wrath ; the hands 
 That tremble at me, shall applaud me too, 
 And seal their condemnation. 
 
 COVILLA. 
 
 O kind father, 
 Pursue the guilty, but remember Spain. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Child, thou wert in thy nursery short time since, 
 And latterly hast past the vacant hour 
 Where the familiar voice of history 
 Is hardly known, however nigh, attuned 
 In softer accents to the sickened ear ; 
 But thou hast heard, for nurses tell these tales, 
 Whether I drew my sword for Witiza 
 Abandoned by the people he betrayed, 
 Tho' brother to the woman who of all 
 Was ever dearest to this broken heart, 
 Till thou, my daughter, wert a prey to grief, 
 And a brave country brookt the wrongs I bore. 
 For I had seen Rusilla guide the steps 
 Of her Theodofred, when burning brass 
 Plunged its fierce fang into the founts of light, 
 And Witiza's the guilt! when, bent with age, 
 He knew the voice again, and told the name, 
 
 n 2
 
 100 ' COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Of those whose profier'd fortunes had been Uiid 
 
 Before his throne, while happiness was there, 
 
 And strain'd the sightless nerve tow'rd where they stood 
 
 At the forced memory of the very oaths 
 
 He heard renewed from each, but heard afar, 
 
 For they were loud, and him the throng spurn'd off. 
 
 COVILLA. 
 
 Who were all these ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 All who are seen today 
 On prancing steeds richly caparisoned 
 In loyal aclamation round Roderigo ; 
 Their sons beside them, loving one another 
 Unfeignedly, thro' joy, while they themselves 
 In mutual homage mutual scorn suppress. 
 Their very walls and roofs are welcoming 
 The kings approach, their storied tapestry 
 Swells its rich arch for him triumphantly 
 At every clarion blowing from beloM'. 
 
 COVILLA. 
 
 Such wicked men will never leave his side, 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 For they are insects which see nought beyond 
 Where they now crawl ; whose changes are complete, 
 Unless of habitation. 
 
 COVILLA. 
 
 Whither go 
 Creatures unfit for better, or for worse ?
 
 A TRAGEDY. 101 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Some to the grave, . where peace be with them ! some 
 
 Across the Pyrenean mountains far, 
 
 Into the plains of France ; suspicion there 
 
 Will hang on every step from rich and poor, 
 
 Grey quickly-glancing eyes will wrinkle round 
 
 And courtesy will watch them, day and night. 
 
 Shameless they are, yet will they blush, amid 
 
 A nation that ne'er blushes : some will drag 
 
 The captive's chain, repair the shatter'd bark, 
 
 Or heave it from a quicksand to the shore. 
 
 Among the marbles of the Libyan coast ; 
 
 Teach patience to the lion in his cage, 
 
 And, by the order of a higher slave. 
 
 Hold to the elephant their scanty fare 
 
 To please the children while the parent sleeps. 
 
 COVILLA, 
 
 Spaniards ? must they, dear father, lead such lives ? 
 
 JULIAN, 
 
 All are not Spaniards who draw breath in Spain, 
 Those are, who live for her, who die for her, 
 Who love her glory and lament her fall. 
 O may I too — 
 
 COVILLA, 
 
 But peacefully, and late, 
 Live and die here ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I have, alas ! myself
 
 102 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Laid waste the hopes where my fond fancy strayed, 
 And view their niins with unaltered eyes, 
 
 COVILL.V. 
 
 My mother will at last return to thee. 
 
 Might I once more, but. . could I now ? behold her. 
 
 Tell her. . ah me ! what was my rash desire ? 
 
 No, never tell her these inhuman things, 
 
 For they would waste her tender heart away 
 
 As they waste mine ; or te^jftlien I have died, 
 
 Only to shew her that her every care 
 
 Could not have saved, could not have comforted. 
 
 That she herself, clasping me once again 
 
 To her sad breast, had said, Covilla ! go, 
 
 Go, hide them in the bosom of thy God ! 
 
 Sweet mother ! that far-distant voice I hear, 
 
 And passing out of youth and out of life, 
 
 I would not turn at last, and disobey. 
 
 SECOND ACT: SECOND SCENE. 
 SiSAEERT 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
 
 A TRAGEDY. 103 
 
 By the permission of those 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. 
 
 SISABEUT. 
 
 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 steddily, ere love 
 Was passion and illusion and deceit. 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 1 boast not that 1 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.
 
 104 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Honuur the hand that shewed you honour first, 
 Love. . O my father ! speak, precede, persuade, 
 Thy voice alone can utter it. . another. 
 
 SISABEllT. 
 
 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 succedes 
 
 To king Roderigo will succede 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. 
 
 JULTAX. 
 
 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.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 105 
 
 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 humbled 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. 
 
 sisABEiiT 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 join'd our hands herself, 
 The peers applauded, and the king approved, 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Hast thou yet seen that king since thy return ? 
 
 COVILLA. 
 
 Father ! O father !
 
 106 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 I will not implore 
 Of him or thee what 1 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 portioned 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 unimaginable 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 !
 
 A TRAGEDY. 107 
 
 Where is thy truth, Covilla ! where !. .go, go, 
 I should adore thee and believe 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. 
 
 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 cannot he before ! must I appear 
 
 The vilest. . O just Heaven ! can it be thus ? 
 
 1 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'ervvhelming horrour ; 
 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 !
 
 108 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 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 thyself, my father, from thy 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'erturned her cities and her altars. 
 
 Had not endanger'd thee ! O haste afar 
 
 Ere the last dreadful conflict that decides 
 
 Whether we live beneath a forein 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.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 109 
 
 And every tongue was silent through our land ; 
 When, from remotest earth, friends met again 
 Huns: 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 besides 
 Is the last solace of the parting soul ? 
 Friends, brethren, parents, .dear indeed, too dear 
 Are they, but somewhat still 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 !
 
 110 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 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-turrcted , 
 
 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 Reynosas 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.
 
 A TRAGEDY. J I 1 
 
 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. 
 
 1 cannot 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 thou canst leave, my father ; 
 Ah yes, for it is past ; too well thou seest 
 ]\Iy 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 !
 
 112 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 I hear a voice. . 'tis Egilona. . come, 
 Recall thy courage, dear unhappy girl, 
 Let us away. 
 
 SECOND ACT : THIRD SCENE. 
 Egilona enters. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Remain, I order thee. 
 Attend, and do thy duty : I am queen. 
 Unbent to degradation. 
 
 COVILLA. 
 
 I attend 
 Ever most humbly and most gratefully 
 My too kind sovran, cousin now no more ; 
 Could I perform but half the services 
 I owe her, I were happy for a time, 
 Or dared I shew her half my love, 'twere bhss. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Oh ! I sink under gentleness like thine. 
 Thy sight is death to me ; and yet 'tis dear. 
 The gaudy trappings of assumptive state 
 Drop at the voice of nature to the earth, 
 Before thy feet. .1 cannot force myself 
 To hate thee, to renounce thee ; yet. . Covilla !
 
 A TRAGEDY. 113 
 
 Yet. . O distracting thought ! 'tis hard to see, 
 Hard to converse with, to admire, to love, 
 As from my soul I do, and must do, thee, 
 One who hath rob'd me of all pride and joy, 
 All dignity, all fondness. I adored 
 Roderigo. .he was brave, and in discourse 
 Most voluble ; the masses of his mind 
 Were vast, but varied ; now absorbed in gloom, 
 Majestic, not austere ; now their extent 
 Opening, and waving in bright levity — 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Depart, my daughter. . 'twere as well to bear 
 His presence as his praise. . go. . she will dream 
 This phantasm out, nor notice thee depart. 
 
 Covilla goes. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 What pliancy ! what tenderness ! what life ! 
 
 for the smiles of those who smile so seldom. 
 The love of those who know no other love ! 
 Such he was, Egilona, who was thine. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 While he was worthy of the realm and thee. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Can it be true, then, Julian, that thy aim 
 Is sovranty ? not virtue, nor revenge ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 1 swear to heaven, nor I, nor child of mine, 
 Ever shall mount to this polluted throne, 
 
 I
 
 114 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 KGILONA. 
 
 Then am I still a nueen. The savage Moor 
 Who could not conquer Ceuta from thy sword, 
 In his own country, not with every wile 
 Of his whole race, not with his myriad crests 
 Of cavalry, seen from the Calpian hights 
 Like locusts on the parcht and gleamy coast. 
 Will never conquer Spain. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Spain then was conquer'd 
 When fell her laws before the traitor king. 
 
 SECOND ACT : FOURTH SCENE. 
 
 Officer announces Opas. 
 
 queen, the metropolitan attends 
 
 On matters of high import to the state, 
 And wishes to confer in privacy. 
 
 EGILONA to JULIAN. 
 
 Adieu then ; and whate'er betide the country, 
 Sustain at least the honours of our house. 
 
 Julian goes before Otas enters. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 1 cannot but commend, O Egilona, 
 Such resignation and such dignity.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 11,5 
 
 Indeed he is unworthy ; yet a queen 
 Rather to look for peace, and live remote 
 From cities, and from courts, and from her lord, 
 I hardly could expect, in one so young. 
 So early, widely, wondrously, admired. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 I am resolv'd : religious men, good Opas, 
 In this resemble the vain libertine ; 
 They find in woman no consistency, 
 No virtue but devotion, such as comes 
 To infancy or age, or fear or love, 
 Seeking a place of rest, and finding none 
 Until it soar to heaven. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 A spring of mind 
 That rises when all pressure is removed. 
 Firmness in pious and in chaste resolves, 
 But weakness in much fondness ; these, O queen, 
 I did expect, I own. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 The better part 
 Be mine ; the worst hath been. . and is no more. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 But if Roderigo have at length prevail'd 
 That Egilona willingly resigns 
 All claim to royalty, and casts away. 
 Indifferent or estranged, the marriage-bond 
 His perjury tore asunder, still the church 
 
 I 2
 
 116 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Heudly can sanction his new nuptial rites. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 What art thou saying? what new nuptial rites? 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Thou knowest not ? 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Am I a wife ; a queen ? 
 Abandon it ! my claim to royalty ! 
 Whose hand was on my head when I arose 
 Queen of this land ? whose benediction sealed 
 My marriage-vow ? who broke it ? was it I ? 
 And wouldst thou, virtuous Opas, wouldst tliou dim 
 The glorious light of thy decUning days ? 
 Wouldst thou administer the sacred vows, 
 And sanction them, and bless them, for another. 
 And bid her live in peace while I am living ? 
 Go then ; I execrate and banish him 
 For ever from my sight : we were not born 
 For happiness together ; none on earth 
 Wete ever so dissimilar as we. 
 He is not worth a tear, a wish, a thought. . 
 Never was I deceived in him. . I found 
 No tenderness, no fondness, from the first: 
 A love of power, a love of perfidy, 
 Such is the love that is returned for mine. 
 Ungrateful man ! 'twas not the pageantry 
 Of regal state, the clarions, nor the guard, 
 Nor loyal valour, nor submissive beauty,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 117 
 
 Silence at my approach, awe at my voice. 
 Happiness at my smile, that led my youth 
 Toward Roderigo ! I had lived obscure, 
 In humbleness, in poverty, in want, 
 Blest, O supremely blest ! with him alone : 
 And he abandons me, rejects me, scorns me. 
 Insensible ! inhuman ! for another ! 
 Thou shalt repent thy wretched choice, false man ! 
 Crimes such as thine call loudly for perdition ; 
 Heaven will inflict it, and not I . . but I 
 Neither will fall alone nor live despised. 
 
 A trumpet sounds. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Peace, Egilona, he arrives ; compose 
 
 Thy turbid thoughts, meet him with dignity. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 He ! in the camp of Julian ! trust me, sir. 
 He comes not hither, dares no longer use 
 The signs of state, and flies from every foe. 
 
 Retires some distance.
 
 118 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 SECOND ACT: FIFTH SCEiNE. 
 Entei' MuzA and Abdal.azis. 
 
 MUZA to ABDALAZIS. 
 
 I saw him but an instant, and disguised, 
 Yet this is not the traitor ; on his brow 
 Observe the calm of wisdom and of years. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Whom seekest thou ? 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Him who was king I seek. 
 He came arrayed as herald to this tent. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Thy daughter ! was she nigh ? perhaps for her 
 Was this disguise. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Here, Abdalazis, kings 
 Disguise from other causes ; they obtain 
 Beauty by violence, and power by fraud. 
 Treason was his intent : we must admit 
 Whoever come ; our numbers are too small 
 For question or selection, and the blood 
 Of Spaniards shall win Spain for us today. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 1 he wicked cannot move from underneath 
 Thy ruling eye.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 119 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Right! Julian and Roderigo 
 Are leagued against us, on these terms alone, 
 That Julian's daughter weds the christian king. 
 
 EGiLONA rushing forward. 
 'Tis true, .and I proclame it — 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Heaven and earth ! 
 Was it not thou, most lovely, itiost high souled. 
 Who wishedst us success, and me a crown ? 
 
 Opas goes abruptly. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 I give it. . I am Egilona, queen 
 Of that detested man. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 I touch the hand 
 That chains down fortune to the throne of fate ; 
 And will avenge thee ; for 'twas thy command, 
 'Tis Heaven's. . My father ! what retards our bliss ? 
 Why art thou silent ? 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Inexperienced yeai's 
 Rather would rest on the soft lap, I see. 
 Of pleasure, after the fierce gusts of war. 
 O destiny ! that callest me alone, 
 Hapless, to keep the toilsome watch of state ; 
 Painful to age, unnatural to youth, 
 Adverse to all society of friends.
 
 120 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Equality, and liberty, and ease, 
 The welcome cheer of the unbidden feast, 
 The gay reply, light, sudden, like the leap 
 Of the young forester's unbended bow ; 
 But, above all, to tenderness at home, 
 And sweet security of kind concern 
 Even from those who seem most truly ours. 
 Who would resign all this, to be approacht, 
 Like a sick infant by a canting nurse, 
 To spread his arms in darkness, and to find 
 One universal hollowness around. 
 Forgo, a little while, that bane of peace. 
 Love may be cherisht, 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 'Tis enough ; I ask 
 No other boon. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Not victory ? 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Farewell, 
 
 queen ! I will deserve thee ; why do tears 
 Silently drop, and slowly, down thy veil? 
 
 1 shall return to worship thee, and soon ; 
 Why this affliction ? O, that I alone 
 Could raise or could repress it ! 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 We depart, 
 Nor interrupt your counsels, nor impede;
 
 A TRAGEDY. 121 
 
 O may they prosper, whatsoe'er they be, 
 
 And perfidy soon meet its just reward ! 
 
 The infirm and peaceful Opas. .whither gone ? 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Stay, daughter ; not for counsel are we met, 
 But to secure our arms from treachery, 
 Q'erthrow and stifle base conspiracies. 
 Involve in his own toils our false allie — 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Author of every woe I have endured ! 
 
 Ah sacrilegious man ! he vowed to heaven 
 
 None of his blood should ever mount the throne. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Herein his vow indeed is ratified : 
 
 Yet faithful ears have heard this offer made, 
 
 And weighty was the conference that ensued. 
 
 And long, not dubious ; for what mortal e'er 
 
 Refused alliance with illustrious power ? 
 
 Tho' some have given its enjoyments up, 
 
 Tired and enfeebled by satiety. 
 
 His friends and partisans, 'twas his pretense, 
 
 Should pass uninterrupted ; hence his camp 
 
 Is open every day to enemies. 
 
 You look around, O queen, as tho' you fear'd 
 
 Their enterance. .Julian I pursue no more ; 
 
 You conquer him.. return we; I bequeath 
 
 Ruin, extermination, not reproach. 
 
 How we may best attain your peace and will
 
 122 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 We must consider in some other place, 
 
 Not, lady, in the midst of snares and wiles 
 
 How to supplant your charms and seize your crown. 
 
 I rescue it, fear not : yes, we retire. 
 
 Whatever is your wish becomes my own. 
 
 Nor is there in this land but who obeys. 
 
 He leads her awa?/.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 123 
 
 THIRD ACT. FIRST SCENE. 
 
 Palace in Xeres. 
 RoDEUiGO and Opas. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Impossible ! she could not thus resign 
 
 Me, for a miscreant of Barbary, 
 
 A mere adventurer ; but that citron face 
 
 Shall bleach and shrivel the whole winter long 
 
 There, on yon cork-tree by the sallyport. 
 
 She shall return. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 To fondness and to faith ? 
 Dost thou retain them, if she could return? 
 
 RODEKIGO. 
 
 Retain them ? she has forfeited by this 
 All right to fondness, all to royalty. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Consider, and speak calmly : she deserves 
 Some pity, some reproof.
 
 124 COUiNT JULIAN 
 
 HODEKIGO. 
 
 To speak then calmly, 
 Since thine eyes open and can see her guilt. . 
 Infamous and atrocious ! let her go. . 
 Chains — 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 "What ! in Muza's camp ? 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 My scorn supreme! 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Say, pity. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Ay, ay, pity, .that suits best. 
 1 loved her, but had loved her ; three whole years 
 Of pleasure, and of varied pleasure too, 
 Had worne the soft impression half away. 
 What I once felt, I would recall ; the faint 
 Responsive voice grew fainter each reply : 
 Imagination sank amid the scenes 
 It labour'd to create ; the vivid joy 
 Of fleeting youth I followed, and possest. 
 'Tis the first moment of the tenderest hour, 
 'Tis the first mien on entering new delights, 
 We give our peace, our power, our souls, for these. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Thou hast ; and what remains ? 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Myself. .Roderigo. . 
 Whom hatred cannot reach, nor love cast down.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 125 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Nor gratitude nor pity nor remorse 
 Call back, nor vows nor earth nor heaven controul. 
 But art thou free and happy ? art thou safe ? 
 By shrewd contempt the humblest may chastise 
 Whom scarlet and its ermine cannot scare, 
 And the sword skulks for everywhere in vain, 
 Thee the poor victim of thy outrages. 
 Woman, with all her weakness, may despise. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 But first let quiet age have intervened. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Ne'er will the peace or apathy of age 
 
 Be thine, or twihght steal upon thy day. 
 
 The violent choose, but cannot change, their end : 
 
 Violence, by man or nature, must be theirs ; 
 
 Thine it must be, and who to pity thee? 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Behold my solace ! none. I want no pity, 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Proclame we those the happiest of mankind 
 Who never knew a want ? O what a curse 
 To thee this utter ignorance of thine! 
 Julian, whom all the good commiserate. 
 Sees thee below him far in happiness : 
 A state indeed of no quick restlesness, 
 No glancing agitation, one vast swell 
 Of melancholy, deep, impassable,
 
 126 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Interminable, Avhere bis spirit alone 
 
 Broods and o'ersbadows all, bears bim from eartb, 
 
 And purifies his cbasten'd soul for beaven. 
 
 Botb beaven and eartb sball from tby grasp recede. 
 
 Wbetber on deatb or life tbou arguest, 
 
 Untutor'd savage or corrupted beatben 
 
 Avows no sentiment so vile as tbine. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Nor feels ? 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 O buman nature ! I bave beard 
 Tbe secrets of tbe soul, and pitied tbee. 
 Bad and accursed tilings bave men confest 
 Befoi'e me, but bave left tbem unarrayed, 
 Naked, and sbivering witb deformity. 
 Tbe troubled dreams and deafening gusb of youtb 
 Fling o'er tbe fancy, struggling to be free, 
 Discordant and impracticable tbings : 
 If tbe good sbudder at tbeir past escapes, 
 Sball not tbe wicked sbudder at tbeir crimes ? 
 Tbey sball . . and I denounce upon tby bead 
 God's vengeance, .tbou sbalt rule tbis land no more. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Wbat ! my own kindred leave me and renounce me ! 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Kindred ? and is tbere any in our world 
 So near us, as tbose sources of all joy, 
 Tbose on wbose bosom every gale of life
 
 A TRAGEDY. 127 
 
 Blows softly, who reflect our images 
 
 In loveliness through sorrows and through age, 
 
 And bear them onward far beyond the grave. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Methinks, most reverend Opas, not inapt 
 Are these fair views ; arise they from Seville ? 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 He, who can scofF at them, may scoft'at me. 
 
 Such are we, that the giver of all good 
 
 Shall, in the heart he purifies, possess 
 
 The latest love, .the earliest, .no, not there ! 
 
 I've known the firm and faithful, .even from these 
 
 Life's eddying spring shed the first bloom on earth. 
 
 I pity them, but ask their pity too. 
 
 I love the happiness of men, and praise 
 
 And sanctify the blessings I renounce. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Yet would thy baleful influence undermine 
 The heaven-appointed throne. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 — the throne of guilt 
 Obdurate, without plea, without remorse. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 What power hast thou ? perhaps thou soon wilt want 
 A place of refuge. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Rather say, perhaps 
 My place of refuge will receive me soon.
 
 128 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Could I extend it even to thy crimes, 
 It should be open ; but the wrath of heaven 
 Turns them against thee, and subverts thy sway : 
 It leaves thee not, what wickedness and woe 
 Oft in their drear communion taste together, 
 Hope and repentance. 
 
 RODEIllGO. 
 
 But it leaves me arms, 
 Vigour of soul and body, and a race 
 Subject by law, and dutiful by choice, 
 Whose hand is never to be holden fast 
 Within the closing cleft of knarled creeds ; 
 No easy prey for these vile mitred Moors. 
 1, who received thy homage, may retort 
 Thy threats, vain prelate, and abase thy pride. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Low must be those whom mortal can sink lower, 
 Nor high are they whom human power may raise. 
 
 RODF.RIGO. 
 
 Judge now : for, hear the signal. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 And derides 
 Thy buoyant heart the dubious gulfs of war ? 
 Trumpets may sound, and not to victory. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 The traitor and his daughter feel my power. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Just God ! avert it !
 
 A TRAGEDY. 129 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Seize this rebel priest. 
 I will alone subdue my enemies. Goes out. 
 
 THIRD ACT : SECOND SCENE, 
 Ramiro and Osma enter from opposite sides. 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 Where is the king ? his car is at the gate, 
 His ministers attend him, but his foes 
 Are yet more prompt, nor will await delay. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 Nor need they. . for he meets them as I speak. 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 With all his forces ? or our cause is lost. 
 Julian and Sisabert surround the walls. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 Surround, sayst thou ? enter they not the gates ? 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 Perhaps ere now they enter. 
 
 OSM-V. 
 
 Sisabert 
 Brings him our prisoner. 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 They are friends ! they held 
 A parley; and the soldiers, when they saw 
 
 K
 
 130 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Count Julian, lower'd their arms and hail'd him king. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 How ? and he leads them in the name of king ? 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 He leads them ; but amid that acclamation 
 
 He turn'd away his head, and call'd for vengeance. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 In Sisabert, and in the cavalry 
 He led, were all our hopes. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Woe, woe is theirs 
 Who have no other. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 What are thine ? obey 
 The just commands of our offended king : 
 Conduct him to the tower, .off. . instantly. 
 
 Guard hesitates : Ov Ah goes. 
 Ramiro, let us haste to reinforce — 
 
 RAMIUO. 
 
 Hark ! is the king defeated ? hark ! 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 I hear 
 Such acclamation as from victory 
 Arises not, but rather from revolt. 
 Reiterated, interrupted, lost. 
 Favour like this his genius will retrieve 
 By time, or promises, or chastisement, 
 Which-e'er he choose. . the speediest is the best. .
 
 A TRAGEDY. 131 
 
 His danger and his glory let, us share ; 
 'Tis ours to serve him. 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 While he rules 'tis ours. 
 What chariot-wheels are thundering o'er the bridge ? 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 Roderigo's. .1 well know them. 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 Now, the burst 
 Of acclamation ! now ! again, again. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 I know the voices ; they are for Roderigo. 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 Stay, I entreat thee, .one hath now prevailed. 
 So far is certain. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 Ay, the right prevails. 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 Transient and vain their joyance, who rejoice 
 
 Precipitately and intemperately. 
 
 And bitter thoughts grow up where'er it fell. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 Nor vain and transient theirs, who idly float 
 Down popularity's unfertile stream, 
 And fancy all their own that rises round ? 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 If thou still lovest, as I know thou dost, 
 Thy king — 
 
 jc 2
 
 132 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 OS MA. 
 
 I love him ; for he owes me much, 
 Brave soul ! and cannot, though he would, repay. 
 Service and faith, pure faith and service hard, 
 Throughout his reign, if these things be desert. 
 These have I borne toward him, and still bear. 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 Come, from thy solitary eiry come. 
 
 And share the prey, so plenteous and profuse, 
 
 Which a less valorous brood will else consume. 
 
 Much fruit is shaken down in civil storms : 
 
 And shall not orderly and loyal hands 
 
 Gather it up ? {Loud shouts.) Again ! and stil refuse ? 
 
 How different are those citizens without 
 
 From thee ! from thy 'serenity ! thy arch. 
 
 Thy firmament, of intrepidity ! 
 
 For their new lord, whom they have never served. 
 
 Afraid were they to shout, and only struck 
 
 The pavement with their ferrels and their feet : 
 
 Now they are certain of the great event 
 
 Voices and hands they raise, and all contend 
 
 Who shall be bravest in applauding most. 
 
 Knowest thou these ? 
 
 OS MA. 
 
 Their voices I know well . . 
 And can they shout for him they would have slain :' 
 A prince untried they welcome ; soon their doubts 
 Are blown afar.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 133 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 Yes, brighter scenes arise. 
 The disunited he alone unites, 
 The weak with hope he strengthens, and the strong 
 With justice. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 Wait : praise him when time hath given 
 A soundness and consistency to praise : 
 He shares it amply who bestows it right, 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 Doubtest thou ? 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 Be it so : let us away ; 
 New courtiers come — 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 And why not join the new ? 
 Let us attend him, and congratulate; 
 Come on, they enter. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 This is now my post 
 No longer : I could face them in the field, 
 I cannot here. 
 
 RAMIRO. 
 
 Tomorrow all may change ; 
 Be comforted. 
 
 OSMA. 
 
 I want nor change nor comfort.
 
 ]34 CODiN'T JUJJAN 
 
 UA M I ao. 
 The prisoner's voice ! 
 
 OS MA. 
 
 The metropolitan's ? 
 Triumph he may. . not over me forgiven. 
 This way, and thro' the chapel . . none are there. 
 
 Goes oul. 
 
 THIRD ACT : THIRD SCENE. 
 Opas and Sisabekt. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 The royal threat still sounds along these halls : 
 Hardly his foot hath past them, and he flees 
 From his own treachery ; all his pride, his hopes, 
 Are scatter'd at a breath ; even courage fails 
 Now falsehood sinks from under him. Behold, 
 Again art thou where reign'd thy ancestors ; 
 Behold the chapel of thy earliest prayers. 
 Where I, whose chains are sunder'd at thy sight 
 Ere they could close around these aged limbs, 
 Received and blest thee, when thy mother's arm 
 Was doubtful if it loosed thee ! with delight 
 Have I observed the promises we made 
 Deeply imprest and manfully perform'd.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 1 35 
 
 Now, to thyself beneficent, O prince, 
 
 Never henceforth renew those weak complaints 
 
 Against Covilla's vows and Julian's faith. 
 
 His honour broken, and her heart estranged. 
 
 O, if thou boldest peace or glory dear. 
 
 Away with jealousy ; brave Sisabert, 
 
 Smite from thy bosom, smite that scorpion down. 
 
 It swells and hardens amid mildewed hopes, 
 
 O'erspreads and blackens whate'er most delights, 
 
 And renders us haters of loveliness. 
 
 The lowest of the fiends : ambition led 
 
 The higher on, furious to disposess. 
 
 From admiration sprung and frenzied love. 
 
 This disingenuous soul-debasing passion, 
 
 Rising from abject and most sordid fear, 
 
 Stings her own breast with bitter self-reproof. 
 
 Consumes the vitals, pines, and never dies. 
 
 Love, Honour, Justice, numberless the forms, 
 
 Glorious and high the stature, she assumes ; 
 
 But watch the wandering changeful mischief well. 
 
 And thou shalt see her with low lurid light 
 
 Search where the soul's most valued treasure lies, 
 
 Or, more embodied to our vision, stand 
 
 With evil eye, and sorcery hers alone, 
 
 Looking away her helpless progeny. 
 
 And drawing poison from its very smiles. 
 
 For Julian's truth have I not pledged my own? 
 
 Have I not sworn Covilla weds no other ?
 
 136 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 Her persecutor have not I chastised ? 
 Have not I fought for Juhan, won the town, 
 And liberated thee ? 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 But left for him 
 The dangers of pursuit, of ambuscade. 
 Of absence from thy high and splendid name. 
 
 SISABERT, 
 
 Do probity and truth want such supports ? 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Gryphens and eagles, ivory and gold, 
 
 Can add no clearness to the lamp above ; 
 
 But many look for them in palaces 
 
 Who have them not, and want them not, at home. 
 
 Virtue and valour and experience 
 
 Are never trusted by themselves alone 
 
 Further than infancy and idiocy : 
 
 The men around him, not the man himself, 
 
 Are lookt at, and by these is he prefer'd. 
 
 'Tis the green mantle of the warrener 
 
 And his loud whistle, that alone attract 
 
 The lofty gazes of the noble herd : 
 
 And thus, without thy countenance and help 
 
 Feeble and faint is still our confidence. 
 
 Brief perhaps our success. 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 Should I resign
 
 A TRAGEDY. 137 
 
 To Abdalazis her I once adored ? 
 He truly, he must wed a Spanish queen ! 
 He rule m Spain ! ah ! whom could any land 
 Obey so gladly as the meek, the humble, 
 The friend of all who have no friend besides, 
 Covilla ! could he choose, or could he find 
 Another who might so confirm his power ? 
 And now indeed from long domestic wars 
 Who else survives of all our ancient house — 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 But Egilona. 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 Vainly she upbraids 
 Roderigo. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 She divorces him, abjures, 
 And carries vengeance to that hideous highth 
 Which piety and chastity would shrink 
 To look from, on the world, or on themselves. 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 She may forgive him yet. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Ah Sisabert ! 
 Wretched are those a woman has forgiven : 
 With her forgiveness ne'er hath love return'd. 
 Ye know not til too late the filmy tie 
 That holds heaven's precious boon eternally 
 To such as fondly cherish her ; once go
 
 138 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Driven by mad passion, strike but at her peace, 
 
 And, tlio she step aside from broad reproach, 
 
 Yet every softer virtue dies away. 
 
 Beaming with virtue inaccessible 
 
 Stood Egiiona ; for her lord she hved, 
 
 And for the heavens that raised her sphere so high 
 
 All thoughts were on her.. all, beside her own. 
 
 Negligent as the blossoms of the field, 
 
 Arrayed in candour and simplicity, 
 
 Before her path she heard the streams of joy 
 
 Murmur her name in all their cadences. 
 
 Saw them in every scene, in light, in shade, 
 
 Reflect her image ; but acknowledged them 
 
 Hers most complete when flowing from her most. 
 
 All things in want of her, herself of none, 
 
 Pomp and dominion lay beneath her feet 
 
 Unfelt and unregarded : now behold 
 
 The earthly passions war against the heavenly ! 
 
 Pride against love, ambition and revenge 
 
 Against devotion and compliancy : 
 
 Her glorious beams adversity hath blunted ; 
 
 And coming nearer to our quiet view 
 
 The original clay of coarse mortality 
 
 Hardens and flaws around her. 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 Every germ 
 Of virtue perishes, when love recedes 
 From those hot shifting sands, the female heart.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 139 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 His was the fault ; be his the punishment. 
 'Tis not their own crimes only, men commit, 
 They harrow them into another's breast, 
 And they shall reap the bitter growth with pain. 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 Yes, blooming royalty will first attract 
 
 These creatures of the desert. . now I breathe 
 
 More freely. . she is theirs if I pursue 
 
 The fugitive again.. he well deserves 
 
 The death he flies from. . stay ! don Julian twice 
 
 Called him aloud, and he, methinks, replied. 
 
 Could not I have remain'd a moment more. 
 
 And seen the end? altho with hurried voice 
 
 He bade me intercept the scattered foes. 
 
 And hold the city barred to their return. 
 
 May Egilona be another's wife 
 
 Whether he die or live ! but oh !. . Covilla. . 
 
 She never can be mine ! yet she may be 
 
 Still happy, .no, Covilla, no. .not happy, 
 
 But more deserving happiness without it. 
 
 Mine never ! nor another's, .'tis enough. 
 
 The tears I shed no rival can deride ; 
 
 In the fond intercourse, a name once cherisht 
 
 Will never be defended by faint smiles, 
 
 Nor given up with vows of alter'd love. 
 
 And is the passion of my soul at last 
 
 Reduced to this ? is this ray happiness ?
 
 140 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 This my sole comfort ? this the close of all 
 Those promises, those tears, those last adieus, 
 And those long vigils for the morrow's dawn? 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Arouse thee ! be thyself. O Sisabert, 
 Awake to glory from these feverish dreams : 
 The enemy is in our land, .two enemies. . 
 We must quell both. . shame on us, if we fail. 
 
 SISAIiERT. 
 
 Incredible! a nation be subdued 
 Peopled as ours ! 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Corruption may subvert 
 What force could never. 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 Traitors may. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 Alas ! 
 If traitors can, the basis is but frail. 
 I mean such traitors as the vacant world 
 Echoes most stunningly : not fur-robed knaves 
 Whose whispers raise the dreaming bloodhound's ear 
 Against benighted famisht wanderers ; 
 While with remorseless guilt they undermine 
 Palace and shed, their very father's house, 
 O blind ! their own, their children's heritage, 
 To leave more ample space for fearful wealth. 
 Plunder in some most harmless guise they swathe,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 141 
 
 Call it some very meek and hallowed name, 
 
 Some known and borne by their good forefathers, 
 
 And own and vaunt it thus redeem'd from sin. 
 
 These are the plagues heaven sends o'er every land 
 
 Before it sink, the portents of the street, 
 
 Not of the air, lest nations should complain 
 
 Of distance or of dimness in the signs, 
 
 Flaring from far to Wisdom's eye alone : 
 
 These are the last ! these, when the sun rides high 
 
 In the forenoon of doomsday, revelling, 
 
 Make men abhor the earth, arraign the skies. 
 
 Ye who behold them spoil field after field, 
 
 Despising them in individual strength, 
 
 Not with one torrent sweeping them away 
 
 Into the ocean of eternity. 
 
 Arise ! despach ! no renovating gale. 
 
 No second spring awaits you. . up, begone. . 
 
 If you have force and courage even for flight. . 
 
 The blast of dissolution is behind. 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 How terrible ! how true ! what voice like thine 
 Can rouse and warn the nation ! if she rise, 
 Say, whither go, where stop we ? 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 God will guide. 
 Let us pursue the oppressor to destruction ; 
 The rest is heaven's : must we move no step
 
 142 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Because we cannot see the boundaries 
 
 Of our long way, and every stone between ? 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 Is not thy vengeance for the late affront, 
 For threats and outrage and imprisonment — 
 
 op AS. 
 
 For outrage, yes. .imprisonment and threats 
 I pardon him, and whatsoever ill 
 He could do me. 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 To hold Covilla from me ! 
 To urge her into vows against her faith, 
 Against her beauty, youth, and inclination. 
 Without her mother's blessing, nay without 
 Her father's knowledge and authority. . 
 So that she never will behold me more, 
 Flying afar for refuge and for help 
 Where never friend but God will comfort her — 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 These, and more barbarous deeds were perpetrated. 
 
 SISABERT. 
 
 Yet her proud father deigned not to inform 
 
 Me, whom he loved and taught, in peace and war, 
 
 Me, whom he called his son, before I hoped 
 
 To merit it by marriage or by arms. 
 
 He ofter'd no excuse, no plea ; exprest 
 
 No sorrow ; but with firm unfaltering voice
 
 A TRAGEDY. 143 
 
 Commanded me . . I trembled as he spoke . . 
 To follow where he led, redress his wrongs, 
 And vindicate the honour of his child. 
 He called on God, the witness of his cause, 
 On Spain, the partner of his victories, 
 And yet amid these animating words 
 Rolled the huge tear down his unvisor'd face . . 
 A general swell of indignation rose 
 Thro' the long line, sobs burst from every breast. 
 Hardly one voice succeded. . you might hear 
 The impatient hoof strike the soft sandy plain : 
 But when the gates flew open, and the king 
 In his high car came forth triumphantly, 
 Then was Count Julian's stature more elate ; 
 Tremendous was the smile that smote the eyes 
 Of all he past '.fathers, and sons, and brothers, 
 He cried, I fight your battles, follow me ! 
 Soldiers, we know no danger but disgrace ! 
 Father, and general, and king, they shout. 
 And would proclame him : back he cast his face, 
 Pallid with grief, and one loud groan burst forth ; 
 It kindled vengeance thro' the Asturian ranks, 
 And they soon scatter'd, as the blasts of heaven 
 Scatter the leaves and dust, the astonisht foe. 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 And doubtest thou his truth ? 
 
 SISABEllT. 
 
 I love. . and doubt. .
 
 144 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Fight, .and believe : Roderigo spoke untruths. . 
 In him I place no trust; but Julian holds 
 Truths in reserve, .how should I quite confide ! 
 
 OPAS. 
 
 By sorrows thou beholdest him opprest ; 
 
 Doubt the more prosperous : march, Sisabert, 
 
 Once more against his enemy and ours : 
 
 Much hath been done, but much there still remains,
 
 A TRACiEDY. I45 
 
 FOURTH ACT: FIRST SCENE. 
 
 Tent 0/ Julian. 
 
 RODERIGO mid JULIAK. 
 JULIAN. 
 
 To stop perhaps at any wickedness 
 
 Appears a merit now, and at the time 
 
 Prudence or policy it often is 
 
 Which afterward seems magnanimity. 
 
 The people had deserted thee, and throno:ed 
 
 My standard, had I raised it, at the first ; 
 
 But once subsiding, and no voice of mine 
 
 Calling by name each grievance to each man, 
 
 They, silent and submissive by degrees, 
 
 Bore thy hard yoke, and, hadst thou but opprest. 
 
 Would still have borne it : thou hast now deceived ; 
 
 Thou hast done all a forein foe could do. 
 
 And more, against them ; with ingratitude 
 
 Not hell itself could arm the forein foe : 
 
 'Tis forged at home, and kills not from afar. 
 
 L
 
 146 COUNT Jl'LIAN 
 
 Amid whatc'er vain glories fell upon 
 Thy rainbow span of power, which I dissolve, 
 Boast not how thou conferredst wealth and rank, 
 How thou preservedst me, my family, 
 All my distinctions, all my offices, 
 When Witiza was murder'd, that I stand 
 Count Julian at this hour by special grace. 
 The sword of Julian saved the walls of Ceuta, 
 And not the shadow that attends his name : 
 It was no badge, no title, that o'erthrew 
 Soldier, and steed, and engine. . don Roderigo, 
 The truly and the falsely great here differ : 
 These by dull wealth or daring fraud advance ; 
 Him the Almighty calls amid his people 
 To sway the wills and passions of mankind. 
 The weak of heart and intellect beheld 
 Thy splendour, and adored thee lord of Spain : 
 I rose. . Roderigo lords o'er Spain no more. 
 
 KODERIGO. 
 
 Now to a traitor's add a boaster's name. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Shameless and arrogant, dost thou believe 
 I boast for pride or pastime ? forced to boast. 
 Truth costs me more than falsehood e'er cost thee. 
 Divested of that purple of the soul, 
 That potency, that palm of wise ambition, 
 Cast headlong by thy madness from that high 
 That only eminence 'twixt earth and heaven,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 147 
 
 Virtue, which some desert, but none despise, 
 Whether thou art beheld again on earth, 
 Whether a captive or a fugitive. 
 Miner or galley-slave, depends on me : 
 But he alone who made me what I am 
 Can make me greater, or can make me less. 
 
 HODERIGO. 
 
 Chance, and chance only, threw me in thy power; 
 Give me my sword again and try my strength. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I tried it in the front of thousands. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Death 
 At least vouchsafe me from a soldier's hand. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I love to hear thee ask it. . now my own 
 Would not be bitter ; no, nor immature. 
 
 nODERIGO. 
 
 Defy it, say thou rather. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Death itself 
 Shall not be granted thee, unless from God ; 
 A dole from his and from no other hand. 
 Thou shalt now hear and own thine infamy — 
 
 nODERIGO. 
 
 Chains, dungeons, tortures, .but I hear no more. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Silence, thou wretch, live on. . av, live. . abhor'd. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Thou shall have tortures, dungeons, chains, enough. 
 They naturally rise and grow around 
 Monsters like thee, everywhere, and for ever. 
 
 KODERIGO. 
 
 Insulter of the fallen ! mnst I endure 
 Commands as well as threats ? my vassal's too ? 
 Nor breathe from underneath his trampling feet ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Could I speak patiently who speak to thee, 
 I would say more. . part of thy punishment 
 It should be, to be taught. 
 
 KODERIGO. 
 
 Reserve thy wisdom 
 Until thy patience come, its best allie : 
 I learn no lore, of peace or war, from thee. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 No, thou shalt study soon another tongue, 
 
 And suns more ardent shall mature thy mind. 
 
 Either the cross tliou bearest, and thy knees 
 
 Among the silent caves of Palestine 
 
 Wear the sharp flints away with midnight prayer ; 
 
 Or thou shalt keep the fasts of Barbary, 
 
 Shalt wait amid the crowds that throng the well 
 
 From sultry noon till the skies fade again. 
 
 To draw up water and to bring it home 
 
 In the crackt gourd of some vile testy knave, 
 
 Who spurns thee back with bastinaded foot 
 
 For ignorance or delay of his command.
 
 A TRAGEDY., 149 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Rather the poison or the bowstring. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Slaves 
 To other's passions die such deaths as those : 
 Slaves to their own should die — 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 What worse? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Their own. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Is this thy counsel, renegade? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Not mine ; 
 I point a better path, nay, force thee on. 
 I shelter thee from every brave man's sword 
 While I am near thee : I bestow on thee 
 Life : if thou die, 'tis when thou sojournest 
 Protected by this arm and voice no more ; 
 'Tis slavishly, 'tis ignominiously, 
 'Tis by a villain's knife. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 By whose ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Roderigo's. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 O powers of vengeance ! must I hear ? endure ? 
 Live ?
 
 15U COUNT JULIAN 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Call thy vassals ? no ! then wipe the drops 
 Of froward childhood IVom thy shameless eyes. 
 So ! thou canst weep for passion . . not for pity. 
 
 RODEKIGO. 
 
 One hour ago I ruled all Spain ! a camp 
 
 Not larger than a sheepfold stood alone 
 
 Against me : now, no friend throughout the world 
 
 Follows my steps or hearkens to my call. 
 
 Behold the turns of fortune, and expect 
 
 No better; of all faithless men, the Moors 
 
 Are the most faithless : from thy own experience 
 
 Thou canst not value nor rely on them. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I value not the mass that makes my sword, 
 Yet while I use it I rely on it. 
 
 IIODERIGO. 
 
 Julian, thy gloomy soul still meditates. . 
 Plainly I see it. . death to me. . pursue 
 The dictates of thy leaders, let revenge 
 Have its full sway, let Barbary prevail. 
 And the pure creed her elders have embraced : 
 Those placid sages hold assassination 
 A most compendious supplement to law. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Thou knowest not the one, nor I the other. 
 Torne hast thou from me all my soul held dear '.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 151 
 
 Her form, her voice, all, hast thou banisht from me ; 
 
 Nor dare I, wretched as I am ! recall 
 
 Those solaces of every grief, erewhile. 
 
 I stand abased before insulting crime. . 
 
 I falter like a criminal myself. 
 
 The hand that hurled thy chariot o'er its wheels. 
 
 That held thy steeds erect and motionless 
 
 As molten statues on some palace-gates, 
 
 Shakes, as with palsied age, before thee now. 
 
 Gone is the treasure of my heart, for ever. 
 
 Without a father, mother, friend, or name. 
 
 Daughter of Julian. .Such was her delight . . 
 
 Such was mine too ! what pride more innocent, 
 
 What, surely, less deserving pangs like these. 
 
 Than springs from filial and parental love ! 
 
 Debar'd from every hope that issues forth 
 
 To meet the balmy breath of early life, 
 
 Her sadden'd days, all, cold and colourless. 
 
 Will stretch before her their whole weary length 
 
 Amid the sameness of obscurity. 
 
 She wanted not seclusion, to unveil 
 
 Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell ; 
 
 She found it in all places, at all hours : 
 
 While, to assuage my labours, she indulged 
 
 A playfulness that shun'd a mother's eye, 
 
 Still, to avert my perils, there arose 
 
 A piety that, even from me, retired.
 
 152 COUiM' JULIAN 
 
 IIODERIGO. 
 
 Such was she ! what am I ! those are the arms 
 That are triumphant when the battle fails. 
 
 Julian, Julian ! all thy former words 
 Struck but the imbecile plumes of vanity ; 
 These, thro' its steely coverings, pierce the heart. 
 
 1 ask not life nor death ; but, if I live, 
 Send my most bitter enemy to watch 
 
 My secret paths, send poverty, send pain. . 
 
 I will add more. . wise as thou art, thou knowest 
 
 No foe more furious than forgiven kings. 
 
 I ask not then what thou wouldst never srant : 
 
 May heaven, O Julian, from thy hand, receive 
 
 A pardon'd man, a chasten'd criminal. 
 
 JULIAN, 
 
 This further curse hast thou inflicted ; wretch, 
 I cannot pardon thee. 
 
 KODERIGO. 
 
 Thy tone, thy mien, 
 Refute those words. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 No. . I can not forgive. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 Upon my knee, my conqueror, I implore — 
 Upon the earth, before thy feet, .hard heart ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Audacious ! hast thou never heard that prayer
 
 A TRAGEDY. 153 
 
 And scorn'd it ? 'tis the last thou shouldst repeat. 
 Upon the earth ! upon her knees ! O God ! 
 
 RODERIGO^-. 
 
 Resemble not a wretch so lost as I : 
 
 Be better ; O ! be happier ; and pronounce it. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I swei-ve not from my purpose : thou art mine, 
 Conquer'd ; and I have sworn to dedicate, 
 Like a torn banner on my chapel's roof. 
 Thee to that power from whom thou hast rebelled. 
 Expiate thy crimes by prayer, by penances. 
 
 RODEfilGO. 
 
 Hasten the hour of trial, speak of peace. 
 Pardon me not, then . . but with purer lips 
 Implore of God, who wouldhear thee, to pardon. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Hope it I may. . pronounce it. . O Roderigo ! 
 
 Ask it of him who can ; I too will ask. 
 
 And, in my own transgressions, pray for thine. 
 
 RODERIGO. 
 
 One name I dare not — 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Go. . abstain from that, 
 I do conjure thee : raise not in my soul 
 Again the tempest that has wreckt my fame ; 
 Thou shalt not breathe in the same clime with her. 
 Far o'er the unebbing sea thou shalt adore 
 The eastern star, and. . may thy end be peace.
 
 1.54 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 FOURTH ACT: SECOND SCENE. 
 RoDERiGO goes: Hernando enters. 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 From the prince Tarik I am sent, my lord. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 A welcome messager, my brave Hernando. 
 How fares it with the gallant soul of Tarik '. 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 Most joyfully ; he scarcely had pronounced 
 Your glorious name, and bid me urge your speed, 
 Than, with a voice as though it answer'd heaven, 
 He shall confound them in their dark designs, 
 Cried he, and turn'd away, with that swift stride 
 Wherewith he meets and quells his enemies. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Alas, I cannot bear felicitation, 
 Who shunned it even in felicity. 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 Often we hardly think ourselves the happy 
 Unless we hear it said by those around. 
 O my lord Julian, how your praises cheer'd 
 Our poor endeavours ! sure, all hearts are open 
 Lofty and low, wise and unwise, to praise. 
 Even the departed spirit hovers round
 
 A TRAGEDY. 155 
 
 Our blessings and our prayers ; the corse itself 
 
 Hath shined with other light than the still stars 
 
 Shedd on its rest, or the dim taper, nigh. 
 
 My father, old men say, who saw him dead 
 
 And heard your lips pronounce him good and happy, 
 
 Smiled faintly thro' the quiet gloom, that eve, 
 
 And the shroud throbbed upon his grateful breast. 
 
 Howe'er it be, many who tell the tale 
 
 Are good and happy from that voice of praise. 
 
 His guidance and example were denied 
 
 My youth and childhood : what I am I owe — 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Hernando, look not back : a narrow path 
 And arduous lies before thee ; if thou stop 
 Thou fallest ; go right onward, nor observe 
 Closely and rigidly another's way. 
 But, free and active, follow up thy own. 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 The voice that urges now my manly step 
 Onward in life, recalls me to the past, 
 And from that fount I freshen for the goal. 
 Early in youth, among us villagers 
 Converse and ripened counsel you bestowed. 
 O happy days of (far departed !) peace, 
 Days when the mighty Julian stoopt his brow 
 .Entering our cottage door; another air 
 Breathed thro' the house ; tired age and lightsome youth 
 Beheld him, with intensest gaze : these felt
 
 156 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 More chastened joy ; those, more profound repose. 
 Yes, my best lord, when labour sent them home 
 And midday suns, when from the social meal 
 The wicker window held the summer heat, 
 Prais'd have those been who, going- unperceived, 
 Opcn'd it wide, that all might see you well : 
 Nor were the children l)lamed, upon the mat. 
 Hurrying to watch what rush would last arise 
 From your foot's pressure, ere the door was closed, 
 And not yet wondering how they dared to love. 
 Your counsels are more precious now than ever, 
 But are they, .pardon if I err. .the same? 
 Tarik is gallant, kind, the friend of Julian, 
 Can he be more ? or ought he to be less ? 
 Alas ! his faith ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 In peace or war ? Hernando. 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 O, neither, .far above it ; faith in God. . 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 'Tis God's, not thine. . embrace it not, nor hate it. 
 Precious or vile, how dare we seize that offering, 
 Scatter it, spurn it, in its way to heaven, 
 Because we know it not ? the sovran lord 
 Accepts his tribute, myrrh and frankincense 
 From some, from others penitence and prayer : 
 Why intercept them from his gracious hand ? 
 Why dash them down ? why smite the supplicant ?
 
 A TRAGEDY. 157 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 Tis what they do? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Avoid it thou the more. 
 If time were left me, I could hear well-pleased 
 How Tarik fought up Calpe's fabled cliff, 
 While I pursued the friends of don Roderigo 
 Across the plain, and drew fresh force from mine. 
 O ! had some other land, some other cause. 
 Invited him and me, I then could dwell 
 On this hard battle with unmixt delight. 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 Eternal is its glory, if the deed 
 
 Be not forgotten till it be surpast : 
 
 Much praise by land, by sea much more, he won ; 
 
 For then a Julian was not at his side. 
 
 Nor led the van, nor awed the best before ; 
 
 The whole, a mighty whole, was his alone. 
 
 There might be seen how far he shone above 
 
 All others of the day : old Muza watcht 
 
 From his own shore the richly laden fleet, 
 
 Ill-arm'd and scatter'd, and pursued the rear 
 
 Beyond those rocks that bear St Vincent's name, 
 
 Cutting the treasure, not the strength, away ; 
 
 Valiant, where any prey lies undevour'd 
 
 In hostile creek or too confiding isle : 
 
 Tarik, with his small barks, but with such love 
 
 As never chief from rugged sailor won,
 
 158 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Smote their high masts and swelling rampires down ; 
 
 And Cadiz wept in fear o'er Trafalgar. 
 
 Who that beheld our sails from off the higlits, 
 
 Like the white birds, nor larger, tempt the gale 
 
 In sunshine and in shade, now almost touch 
 
 The solitary shore, glance, turn, retire, 
 
 Would think these lovely playmates could portend 
 
 Such mischief to the world ,s uch blood, such woe ; 
 
 Could draw to them from far the peaceful hinds, 
 
 Cull the gay flower of cities, and divide 
 
 Friends, children, every bond of human life ; 
 
 Could dissipate whole families, could sink 
 
 Whole states in ruin, at one hour, one blow. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Go, good Hernando. . who ivould think these things? 
 
 Say to the valiant Tarik, I depart 
 
 Forthwith ; he knows not from what heaviness 
 
 Of soul I linger here ; I could endure 
 
 No converse, no compassion, no approach. 
 
 Other than thine, whom the same cares improved 
 
 Beneath my father's roof, my foster-brother, 
 
 To brighter days and happier end, I hope ; 
 
 In whose fidelity my own resides 
 
 With Tarik and with his compeers and chief. 
 
 I cannot share the gladness I excite. 
 
 Yet shall our Tarik's generous heart rejoice.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 159 
 
 FOURTH ACT : THIRD SCENE. 
 Egiloka enters : Hernando goes. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 fly me not because I am unhappy, 
 Because I am deserted fly me not. 
 
 It was not so before, it cannot be 
 Ever from Julian. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 What would Egilona 
 That Julian's power with her new lords can do ? 
 Surely her own must there preponderate. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 1 hold no suit to them. . restore, restore 
 Roderigo. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 He no longer is my prisoner. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Escapes he then ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Escapes he. .dost thou say ? 
 O Egilona ! what unworthy passion . . 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Unworthy, when I loved him, was my passion ; 
 The passion that now swells my heart, is just.
 
 160 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 What fresh reproaches hath he merited ? 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Deeprooted hatred shelters no reproach. 
 But whither is he gone ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Far from the walls. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 And I knew nothing ! — 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 His offense was known 
 
 To thee at least. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Will it be expiated ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I trust it will. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 This withering calm consumes me. 
 He marries then Covilla ! 'twas for this 
 His people were excited to rebell, 
 His sceptre was thrown by, his vows were sconi'd, 
 And I . . and I . . 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Cease, Egilona! 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Cease ? 
 Sooner shalt thou to live, than I to reign.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 161 
 
 FIFTH ACT: FIRST SCENE. 
 
 Tent o/MuzA. 
 MuzA. Tarik. Abdalazis. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 To have first landed on these shores, appears 
 Transcendent glory to the applauded Tarik. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Glory, but not transcendent, it appears, 
 What might in any other. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Of thyself 
 All this vain boast? 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Not of myself. . 'twas Julian. 
 Against his shield the refluent surges rolled, 
 While the sea-breezes threw the arrows wide, 
 And fainter cheers urged the reluctant steeds. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 That Julian, of whose treason I have proofs, 
 
 M
 
 162 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 That Julian, who rejected my commands 
 Twice, when our mortal foe besieged the camp, 
 And forced my princely presence to his tent. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Say rather, who without one exhortation, 
 One precious drop from true believer's vein, 
 Marcht, and discomfited our enemies. 
 I found in him no treachery. Hernando, 
 Who, little verst in moody wiles, is gone 
 To lead him hither, was by him assigned 
 My guide, and twice in doubtful fight his arm 
 Protected me : once on the bights of Calpe, 
 Once on the plain, when courtly jealousies 
 Tore from the bravest and the best his due, 
 And gave the dotard and the coward command : 
 Then came Roderigo forth. . the front of war 
 Grew darker. . him, equal in chivalry, 
 Julian alone could with success oppose. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 I doubt their worth who praise their enemies. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 And theirs doubt I who persecute their friends. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Thou art in league with him. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Thou wert, by oaths, 
 I am without them ; for his heart is brave. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Am I to bear all this ?
 
 A TRAGEDY. 163 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 All this, and more : 
 Soon wilt thou see the man whom thou hast wronged, 
 And the keen hatred in thy breast concealed 
 Find its right way, and sting thee to tlie core. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Hath he not foil'd us in the field ; not held 
 Our wisdom to reproach ? 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Shall we abandon 
 All he hath left us in the eyes of men ? 
 Shall we aoain make him our adversary 
 Whom we have proved so, long and fatally ? 
 If he subdue for us our enemies. 
 Shall we raise others, or, for want of them, 
 Convert him into one against his will ? 
 
 FIFTH ACT : SECOND SCENE. 
 
 Hernando enters. Tarik continues. 
 Here comes Hernando from that prince himself— 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Who scorns, himself, to come. 
 
 UEUXANDO. 
 
 The queen detains him. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 How ! Egilona ? 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 'Twas my will. 
 
 TAUIK. 
 
 At last 
 He must be happy ; for delicious calm 
 Follows the fierce enjoyment of revenge. 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 That calm was never his, no other will be ! 
 Thou knowest not, and mayst thou never know, 
 How bitter is the tear that firy shame 
 Scourges and tortures from the soldier's eye. 
 Whichever of these bad reports be true. 
 He hides it from all hearts, to wring his own. 
 And drags the heavy secret to the grave. 
 Not victory, that o'ershadows him, sees he ! 
 No airy and light passion stirs abroad 
 To ruffle or to soothe him ; all are quelled 
 Beneath a mightier, sterner stress of mind : 
 Wakeful he sits, and lonely, and unmoved. 
 Beyond the arrows, views, or shouts of men ; 
 As oftentimes an eagle, when the sun 
 Throws o'er the varying earth his early ray. 
 Stands solitary, stands immovable 
 Upon some highest clifF, and rolls his eye, 
 Clear, constant, unobservant, unabased, 
 In the cold light, above the dews of morn. 
 He now assumes that quietness of soul
 
 A TRAGEDY. 165 
 
 Which never but in danger have I seen 
 On his staid breast. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Danger is past, he conquers ; 
 No enemy is left him to subdue. 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 He sank not, while there was, into himself. 
 
 Now plainly see I from his alter'd tone, 
 
 He cannot live much longer. , thanks to God ! 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 What ! wishest thou thy once kind master dead ? 
 Was he not kind to thee, ungrateful slave I 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 The gentlest, as the bravest, of mankind. 
 
 Therefor shall memory dwell more tranquilly 
 
 With Julian, once at rest, than friendship could. 
 
 Knowing him yearn for death with speechless love. 
 
 For his own sake I could endure his loss. 
 
 Pray for it, and thank God ; yet mourn I must 
 
 Him above all ! so great, so bountiful. 
 
 So blessed once ! bitterly must I mourn. 
 
 'Tis not my solace that 'tis his desire ; 
 
 Of all that pass us in life's drear descent 
 
 We grieve the most for those that wisht to die. 
 
 A father to us all, he merited. 
 
 Unhappy man ! all a good father's joy 
 
 In his own house, where seldom he hath been, 
 
 But, ever mindful of its dear delights, 
 
 He formed one family around him, ever.
 
 166 COUiNT JULIAN 
 
 TAllIK. 
 
 Yes, we have seen and known him.. let his tame 
 Refresh his friends, but let it stream afar, 
 Nor in the twilii^ht of home-scenes be lost. 
 He chose the best, and cherisht them ; he left 
 To self-reproof the mutinies of vice ; 
 Avarice, that dwarfs ambition's tone and mien ; 
 Envy, sick nursling of the court ; and pride 
 That cannot bear his semblance nor himself; 
 And malice, with blear visage half-descried 
 Amid the shadows of her hiding-place. 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 What could I not endure, O gallant man. 
 To hear him spoken of, as thou hast spoken ! 
 Oh ! I would almost be a slave to him 
 Who calls me one. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 What ! art thou not ? begone. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Reply not, brave Hernando, but retire. 
 All can revile, few only can reward. 
 Behold the meed our mighty chief bestows ! 
 Accept it, for thy services, and mine. 
 More, my bold Spaniard, hath obedience won 
 Than anger, even in the ranks of war. 
 
 HERNANDO. 
 
 The soldier, not the Spaniard, shall obey. Goes. 
 
 MUZA to TARIK. 
 
 Into our very council bringest thou
 
 A TRAGEDY. 167 
 
 Children of reprobation and perdition ? 
 
 Darkness thy deeds and emptiness thy speech, 
 
 Such images thou raisest as buffoons 
 
 Carry in merriment on festivals ; 
 
 Nor worthiness nor wisdom would display 
 
 To public notice their deformities, 
 
 Nor cherish them nor fear them ; why shouldst thou ? 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 I fear not them nor thee. 
 
 FIFTH ACT: THIRD SCENE, 
 Egilona enters. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Advance, O queen. 
 Now let the turbulence of faction cease. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Whate'er thy purpose, speak, and be composed. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 He goes ; he is afar ; he follows her ; 
 
 He leads her to the altar, to the throne. 
 
 For, calm in vengeance, wise in wickedness, 
 
 The traitor hath prevailed, o'er him, o'er me, 
 
 O'er you. .the slaves, the dupes, the scorn, of Julian. 
 
 What have I heard ! what have I seen !
 
 168 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Procede. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 And I swear vengeance on his guilty head 
 
 Who intercepts from thee the golden rays 
 
 Of sovranty ; who dares rescind thy rights ; 
 
 Who steals upon thy rest, and breathes around 
 
 Empoisoned damps o'er that serenity 
 
 Which leaves the world, and faintly lingers here. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Who shuns thee — 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Whose desertion interdicts 
 Homage, authority, precedency — 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Till war shall rescue them — 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 And love restore. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 generous Abdalazis ! never ! never ! 
 My enemies. .Julian alone remains.. 
 The worst, in safety, far beyond my reach, 
 Breathe freely on the summit of their hopes ; 
 Because they never stopt, because they sprang 
 From crime to crime, and trampled down remorse. 
 Oh ! if her heart knew tenderness like mine ! 
 Grant vengeance on the guilty ; grant but that, 
 
 1 ask no more ; my hand, my crown, is thine.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 169 
 
 Fulfill the justice of offended heaven, 
 Assert the sacred rights of royalty, 
 Come not in vain, crush the rebellious crew. 
 Crush, I implore, the indifferent and supine. 
 
 MUZa. 
 
 Roderigo thus escaped from Julian's tent. 
 
 EGILONA, 
 
 No, not escaped, escorted, like a king. 
 The base Covilla first pursued her way 
 On foot ; but after her the royal car, 
 Which bore me from San Pablos to the throne. 
 Empty indeed, yet ready at her voice. 
 Rolled o'er the plain, amid the carcases 
 Of those who fell in battle or in flight : 
 She, a deceiver still, to whate'er speed 
 The moment might incite her, often stopt 
 To mingle prayers with the departing breath. 
 Improvident ! and those with heavy wounds 
 Groaned bitterly beneath her tottering knee. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Now, by the clement and the merciful ! 
 The girl did well : when I breathe out my soul, 
 Oh ! if compassion give one pang the more, 
 That pang be mine ; here be it, in this land. 
 Such women are they in this land alone. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Insulting man !
 
 170 COINT JULIAN 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 We shall confound him yet. 
 Say, and speak quickly, whither went the king ? 
 Ihou knevvest where was Julian. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 I will tell 
 Without his answer : yes, my friends ! yes, Tarik, 
 Now will I speak, nor thou, for once, reply. 
 There is, I hear, a poor half-ruined cell 
 In Xeres, whither few indeed resort ; 
 Green are the walls within, green is the floor 
 And slippery from disuse ; for christian feet 
 Avoid it, as half-holy, half-accurst. 
 Still in its dark recess fanatic sin 
 Abases to the ground his tangled hair, 
 And servile scourges and reluctant groans 
 Roll o'er the vault uninterruptedly, 
 Till, such the natural stilness of the place. 
 The very tear upon the damps below 
 Drops audible, and the heart's throb replies. 
 There is the idol maid of christian creed, 
 And taller images, whose history 
 I know not, nor inquired, .a scene of blood, 
 Of resignation amid mortal pangs, 
 And other things, exceeding all belief. 
 Hither the aged Opas of Seville 
 Walked slowly, and behind him was a man
 
 A TRAGEDY. 171 
 
 Barefooted, bruised, dejected, comfortless, 
 In sackcloth ; the white ashes on his head 
 Dropt as he smote his breast ; he gathered up, 
 Replaced them all, groan'd deeply, looked to heaven, 
 And held them, like a treasure, with claspt hands. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 ! was Roderigo so abas'd ? 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 'Twas he. 
 Now, Egilona, judge between your friends 
 And enemies : behold what wretches brought 
 The king, thy lord, Roderigo, to disgrace. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 He merited, .but not from them, .from me 
 This, and much worse : had I inflicted it, 
 
 1 had rejoiced, .at what I ill endure. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 For thee, for thee alone, we wisht him here, 
 But other hands releast him — 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 With what aim 
 Will soon appear to those discerning eyes. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 I pray thee, tell what past until that hour. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Few words, and indistinct : repentant sobs 
 Filled the whole space ; the taper in his hand. 
 Lighting two small dim lamps before the altar,
 
 172 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 He gave to Opas ; at the idol's feet 
 
 He laid his crown, and wiped his tears away : 
 
 The crown reverts not, but the tears return. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Yes, Abdalazis ! soon, abundantly. 
 
 If he had only called upon my name, 
 
 Seeking my pardon ere he looked to heaven's, 
 
 I could have. . no ! he thought not once on me ! 
 
 Never shall he find peace or confidence ; 
 
 I will rely on fortune and on thee, 
 
 Nor fear my future lot : sure, Abdalazis, 
 
 A fall so great can never happen twice. 
 
 Nor man again be faithless, like Roderigo. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Faithless he may be still, never so faithless. 
 Fainter must be the charms, remote the days. 
 When memory and dread example die, 
 When love and terror thrill the heart no more, 
 And Egilona is herself forgotten. 
 
 FIFTH ACT : FOURTH SCENE. 
 JULIAN enters. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Turn, and behold him ! who is now confounded ? 
 Ye who awaited him, where are ye ? speak.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 173 
 
 Is some close comet blazing o'er your tents ? 
 Muza ! Abdalazis ! princes, conquerors, 
 Summon, interrogate, command, condemn. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Justly, don Julian — but respect for rank 
 Allays resentment, nor interrogates 
 Without due form — ^justly may we accuse 
 This absence from our councils, from our camp ; 
 This loneliness in which we stil remain 
 ■\Vho came invited to redress your wrongs. 
 Where is the king ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 The people must decide. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Imperfectly, I hope, I understand 
 
 Those words, unworthy of thy birth and age. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 O chieftain, such have been our gothic laws. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Who then amid such turbulence is safe ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 He who observes them : 'tis no turbulence. 
 
 It violates no peace : 'tis surely worth 
 
 A voice, a breath of air, thus to create 
 
 By their high will the man, form'd after them 
 
 In their own image, vested with their power, 
 
 To whom they trust their freedom and their lives.
 
 174 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 MUZA, 
 
 They trust ! the people ! God assigns the charge 
 
 Kings open but the book of destiny 
 
 And read their names, all that remains for them 
 
 The mystic hand from time to time reveals. 
 
 Worst of idolaters ! idolater 
 
 Of that refractory and craving beast 
 
 Whose den is in the city, at thy hand 
 
 I claim our common enemy, the king. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Sacred from justice then ! but not from malice ! 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Surrender him, my friend : be sure his pains 
 Will not be soften'd. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 'Tis beyond my power. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Tomorrow . . if in any distant fort 
 He lies tonight : send after him. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 My faith 
 Is plighted, and he lives . . no prisoner. 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 I knew the truth. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Now, Tarik, hear and judge. 
 Was he not in thy camp ? and in disguise ?
 
 A TRAGEDY. 175 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 No : I will answer thee. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Audacious man ! 
 Had not the Kalif Walid placed thee here, 
 Chains, and a traitor's death, should be thy doom. . 
 Speak, Abdalazis ! Egilona, speak. 
 Were ye not present ? was not I myself ? 
 And aided not this Julian his escape ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 'Tis true. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Away then friendship ; to thy fate 
 I leave thee : thou hast render'd Muza just, 
 Me hostile to thee. Who is safe ! a man 
 Arm'd with such power and with such perfidy ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Stay, Tarik ! hear me ; for, to thee alone 
 Would I reply. 
 
 TARIK. 
 
 Thou hast replied, already. Goes. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 We, who were enemies, would not inquire 
 Too narrowly what reasons urged thy wrath 
 Against thy sovran lord : beneath his flag 
 The christians first assailed us from these shores, 
 And we seized gladly the first aid we found 
 To quell a wealthy and a warlike king.
 
 176 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 We never held to thee the vain pretense 
 
 That 'twas thy quarrel our brave youth espoused, 
 
 Thine, who hast wrought us much disgrace and woe. 
 
 From perils and from losses, here we rest 
 
 And drink of the fresh fountain at our feet, 
 
 Not madly following such illusive streams 
 
 As overspread the dizzy wilderness, 
 
 And vanish from the thirst they have seduced. 
 
 Ours was the enterprise, the land is ours : 
 
 What gain we by our toils if he escape 
 
 Whom we came hither solely to subdue ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Is there no gain to live in amity ? 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 The gain of traffickers and idle men : 
 Courage and zeal expire upon such calms. 
 Further, what amity can Moors expect 
 When you have joined your forces ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 From the hour 
 That he was vanquisht, I have laid aside 
 All power, all arms. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 How can we trust thee, once 
 Deceived, and oftener than this once despised ? 
 Thou camest hither with no other aim 
 Than to deprive Roderigo of his crown 
 For thy own brow.
 
 A TRAGEDY, 177 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Julian, base man, 'tis true. 
 He comes a prince, no warrior, at this hour. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 His sword, O queen, would not avail him now. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Julian, I feel less anger than regret. 
 No violence of speech, no obloquy. 
 No accusation shall escape my lips : 
 Need there is none, nor reason, to avoid 
 My questions : if thou value truth, reply. 
 Hath not Roderigo left the town and camp ? 
 Hath not thy daughter ? 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Past the little brook 
 Toward the Betis. .from a tower I saw 
 The fugitives, far on their way ; they went 
 Over one bridge, each with arm'd men . . not half 
 A league of road between them , . and had join'd 
 But that the olive-groves along the path 
 Concealed them from each other. . not from me : 
 Beneath me the whole level I surveyed, 
 And, when my eyes no longer could discern 
 Which track they took, I knew it from the storks 
 Rising in clouds above the reedy plain. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Deny it, if thou canst. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I order'd it. 
 
 N
 
 178 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 None could besides : lo ! things in such a mass 
 Falling together on observant minds, 
 Create suspicion and establish proof: 
 Wanted there fresh, .why not employ our arms ? 
 Why go alone ? 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 To parley, to conspire, 
 To reunite the Spaniards, which we saw, 
 To give up treaties, close up enmities. 
 And ratify the deed with Moorish blood. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Gladly would Spain procure your safe return. 
 Gladly would pay large treasures, for the aid 
 You brought against oppression — 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Pay she shall . 
 The treasures of her soil, her ports, her youth : 
 If she resist, if she tumultuously 
 Call forth her brigands and we lose a man. 
 Dreadful shall be our justice ; war shall rage 
 Through every city, hamlet, house, and field. 
 And, universal o'er the gasping land, 
 Depopulation. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 They shall rue the day 
 
 Who dare these things. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Let order then prevaiF.
 
 A TRAGEDY. J 79 
 
 In vain thou sendest far away thy child, 
 Thy counsellor the metropolitan, 
 And Sisabert, .prudence is mine no less. 
 Divide with us our conquests, but the king- 
 Must be delivered up. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Never by me. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 False then were thy reproaches, false thy grief. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Egilona ! were thine also feigned ? 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Say, lovely queen, neglectful of thy charms 
 
 Turned he his eyes toward the young Covilla ? 
 
 Did he pursue her to the mad excess 
 
 Of breaking off her vows to Sisabert, 
 
 And marrying her, against the christian law ? 
 
 AIUZA. 
 
 Did he prefer her so ? 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Could he prefer 
 To Egilona — 
 
 EGILONA. 
 
 Her ! the child Covilla ? 
 Eternal hider of a foolish face, 
 Incapable of any thing but shame. 
 To me ? old man ! to me ? O Abdalazis ! 
 No : he but followed with slow pace my hate. 
 
 n2
 
 180 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 And cannot pride check these unseemly tears. 
 
 Goes. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 The most offended, an offended woman, 
 A wife, a queen, is silent on the deed. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Thou disingenuous and ignoble man, 
 Spreading these rumours ! sending into exile 
 All those their blighting influence injured most : 
 And whom? thy daughter and adopted son, 
 The chieftains of thy laws and of thy faith. 
 Call any witnesses, proclame the truth, 
 And set, at last, thy heart, thy fame, at rest. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Not, if I purpost or desired to live. 
 
 My own dishonour would I e'er proclame 
 
 Amid vindictive and reviling foes. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Calling us foes, avows he not his guilt ? 
 Condemns he not the action we condemn. 
 Owning it his, and owning it dishonour ? 
 'Tis well my cares prest forward, and struck home. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Why smilest thou ? I never saw that smile 
 But it portended an atrocious deed. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 After our manifold and stern assaults. 
 With every tower and battlement destroyed,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 181 
 
 The walls of Ceuta still were strong enough — 
 
 JULIAN, 
 
 For what ? who boasted now her brave defense, 
 Or who forbad your entrance, after peace ? 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 None : for who could ? their engines now arose 
 To throw thy sons into the arms of death. 
 For this erect they their proud crests again. 
 Mark him at last turn pale before a Moor. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Imprudent have they been, their youth shall plead. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 father, could they not have been detained ? 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Son^ thou art safe and wert not while they lived. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 1 feared them not. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 And therefor wert not safe : 
 Under their star the blooming Egilona 
 Would watch for thee the nuptial lamp in vain. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Never, oh never, hast thou workt a wile 
 So barren of all good ! speak out at once, 
 What hopest thou by striking this alarm ? 
 It shocks my reason, not my fears or fondness. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Be happy then as ignorance can be ;
 
 182 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 Soon wilt thou hear it sliouted from our ranks. 
 Those who once hurled defiance o'er our heads, 
 Scorning our arms, and scoffing at our faith. 
 The nightly wolf hath visited, unscared. 
 And loathed them as her prey ; for famine first, 
 Achieving in few days the boast of years, 
 Sank their young eyes and opened us the gates : 
 Ceuta, her port, her citadel, is ours. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Blest boys ! inhuman as thou art, what guilt 
 Was theirs ? 
 
 IMUZA. 
 
 Their father's. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 O support me. Heaven ! 
 Against this blow ! all others 1 have borne. 
 Ermenegild ! thou mightest, sure, have lived ! 
 A father's name awoke no dread of thee ! 
 Only thy mother's early bloom was thine ! 
 There dwelt on Julian's brow. . thine was serene. . 
 The brightened clouds of elevated souls, 
 Feared by the most below : those who lookt up 
 Saw, at their season, in clear signs, advance 
 Rapturous valour, calm solicitude. 
 All that impatient youth would press from age. 
 Or sparing age sigh and detract from youth : 
 Hence was his fall ! my hope ! myself ! my Julian ! 
 Alas ! I boasted, .but I thought on him,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 183 
 
 Inheritor of all . . all what ? my wrongs. . 
 
 Follower of me. .and whither ? to the grave. . 
 
 Ah no : it should have been so years far hence ! 
 
 Him at this moment I could pity most, 
 
 But I most prided in him ; now I know 
 
 I loved a name, I doted on a shade. 
 
 Sons ! I approach the mansions of the just. 
 
 And my arms clasp you in the same embrace, 
 
 Where none shall sever you . . and do I weep ! 
 
 And do they triumph o'er my tenderness ! 
 
 I had forgotten my inveterate foes 
 
 Everywhere nigh me, I had half forgotten 
 
 Your very murderers, while I thought on you : 
 
 For, O my children, ye fill all the space 
 
 My soul would wander o'er. .0 bounteous heaven ! 
 
 There is a presence, if the well-beloved 
 
 Be torn from us by human violence, 
 
 More intimate, pervading, and complete, 
 
 Than when they lived and spoke like other men ; 
 
 And their pale images are our support 
 
 When reason sinks, or threatens to desert us. 
 
 I weep no more . . pity and exultation 
 
 Sway and console me : are they. . no !. . both dead ? 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Ay, and unsepulcred. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Nor wept nor seen 
 By any kindred and far-following eye ?
 
 184 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Their mother saw them, if not dead, expire. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 O cruelty. . to them indeed the least ! 
 My children, ye are happy. . ye have lived 
 Of heart unconquered, honour unimpaired, 
 And died, true Spaniards, loyal to the last. 
 
 M UZA. 
 
 Away with him. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Slaves ! not before I lift 
 My voice to heaven and man : though enemies 
 Surround me, and none else, yet other men 
 And other times shall hear : the agony 
 Of an opprest and of a bursting heart 
 No violence can silence ; at its voice 
 The trumpet is o'erpowered, and glory mute, 
 And peace and war hide all their charms alike. 
 Surely the guests and ministers of heaven 
 Scatter it forth thro' all the elements; 
 So suddenly, so widely, it extends. 
 So fearfully men breathe it, shuddering 
 To ask or fancy how it first arose. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Yes, they shall shudder, .but will that, henceforth. 
 Molest my privacy, or shake my power ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Guilt hath pavilions, but no privacy.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 185 
 
 The very engine of his hatred checks 
 
 The torturer in his transport of revenge, 
 
 Which, while it swells his bosom, shakes his power, 
 
 And raises friends to his worst enemy^ 
 
 MVZA. 
 
 Where now are thine ? will they not curse the day 
 That gave thee birth, and hiss thy funeral ! 
 Thou hast left none who could have pitied thee. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Many, nor those alone of tenderer mould. 
 
 For me will weep. . many alas thro' me ! 
 
 Already I behold my funeral. 
 
 The turbid cities wave and swell with it, 
 
 And wrongs are lost in that days pageantry : 
 
 Opprest and desolate, the countryman 
 
 Receives it like a gift ; he hastens home. 
 
 Shews where the hoof of Moorish horse laid waste 
 
 His narrow croft and winter garden-plot. 
 
 Sweetens with fallen piide his children's lore. 
 
 And points their hatred ; but applauds their tears. 
 
 Justice, who came not up to us thro' life, 
 
 Loves to survey our likeness on our tombs, 
 
 When rivalry, malevolence, and wrath, 
 
 And every passion that once stormed around. 
 
 Is calm alike without them as within. 
 
 Our very chains make the whole world our own, 
 
 Bind those to us who else had passt us by, 
 
 Those at whose call brought down to us, the light 
 
 Of future ages lives upon our name.
 
 186 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 I may accelerate that meteor's fall, 
 And quench that idle ineffectual light 
 Without the knowledge of thy distant world. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 My world and thine are not that distant one. 
 Is age less wise, less merciful, than grief, 
 To keep this secret from thee, poor old man ? 
 Thou canst not lessen, canst not aggravate 
 My sufferings, canst not shorten nor extend 
 Half a sword's length between my God and me. 
 I thank thee for that better thought than fame, 
 Which none however, who deserve, despise. 
 Nor lose from view till all things else are lost. 
 
 AUDALAZIS. 
 
 Julian, respect his age, regard his power. 
 
 Many who fear'd not death, have drag'd along 
 
 A piteous life in darkness and in chains. 
 
 Never was man so full of wretchedness 
 
 But something may be suffered after all. 
 
 Perhaps in what clings round his breast, and helps 
 
 To keep the ruin up, which he amid 
 
 His agony and frenzy overlooks. 
 
 But droops upon at last, and clasps, and dies. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Altho' a Muza send far underground. 
 Into the quarry whence the palace rose. 
 His mangled prey, climes alien and remote 
 Mark and record the pang. While overhead
 
 A TRAGEDY. J 87 
 
 Perhaps he passes on his favorite steed, 
 
 Less heedful of the misery he inflicts 
 
 Than of the expiring sparkle from a stone ; 
 
 Yet we, alive or dead, have fellow men 
 
 If ever we have served them, who collect 
 
 From prisons and from dungeons our remains, 
 
 And bear them in their bosom to their sons. 
 
 Man's only reHcks are his benefits ; 
 
 These, be there ages, be there worlds, between, 
 
 Retain him in communion with his kind : 
 
 Hence is our solace, our security. 
 
 Our sustenance, till heavenly truth descends. . 
 
 Losing in brightness and beatitude 
 
 The frail foundations of these humbler hopes . . 
 
 And, like an angel, guiding us, at once 
 
 Leaves the loose chain and iron gate behind. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Take thou my justice first, then hope for theirs. 
 I, who can bend the living to my will, 
 Fear not the dead, and court not the unborn : 
 Their arm will never reach me, nor shall thine, 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 Pity, release him, pardon him, my father. 
 Forget how much thou hatest perfidy ; 
 Think of him, once so potent, stii so brave, 
 So calm, so self-dependent in distress. . 
 I marvel at him. . hardly dare I blame, 
 When I behold him fallen from so high, 
 And so exalted after such a fall.
 
 188 COUNT .TULTAN 
 
 Mighty must that man be, who can forgive 
 A man so mighty ; seize the hour to rise, 
 Another never comes : O say, my father. 
 Say, Julian, be my enemy no more. 
 He fills me with a greater awe than e'er 
 The field of btittle, with himself the first, 
 When every flag that waved along our host 
 Droopt down the staff, as if the very winds 
 Hung in suspense before him. . bid him go 
 And peace be with him, or let me depart. 
 Lo ! like a god, sole and inscrutable. 
 He stands above our pity. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 For that wish. , 
 Vain as it is, 'tis virtuous. .0, for that, 
 However wrong thy censure and thy praise. 
 Kind Abdalazis, mayst thou never feel 
 The rancour that consumes thy father's breast, 
 Nor want the pity thou hast sought for me. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Now hast thou sealed thy doom. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 And thou thy crimes. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 O father, heed him not : those evil words 
 Leave neither blight nor blemish. . let him go. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 A boy, a very boy, art thou indeed ! 
 One who in early day would sally out
 
 A TRAGEDY. 189 
 
 To chase the lion, and would call it sport, 
 But, when more wary steps had closed him round, 
 Slink from the circle, drop the toils, and blanch 
 Like a lithe plant from under snow in spring. 
 
 ABDALAZIS. 
 
 He who ne'er shrank from danger, might shrink now, 
 And ignominy would not follow here. 
 
 MUZA. 
 
 Peace, Abdalazis ! how is this ? he bears 
 Nothing that warrants him invulnerable : 
 Shall I then shrink to smite him ? shall my fears 
 Be greatest at the blow that ends them all ? 
 Fears? no! 'tis justice, .fair, immutable, 
 Whose measured step, at times, advancing nigh, 
 Appalls the majesty of kings themselves. 
 O were he dead ! tho' then revenge were o'er ! 
 
 FIFTH ACT: FIFTH SCENE. 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Thy wife, Count Julian ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Speak ! 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Is dead.
 
 190 COUNT JULIAN 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Adieu 
 Earth, and the humblest of all earthly hopes, 
 To hear of comfort, tho' to find it vain. 
 Thou murderer of the helpless ! shame of man ! 
 Shame of thy own base nature ! 'tis an act 
 He who could perpetrate could not avow. 
 Stained, as he boasts to be, with innocent blood, 
 Deaf to reproach, and blind to retribution. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Julian, be just; 'twill make thee less unhappy. 
 Grief was her end : she held her younger boy 
 And wept upon his cheek ; his naked breast 
 By recent death now hardening and inert, 
 Slipt from her knee ; again with frantic grasp 
 She caught it, and it weighed her to the ground : 
 There lay the dead. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 She? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 And the youth her son. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Receive them to thy peace, eternal God ! 
 O soother of my hours, while I beheld 
 The light of day, and thine ! adieu, adieu ! 
 And, my Covilla ! dost thou yet survive ? 
 Yes, my lost child, thou livest yet. . in shame ! 
 O agony, past utterance ! past thought !
 
 A TRAGEDY. 191 
 
 That throwest death, as some light idle thing. 
 
 With all its terrours, into dust and air, 
 
 I will endure thee ; I, whom heaven ordained 
 
 Thus to have served beneath my enemies, 
 
 Their conqueror, thus to have revisited 
 
 My native land with vengeance and with woe. 
 
 Henceforward shall she recognize her sons, 
 
 Impatient of oppression or disgrace, 
 
 And rescue them, or perish ; let her hold 
 
 This compact, written with her blood, and mine. 
 
 Now follow me. . but tremble .. years shall roll. 
 
 And wars rage on, and Spain at last be free.
 
 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 AT CINTRA.
 
 INES DE CASTRO AT CINTRA. 
 
 Ines. Pedro, Coxstantia. Blanca. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Pleasant must be these groves of Clntra, Pedro ! 
 To one who lately left the Moorish sands : 
 Every thing has its joyance for the eyes 
 That look from hard-fought and won fields upon it, 
 As yours do. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Lady ! I delight to hear 
 And see you ; so ingenuous, so benign, 
 So playful ! 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 I am then no more Constantia ! 
 But Lady I 
 
 o 2
 
 196 INES DE CASTKO 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 You are not the little girl 
 I left : you have exchanged your childish charms 
 For others, which require new words, new thoughts. 
 New gazers. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Give me one of them awhile ; 
 Cannot you ? are you proud ? has my mama 
 Been tutoring you, as she has me ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Constantia I 
 I ask from you what no man ever had. 
 Or asked, in my condition. . pity me! 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 this is then the solemn way to woo ! 
 
 1 have redd something like it, since you went, 
 But never thought it could be near the same. 
 Here is my hand, .you take it not ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I kiss it. 
 My life hangs from it. , and more lives than one. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 O ! no, vain man ! I love you very well. 
 
 Very sincerely, very tenderly ; 
 
 For I have seen you often, long together. 
 
 Early, and when none knew it ; but think not 
 
 My life hangs from your ring : you first asked pity, 
 
 And fear'd to ask even that; you now would grant it, 
 
 Perhaps not grant it, yet would make me sue. ,
 
 AT CINTRA. 197 
 
 And came you then before the hour for this ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I came before the hour, I must confess, 
 To be with you some moments more, alone, 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 'Tis very wrong, I hear, at such a time 
 Of life : when we are children and are wild 
 'Tis well enough ; but when we are grown sage 
 (As we are) the whole world cries out upon it. 
 What now have you been doing all these days ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 This is the first appointed me for seeing you. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 ! I know that : my question was amiss : 
 
 1 always say the very thing one would not. 
 Alas ! I find, and I am sorry for it, 
 
 Too young am I to think of serious things. 
 
 Surely we might deferr them for a year. 
 
 By flattering the king and queen a little 
 
 And giving them a kiss or two, each of us. 
 
 If you should find me but a child in thought, 
 
 Or, what is hatefuller (all say), in manner, 
 
 And blush for me, my heart must shrivel under it ; 
 
 For I would never pain the man I love, 
 
 And least of all (for that hurts most) would shame him. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Sure some kind angel breathed into your breast 
 The words on which I live.
 
 198 TNES DE CASTRO 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 O ! then they pleased you ! 
 They were not those that I most hoped to please with. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 The queen perhaps has not discourst on all 
 Of my first passion. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 All ? did you tell her ? 
 There were some silly things : I never told her. . 
 Why should I ? we were very young indeed, . 
 Do people call that passion ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Have you heard 
 Perchance of Ines ? 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Whom ? Ines de Castro ? 
 Not latterly : no one must speak of her. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Yes ; I must speak of her. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 They say you liked her ; 
 And so should I have done (she was so good) 
 If they had let her stay with me : they would not. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 O sweetest best Constantia ! she is stil 
 As she was ever. . saving one sad name. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 What sad name ?
 
 AT CINTRA. 199 
 
 PEDUO, 
 
 The betrothed of Don Pedro. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 How ! faithless man ! betrothed ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 So she was : 
 I have resigned her. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 I resign then you. 
 What blessing, what prosperity, what peace, 
 Can rest with perfidy ? she is the same. 
 You tell me. . little matters what you tell me. . 
 As when you knew her first. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 The very same. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Mild, beautiful, affectionate, believing ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 All. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Go then ! ask forgiveness at her feet, 
 But never hope it here. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Stay, princess ! 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Go I 
 The lemon-tyme, geranium, and stiff pinks. 
 And every tuft in every vase about,
 
 200 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 Have lost some leaves while you have been thus 
 
 speaking ; 
 So, evil spirits must have entered with you : 
 And tho the curtains swell and fall, and tho 
 There seems to be a breeze, 'tis not the air ! 
 What air there was, grows hot and tainted round ; 
 I scarce can breathe it. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 You will hear the whole. . 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 I never will. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 The truth. . 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Where ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 From the queen. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 The truth, when it left Pedro, left the world. 
 
 Goes. 
 PEDRO alone in the garden. 
 Hated, fled, scorn'd. . I am at least set free 
 From an affiance which the pure of soul 
 Abhorr : such marriage-bed appears bestrewn 
 With the dark flowers and heavy pall that hung 
 Around the corse, where bloomed their one delight. 
 She comes. . be strong my heart ! thou'rt at thy proof 
 For the first time. . bear up !
 
 AT C INTRA. 201 
 
 To Ines. Sit here by me, 
 
 Under this cedar. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Where sit under it ? 
 Its branches push the grass away beneath, 
 Nor leave it room enough to rise amid them ; 
 Easier it were, methinks, to walk along 
 And rest on them, they are so dense and broad, 
 And level as the oars are on Mondego 
 Until the music beckons them below. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Come ; I am holding them wide open for thee ; 
 They will close round us. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Have you waited long ? 
 Tell me. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I've Other things to tell thee. 
 
 INES. 
 
 What ? 
 Oh ! I am very chilly in this shade. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Run into the pavilion then. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Now tell me. 
 Pedro ! your hand and brow are sadly parcht, 
 And you are out of breath, altho' you walked 
 These twenty paces, more than I who ran. .
 
 O02 INKS DE CASTRO 
 
 And yet you always caught me wheu we tried. 
 "What would you tell me now, my faithful Pedro ! 
 
 PEDTIO. 
 
 In one word, Ines! I have ceased to love thee. 
 Loose me and let me go. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Is this your greeting ? 
 This your first morning salutation ? turn . . 
 Can it be ? must I (look at me) believe it ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Yes, my sweet. . yes, my Ines. .yes, yes, Ines ! 
 
 INES. 
 
 And are you stil so generous, O my love, 
 
 As to be sorry you have ceased to love me ? 
 
 To sigh, almost to weep, bending your face 
 
 Away from me, lest I should grieve to see 
 
 A change in it, and in a change a loss ! 
 
 Take off that hand from above mine then ! take it ! 
 
 I dare not move it from me. .'tis the prince's, 
 
 And not my Pedro's. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I must go. 
 
 INES. 
 
 I once 
 Might ask you why. Let nie go. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Wouldst thou if whither ? 
 Unfortunate ! So, thou resignest me,
 
 AT CINTRA. 203 
 
 Light heartless girl ! 
 
 INES, 
 
 I would obey : I swore it. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Not yet. 
 
 Aside. Ah ! would to God ! it were indeed so ! 
 
 INES. 
 
 Not at the altar yet ; but did you not 
 Force me to say I loved you, ere you went 
 Against the Moors, telling me you could never 
 Be half so valiant, half so proud of victory, 
 Unless I own'd it ? Too just punishment ! 
 Why then so long delaid ! We oft have met, 
 Oft every day, and no day but in smiles, 
 (O those three happy ones since your return !) 
 And I had ceased to fancy it was wrong, 
 It seemed so little like it and gave you 
 Such pleasure, and such confidence in arms. 
 Alas ! it was unmaidenly ! so was it 
 To leave my arm around your neck : so was it 
 (And worse) to linger, and not fly at once 
 For refuge in a cloister, when you prest 
 My very lips with kisses. You were going, 
 And my poor heart was faint : I thought no ill ; 
 And you, who might have given me more spirit, 
 Said nothing : no one image was there near, 
 Or none I saw, of her, the pure, the blessed, 
 Who might have chastened me with tender look
 
 204 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 Compassionate, and dried the tears of both. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I cannot bear these reminiscences, 
 Rather these presences. . fur they who love 
 As we have done, have but one day, one hour, 
 In their whole life, in their whole afterlife. 
 In earth, heaven, time, eternity. 
 
 INES. 
 
 What said you ? 
 I know not what you said, and yet your words 
 Seem'd my own to me. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Live ! live ! thou art young. 
 Innocent. . none shall hurt thee. Think no more 
 Of that obedience thou wouldst speak about — 
 'Twas never promist me. 
 
 INES. 
 
 What else is love ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 O Ines ! Ines ! Ines ! must we two 
 
 Know nothing more of what love is, than this ! 
 
 INES. 
 
 Enough for such as I am. .ah ! too much. . 
 
 It must not be. .and yet it may be, sure ! 
 
 Pedro hath shewn me many of my faults, 
 
 And now may shew me all, and bid me mend them. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Forget me, hate me : I am grown ungrateful,
 
 AT CINTRA. 205 
 
 Wild, desperate, the very worst of men. 
 And (if thou wilt not pity me for saying it) 
 Most wretched, and most wronged. 
 
 Hold back thy pity ! 
 I will not have it. 
 
 Is this curse enough 
 For my consent to leave thee ? or what heavier 
 Would any wish ? even thou ? 
 
 INES. 
 
 Oh tender Pedro ! 
 If you have ceased to love me (very strange 
 As are your words) I would not argue with you ; 
 I have no power and you no need of it : 
 But if you ever fancy in yourself 
 Such blemishes, then be persuaded by me, 
 O generous Pedro, you have wronged your nature ; 
 They are not to be fear'd or thought of in it. 
 Enough of breasts are open to them, room 
 Enough in all, and welcome in too many ! 
 They cannot enter Pedro's. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Burst, my heart 
 
 INES, 
 
 One only, in your sorrows, we have stil. . 
 Speak, and assuage it. 
 
 PEDRO, 
 
 Dost thou bid me ? hear I 
 Hear me ! reproach me ! spurn me ! but ask nought.
 
 206 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 I musl not many thee. 
 
 What answerest thou ? 
 
 INES. 
 
 Heaven has decreed it then, O my beloved ! 
 Be cahn ! unless I have offended you. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I may be calm, no doubt ! a curse on those 
 
 Who teach me calmness ! wouldst Ihou teach me it ? 
 
 INES. 
 
 Take off the curse ! with any pain but that 
 I vi^ould ; tho others first must teach it me. 
 
 PEDRO 
 
 I thought so ! Others ! What a word is this ! 
 She then has confidents ! she asks their counsel ! 
 She talks to them of me ! tells of my loves. 
 My doubts, my fears.. . What fears have I ? what 
 
 doubts ? . . 
 She throws my weaknesses before their feet 
 To look at, touch, discourse upon, discuss. . 
 Now I can leave her. .now I can. . and will. 
 In three strides I am gone beyond a thought 
 Of such a woman, .dear as she was once ! 
 Pooh ! I misunderstood her, I perceive. 
 Monks then and priests invade the sanctuary 
 Of holiest love, strip down its freshest fruits. 
 And chew them dry, and call them bad and bitter ! 
 Could it be thus, were dignity in man 
 Or chastity in woman, as before ?
 
 AT CINTRA. 207 
 
 We turn tame foxes into our own vineyards 
 To yelp the wild ones out ; but they the wild 
 Come only the more numerous at their noise ; 
 And our sleek guardians make the best grapes theirs, 
 Biting the fist that drags them back too late. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Revere our holy Church ! tho some within 
 Have erred, and some are slow to lead us right, 
 Stopping to pry when staff and lamp should be 
 In hand, and the way whiten underneath. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Ines, the Church is now a charnel-house. 
 
 Where all that is not rottenness is drowth. 
 
 Thou hast but seen its gate hung round with flowers. 
 
 And heard the music whose serenest waves 
 
 Cover its gulfs and dally with its shoals, 
 
 And hold the myriad insects in light play 
 
 Above it, loth to leave its sunny sides. 
 
 Look at this central edifice ! come close ! 
 
 Men's bones and marrow its materials are, 
 
 Men's groans inaugurated it, men's tears 
 
 Sprinkle its floor, fires lighted up with men 
 
 Are censers for it ; Agony and Anger 
 
 Surround it night and day with sleepless eyes ; 
 
 Dissimulation, Terrour, Treachery, 
 
 Denunciations of the child, the parent, 
 
 The sister, brother, lover (mark me, Ines !)
 
 208 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 Are the peace-offerings God receives from it. 
 
 INES. 
 
 I tremble. . but betrayers tremble more. 
 Now cease, cease, Pedro ! Cling I must to somewhat. 
 Leave me one guide, one rest ! Let me love God ! 
 Alone. . if it must be so ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Him alone. . 
 Mind ; in him only place thy trust henceforth. 
 Thy hands are marble, Ines ! and thy looks 
 Unchangeable, as are the wintery stars 
 In their clear brightness . , and what pangs have I 
 Endured for thee ! Gaze, smile at me, sit mute. . 
 I merit it. . Woman of songs and satires 
 And sermons, thro the world they point at thee ! 
 
 To himself. 
 I spoke of what I suffered : I spoke ill. 
 Light as a bubble was the heaviest of it 
 To what I now endure. Where was there ever 
 Affliction like love buried thus alive, 
 And turn'd to hatred by some hellish charm ! 
 So ! then thy lips can move ! can open too ! 
 When they have leisure, will they deign to speak ? 
 
 INES. 
 
 O Pedro! Pedro! my own agony 
 
 Had cast me down ; yours will not let me sink. 
 
 Uncertain man ! once tender, now severe, 
 
 Once prodigal of confidence, now prompt 
 
 To snatch it back, rending the heart that held it !
 
 AT CINTRA. 209 
 
 How much true love my grave will hide from you ! 
 Let this dry up my tears ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Live ! and live happy ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Perfidious ! where are now the promises 
 
 You made your father, when at my request 
 
 He pardoned that young sorceress ? Are your words 
 
 All spent? am I unworthy of reply ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Madam, no accusation was preferred 
 Of sorcery ; the threat was quite enough. 
 When you protested by the saints and martyrs. 
 Angels and confessors, Ines de Castro 
 Should soon be charged of sorcery before 
 The competent tribunals of the realm, 
 Unless she would renounce my plighted vow. 
 So firm was my reliance on the word 
 Of royalty, so well I understood 
 What competent tribunals are, I swore 
 Upon my knees, never to marry her 
 Whom I had sworn to marry. In all this 
 Is there no merit to a royal mind ? 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Much ; if the vow be kept. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Vows always should be.
 
 210 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 If made to fathers, made to kings, or saints. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Your love, your kindest love then separates us. 
 Would you not tell me this, .to make me happy ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 I would prepare this damsel here to loose 
 (Allowing time, .a day, two days, or more. 
 If need there be. . ) her idle unfit ties. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I was more rough, and would have broken them 
 To save her. Hard as is the alternative, 
 Rather would I be wanting to my faith 
 Than see the woman I have loved, and love, 
 Resign or loosen it. To ask of her 
 To break my bonds for me, were more than baseness ; 
 'Twere baseness, .which the very weak themselves 
 Disdain, and love and fear alike brush by. 
 
 QUEEX. 
 
 Against the course of nature, royal blood 
 Would mingle with plebeian. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 None is here. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 All blood not royal should to royal eyes 
 Appear so. Fie ! the universe cries out 
 In condemnation of you.
 
 AT CIiNTRA. 211 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I would answer 
 With calmness your reproof, O queen, if calmness 
 In such contingencies were not the thing 
 The most offensive. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Speak : reply you cannot. 
 
 PEDUO. 
 
 Against the course of nature 'tis impossible 
 To run (a folly you object to me) 
 Unless we do a violence to others 
 Or to ourselves. 
 
 But then this universe ! 
 This beadle's house, these rotten fangs from fiends, 
 These imprecation-wallets opening 
 To blast me with fat air ! . . 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Scoff at the world ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Saints do it worse. 
 
 The universe of princes, 
 Lady ! is but a narrow one indeed ! 
 Court, church, and camp are its three continents. . 
 Nothing is there above, below, around, 
 But air and froth, now quieter, now stormier. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Rare manhood ! thus to argue with a woman ! 
 Rare courtesy ! thus to instruct a queen 
 
 p2
 
 '21-2 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 PEDIIO. 
 
 Ah ! the distracted will for ever reason ; 
 
 Why will not those sometimes who are not so ? 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 What then, unsteddy youth, wer^ your resolves? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 If, she who formerly believed so much, 
 Ines could think me now unworthy of her, 
 •She soon might bear our severance : what care I 
 How many, great, unmerited, my sufferings. 
 Be hers but less ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 To whom now speaks the boy ? 
 
 INES. 
 
 Those thoughts, that cannot rest, spring from his heart ; 
 And, as they spring, fall into it again. 
 Like some pure fountain-water, where none heeds 
 The rift it rises from. 
 
 To Pedro, laying her hand on his. 
 Was it to me, 
 Or to yourself, or to the queen, you spoke ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 In Nature's voice I spoke alone with Nature. 
 
 To the QUEEN. 
 
 Madam ! protect this innocent sweet girl ! 
 I, who would have abandoned her, implore it ! 
 
 INES. 
 
 Too generous soul ! O Pedro ! O my prince !
 
 AT CINTRA. 213 
 
 Let the unvvorthiest of your father's vassals 
 Clasp, on the ground, your knee ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 How ! in my presence 
 Thou leanst thy forehead on thy keeper's knee ! 
 
 PEDRO, raising ines. 
 Rise! 
 
 To the QUEEN. 
 
 Madam, I have not yet learnt castilian. 
 My royal father has confer'd on me, 
 For my poor humble service, no such title. 
 I am but Pedro, prince of Portugal. 
 Towns, provinces, have been entrusted to me. 
 And kept; but never have I undertaken 
 The weighty charge, to be a woman's keeper. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Crave pardon of the queen ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Of me ? what need ? 
 His father will forgive him at my suit ; 
 He loves him, and hath shewn it in the choice 
 He has approved and sanctioned, of his wife. 
 
 INES. 
 
 O happy father ! happy Portugal ! 
 And, whatsoe'er befall thee, happy Ines ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Has the audacious chatterer ceased at last? 
 Constantia, sir, is royal, is your equal. 
 Is your superior.
 
 214 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Who is not ? that wears 
 The graces of her sex, the goodness of it, 
 The mildness, and sometimes the pitying tears. 
 Constantia knows my passion. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Knows your passion ? 
 What ! before marriage ? Yes, yes, you are right. . 
 I told her of it when I gave it her . . 
 How twas devoted to her.. Prove my words, 
 If loyalty and knighthood are within you. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Strong the appeal : and any other words 
 The queen might dictate. . 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 These will do quite well ; 
 Confirm them to my daughter : that is all : 
 Say them in your own way . . with some few more. 
 As princes do, by precedent. . or not. . 
 I would drop any form, to make you easy 
 And put this boyish fancy out of mind. 
 
 INES. 
 
 I must not throw myself again before you, 
 
 I must not hear those royal words again. 
 
 They hurt you so, they almost made you angry. . 
 
 Ah ! how you blush at being wroth so soon ! . . 
 
 But let me pray, and let me once more move you, 
 
 Be duteous ! be obedient ! O how lovely 
 
 Is the young princess who expects your hand !
 
 AT CINTRA. 215 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Does it require an effort to espouse 
 The princess of Castille ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Nor to espouse, 
 Nor to abandon whom we should espouse, 
 Is thought an effort in the court of kings. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Plebeian soul ! ill-sorted with its state ! 
 
 INES. 
 
 Into what errors have I led you, Pedro ! 
 The princess may retrieve you . . she alone. 
 
 QUEEN seizing ines. 
 Come then. . resist not, think not, hang not back. . 
 Along with me! There is no other way 
 To give him freedom. We may find for you 
 A match more equal and less perilous. 
 I will adorn your nuptials with my presence, 
 To satisfy your pride, and his, unworthy ! 
 No earthly thing is wanting to the bridegroom. 
 He has estate, youth, person, rank, court-favour. . 
 What ! thankless, graceless, uncompliant girl, 
 Will nothing serve you under royalty ? 
 
 INES. 
 
 O were there none on earth ! I then were happy. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Abomination ! treason ! heresy ! 
 
 My duty now compels me. . call the guard. .
 
 216 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Forbear, forbear, justly offended queen ! 
 
 INES. 
 
 Well may you blush, who never blusht for me 
 Before ! I lost my senses when I said it. 
 I may love God : I may not love you, Pedro ! 
 And hence the worst and wildest wish that ever 
 Distraction wrencht from passion . . for my warmth 
 To draw the sun ('twas nothing less) from heaven. 
 
 what were Portugal, what were earth, without you ! 
 Inanimate, or trampled, or distraught, 
 
 Or self-opprest, like one in wicked slumber. 
 Reign, bravest Pedro, teaching first obedience.. 
 Be every thing that kings have ever been. . 
 Unless they should have loved ! 
 
 O that, before 
 We part, I must not touch those cheeks with mine, 
 To catch their modesty and beauteousness ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Mad impudence ! am I then but a fly 
 
 Or bird, or vacant unobservant air. 
 
 That every sigh should strip itself before me ? 
 
 Thy wanton ardour, girl, shall have its range 
 
 Elsewhere. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Most gracious lady! let me follow, 
 
 1 am unworthy of the hand that leads me. . 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 That drags thee to thy doom, if thou resist.
 
 AT CINTRA. 217 
 
 Choose ; death or marriage ! 
 
 INES. 
 
 Marriage ! never, never ! 
 Help me, O help me, Pedro ! not to tly, 
 Not to resist, but to obey in all 
 Save that one thing where life and death are one. 
 Of that speak not, tho you should speak from heaven. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 What can I ? Wilt thou claim me ? I am thine. . 
 One fire, before the populace, burns both. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Atheist and heretic ! shame, shame o'erwhelm thee I 
 A prince of Portugal, in robes of flame ! 
 Before the populace! and own his fault ! 
 
 To Ines. 
 Come, come along ! these horrors must not be. 
 God, Sant-Iago, and Castille, forbid ! 
 
 INES. 
 
 Grant me, O queen, a cloister. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 W^ith the pure ? 
 The consecrated ? the resigned ? 
 
 INES. 
 
 A grave 
 Then grant me ! there the fit and unfit meet. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 I will grant that which girls like thee wish more. 
 
 And pray for less aloud : my word is given : 
 
 The bridegroom waits : thou'rt his ere the last mass :
 
 218 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 In time for dinner at his father's house. 
 Haste ; do not keep the valets round the board 
 To drive away the flies which mar your feast, 
 Nor make the elder guests more grave than age 
 Has made them, that their wine grows warm apace. 
 
 INES to PEDRO. 
 
 then you cannot save me ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Save I will. 
 If my own life can do it. 
 
 QUEEN, 
 
 How should that? 
 
 INES. 
 
 No branch so leafless but it gives a shade 
 To some poor insect at some hour of day. 
 Many has that sword slain who wisht to live. 
 And there was glory from it ; was it then 
 Because they wisht to live, that there was glory 
 In stripping them of life ? are friendly deeds 
 Less glorious than unfriendly ? is less brave 
 The blow that liberates than the force that binds ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 What sayst thou ! 
 
 INES. 
 
 I dare neither say nor do, 
 Yet wish . . and more than wildest love e'er wisht. 
 PEDRO to himself. 
 
 1 will not ask again, lest one desire, 
 
 As ever, come between us and seize both.
 
 AT CINTRA. 219 
 
 To Ines. 
 
 What thou hast spoken of inanimate things 
 
 Levels me with them, nay, casts me beneath. 
 
 Lo ! here am I, and cannot lend protection 
 
 To those whom God's right-hand placed at my side 
 
 Rather to strengthen and admonish me. 
 
 And whom their virtue should have raised above it. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Virtue ! ay, where obedience and religion 
 
 Are wanting, there comes virtue ! by my faith. 
 
 Never a word on earth I like so ill : 
 
 Who taught you it ? \ 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 The word I have forgotten 
 Who taught me : if you ask or heed who taught 
 The thing, behold her here ! and here the heart 
 Wheron, beneath her image, 'tis engraven. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Blessed are they who walk in innocence, 
 And fear the Lord, and only know his saints, 
 And only do his will ! The arts of Hell, 
 The powers of darkness, be they far from me, 
 From you, my son, and all our royal house ? 
 I would not even mention them, lest woe 
 Fall upon some one at the searching sound. 
 Treason, rebellion, wishes undisguised. 
 Bold boisterous exclamations, not against 
 One King, and him the very best on earth. 
 Our natural lord and master, but against
 
 220 INKS DE CASTRO 
 
 The form, the power, the name, of royalty. . 
 Royalty! God's appointed, God's own work, 
 God's own resemblance, need no charge of sorcery. 
 You are the witness, prince ! I would hurt none. . 
 You on your oath must answer to our liege 
 For the state's weal : and let us drop the rest. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Spare her ! or, by the Christ that died for me, 
 I die for her, and on this sword, before you. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Abstain, rash youth ! 
 
 PEDUO. 
 
 Merciless queen, abstain ! 
 
 INES. 
 
 O call none merciless ! all must have mercy; 
 All need it. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Hold thy peace ! art thou in church. 
 Profane one ! or are words like these for thee ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Forgive her! swear upon the crucifix 
 That you will never urge against her aught 
 Endangering life, or liberty, or fame, 
 Then give me to the axe or to the stake 
 As best beseems you. . 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 You will then obey ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Swear ; due obedience follows.
 
 AT CINTRA. 221 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 To my lips 
 I lift my blessed Lord, and call his name 
 In witness ; not a thought of ill is left 
 Within my sinful breast against the life, 
 Or liberty, or fame, of that young maid, 
 Ines de Castro. 
 
 INES, 
 
 Gracious queen ! kind Pedro ! 
 To think of me ! 
 
 I too have courage, .strength. , 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 She falls upon my knees : she faints : 'tis nothing; 
 Call.. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Let my arms, for the last time, sustain her !
 
 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 AT COIMBRA.
 
 INES DE CASTRO AT COIMBRA 
 
 Peduo. Ines. Queen. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Ines ! we have not loved in vain : this day 
 Rewards thy many sufferings for my sake, 
 And places our sweet children where they ought 
 To stand, in their own brightness. 
 
 Once I said 
 The king will do it : 'twas some heavenly voice 
 Prompted ray words ; yet my heart own'd them not, 
 And I was slow to speak and thou to hear 
 The comfort this hour brings. 
 
 INES. 
 
 The holy Father 
 Sanctioned our vows, the bishop joined our hands, 
 
 Q
 
 226 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 In vain, if the parental blessing- on us 
 Be wanting'. 
 
 Many arc the tears we shedd 
 For ];oor Constantia, who, upon the brink 
 Of death, took our right-hands, and claspt them liurd 
 And sighed, Be never sundered, faithful pair ! 
 Not even this avails us : when the king 
 Calls us his children, and the queen too hers, 
 Then, and then only, are the rites complete. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Sweet was the friend thou gavest me ; more sweet 
 The friend she gave : heroic was her gift. 
 More than heroic thine ; she loved me well, 
 I loved her only that she loved me so : 
 Thou wert my soul's delight from the first day 
 My eyes had opened on thee, and thy life 
 Kept mine on earth but to watch over it. 
 Now it is safe. 
 
 Something yet troubles thee ; 
 What can it be ? 
 
 INES. 
 
 I wonder why the children 
 Are not yet brought to us. The king and queen 
 Will soon be here ; and we without the flowers 
 To offer them ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 The fault is mine. A child. 
 Now almost four years old, remarks, remembers.
 
 AT COIMBRA. 227 
 
 INES. 
 
 Surely he should. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Humiliation ? no. 
 He shall not scorn his father, nor curse mine. 
 What I must do, Ines, I do for thee. . 
 Hard else the service. . hard !. . ay, unperformed. 
 The king will see the children in the park, 
 (He must ride through it) and let that suffice ! 
 
 QUEF.N BLANCA entering. 
 Don Pedro ! I rejoice that our liege lord 
 Hath well considered what becomes his house, 
 And, in his tenderness of heart, embraced 
 This lady, to whom on my part I pray 
 Heaven grant its loving mercies. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I await 
 The presence of my father, to pour forth 
 Whatever gratitude, whatever zeal. 
 Soldier or son may offer : late last night 
 His orders came that we await him here ; 
 And the most gracious presence of our queen 
 Alike detains me from the hoped embrace. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 The king, my husband, met before the castle 
 The children which they told him are his son's, 
 And he was taken with. . I know not which. . 
 The elder, or the younger, and would fain 
 
 Q 2
 
 2-28 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 Have them with him and talk with them and love thein, 
 And may perhaps, in time, provide for them. 
 
 IT, DUO. 
 
 Madam, when they are stronger, their own swords 
 Will do it. 
 
 iNi5s apart. 
 O ! hush ! Pedro ! is this right, 
 After such kindness ? 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 But until they are 
 Stronger, and carry swords (which may do harm), 
 Shall we not look to them, and merit thanks? 
 
 TEDRO. 
 
 God grant it ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 All must give up some designs, 
 Some wishes too long nurst, some ill-grown thoughts. 
 After five years many would not repine 
 To yield a mistress, but would bless the eyes 
 That winkt upon the fault, like mine, like his, 
 The fond indulgent father's, the wise king's. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I have no mistress, save whom holy Church 
 And love as holy gave me. Gifts like her 
 Heaven seldom gave, and never man resigned. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Surely no longer is there any cause 
 For separation.
 
 AT COIMBrxA. 229 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Cause be there or not, 
 No power on earth can separate us now. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 He who permitted can release your bonds ; 
 To him belongs all power in earth and heaven. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Hath God none left ? have vows and sacraments 
 No force in them ? 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 God leaves this nether world 
 
 To his vicegerent. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 So it seems ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Then bow 
 
 Obedient to the rod. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Is there no time 
 When rods shall shed their knots, and we arise 
 From under them, and when the bloody hand 
 Shall drop them, will consent to clench our gold 
 In preference, and be kist on the outside 
 For form-sake, letting us stand up, and walk ? 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 I understand not this opprobrious speech. 
 We are vile worms : how can we stand erect ?
 
 230 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 God made us not vile worms. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 We make ourselves 
 None other, )>y our passions. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Not by those 
 The Church hath sanctified. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 For its own ends. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Ay, truly ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 For its peace. . 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 And plenteousness. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 God's house should be well stored. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 God's law well kept. 
 His house be it his to keep, his lav/ be it ours. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Assertor of illegibilities 
 In law, the sense wherof but one can tell, 
 No longer do I wonder that my poor 
 Constantia died so soon : died ere the crown 
 Circled her fine black hair ! . ,
 
 AT COIMBRA. 231 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 . . And King Alfonso 
 Was gathered to his fathers ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Miscreant ! 
 Who thought of that ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Worthy was your Constantia 
 Of any crown ; but none (had life been spared) 
 Could have been hers before my father left it. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 And shall that creature there, that half-espous'd. 
 Wear it instead ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 That creature there descends 
 Of royal lineage ; and from her hath sprung 
 A royal lineage not below the past. 
 Adversity hath nurst it, and just Heaven 
 Placed it, you say, beneath my father's smile. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Nothing is wanting, now, most glorious queen ! 
 Beside your blessing. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Curses on the brood. . 
 . . I had well-nigh been prompted to exclame 
 Under my wrongs. . but wrongs we all must bear. 
 
 INES. 
 
 If any of them seem to rise from me. 
 Punish me, O kind lady ! and point out
 
 232 I^-'ES I)E CASTRO 
 
 How I may expiate my offense at last. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 De Castro ! Set not thou thy heart upon 
 
 The crown ! it may fall from thee, .nay, it shall. 
 
 INES. 
 
 For crowns I care not. 
 
 QUEEN to PEDRO. 
 
 Carest thou for crowns ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I value that of Portugal above 
 
 All earthly things, saving my faith and sword. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Above this woman ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 On this woman rests 
 My faith, and o'er her pillow hangs my sword. 
 The crown is, and God grant it long may be. 
 Another's ; and no thought can dwell theron 
 Of mine, but hopes of love from him who wears it, 
 A subject's, soldier's, son's obedience. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 j^u officer brings a letter. 
 Prove it : the speech was spoken opportunely. 
 
 ^Iftcr some time reading. 
 " She spoils me ! what would one much better do ? 
 Give me my own mama ! I'll run aivuy . . 
 I'll never have another. . very good ones 
 Would only make me cry' the more for mine." 
 And \vords like these confound and shake the wise !
 
 AT COIMBRA. 233 
 
 Patience ! . . I have no patience for his folly. 
 " Beauty:' 
 
 Young things are always beautiful. 
 " Such innocence." 
 
 Can they be otherwise ? 
 " Like me a little" 
 
 Ha ! there lies the spell. 
 Doating old man ! I'll break it, if I live. 
 Like thee ? 
 
 Constantia's children may become so ; 
 Legitimately born, them sponsor kings 
 Have held, and heard their titles, at the font. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Madam, the former words you spoke less loud : 
 They may not have concern'd me ; but these last 
 Strike at my honour. 
 
 Since the nuptial rites 
 First held together those whom love had joined. 
 None have been ever holier than were ours. 
 The pontif, to whose power you have appeal'd, 
 Ordered the best of bishops, him of Guarda, 
 To join our hands and bless us ; which he did ; 
 Shedding the tears that virtuous old men shed 
 On those whom they think virtuous, both when joy 
 Showers from above, and when grief strikes them low. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 The pontif did it lest a scandal lie 
 
 Against the Church: he was deceived : some doubts 
 
 Have risen in his mind, which you shall hear,
 
 234 INES DE CASTUO 
 
 Of this young person who was named your wife. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Named ! by the name of God ! she is my wife, 
 And shall be so for ever ! Earth, Hell, Rome, 
 Shall never separate us. 
 
 Courage ! girl ! 
 Thou hast heard worse from her. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 . . And worse shalt hear. 
 Some time ago, when we first met, at Cintra, 
 1 was too tender-hearted ; so the king 
 Assured me : now he leaves uie my own way 
 To follow. 
 
 INES. 
 
 When he comes. . 
 
 QUEEX. 
 
 He comes not hither. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Can kings deceive ? 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 No, they can not deceive, 
 But they can promise and observe the promise 
 Or drop it, as they will. 
 
 Who shall control! 
 Or question them ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Their God. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 God hath approved
 
 AT COIMBRA. 235 
 
 From Rome (if you will read it) our resolves. 
 
 Holding a paper. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Madam, I read not any thing from Rome 
 That violates our sacraments. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Rome made 
 And can unmake them, and does every day. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Only where kings are rich and nations weak. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Some deference must be paid in solid gold, 
 Some in obedience : the more weighty part 
 We undertake, the hghter is for you. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Rare image, by my troth, is this of Heaven ! 
 Odin and Thor shattered the bones, and drank 
 Of beer and mead what the crackt skull could hold ; 
 Too generous were their mighty hands to filch 
 The purse, had any purse been in the way. . 
 The bridge of Mahomet has no shops upon it. 
 The very Jew eats up his meal morose 
 Apart from God, nor robs us in God's name. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Who would have thought this cursed sect should count 
 Among its friends a prince of Portugal ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 There are no sects in subjects : all are one ; 
 One protects all.
 
 236 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 The world will never flourish 
 Under crowned priests or water-sprinkling kings. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 horrible ! O blasphemy ! O lust 
 Of change in princes 
 
 PEDUO. 
 
 Ines ! do not weep ! 
 
 1 want thy word. 
 
 INES. 
 
 I have no word to speak, 
 Now every one I utter gives offense. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 I am then fond of change ! Say this against me 
 And thou wilt not offend. 
 
 INES. 
 
 O ! may God love me 
 As does ray Pedro ! may at length the queen 
 Pardon me as God pardon'd me, who made him ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 . . Over the grave of my dear child ! 
 
 Ay, sob ! 
 Hide thy white face ! pull thy loose curls around, 
 Darkening them (for they want it) with thy tears, 
 If tears will serve, to make them look becoming. 
 Vain wretch ! thy features are some poor Biscayan's, 
 Some mountain girl's, half-Spanish ; and thy soul 
 Has nothing royal, nothing noble, in it. 
 Now am I forced to say what shocks my soul 
 In utterance, .first because it places thee
 
 AT COIMBRA. 237 
 
 Too near our royal house, and then because 
 
 It covers it with incest, .can I speak 
 
 The words I would? Speak them I must! for thesC) 
 
 These only, could strike down thy lofty hopes, 
 
 And shew thee what abyss, what hell, of guilt 
 
 Lies under to engulf thee. Didst thou not 
 
 Stand with don Pedro here, and hold the prince 
 
 Don Luis with him at the sacrament 
 
 Of baptism ? By the saints in Paradise ! 
 
 Thou art his sister in the Churchis eye. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 The Church had wiped, I fancied, from her eye 
 This grain of dust. . I gave the kerchief for it, . 
 Many, and somewhat worse, she throws in ours. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Arguing with him who argues against God,* 
 
 As thou dost, were a folly: this at least, 
 
 Lies ! is not among thy many sins : 
 
 Yet little as thou hast deserved of me, 
 
 I make thee what amends thy broken marriage 
 
 (For such in courtesy I will express it) 
 
 Admits of. 
 
 * Pedro must have been thought a very profane man by the re- 
 ligious : for, even when he was king, he insulted the bishop of 
 Oporto, for appearing at court after he had been tried for adultery 
 and found guilty Mariana records this terrible outrage of his on 
 the privileged orders. In otiier things he was not amiss. It was his 
 saying that a king who permitted a single day to pass without a be- 
 neficent action, deserved not the kingly name.
 
 238 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 PEDRo! 
 
 I am then, it seems, to die. . 
 Since nothing but the stroke of death can break it. 
 
 INES. 
 
 Sweet husband ! shall false dangers overshadow 
 Whom true and great ones blazed upon and guided ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 And shall these false ones make thee weep 1 did those ? 
 
 Bear up, my Ines ! bear up bravely, girl ? 
 
 We have been happy : happy we shall be. 
 
 Thou seest me not, withering with age, cast down 
 
 By weight of wrongs, consumed by grief, distraught 
 
 By envy and ambition, worse than one 
 
 Whom penal horses sever limb from limb, 
 
 Nor, what were worse than all, bereft of thee ; 
 
 For Heaven will give me thoughts and views of Ines, 
 
 As Ines gave me, in this world, of Heaven, 
 
 Goes to the window. 
 Ha ! there they stand below, agape for me. 
 One walked but half the length of the house-front 
 And turn'd again, and askt his fellow slave 
 (I do believe, for they have hungry scrips) 
 When will the prey be ours ? and the prei/s price ? 
 Their plumes and brims ill hide them, tho they keep 
 As near as may be under us : perhaps 
 Twere well to call three more and better men. 
 Pacheco is too lank ; the shrewd Coello 
 And spruce Gonzales would not like their doublets 
 To have another slash in them.
 
 AT COIMBRA. 23& 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 What mean 
 These foul insinuations? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 What mean they 
 Under my window ? 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Your own g-ood ; the king's 
 True service. 
 
 PEDRO, 
 
 Let them enter then. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 This room ' 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Yea, and within one pace of their king's son ; 
 Covered ; with dirk and rapier. . but in front. 
 
 INES 
 
 Escape, O dearest Pedro ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 He who dies 
 Escapes, .and some shall beat the path before. 
 I would not willingly try any flight : 
 The only one I know, the only one 
 Where Honour can go with me, will be mine 
 Whatever hour I choose. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Most heathenish ! 
 To talk of Honour and of Death so lightly !
 
 240 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 TEDRO. 
 
 Madam, we may lose one, but not the other ; 
 Therefor we need not mind it. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Not when Hell 
 Opens before us ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Hell too we may close 
 And its enormous portals, with less effort 
 Than infants push aside ungrateful food. 
 We have but to maintain our sense of right, 
 Which of all senses is the pleasantest, 
 And which must bear most violence ere expell'd. 
 
 QUEKV. 
 
 I understand not a fantastic speech 
 
 Appliant to no person, to no purport. 
 
 I will speak plainer ; and I speak to both . . 
 
 Obey! 
 
 It seems not decent that men's hands 
 Should touch with little gentleness, should lead 
 Compulsively, young women who have stood 
 Behind and near the daughter of Castillo. 
 Long-suffering is my merit, if the grace 
 Of God vouchsafes me one : but oaths of fealty 
 On all are binding, and on queens the most. 
 My conscience hath upbraided me severely 
 For not disclosing to our kiug the part 
 Whereto (in tears I own it) 1 was privy,
 
 AT COIMBRA. 241 
 
 Against his crown and dignity. 
 
 Come now ! 
 Hear reason, donna Ines ! I no more 
 Urg-e any choice which may displease you both . . 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Displease us ! urge a choice ! 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 We must avoid 
 Scandal at least. 
 
 There are formalities. . 
 Mere abjuration now of marriage-rites, 
 And nothing more than living separate. 
 One in a cloister, t' other in a camp . . 
 The very choice the brave and chaste all make. . 
 
 PEDRO, 
 
 Ay, by the Saints ! and some perhaps too soon 
 Shall find my choice made firmly. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Now delay 
 Were madness, pardon perjury : such threats 
 Are traitorous and parricidal too. 
 
 She calls from the ivindoiv. 
 Coello ! Diego ! with your band upstairs. . 
 With your whole band. . two timid women wait. . 
 Your queen commands. . your king. . your friend the 
 
 bridegroom . , 
 Force ! murder ! 
 
 R
 
 242 INES DE CASTRO 
 
 To rr.iHio. Stop me ? hold mc ? grasp my wrist ? 
 Audacious ! and let that foul fiend escape ? 
 
 INES just out of the door. 
 Good soldier ! I am not escaping from you. . 
 Push me not back ! that was not the command. . 
 Strike ! you must act no otherwise. . let fall 
 This halbert, or I run from under it. . 
 The word is given. . 'twas the queen gave it. . strike, 
 Irresolute ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 What fell ? 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Where is she ? 
 
 PEDUO. 
 
 Fled. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Hold me not ; pray me not ; I will pursue. . 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 The guard hath stopt her. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 At the door ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 With force 
 More than is manly, thrusting her against it. 
 Ho ! Ines ! art thou hurt ? speak ! art thou speaking ? 
 What sobbest thou, my love ! is then my name 
 Uncaird upon in any grief of thine !
 
 AT COIMBRA. 243 
 
 Where is she ? 
 
 Ho ! throw open, sentinel, 
 This door. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Stand further off. . he does his duty. . 
 Further back yet. . have you no decency ! 
 To tread upon her blood ! it runs thro fast, 
 And will ('tis to be fear'd) leave marks behind. 
 Who, hearing your insensibility, 
 Will pity you ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 None ! none ! 
 
 Ines is dead ! 
 My father ! you are childless ! fare you well ! 
 Unbar the door ! Aloud to the sentry. 
 
 To the QUEEN. Command him, madam ! 
 
 Who 
 Shall keep me here, while steel is in my grasp 
 And vengeance strengthens it and justice guides it. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Sentry, unbar ! 
 
 Looking at the corpse. 
 The scene quite saddens me. 
 'Twas her own fault, rash child ! God's will be done ! 
 
 H 2
 
 IPPOLITO DI ESTE.
 
 IPPOLITO* DI ESTE. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Nov*' all the people follow the procession 
 
 Here may I walk alone, and let my spirits 
 
 Enjoy the coolness of these quiet ailes. 
 
 Surely no air is stirring ; every step 
 
 Tires me ; the columns shake, the cieling fleets, 
 
 The floor beneath me slopes, the altar rises. 
 
 Stay !. . here she stept. . what grace ! what harmony ! 
 
 It seemed that every accent, every note 
 
 Of all the choral music, breathed from her : 
 
 From her celestial airiness of form 
 
 I could have fancied purer light descended. 
 
 * Ferrante and Giulio were brothers, by the father's side, to the 
 Duke Alfonso and the Cardinal Ippolito di Este. The cardinal 
 deprived Ferrante of his eyes for loving the same object as his 
 Eminence, and because she had praised the beauty of them.
 
 248 IPPOLITO DI ESTE, 
 
 Between the pillars, close and wearying, 
 I watcbt her as she went : I had lusht on. . 
 It was too late ; yet, when I stopt, I thought 
 I stopt full soon : I cried, is she not there ? 
 She had been : I had seen her shadow burst 
 The sunbeam as she parted : a strange sound, 
 A sound that stupefied and not aroused me. 
 Filled all my senses ; such was never felt 
 Save when the sword-girt Angel struck the gate, 
 And Paradise wail'd loud and closed for ever. 
 She should return ; the hour is past away. 
 How can I bear to see her (yet I will) 
 Springing, she fondly thinks, to meet the man 
 I most abhorr, my father's base-born son, 
 Ferrante ! 
 
 ROSALBA entcruig. 
 What ! I called him ! in my haste 
 To languish at his beauty, to weigh down 
 His eyelids with my lips for gazing on me : 
 Surely I spoke the name, and knew it not 
 Until it bounded back and smote me so ! 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Curses upon them both ! 
 
 Advancing toward her. Welcome, sweet lady ! 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 Lord Cardinal ! you here ! and unattended ! 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 We wait the happy lover ! do we not ?
 
 IPPOLITO DI ESTE. 249 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 Ferrante then betrayed the secret to you ! 
 
 And are you come to honour with your presence. . 
 
 IPrOLITO. 
 
 Has the Duke signed the contract ? 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 For what bride ? 
 Ferrante writes Ferrante plain enough ; 
 And I do think, altho I once or twice 
 Have written it instead of mine, at last 
 I am grown steddier, and could write Rosalba. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Sport not with one your charms have cast too low. 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 Sport not with one your hand would raise too high. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Again that taunt ! the time may come, Rosalba, 
 When I could sanctify the blissful state 
 I have aspired to. 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 Am not I mere ice ? 
 Shew not I girlish frowardness, the fears 
 Of infancy, the scruples of old age ? 
 Have not you said so ? and said more. , you hate them ? 
 How could you bear me, or what wish from me ? 
 
 IPPOLITO, 
 
 That which another will not long retain.
 
 250 IPI^OLITO Ul ESTE. 
 
 IIOSALBA. 
 
 You know him liltle, and me less. 
 
 IPl'OLITO. 
 
 I know 
 Inconstancy in him. 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 And what in me ? 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Intolerance for his betters. 
 
 KOSALBA. 
 
 Ignorance, 
 But not intolerance of them, is my fault. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 No? 
 
 IIOSALBA. 
 
 Call it thus, and cast it on the rest. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Some are there whose close vision sees but one 
 In the whole world, and would not see another 
 For the whole world, were that one out of it. 
 
 ROSALBA, 
 
 Are there some such ? C) may they be my friends ! 
 O how, before I know them, I do love them ! 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 After no strife, no censure, no complaint. 
 
 Have not your tears been seen, when you have left him, 
 
 Thro tediousness, distaste, dislike, and grief,
 
 IPPOLITO DI ESTE. 251 
 
 (Ingenuous minds must feel it, and may own it) 
 That love, so rashly promist, would retire. 
 Hating exaction, circumvention, bonds? 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 Such grief is yet unknown to me ; I know 
 All tears are not for sorrow : many swell 
 In the warm depths of gratitude and bliss ; 
 But precious over all are those that hang 
 And tremble at the tale of generous deeds. 
 These he relates when he might talk as you do 
 Of passion : but he sees my heart, he finds 
 What fragrance most refreshes it. 
 
 How high, 
 
 Heaven ! must that man be, who loves and who 
 Would stil raise others higher than himself 
 
 To interest his beloved ! 
 
 All my soul 
 Is but one drop from his, and into his 
 Falls, as Earth's dew falls into Earth again. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Yet would it not be wise to trust a friend 
 Able to counsel in extremes and straits ? 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 Is it not wise in darkness and in storm 
 To trust the wave that lashes us and pray 
 Its guidance on the rocks whereto it tends ? 
 
 1 have my guide, Lord Cardinal ! he alone 
 Is ship and pilot to me, sea and star ;
 
 252 IPPOLITO DI ESTE. 
 
 Counsel from otliers, knowing him, would be 
 Like worship of false gods ; in me no less 
 Than profanation and apostasy. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 We may retire ; he comes not here to day. 
 
 UOSALBA, 
 
 Then will I not retire, but lay my head 
 Upon the feet of any pitying saint 
 Until he comes, altho it be tomorrow ? 
 
 ippoi.rro. 
 Tomorrow he may fail ; the sovran will 
 By rescript has detained and must delay him. 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 Lead, lead me to Ferrante. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Were I worthy. 
 
 KOSALBA. 
 
 Proud cruel man ! that bitter sneer bodes ill. 
 May not I see him ? 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 He may not see you. 
 
 ROSALBA. 
 
 O let him ! well my memory can supply 
 His beauteous image. I can live on love 
 Saturate, like bees with honey, long drear days. 
 He must see me, or cannot rest : I can.
 
 IPPOLITO DI ESTE. 253 
 
 SECOND PART. 
 
 Ippot.ito, Ferrante, and Giulio, in prison. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Reasons of state, I fear, have dictated 
 This something like severity ; God grant 
 Here be no heresy : do both avow it, . 
 Staring in silence at discovery ? 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 No order forced me hither; I am come 
 To share my brother's fate, whate'er it be, 
 And mitigate his sufferings. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 May they cease ! 
 
 GIULIO, 
 
 Those words would have dissolved them into air, 
 Spoken but twenty furlongs from these bars, 
 
 IPPOLITO, 
 
 I would do much to serve you ; but my faith
 
 254 IPPOLITO 1)1 KSTE. 
 
 And my allegiance ha\e two other lords, 
 The duke my brother, and the pope my God. 
 Ferrante then says nothing- ? 
 
 FE UK ANTE. 
 
 He well knows 
 Thy hatred and its cause. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Why should I hate you, 
 My father's son, they say ? 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 Thetj say ! His blood 
 Runs in these veins, pure ; for pure blood was hers 
 Who loved the youthful lover, and who died 
 When falser vows estranged the matchless prince. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 He saw his error. 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 All men do when age 
 Bends down their heads, or gold shines in their way. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Altho I would have helpt you in distress, 
 And just removed you from the court awhile, 
 You called nie tyrant. 
 
 FERRANTE, 
 
 Called thee tyrant ? I ? 
 By heaven ! in tyrant there is something great 
 That never was in thee. I would be killed 
 Rather by any monster of the wild
 
 irPOLTTO DI ESTE. 255 
 
 Than choaked by weeds and quicksands, rather crusht 
 
 By maddest rage than clay-cold apathy. 
 
 Those who act well the tyrant, neither seek 
 
 Nor shun the name ; and yet I wonder not 
 
 That thou repeatest it, and wishest me ; 
 
 It sounds like power, like policy, like courage, 
 
 And none that calls thee tyrant can despise thee. 
 
 Go, issue orders for imprisonment. 
 
 Warrants for death : the gibbet and the wheel, 
 
 Lo ! the grand boundaries of thy dominion ! 
 
 O what a mighty office for a minister I 
 
 (And such Alfonso's brother calls himself), 
 
 To be the scribe of hawkers ! Man of genius ! 
 
 The lanes and allies echo with thy works. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Ah ! do not urge him ; he may ruin you ; 
 He may pursue you to the grave. 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 He dares not : 
 Look at his collar ! see the saint he wears ! 
 The amber saint may ask too much for that. 
 
 IPPOLITO. 
 
 Atheist ! thy scoffs encourage every crime, 
 And strip thee, like a pestilence, of friends : 
 Theirs is the guilt to march against the law, 
 They mount the scaffold, and the blow is thine. 
 
 FKRUAMTE. 
 
 How venom burnishes his adder's crest ! 
 How eloquent on scaffolds and on laws!
 
 256 IPPOLITO DI ESTE. 
 
 If sucli a noisome weed as falsehood is 
 Give frothy vigour to a worm hke thee. 
 Crawl, eat, drink, sleep upon it, and farewell. 
 
 IPPOLITO to GIULIO. 
 
 Take you the sentence, and God be with both ! Goes. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 What sentence have we here ? 
 
 FEUUANTE. 
 
 Unseal and read it. 
 GIULIO, reading. 
 Of sight ! of sight ! of sight ! 
 
 FERKANTE. 
 
 Would you escape, 
 My gentle Giulio ? Run not thus around 
 The wide light chamber, press not thus your brow 
 Against the walls, with your two palms above. 
 Seek you the door then? you are uncondemned 
 To lose the sight of one who is the bloom 
 And breath of life to you : the bolts are drawn 
 On me alone. You carry in your breast 
 Most carefully our brother's precious gift : 
 Well, take it anywhere, but do not hope 
 Too much from any one. Time softens rocks, 
 And hardens men ! 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Pray then our God for help. 
 
 I'ERRANTE. 
 
 O my true brother, Giulio, why thus hang 
 Around my neck and pour forth jirayers for me!
 
 IPPOLITO DI ESTE. 257 
 
 Where there are priests and kinsmen such as ours, 
 God hears not, nor is heard. I am prepared 
 For death. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Ah ! worse than death may come upon you, 
 Unless Heaven interpose, 
 
 FERRANTF.. 
 
 I know the worst, 
 And bear one comfort in my breast that fire 
 And steel can ne'er force from it : she I love 
 Will not be his, but die as she hath lived. 
 Doubt you ? that thus you shake the head, and sigh. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Far other doubt was mine : even this shall cease. 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 Speak it. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 I must : God pardon me ! 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 Speak on. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Have we not dwelt in friendship from our birth. 
 Told the same courtier the same tale of joy, 
 And pointed where life's earliest thorn had pierced 
 Amid the sports of boyhood, ere the heart 
 Hath aught of bitter or unsound within ^ 
 
 F E R R A N r E . 
 
 We have indeed. 
 
 • s
 
 258 IPPOLITO DI ESTE. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Has my advice been ill ? 
 
 PEllRANTE. 
 
 Too often ill-observed, but always good. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Brother, my words arc not what better men 
 Would speak to you ; and yet my love, I think, 
 Must bo more warm than theirs can ever be. . 
 
 FEUUANTE. 
 
 Brother's, friend's, father's, when was it like yours ! 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Which of them ever said what I shall say ! 
 
 FEURANTE. 
 
 Speak ; my desires are kindled, my fears quencht. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Do not delay to die, lest crueller 
 Than common death befall you. 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 Then the wheel 
 Is ordered in that schedule ! Must she too 
 Have her -chaste limbs laid bare ? Here lies the rack ; 
 Here she would suffer ere it touch the skin , . 
 No, I will break it with the thread of life 
 Ere the sound reach her. Talk no more of Heaven, 
 Of Providence, of Justice. . Look on her ! 
 Why should she suffer ? what hath she from Heaven 
 Of comfort^ or protection ? 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Talk not so !
 
 IPPOLITO DI ESTE. 259 
 
 Pity comes down when Hope hath flown away, 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 Illusion ! 
 
 GIULIO, 
 
 If it were, which it is not, 
 Why break with vehement words such sweet illusion ? 
 For were there nought above but empty air, 
 Nought but the clear blue sky where birds delight. 
 Soaring o'er myriad worlds of living dust 
 That roll in columns round the noontide ray, 
 Your heart would faint amid such solitude, 
 Would shrink in such vacuity : that heart 
 (Ferrante ! can you hide its wants from me ?) 
 Rises and looks around and calls aloud 
 For some kind Being, some consoling bosom, 
 Wheron to place its sorrows, and to rest. 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 Oh ! that was heve. . I cannot look beyond. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Hark ! h^ar you not the people ? to the window! 
 They shout and clap their hands when they first meet 
 
 you 
 After short absence ; what shall they now do ? 
 Up ! seize the moment ; shew yourself. 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 Stay, Giulio ! 
 Draw me not thither ! speak not of my wrongs. . 
 I would await but not arouse their vengeance, 
 
 s2
 
 <2fiO irPOLITO DI ESTE. 
 
 And would deserve bvit court not tlieir applause. 
 Little of good shall good men hope from them, 
 Nothing shall wiser. 
 
 j4sidc. O were he away ! 
 But if I fail, he must die too, being here. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Let ine call out : they are below the grate. 
 They would deliver you : try this one chance. 
 Obdurate ! would you hold me down ! They're gone ! 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 Giulio ! for shame ! weep not, or here 1 stay 
 And let vile hands deform me. 
 
 CIULIO. 
 
 They shall never. 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 What smoke arises ? Are there torches under f 
 Surely the crowd has. passed. . 'tis from the stairs. 
 
 OIULIO. 
 
 Anticipate the blow. 
 
 FERRANTE. 
 
 One more must grieve ! 
 And will she grieve like you, too tender Giulio ! 
 Turn not away the head, the hand. . what hold you ? 
 Give, give it me. .'tis keen. . they call you forth. . 
 Tell her. .no, say not we shall meet again, 
 For tears flow always faster at those words. . 
 May the thought come, but gently, like a dream.
 
 G U N L A U G.
 
 GUNLAUG. 
 
 Sophia, pity Gunlaug's fate. 
 Perfidious friendship, worse than hate, 
 And love, whose smiles are often vain, 
 Whose frowns are never, were his bane. 
 For war his rising spirit sigh'd 
 In unknown reahns o'er ocean wide. 
 
 " Ilhigi, father, let me go, 
 1 burn to meet my country's foe." 
 
 " A blessing, Gunlaug, on thy head !' 
 The fond afflicted father said. 
 " Go when invader comes to spoil 
 Our verdant Iceland's native soil : 
 But wait with patient zeal til then 
 And learn the deeds of mightier men."
 
 264 GUNLAUG. 
 
 To Thorstein's house, whose daring prow 
 Thro' ocean pounced upon his foe, 
 Stung with denial, Gunlaug went, 
 But breathed no word of discontent. 
 
 " Thorstein," he cried^ " I leave my home, 
 Yet not for shelter am I come ; 
 Thorstein, I come to learn of thee 
 The dangers of tlie land and sea. 
 Speed thee ! together let us go. 
 And Thorstein's shall be Gunlaug's oe.'' 
 
 " Brave youth," said Thorstein, "stay awhile. 
 I love too well my native isle ; 
 Whether the sandy dog-rose blows 
 Or sparkle fierce the starry snows ; 
 And never shall this hand again 
 Direct the rudder o'er the main." 
 
 Thus as he spake, he would have prest 
 The hand of his aspiring guest : 
 But Gunlaug cried, " I will not here 
 Partake thy hospitable cheer : 
 For war's, for danger's gifts I came, 
 Keep thou thy fears, leave me thy fame." 
 
 Aloud the manly veteran laught ; 
 " Come! come!" said he, " one social draught ! 
 My fears I'll keep that none shall see. 
 And I will leave my fame to thee." 
 
 Out sprang the tears from Gunlaug's eyes : 
 " noble Thorstein, bold and wise !
 
 GUNLAUG. 265 
 
 Shall Gunlaug dare to tarry here ? 
 Shall Helga see this blush, this tear? " 
 
 At Helga's and her father's name, 
 The beauteous blue-eyed virgin came. 
 No word had then the youth to say, 
 But turn'd his downcast face away. 
 He heard her sandal sip the floor. 
 And, ere she reacht the palace-door. 
 His heaving bosom could not brook 
 Reproach or wonder from her look. 
 
 And couldst thou, Gunlaug, thus refrain 
 And seek'st thou conquests o'er the main ? 
 
 She saw, but knew not his distress, 
 And eyed him much, nor loved him less. 
 Long stood, and longer would have staid 
 The tender-hearted blue-eyed maid : 
 But fear her stifling throat opprest. 
 And something smote her bounding breast. 
 Far off, alone, she would remain. 
 But thought it time to turn again. 
 " Yet better not perhaps," she thought, 
 " For fear the stranger hold me naught. 
 I dare not wish, they call it sin, 
 But. . would my father bring him in !" 
 
 He came ; their friendship grew ; he woo'd ; 
 Nor Helga's gentle heart withstood. 
 Her milk-Avhite rabbit oft he fed, 
 And crumbled fine- his breakfast-bread ;
 
 266 GUNLAUU. 
 
 And oft explored, with anxious view, 
 Spots where tlie crispost parsley grew. 
 Her restive horse he daily rid, 
 And quite subdued her stubborn kid, 
 Who lately dared to quit her side, 
 And once with painful rashness tried 
 Its ruddy horn against her knee. 
 Bold as its desp'rate sire could be. 
 Mosses he knew of every race, 
 And brought them from their hiding-place, 
 And mingled every sweet-soul'd plant 
 On mountain-top, or meadow slant, 
 And checker'd (while they flowered) her room 
 With purple thyme and yellow broom. 
 There is a creature, dear to heaven. 
 Tiny and weak, to whom is given 
 To enjoy the world while suns are bright 
 And shut grim winter from its sight. . 
 Tamest of hearts that beat on wilds, 
 Tamer and tenderer than a child's. . 
 The dormouse, .this he loved and taught 
 (Docile it is the day it's caught. 
 And fond of music, voice or string) 
 To stand before and hear her sing. 
 Or lie within her palm half-closed. 
 Until another's interposed. 
 And claim'd the alcove wherin it lay, 
 Or held it with divided sway.
 
 GUNLAUG. 267 
 
 All living things are ministers 
 To him whose hand attunes the spheres 
 And gnides a thousand worlds, and binds 
 (Work for ten godheads !) female minds. 
 I know not half the thoughts that rose, 
 Like tender plants neath vernal snows, 
 In Helga's breast, and, if I knew, 
 I would draw forth but very few. 
 Yet, when the prayers were duly said 
 And rightly blest the marriage-bed, 
 She doubted not that Heaven would give 
 To her as pretty things as live. 
 
 The cautious father long delay'd 
 The wishes of the youth and maid. 
 His patient hand, like her's, unrolls 
 The net to catch the summer shoals; 
 And both their daily task compare, 
 And daily win each other's hair. 
 One morn, arising from her side, 
 He, as he paid the forfeit, cried, 
 " Behold my hair too trimly shine. 
 Behold my hands are white as thine. 
 
 ! could I loose our blissis bar ! 
 
 1 burn for wedlock and for war." 
 
 " For war," said she, " when lovers burn. 
 To wedlock, Gunlaug, few return. 
 In Samsa brave Hialmar lies, 
 Nor Inga's daughter closed his eyes.
 
 268 GUNLAUG. 
 
 By sixteen wounds of raging fire 
 The enchanted sword of Angantyre, 
 Withering, laid waste his fruitless bloom, 
 And housed tlie hero in the tomb. 
 
 Oh Oddur, said the dying chief, 
 Take off my ring, my time is brief; 
 My ring, if smaller, mhjht adorn 
 The pligJited hand of Ingebiorn. 
 Swift to Sigtuna flew the friend, 
 And sorely wept Hialmar's end. 
 By Mseleren's blue lake he found 
 The virgin sitting on the ground. 
 A garment for her spouse she wove, 
 And sang Ah speed thee, gift of love ! 
 In anguish Oddur heard her sing, 
 And turn'd his face and held the ring. 
 Back fell the maiden ; well she knew 
 What fatal tidings must ensue ; 
 When Oddur raised her, back she fell. 
 And died, the maiden loved so well. 
 Now gladly, swore the generous chief, 
 I witness death beguiling grief; 
 I never thought to smile again 
 By thy blue waters, Mceleren ! 
 But grant that on the hostile strand 
 Thy bosom meet no biting brand. 
 Grant that no swift unguarded dart 
 Lay thee beneath the flooded thwart,* 
 
 * A IhwurL is a bench tor rowers.
 
 GUNLAUG. 269 
 
 Yet how unlike a nuptial day, 
 To stand amid the hissing spray, 
 And wipe and wipe its tingling brine, 
 And vainly blink thy pelted eyn, 
 And feel their stiffening lids weigh'd down 
 By toil no pleasure comes to crown ! 
 Say, Gunlaug, woiddst thou give for this 
 The fire-side feast and bridal kiss ? " 
 
 He told the father what he said. 
 And what replied the willing maid. 
 
 " 3'Iy son," said Thorstein, " now I find 
 Wavering with love the sea-bound mind. 
 Away to war, if war delight. 
 Begone three years from Helga's sight : 
 And if perchance at thy return 
 That breast with equal transport burn. 
 Its wishes I no more confine. . 
 Tliine is my house, my Helga thine." 
 
 Away the tow'ring warrior flew, 
 Nor bade his Helga once adieu. 
 He felt the manly sorrows rise, 
 And open'd wide his gushing eyes ; 
 He stopt a moment in the hall, 
 Stil the too pow'rful tears would fall. 
 He would have thought his fate accurst 
 To meet her as he met her first, 
 So, madly swang the sounding door, 
 And reacht, and reaching left, the shore.
 
 270 GUNLAUG. 
 
 Three years in various toils liad past, 
 And Gunlaug hasten'd home at hast. 
 Rafen at Upsal he had seen, 
 Of splendid wit and noble mien : 
 Rafen with pleasure he beheld, 
 For each in arms and verse excell'd. 
 Rafen he heard from sun to sun, 
 And why ? their native land was one. 
 
 O friends ! mark here how friendships end ! 
 lovers ! never trust a friend ! 
 
 In fulness of his heart he told 
 What treasures would his arms enfold ; 
 How in the summer he should share 
 The blissful bed of maid so fair. 
 For, as suspicion ne'er supprest 
 One transport of his tuneful breast, 
 The low and envious he past by 
 With scornful or unseeing- eye : 
 From tales alone their guile he knew, 
 Believing all around him true. 
 And fancying falsehood flourisht then, 
 When earth produced two-headed men. 
 
 In Sweden dwell the manliest race 
 That brighten earth's maternal face : 
 Yet never would proud Gunlaug yield 
 To any man in any field. 
 The day was fixt for his return. 
 And crowding friends around him burn
 
 GUNLAUG. 271 
 
 Their pomp and prowess to display, 
 And celebrate the parting day. 
 Amid them up a wrestler stood 
 And call'd to wrestle him who wou'd. 
 So still were all, you might have heard 
 The motion of the smallest bird : 
 Some lookt, some turn'd away the eye, 
 Not one among them dared reply. 
 
 " Come hither, friend ! " said Gunlaug bold, 
 " O ; ne'er in Iceland be it told 
 I stood amid the feast defied, 
 Nor skill nor strength nor courage tried." 
 
 The wrestler then beheld and smiled, 
 And answer'd thus in accent mild : 
 " O stranger ! tho' thy heart be stout, 
 And none like thee sit round about, 
 Thou bringest to unequall'd might 
 A form too beauteous and too slight." 
 
 '' Well, friend, however that may be, 
 Let Gunlaug try his strength with thee." 
 
 They closed ; they struggled ; nought avail'd 
 The wrestler's skill, his prowess fail'd. 
 One leg he moved a little back 
 And sprang again to the attack. 
 Gunlaug, in trying to elude 
 A shock so sudden and so rude, 
 Avoided half the whelming weight, 
 But slipt aside, alas! too late.
 
 "272 GUNLAUG. 
 
 His combatant flew with him past, 
 
 Yet round his neck one arm he cast, 
 
 And threw him headlong on the ground, 
 
 Wounded, hut with no warrior's wound. 
 
 The grass and springing flow'rs amid 
 
 A rotten pointed stake was hid. 
 
 Swung by the rapid jerk in air, 
 
 His nervous leg descended there. 
 
 When Rafen saw the spouting blood 
 
 Bewilder'd in new joy he stood, 
 
 And scarce his features could controul 
 
 The rapture of a selfish soul, 
 
 Yet tended ev'ry day his couch 
 
 And emptied there the hawking-pouch, 
 
 And brought him game from lake and land 
 
 And fed the falcon on his hand. 
 
 " Go, haste " said Gunlaug '• haste, my friend, 
 May peace and love thy steps attend. 
 Ah wretched ! thus to stay alone ! 
 Ere the day fixt I too am gone. 
 How far more wretched should I be 
 If my sweet Helga mouni'd for me." 
 
 When twice the sabbath-day had past, 
 Rafen, as one compell'd at last 
 By his impatient listeners, said. . 
 And lower'd his voice and shook his head. . 
 
 " Gunlaug unwillingly I left 
 Of reason as of love bereft.
 
 GUNLAUG. 273 
 
 At Upsal, famed for damsels bright 
 And flatter'd wit's bewildering light ; 
 Him courts and pleasures yet detain, 
 And Helga's charms have charm'd in vain." 
 
 " Accursed man ! '' the father cried, 
 " My Helga ne'er shall be his bride." 
 
 " O father ! " 
 
 " Peace !" cried he, " I swear, 
 Deluded Helga, thou shalt ne'er." 
 
 A swoon her swelling bosom smote. 
 And serpents seem'd to clasp her throat. 
 And underneath the father's chair 
 Stream'd on his dog her auburn hair. 
 Then Rafen raised her in his arms, 
 And gazed and gloated on her charms. 
 
 " Gaze : she is thine," said Thorstein fierce, 
 " If she be Gunlaug's 'tis in verse." 
 
 She wept all night; her woe increast 
 When in the morn she saw the priest. 
 
 O " father ! pause to break my vow. . 
 I know his heart, .ah ! could'st but thou ! 
 By all divine, all human laws, 
 Kindest and best of fathers, pause. 
 If Rafen loves, he loves the dead, 
 I live not for his hated bed." 
 
 At early dawn the youth she lost 
 Arrived upon his native coast. 
 
 T
 
 274 GUNLAUG. 
 
 Blessing his fortune to survive, 
 
 And on the appointed day arrive, 
 
 He hung around his father's necic 
 
 And groan'd the thoughts he could not speak ; 
 
 And as his neck he hung around 
 
 The father's tears dropt o'er the wound. 
 
 The servants came with anxious heed. 
 
 And brought their lord the luscious mead. 
 
 Prav'd not to issue forth so soon, 
 
 But eat and drink and sleep till noon ; 
 
 And mention'd other valiant lords 
 
 Who dozed thus long upon their swords, 
 
 Yet ne'er had sufFer'd gash nor prick, 
 
 Nor bruise, unless from hazel-stick. 
 
 He was persuaded ; for his brain 
 
 Floated in firy floods of pain, 
 
 From hopes, three long long years afloat, 
 
 Now, by one evil turn, remote. 
 
 He was persuaded ; for he knew 
 
 Whose was of all true hearts most true. 
 
 Then strew'd he bear-skins on the stone. 
 
 And bade the tardy men begone. 
 
 The servants watch his eyelids close, 
 
 They watch the flush of bland repose, 
 
 They raise his shaggy pillow high'r. 
 
 With tender caution trim the fire. 
 
 And (for his breath might be opprest) 
 
 Pick out the pine-tree from the rest,
 
 GUNLAUG. 275 
 
 And fan the flame, nor fear the smoke 
 From ash well-dried and shipwreck oak. 
 A frolic maid was passing by, 
 And, as she saw the hero lie, 
 His arms and armour thrown around, 
 Upon the bench, the couch, the ground, 
 Removed the clinking havvberk mail. 
 And took a wolf-skin from a nail ; 
 Across his throat she placed the teeth 
 And tuckt the clasping claws beneath. 
 And would have kist him, but she fear'd 
 To tickle with her breast his beard. 
 
 Sound was his sleep ; at length he woke. 
 And thus, in hurried accent, spoke. 
 
 " What means, my men, the noise I hear ? 
 Nearer the window. . still more near. 
 Despach . . I feel no pain . . despach . . 
 Why look upon that idle scratch ? 
 Ay, Rafen and his friends are come, 
 I know, to bid me welcome homo. 
 Oft has he trod the sunless dew, 
 And hdl'd at last my bark in view. 
 
 Rafen, my best friend, for this 
 Shall Helga give thy brow a kiss." 
 
 Then in rusht Thorkell " Stay thee, lord ! 
 Nor blast thee at the sight abhorr'd. 
 
 1 thought that heaven could send no curse 
 Like slighted love ; it sends a worse. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 GUNLAUG. 
 
 Now is my joy what was my pain, 
 To find so soon I loved in vain. 
 Rafen leads liomeward from the shrine 
 Thy Helga..fbr her heart is thine." 
 
 Gunlaug with pleasure heard him speak, 
 And smiles relumed his faded cheek. 
 Thorkell, who watcht him all the while, 
 With more than wonder saw him smile. 
 " Thorkell, T thank thee," he replied. 
 What, have we both, then, lost the bride ? 
 No, generous rival, neither quite 
 Hath understood the nuptial rite. 
 Rafen leads homeward from the shrine 
 My Helga, for her heart is mine." 
 
 Then Thorkell shook his head and sigli'd, 
 " 111 the suspicious soul betide ! 
 But he whom no suspicions move, 
 Loves not, or with ill-omen'd love. 
 These eyes, that yet in wonder swim. 
 Saw the fair Helga sworn to him." 
 
 His horror Gunlaug could not check. 
 But threw his arm round Thorkell's neck. 
 " O loose me, let me fall, my friend, 
 Cried he, '' let life and sorrow end." 
 Now rage, now anguish, seized his soul, 
 Now love again resumed the whole ; 
 Now would he upon Helga's name 
 Pour vengeance ; tears for vengeance came.
 
 GUNLAUG. 277 
 
 " Thorkell, two days alone I wait, 
 The third shall close with Rafen's fate. 
 I scorn to stay for strength restored. . 
 Go, . at the corner whet my sword." 
 
 On the third morn their friends decreed 
 That one or both of them should bleed. 
 On the third morn what pangs opprest 
 The tender lover's valiant breast ! 
 His only hope on earth below 
 To die, and dying slay the foe. 
 He slept not, nor had ever slept 
 Since the first day, but said, and wept. . 
 
 " Arouse thee, Gunlaug, why complain ? 
 She never can be thine again ! 
 The bark shall lean upon the shore, 
 Nor wave dash off the rested oar : 
 The flowers shall ope their sparkling eyes. 
 And dance in robes of richest dyes, 
 And, flying back, again shall meet 
 The south-wind's kisses, soft and sweet : 
 Young eagles build their first fond nest, 
 And sink from rapine into rest : 
 Ah, see them soar above my head ! 
 Their hopes are come, but mine are fled ! 
 Arouse thee, Gunlaug, haste away, 
 And rush into the mortal fray." 
 
 From far the listening Rafen heard 
 His rival's armour ring, nor fear'd.
 
 •278 
 
 GUNLAUG. 
 
 Fear may be stifled in the breast, 
 But shame barns fiercer when supprest. 
 Onward he rusht and dared defy 
 His arm, but dared not meet his eye. 
 Madly he struck and blind with guilt. 
 And his blade shiver'd from the hilt. 
 O'er Gunlauo's shield with action weak 
 It fell, and falling razed his cheek. 
 Away disdainful Gunlaug turn'd, 
 And cried, while rage within him burnt, 
 " Rafen, take up thy broken sword ; 
 
 Live ; see thou Helga be restored. 
 
 Ah, why ?" then to himself he said ; 
 
 " O Helga, beauteous blue-eyed maid ! 
 
 Sure were the tender words of yore, 
 
 Ah, never can I speak them more ! 
 
 By Rafen's side hath Helga slept, 
 
 Upon my fruit the snail hath crept. 
 
 The blindworm hath his poison shed . . 
 
 O Rafen ! curses on thy head." 
 Afar was he as Gunlaug spoke. 
 
 And every tie of honour broke. 
 
 Before the court of chieftains old 
 
 He stood, and well his story told : 
 
 Much for religion and for laws 
 
 He pled, and bade them guard his cause: 
 
 " Though baffled and disarm'd," he cried, 
 " I gave the wound, and claim the bride."* 
 
 * According to the laws of duel m Iceland, he who gave the first 
 wound v/as gainer of the suit.
 
 GUNLAUG. 279 
 
 Some with disdain his reasons heard, 
 While others wisht the cause deferr'd. 
 Then Ormur spake, in speech of scorn, 
 Ormur, the friend of Asbiorn, 
 Who, daring singly to engage 
 A jotun,* proved his fatal rage. 
 
 " Go, finish this unmanly strife. 
 And keep the vow, but quit the wife. 
 So neither party shall repine, 
 But love be his, and laws be thine. 
 Go home, and with the world's applause 
 There quaintly kiss the cold-lip laws," 
 
 But Rafen, when he saw the sneer 
 Run dimpling on from peer to peer. 
 
 * " A Jotun." The jotuns were giants: their existence is not 
 fabulous. In the north at all times have existed men of enormous 
 stature. We ourselves have seen them fiom Ireland ; our fathers 
 have seen thenij our children will see them. That the number was 
 much greater formerly cannot be doubted ; but it must always have 
 been very disproportionate to that of oidinary men. These would 
 fear them, lie in ambush for them, persecute them, and, when- 
 ever they could do it with advantage, combat them, until, where 
 their numbers once were formidable, not a single one remained. 
 Where they were fewer, as they were in Ireland, their alliance would 
 rather be sought against a common enemy, and they would be objects 
 more of curiosity than of terror. In peaceful times their stature and 
 strength would, after a few generations, diminish from inactivity ; 
 and motiiers at last would produce creatures of nearly or quite the 
 common size ; yet occasionally one resembling the old stock would 
 reappear.
 
 280 GUNLAUG. 
 
 " Has not the [)riest then join'cl our hands 
 III holy everlasting bands? 
 One would have thought 'twas thee I wrong'd, 
 Right second to the viper-tongued*." 
 
 The asseml)ly, wishing to compose 
 The strife of single combat, rose ; 
 But order'd first that none decide 
 His right by arms o'er Iceland wide. 
 
 " In Auxar then once more we meety 
 And thou shalt never thence retreat," 
 Swore valiant Gunlaug, when he heard 
 The suit that Rafen had preferr'd. 
 " Thy courage shall not screen thy guile, 
 When once we meet in Auxar's isle." 
 
 Urged by his friends, as by his foe. 
 Again to fight must Rafen go. 
 But furious winds each pinnace drove 
 Past little Auxar's lonely cove. 
 Beyond the strait, their anchors bit 
 The yellow sand of Agnafit, 
 Where Inga reign'd, whose daughter's fate 
 Gunlaug heard Helga once relate. 
 
 Here too the wise and old impede 
 The brave in lawless fray to bleed. 
 By Sota's shore their course they take 
 And anchor near Dyngiunes lake. 
 
 * Ormstunga. Gunlaug was called so, from the sharpness of his 
 satire.
 
 GUNLAUG. 281 
 
 There spred the heath its evener ground, 
 And purer water there was found. 
 They meet ; and all their friends unite 
 In the full fury of the fig'ht, 
 'Till with the champions none remain 
 But the sore wounded on the plain. 
 The chiefs had closed, nor space was now 
 That either urge the deadly blow ; 
 But oft they struggle, breast to breast, 
 Oft give, unwilling, mutual rest. 
 Gunlaug with desperate strain recoil'd. 
 Yet his free force and aim were foil'd ; 
 Else had his sword athwart the side 
 Of Rafen oped life's sluices wide. 
 The foot he struck, so far he sprung, 
 The foot upon its tendon hung : 
 He stagger'd : just within his reach 
 Stood, chosen for the shade, a beech : 
 He shrunk against it, and his foot 
 Was resting on the twisted root. 
 " Now yield thee," loud the hero cried, 
 " Yield ; and resign the blooming bride." 
 
 " True, on these terms we fought before," 
 Said he, " but now we fight for more. 
 This day life only shall suflSce, 
 And, Gunlaug, he who kills not, dies. 
 Life yet is' left me, and the worst 
 I suffer now, is fainting thirst."
 
 282 GUNLAUG. 
 
 Eager the combat to renew, 
 Fast to the lake then Gunlaug flew, 
 Tliere from his neck the helm unbraced. 
 Nor, though he thirsted, staid to taste : 
 Prone, and on tottering knee, he stoopt. 
 With vigorous arm the surface scoopt, 
 And swiftly to his rival bore 
 The clear cold water, running o'er. 
 By treachery yet untaught to doubt, 
 With his right arm he held it out. 
 Valour and praise and pride forsook 
 The .soul of Rafen, fierce he strook 
 His generous rival's naked head, 
 And (for the dying are not dead) 
 Gunlaug was fell'd ; the unsated foe 
 Strove hard to follow up the blow : 
 His foot denies his deadly hate, 
 And doubt and horror round him wait. 
 
 Gunlaug pusht faintly from his breast 
 The shield that struggling life opprest. 
 The gales that o'er Dyngiunes play 
 Recall his roving soul today. 
 Up would he start; his wound denies; 
 Fresh shadows float before his eyes : 
 On his right elbow now he leans ; 
 Now brighten the surrounding scenes : 
 Trees, mountains, skies, no more are mixt ; 
 The lake, and earth, and foe, stand fixt.
 
 GUNLAUG. 283 
 
 His silence then he sternly broke, 
 And thus, his eye on Rafen, spoke, 
 " Rafen, with powers renew'd I rise : 
 Yes, traitor! he v.'ho kills not, dies. 
 Yet would I leave a little space, 
 To hear thee own this deed was base." 
 
 Now first in speech was Rafen slow. . 
 Wrung with remorse and weak with woe. 
 He fixt his eyes upon the ground, 
 And thus confest, in faltering sound. 
 " 'Twas base : but how could Rafen bear 
 That Gunlaug be to Helga dear?" 
 
 Paus'd had the conqueror : he had stood 
 And slov/ly wiped the welling blood, 
 With patience, pity, grief, had heard, 
 And had but Rafen spared that word. 
 His youthful head had not lain low. . 
 Gunlaug scarce felt the fatal blow ; 
 But hearing how could Rafen hear 
 That Gunlaug be to Helga dear ! 
 Rage swell'd his heart and fired his eye, 
 And thro' the forest rang the cry, 
 " What! tho' thy treachery caught her vow, 
 God's vengeance ! Rafen ! e'er wert thou ? " 
 Then hatred rising high with pain. 
 He smote the traitor's helm in twain.
 
 lANTHE.
 
 lANTHE. 
 
 TO 1,0 VE. 
 
 Where is my heart, perfidious boy 
 Give it, ah give it back again ! 
 
 I ask no more for hours of joy. 
 
 Lift but thy arm and burst my chain. 
 
 " Fond man, the heart we idly gave 
 She prizes not, yet won't restore : 
 
 She passes on from slave to slave. . 
 Go to. .thy heart is thine no more."
 
 288 lAMTHK. 
 
 II. 
 
 thou whose happy pencil strays 
 Where I am call'd nor dare to gaze, 
 
 But lower my eye and check my tongue ; 
 O, if thou valuest peaceful days, 
 Pursue the ringlets sunny maze, 
 
 And dwell not on those lips too long. 
 
 What mists athwart my temples fly, 
 Now% touch by touch, thy fingers tie 
 
 With torturing care her graceful zone ! 
 For all that sparkles from her eye 
 
 1 could not look while thou art by, 
 
 Nor could I cease were I alone.
 
 lANTHE. 289 
 
 III. 
 
 Away my verse ; and never fear, 
 As men before such beauty do; 
 
 On you she will not look severe, 
 She will not turn her eyes from you. 
 
 Some happier graces could I lend 
 That in her memory you should live, 
 
 Some little blemishes might blend . . 
 For it would please her to forgive. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ask me not., a. voice severe 
 Tells me. .for it gives me pain. 
 
 Peace ! sweet maid ! the hour is near 
 When I cannot ask again.
 
 •290 lANTHE. 
 
 V. 
 
 My basil, to whose fragrance, from the breast 
 Of Venus, even the myrtle bends her head, 
 
 Say that I broke upon thy sunny rest 
 
 And dreams perhaps by quiet fancies fed. 
 
 Not thoughtless nor in malice ; the desire 
 That courtly hands should take thee, prompted mine. 
 
 His only daughter thus some country squire 
 
 Sends to her town-bred cousins, spruce and fine : 
 
 He looks for something, .can it then be grSce? 
 
 The want that wounds it, softens too his heart ; 
 The blushes leave his clear bald brow apace, 
 
 And the stiff steed in bearded pride may start. 
 
 %.
 
 lANTHE. 291 
 
 VI. 
 
 ON DRAWING LOTS. 
 
 I draw with trembling hand my doubtful lot ; 
 Yet where are Fortune's frowns, if she frown not 
 
 From whom I hope, from whom I fear the kiss ? 
 O gentle love, if there be aught beyond 
 That makes the bosom calm, and leaves it fond, 
 
 O let her give me that, .and take back this ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Bid my bosom cease to grieve ! 
 
 Bid these eyes fresh objects see ! 
 Where's the comfort to believe 
 
 None would once have rival'd me ? 
 What, my freedom to receive ? 
 
 Broken hearts, are they the free ? 
 For another can I live 
 
 If I may not live for thee ! 
 
 u 2
 
 292 I A NTH E. 
 
 Vllf. 
 
 Pleasure ! why thus desert the heart 
 
 In its spring-tide ! 
 I could have seen her, I could part, 
 
 And . . but have sigh'd ! 
 
 O'er every youthful charm to stray, 
 
 To gaze, to touch. . 
 Pleasure ! why take so much away, 
 
 Or give so much ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 She leads in solitude her youthful hours, 
 
 Her nights are restlessness, her days are pain. 
 
 Oh when will Health and Pleasure come again, 
 Adorn her brow, and strew her path, with flowers ! 
 And wandering Wit relume the roseat bowers. 
 
 And turn and trifle with his festive train ! 
 Grant me, O grant this wish, ye heavenly, powers. 
 
 All other gifts, all other hopes restrain.
 
 lAATIIE. 293 
 
 X. 
 
 Come back, ye Smiles, that late forsook 
 Each breezy path and ferny nook. 
 Come Laughter, though the sage hath said 
 Thou favourest most the thoughtless head : 
 I blame thee not, howe'er inclin'd 
 To love the vacant easy mind ; 
 But now am ready, may it please, 
 That mine be vacant and at ease. 
 
 Sweet children of celestial breed, 
 Be ruled by me. . repress your speed. 
 Laughter, though Momus gave thee birth. 
 And said, My darling, stay on earth ! 
 Smiles, though from Venus you arise. 
 And live for ever in the skies ! 
 Softly ! and let not one descend 
 But first alights upon my friend. 
 When one upon her cheek appears, 
 A thousand spring to life from hers ; 
 Death smites his disappointed urn, 
 And spirit, pleasure, wit, return.
 
 294 lANTllE, 
 
 xr. 
 
 Clifton in vain thy varied scenes invite, 
 
 The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy hight ; 
 
 The sheep that, starting from the tufted thyme. 
 
 Untune the distant churchis mellow chime ; 
 
 As o'er each limb a gentle horrour creeps, 
 
 And shakes above our heads the craggy steeps. 
 
 Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower 
 
 While light and darkness seize the changeful oar ; 
 
 The frolic Naids drawing from below 
 
 A net of silver round the black canoe. 
 
 Now the last lonely solace must it be 
 
 To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea. 
 
 Then join my friends and let those friends believe 
 
 My cheeks are moistened by the dews of eve.
 
 lANTHE. 295 
 
 XIT. 
 
 Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, 
 Alcestis rises from the shades ; 
 
 Verse calls them forth ; 'tis verse that gives 
 Immortal vouth to mortal maids. 
 
 Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil 
 Hide all the peopled hills you see, 
 
 The gay, the proud, while lovers hail 
 In distant ages you and me. 
 
 The tear for fading beauty check. 
 For passing glory cease to sigh ; 
 
 One form shall rise above the wreck. 
 One name, lanthe, shall not die.
 
 296 lANTIlE. 
 
 xiir. 
 
 I often ask upon whose arm she leans, 
 
 She whom I dearly love, 
 And if she visit much the crowded scenes 
 
 Where mimic passions move. 
 There, mighty powers ! assert your just controul, 
 
 Alarm her thoughtless breast, 
 Breathe soft suspicion o'er her yielding soul, 
 
 But never break its rest. 
 let some faithful lover, absent long, 
 
 To sudden bliss return ; 
 Then Landor's name shall tremble from her tongue, 
 
 Her cheek thro' tears shall burn.
 
 lANTHE. 297 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Darling Shell, where hast thou been ? 
 West or east what heard or seen ? 
 From what pastimes art thou come. 
 Can we make amends at home ? 
 
 Whether thou hast tuned the dance 
 
 To the maids of ocean 
 Know I not.. but Ignorance 
 
 Never hurts devotion. 
 
 This I know, lanthe's Shell, 
 I must ever love thee well, 
 Tho' too little to resound 
 While the Nereids dance around ;
 
 298 I A NTH E. 
 
 For, of all the shells that are, 
 Thou art sure the brightest : 
 
 Thou, lanthe's infant care, 
 Most these eyes delightest. 
 
 To thv earlv aid she owes 
 Teeth like budding snowdrop rows 
 And what other shell can say. 
 On her bosom once I lay ? 
 
 That which into Cyprus bore 
 Venus from her native sea, 
 
 (Pride of shells !) was never more 
 Dear to her than thou to me.
 
 lANTHE. 299 
 
 XV 
 
 TO lANTHE 
 WITH Petrarch's sonnets. 
 
 Behold what homage to his idol paid 
 The tuneful suppliant of Valclusa's shade. 
 His verses still the tender heart engage, 
 They charm'd a rude, and please a polisht age 
 Many are to nature and to passion true, 
 And all had been so. had he lived for you.
 
 300 lAXTIIE. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 TO IMY WATCH. 
 
 Go, sole companion of a joyless bed, 
 Nor drive the slumbers from this frantic head. 
 Point not how slow malignant Time departs, 
 How ill agree thy motion and my heart's. 
 Why so averse, ye hours, to Cambria's coast ? 
 Why cannot sleep still hang o'ei treasures lost. 
 And let me dream that, meeting on the way, 
 lanthe chides, as once, my long delay ! 
 
 " Ah, why this absence ! why, when men possess, 
 Hold they the gift, but love the giver less ! 
 Perhaps some rival T have lived to see. 
 Or hear some other youth has charms for me. 
 No, in this bosom none shall ever share. 
 Firm is, and tranquil be, your empire there ! 
 If, wing'd with amorous fear, the unfetter'd slave 
 Stole back for you the heart she rashly gave, 
 Ocall it feeble, call it not untrue. . 
 Its destination, though it fail'd, was you. 
 So, to some distant ile, the unconscious dove 
 Bears at her breast the billet dear to love. 
 But drops, while viewless lies the happier scene, 
 On some hard rock or desert beach between."
 
 lANTHE. 301 
 
 XVI I. 
 
 Will you not come, my little girl ! 
 
 What on this sand-hill can I do ? 
 What, but around my finger twirl 
 
 The sever'd lock I stole from you ? 
 
 Come, or the wanton wind shall have it, 
 And every whispering breeze shall tell 
 
 How, when you snatcht it back, you gave it, 
 And pouted that you snatcht so well. 
 
 XVII r. 
 
 Soon as lanthe's lip I prest, 
 
 Thither my spirit wing'd its way : 
 
 Ah, there the wanton w^ould not rest, 
 Ah, there the wanderer could not stay !
 
 302 lANTIIE. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 As round the parting ray the busy motes 
 
 In eddying circles play'd, 
 A httle bird pour'd many plaintive notes 
 
 Beneath an elder's shade. 
 
 My soul was tranquil as the scene around, 
 
 lanthe at my side ; 
 Both leaning silent on the turfy mound, 
 
 Lowly and soft and wide. 
 
 I had not lookt, that evening, for the part 
 
 One hand coidd disengage, 
 To make her arms cling round me, with a start 
 
 My bosom must assuage. 
 
 Silence and soft inaction please as much 
 
 The self-abandon'd breast, 
 Which the chaste Muse hath ever deign'd to touch, 
 
 And Love hath once possest.
 
 lANTHE. 303 
 
 " Hark? hear you not the nightingale" I said, 
 
 To strike her with surprise. 
 " The nightingale ? " she cried, and raised her head. 
 
 And beam'd with brighter eyes. 
 
 " Before you said 'twas he that piped above. 
 
 At every thrilling swell 
 He pleased me more and more, he sang of love 
 
 So plaintively, so well." 
 
 Where are ye, happy days, when every bird 
 
 Pour'd love in every strain ! 
 Ye days, when love was every idle word, 
 
 Return, return again !
 
 304 I A NT HE. 
 
 XX. 
 
 While the winds whistle round my cheerless room, 
 And the pale mornin<^ droops with winter's gloom ; 
 While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands, 
 The ripening harvest and the hoary sands ; 
 Alone, and destitute of every page 
 That fires the poet, or informs the sage, 
 Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove, 
 Rest upon past or cherish promist love ? 
 Alas ! the past I never can regain, 
 Wishes may rise and tears may flow in vain. 
 Fancy, that shews her in her early bloom, 
 Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb. 
 What then would passion, what would reason, do ? 
 Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue. 
 Here will I sit, till heaven shall cease to lour, 
 And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour ; 
 Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea. 
 Think of my love, and bid her think of me.
 
 lANTIIE. 305 
 
 XXI. 
 
 From heaven descend two gifts alone ; 
 The graceful line's eternal zone 
 
 And Beauty, that too soon must die. 
 Exposed and lonely Genius stands, 
 Like Memnon in the Egyptian sands, 
 At whom barbarian javelins fly. 
 
 For mutual succour heaven designed 
 The lovely form and vigorous mind 
 
 To seek each other and unite. 
 Genius! thy wing shall beat down Hate, 
 And Beauty tell her fears at Fate 
 
 Until her rescuer met her sight. 
 
 X
 
 306 lANTHE. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " Remember you the guilty night," 
 
 A dying myrtle said, 
 " You snatcht and seized me pale with fright ? " 
 
 She paused ; I bowed my head. 
 " At every swell more close I prest 
 With jealous care that lovely breast : 
 Of every tender word afraid 
 I cast a broader, deeper shade. 
 And trembled so, 1 fell between 
 Two angel-guards by you unseen. . 
 Or else your hand had never dared 
 To strip me from their holy ward . . 
 There, pleasures, perils, all forgot, 
 I clung and fainted, .who would not ? 
 Yet certainly, this transport over, 
 I should, for who would not? recover. 
 Yes ! I was destined to return 
 And sip anew the crystal urn, 
 Where, with four other sister sprays, 
 I bloom'd away my pleasant days. 
 But less and less, and less again, 
 Each day, hour, moment, is the pain 
 My little shrivell'd heart endures. . 
 Now can you say the same for yours ?
 
 lANTHE. 307 
 
 I torn from her, and she from you, 
 What wiser thing can either do. 
 Than with our joys our fears renounce 
 And leave the vacant world at once ? 
 
 When she you fondly love must go. 
 
 Your pangs will rise, but mine will cease. . 
 I never shall awake to woe, 
 
 Nor you to happiness or peace." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Circe, who bore the diadem 
 
 O'er every head we see, 
 Pursued by thousands, turn'd from them 
 
 And fill'd her cup for me. 
 
 She seiz'd what little was design'd 
 To catch the transient view ; 
 
 For thee, sweet maid, she left behind 
 The tender and the true. 
 X 2
 
 308 lANTHE. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 I sadden while I view again 
 
 Smiles that for me the Graces wreathed. 
 Sure my last kiss those lips retain 
 
 And breathe the very vow they breathed, 
 
 At peace, in sorrow, far or near, 
 
 Constant and fond she still would be, 
 
 And absence should the more endear 
 The sigh to her it woke for me. 
 
 Till its long hours have past away, 
 Sweet image, bid my bosom rest. 
 
 Vain hope ! yet shalt thou night and day. 
 Sweet image, to this heart be prest.
 
 lANTHE. 309 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Flow, precious tears ! thus shall my rival know 
 
 For me, not him, ye flow. 
 Stay, precious tears! ah stay : this jealous heart 
 
 Would bid you flow apart. 
 Lest he should see you rising o'er the brim, 
 
 And hope you rise for him. 
 Your secret cells, while he is present, keep, 
 
 Nor, tho' Fm absent, weep. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 I held her hand, the pledge of bliss, 
 Her hand that trembled and withdrew ; 
 
 She bent her head before my kiss, . 
 My heart was sure that hers was true. 
 
 Scarce have I told her I must part, 
 She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, 
 
 Nor shuns the kiss, .alas ! my heart, 
 Hers never was the heart for you.
 
 310 lANTHE. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 So late removed from him she swore, 
 
 With clasping arms and vows and tears, 
 
 In life and death she would adore. 
 
 While memory, fondness, bliss, endears. 
 
 Can she forswear ? can she forget? 
 
 Strike, mighty Love ! strike. Vengeance ! . . soft ! 
 Conscience must come, and bring Regret. . 
 
 These let her feel ! , . nor these too oft !
 
 lANTHE. 311 
 
 xxvirr. 
 
 fond, but fickle and untrue, 
 lanthe take my last adieu. 
 
 Your heart one day will ask you why 
 You forced from me this farewell sigh. 
 Have you not feign'd that friends reprove 
 The mask of Friendship worn by Love ? 
 Feign'd, that they whisper'd you should be 
 The same to others as to me ? 
 Ah ! little knew they what they said ! 
 How would they blush to be obey'd ! 
 
 Too swiftly roll'd the wheels when last 
 These woods and airy downs we past. 
 Fain would we trace the winding path, 
 And hardly wisht for blissful Bath. 
 At every spring you caught my arm, 
 And every pebble roll'd alarm. 
 On me was turn'd that face divine, 
 The view was on the right so fine : 
 
 1 smiled. . those conscious eyes withdrew. . 
 The left was now the finer view.
 
 312 lANTHE. 
 
 Each trembled for detected wiles, 
 And blushes tinged our fading smiles. 
 But Love turns Terror into jest. . 
 We laught, we kist, and we confest. 
 Laugh, kisses, confidence are past, 
 And Love goes too. . but goes the last. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 All tender thoughts that e'er possest 
 The human brain or human breast. 
 
 Center in mine for thee. . 
 Excepting one. . and that must thou 
 Contribute ; come, conferr it now, 
 
 Grateful O let me be !
 
 lANTHE. 313 
 
 XXX. 
 
 lanthe ! you resolve to cross the sea ! 
 
 A path forbidden me ! 
 Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds 
 
 Upon the mountain-heads, 
 How often we have watcht him laying down 
 
 His brow, and dropt our own 
 Against each other's, and how faint and short 
 
 And sliding the support ! 
 What will succede it now ? Mine is unblest, 
 
 lanthe ! nor will rest 
 But on the very thought that swells with pain. 
 
 O bid me hope again ! 
 O give me back what Earth, what (without you) 
 
 Not Heaven itself can do — 
 One of the golden days that we have past, 
 
 And let it be my last ! 
 Or else the gift would be, however sweet. 
 
 Fragile and incomplete.
 
 314 lANTHE. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Mild is the parting year, and sweet 
 The odour of the falling spray ; 
 
 Life passes on more rudely fleet, 
 And balmless is its closing day. 
 
 I wait its close, I court its gloom, 
 But mourn that never must there fall 
 
 Or on my breast or on my tomb 
 
 The tear that would have soothed it all.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
 
 317 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 F.ESULAN IDYL. 
 
 Here, where precipitate Spring with one hght bound 
 
 Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires ; 
 
 And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, 
 
 Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them, 
 
 And softer sighs, that know not what they want ; 
 
 Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree 
 
 Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones 
 
 Of sights in Fiesole right up above. 
 
 While I was gazing a few paces off 
 
 At what they seemed to show me with their nods. 
 
 Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, 
 
 A gentle maid came down the garden-steps 
 
 And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. 
 
 I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
 
 318 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, 
 (Such I believed it must be) ; for sweet scents 
 Are the swift vehicles of stil sweeter thoughts, 
 And nurse and pillow the dull memory 
 That would let drop without them her best stores. 
 They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, 
 And 'tis and ever was my wish and way 
 To let all flowers live freely, and all die, 
 Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart, 
 Among their kindred in their native place. 
 I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head 
 Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 
 And not reproacht me ; the ever-sacred cup 
 Of the pure lily hath between my hands 
 Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. 
 1 saw the light that made the glossy leaves 
 More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek 
 Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ; 
 I saw the foot, that, altho half-erect 
 From its grey slipper, could not lift her up 
 To what she wanted : I held down a branch 
 And gather'd her some blossoms, since their hour 
 Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies 
 Of harder wing were working their way thro 
 And scattering them in fragments under foot. 
 So crisp were some, tliey rattled unevolved, 
 Others, ere broken oflT, fell into shells,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 319 
 
 For such appear the petals when detacht, 
 Unbending-, brittle, lucid, white like snow, 
 And like snow not seen thro, by eye or sun : 
 Yet every one her gown received from me 
 Was fairer than the first. . 1 thought not so, 
 But so she praised them to reward my care. 
 I said : youjind the largest. 
 
 This indeed, 
 Cried she, is large and siueet. 
 
 She held one forth. 
 Whether for me to look at or to take 
 She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
 Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubts. 
 I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part 
 Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature 
 Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch 
 To fall, and yet unfallen. 
 
 She drew back 
 The boon she tendered, and then, finding not 
 The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, 
 Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.
 
 320 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Love's like the echo in the land of Tell,* 
 
 Which answers best the indweller of her bowers, 
 
 Silent to other voices, idly loud 
 
 Or wildly violent, letting them arouse 
 
 Eagle or cavern'd brute, but never her. 
 
 III. 
 
 Wlien Helen first saw wrinkles in her face 
 ('Twas when some fifty long had settled there 
 And intermarried and brancht off awide) 
 She threw herself upon her couch, and wept : 
 On this side hung her head, and over that 
 Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass 
 That made the men as faithless. 
 
 But when you 
 Found them, or fancied them, and would not hear 
 That they were only vestiges of smiles. 
 Or the impression of some amorous hair 
 
 * There is said to be such an echo on the Lake of Lucerne.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 32] 
 
 Astray from cloistered curls and roseat band. 
 Which had been lying there all night perhaps 
 Upon a skin so soft. . No, no, you said, 
 Suj'e, they are coming, yes, are come, are here. . 
 Well, and what matters it. . tvhile you are too I 
 
 IV. 
 
 Say ye, that years roll on and ne'er return ? 
 Say ye, the Sun who leaves them all behind. 
 Their great creator, cannot bring one back 
 With all his force, tho he draw worlds around ?. 
 Witness me, little streams ! that meet before 
 My happy dwelling ; witness, Africo 
 And Mensola ! that ye have seen at once 
 Twenty roll back, twenty as swift and bright 
 As are your swiftest and your brightest waves, 
 When the tall cypress o'er the Doccia 
 Hurls from his inmost boughs the latent snow. 
 
 Go, and go happy, pride of my past days 
 And solace of my present, thou whom Fate 
 Alone hath severed from me ! One step higher 
 Must yet be mounted, high as was the last : 
 Friendship, with faltering accent, says Depart ! 
 And take the highest seat below the crown'd. 
 
 Y
 
 322 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 V. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 17!):2. 
 
 He loses all his fame who fights 
 
 Against his liberties and rights ; 
 
 Troublesome things ! but soon removed 
 
 By our trusty and our well-beloved. 
 
 Of late the bile o'erflows your liver 
 
 That ships should swim upon a river. 
 
 You'd dye with blood the Meuse and Sambre 
 
 For nothing but a pot de chamlre, 
 
 Which Burke, who proves it, fain would tempt ye 
 
 To swear by God they shall not empty. 
 But come now, let me lead you o'er 
 
 The field of fight in times of yore. 
 
 We kickt the breech and puU'd the nose 
 
 About the colour of a rose : 
 
 We seized the throat and stopt the whistle 
 
 Because a fellow wore a thistle : 
 
 And knight and baron, priest and peasant. 
 
 Strove who should tread upon a crescent. 
 
 It seems, whenever we are idle, 
 We call for saddle and for bridle, 
 And girt and buckled from the throne 
 Let others blood to cool our own. 
 Wars, where nor want nor danger calls. 
 Have hung with tatters half St. Paul's ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 323 
 
 And some years hence this courtly fashion 
 Will hang with tatters half the nation. 
 The thirsty tribe that draws the sword 
 For water less than fills a gourd, 
 Is wiser in my humble mind 
 Than men who only fight for wind, 
 And merits more from sage and bard 
 Then Marlbro' or the Savoyard. 
 
 VL 
 
 God's laws declare, 
 
 Thou shalt not swear 
 By aught in heaven above or earth below. 
 
 Upon my honour ! Melville cries. . 
 
 He swears, and lies. . 
 Does Melville then break God's commandment ? No. 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Mi. 
 
 Heaven turn away that awful head 
 The crimson turban's folds o'erspread ! 
 Thermopylae ! guard well your pass ! 
 Where's Agis ? where's Leonidas ? 
 Ah me ! I quite forgot her sex, 
 And trembled for three hundred Greeks. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 SEVERE WINTER. 
 
 Such rapid jerks, such rude grimaces. 
 Such lengthened eyes, such crumpled faces, 
 Grinning with such a stress and wrench, 
 One fancies all the world is French.
 
 MISCELLAXEOUS POEMS. 325 
 
 IX. 
 
 A little cornet of dragoons, 
 Immerst in gilded pantaloons, 
 
 To kiss consenting Helen aim'd. 
 He rais'd his head, but rais'd so low, 
 She cried, and pusht away her beau, 
 
 Go, creature ! are you not ashamed ? 
 
 X. 
 
 Let what nose will, hold forth the flask . . 
 A * * w's shall mount its waxen mask. 
 At her fixt eyes, first seen, you say, 
 What very natural eyes are they ! 
 But for that hand tho'. . why not seek 
 A candelabrum as antique? 
 Could not one lift it rather high'r, 
 And move it further from the fire ?
 
 32G MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Exhausted now her sighs, and dry her tears. 
 For twenty youths these more than twenty years, 
 Anne, turning nun, swears God alone shall have her 
 God ought to bow profoundly for the favour. 
 
 XU. 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 Weep Venus, and ye 
 
 Adorable Three 
 Who Venus for ever environ ! 
 
 Pounds shillings and pence 
 
 And shrewd sober sense 
 Have el apt the strait waistcoat on * * * 
 
 Off, Mai not and Turk, 
 
 With pistol and dirk, 
 Nor palace nor pinnace set fire on : 
 
 The cord's fatal jerk 
 
 Has done its last work. 
 And the noose is now slipt upon * * *.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 327 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Chip, clap the double nightcap on ! 
 
 Gittbrd will read you his amours, . 
 Lazy as Scheld and cold as Don . . 
 
 Kneel, and thank Heaven they are not yours. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Stand close around, ye Stygian set, 
 
 With Dirce in one boat conveyed ! 
 
 Or Charon, seeing, may forget 
 
 That he is old and she a shade.
 
 328 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XV. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A BARRISTER. 
 
 Hail, paragon of T * * oil's! hail 
 
 Thou glory of the triple tail ! 
 
 Which, to denote thy rank, descends 
 
 Like three avenging halter-ends. 
 
 O with what art thou mixest up 
 
 The hemlock of thy attic cup ! 
 
 O with what ready hearty will 
 
 To all God's creatures, good and ill, 
 
 To wise and simple, friend and foe. 
 
 Its tranquilizing juices flow ! 
 
 Sly TafTey calls thee merry prig, 
 
 And taps thy cheek and twirls thy wig : 
 
 The faithful Ketch partakes thy glee 
 
 And lights his hempspun joke from thee. 
 
 Two badger-eyes has Themis ; one 
 
 Is always leering toward the throne ; 
 
 The other wanders, this way, that way, 
 
 But sees the gap and leaves the gateway. 
 
 The scowl of those who snore she wears, 
 
 With the hard hand that clips and sheers; 
 
 Yet she benignly strokes thy head. 
 
 And wakes the judge to hear thee plead.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 329 
 
 Let him extoll, extoll who can, 
 So modest, so admired a man : 
 I stand afar, lest thou espy 
 My raptures with a downcast eye. 
 But sometime (may the day be near !) 
 My votive garland shalt thou wear. 
 Not what the Graces weave for sport 
 Round Cupids in the Paphian court, 
 Or Bacchus ever twined about 
 The temples of a Thracian rout, 
 But what upon thy natal day 
 Fate, while her sisters shared the lay. 
 Gave Nemesis to keep in store, 
 And chaunted. . this his gransire to ore, 
 And, vjhen the father's race is run, 
 Shall be the guerdon of the son. 
 
 T. . onian necks no wreath becomes 
 That faintly breathes or briefly blooms ; 
 But such as raise mankind on high. 
 Nor leave the exalted when they die . . 
 No common hedge such wreathes affords. 
 But proud pelissed Sarmatian lords 
 Survey them from their castle-towers ; 
 And cloistered virgins press their flowers. 
 Subdue their stems with agile hand, 
 And follow them afar from land : 
 Some for warm Lybia wing their way, 
 And others into Flora's bay.
 
 330 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Averse to forms, averse to dress, 
 
 Lover of Nature's nakedness, 
 
 To thee all wisdom and all wit, 
 
 All Pindus, is not worth the pit. . 
 
 Mortals warm-hearted and warm-pated, 
 
 Fun-fanciers unsophisticated. 
 
 Who hold it first and last of rules 
 
 That learning- is the staff of fools, 
 
 Swear hearts are false where lips are dry. 
 
 And in the cup lies Honesty ; 
 
 Clap who laughs hearty and talks loud, 
 
 And curse your grave and danui your proud. 
 
 And split 'em hut he's heart of oak 
 
 Whojlings it at your gentle-folk, 
 
 And shews 'em theij are flesh a)id blood, 
 
 Like tis, no better, if so good. 
 
 When thou wert on thy nurse's breast. 
 And fears thy father's heart opprest, 
 Sedately wise Cecropian maid ! 
 Here pour thy precious gifts ! he said : 
 The Goddess heard the dubious vow. 
 And smear'd her olive o'er thy brow. 
 Sent resolute and dashing Pun, 
 That takes repulse and shame from none, 
 In readiness to scour the streets 
 And lift a leg at all he meets. 
 Thus, seated o'er the Sunian seas. 
 Generous ungirt Diogenes
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 331 
 
 Gave every passagerjiis rub 
 
 From the salt-crusted cynic tub ; 
 
 Thus, where some horse hath sown his oats, 
 
 The sparrows raise their cheery throats, 
 
 And, loving best the dirtiest ground, 
 
 Roll their dull feathers round and round. 
 
 Alas I fall ! O cease to frown ! 
 The weighty subject draws me down. 
 Too true ; I feel the feeble line 
 Unworthy of thy name and mine. 
 Yet its loose threads shall men explore, 
 As children shells upon the shore : 
 And thou shalt flourish fresh in song 
 When Nature's verdict stops my tongue ; 
 When Kenyon's pattering pasteboard storm, 
 And Latin from the second form. 
 Like hail upon a summer's day, 
 Falls, bounces, glimmers, melts away ; 
 When all the riches of each Scott 
 Go, where they ne'er went yet, to pot ; 
 When heedless whistlers speed the plough 
 Across old Thurlow's whiten'd brow ; 
 When all the costliest fur in Britain 
 Lies level with the wayside kitten. 
 And the last worm has left the jaws 
 That blew out life from under laws ; 
 When gibbet-irons with rust are dumb. 
 Nor wave without their pendulum ;
 
 332 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 AVhen into dust the winds have blown 
 What once was sinew, blood, and bone, 
 What, even while they fill'd with glee 
 Afar the house of revelry, 
 Breath'd murder into every breath 
 On Kennington and Hounslow heath, 
 Lent the faint lightning fresh affright 
 And hung with deeper gloom the night. 
 
 These are thy works, almighty maker 
 Of county jobs for undertaker ! 
 When cash and kindred clients fail. 
 And few will swear and none will bail, 
 Then the deep mist of error clears. 
 And Vice's odious form appears. 
 " Had I discover'd it before, 
 Not all Peru's persuasive ore 
 Should have induced me to defend 
 A life no warnings can amend.'' 
 At these thy words the wife declares 
 A something met her on the stairs : 
 In the church-yard a light was seen, 
 And a strange circle markt the green ; 
 Then the poor husband from her chest 
 Rakes his worst cloaths, and wills his best. 
 
 To thee our daily thanks are due, 
 Who live with no such downcast crew. 
 Had Cacus school'd them in his den, 
 Thou wouldst have proved them honest men.
 
 MISCEI.LANEOrS POEMS. 333 
 
 My sheep are flayed ; the flayer bears 
 The best of names, .our vicar swears. . 
 And. why reproach the mild divine ? 
 He loves his flock. . his flock loves mine. 
 My timber stolen. . could I know 
 The mark I made a month ago ? 
 My barns cleared out. . my house burnt down. . 
 Could the whole loss excede a crown ? 
 Shame ! are such trifles worth my cares ? 
 I'm freed from rats and from repairs. 
 
 A half-starved staring seagull brood 
 Flies every honest livelihood, 
 Quits fierce Malay and shrewd Chinese 
 And ransackt India's pearl-paved seas, 
 Hears, sped by thee, how talents fare. 
 And rises into mountain air. 
 Seamen are bold, but none are bolder 
 Than those with cat-claws on the shoulder, 
 Whose captain, for his gaping desk. 
 Has given it the picturesque, 
 The love of which is gone so deep 
 They cannot eat, they cannot sleep, 
 But must indulge in cooling vales, 
 And hang their pensive heads in Wales. 
 One, as the wildgoose of a nest. 
 Stretches his neck to guide the rest. 
 Picks up five hundreds with a bride 
 And shews her London and sea-side ;
 
 334 MISCELLANEOUS I'OEMS. 
 
 Snatches her, ere it runs too late 
 To pay so many a turnpike-gate, 
 Settles at once upon my farm, 
 And spreads a press-gang's dread alarm. 
 Box-coat and trowser dash together, 
 The dog-cart and the ostrich-feather, 
 And brass-loopt hat and broad-frog'd habit, 
 Most richly ermin'd o'er. . with rabbit. 
 The Welsh look up with wondering eyes. 
 And ruminate on prophecies ; 
 The tripod and the pot-link turn, 
 And watch the faggots, how they burn, 
 Nail a worn horse-shoe on the door 
 Where never one was nail'd before. 
 Wash the white threshold-stone anew, 
 And rub the sleepless bed with rue, 
 And weary heaven with charms and vows 
 To guard their children and their cows. 
 Could not the cloth this pest foretell ? 
 Nor the wise woman at the well ? 
 Nor deeper seer who knew what mare 
 Must disappear by Radnor fair ? 
 The thumping jumping gospel-preacher 
 Could not he, here too, be their teacher ? 
 The lamb, he cries, unless ye sin, 
 Extends no crook to shank you in. 
 Graceless as well may be the strangers, 
 They beard ynu at your very vi(i>ii>ers.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 335 
 
 For speeding evangelicjfights 
 Requires some boisterous roaring nights ; 
 Pitch on a vantage-ground like swallows, 
 And soar to heaven from the gallows. 
 With such faint hearts and spch lank joivls 
 You cannot sin to save your souls, 
 While they are ready for the crisis. . 
 Go, do ye likewise, my advice is. 
 
 The daring ambidexterous wench, 
 Whose fist no collier can unclench, 
 Bites what is needless off her lambs, 
 Pries for the riddle on the rams, 
 Curses and kicks them who omit 
 The duties that their state befit, 
 Pares from their feet the cankery rot. 
 And skims, while pot there is, the pot ; 
 Bestows herself the savoury largess, 
 Mixt with cow-cabbage and crab- verjuice : 
 And " dont 'e, Thomas, I desire. 
 Care a crackt farding for the squire. 
 His lady. . I know v/ho's her betters. . 
 Before she squall'd I told my letters. 
 For twenty loaves could knead the dough. 
 And lift brim-full our biggest trough. 
 A lady ! that will never do. . 
 Why ! she is only five feet two." 
 
 Now raises she her swelling chine 
 And prances passing five feet nine,
 
 33G MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Jerks a cock's feather from the bag, 
 And freshens it witli oily rag. 
 Now strides she to the full fire-side, 
 With silent step and dignified, 
 And now relaxes into grace 
 And asks them how it suits her face ; 
 Then carts it to the neighbouring town, 
 And trips it till the floors come down, 
 In many-coloured ribbons drest 
 And beet-dyed shoes and brimstone vest. 
 But morning comes, and sundry fears 
 For the fee-simple of two ears, 
 That upon frailest tenure hung, 
 Dependent from a perjured tongue, 
 " Thomas, she cries, I love thy mettle ! 
 Give us a lift, lad, at the kettle. 
 There !". . and such spirit to encourage, 
 Souces a lardpot in his porrage. 
 Up darts the buoyant brightening grease 
 Like the fresh sun upon the seas. 
 And quiets with its rising glories 
 Those estuaries and promontories. 
 That never own'd another prince 
 Within their world's circumference ; 
 And the proud foam and clamorous wind 
 To its mild empire are resign'd. 
 Who could imagine that beheld 
 How this vast region once rebel'd,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS- 337 
 
 Threw up the humble, down the high, 
 Like turbulent deinocracv, 
 Amidst its plenty would not smile, 
 But hissed and grumbled all the while. 
 
 The dame her hearty work pursues, 
 And hurries round the mingling juice. 
 " Grub the plantation up, set fire on't, 
 And, if he douts it, dout the tyrant. 
 Hard swearing never was hard work, 
 And if you kill, you kill a Turk. 
 What ! hang a fellow-creature ! shall us. 
 When whiff will blow him from the gallows ! 
 Our Fred's, I warrant, is the nape 
 That never flincht from Tyburn tape, 
 Nor ever will the lucky hound 
 Turn tail till he is off the ground." 
 
 A year is past : I beg my rent : 
 I must mistake. . that was not meant. 
 I tarry on : two years elapse : 
 The balance may be theirs perhaps. 
 For insolent requests like these 
 Their gentle hands uproot my trees, 
 While those they told me hurt their grain, 
 I fell, their gentle hands detain ; 
 My woods, my groves, my walks beset 
 With pistol, dirk, and bayonet, 
 
 z
 
 338 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Force my grey labourers to yield, 
 
 And stab the women in the field. 
 
 Of late a sort of suitor there is 
 
 Who courts a horsewhip like an heiress. 
 
 Kick him ; not Midas would enrich 
 
 With surer stroke the flaccid breech ; 
 
 The blow above reiterate. . 
 
 A broken head 's a good estate ; 
 
 Add swindler. . and behold ! next minute 
 
 He's out of jail and you are in it. 
 
 The land that rears sure-footed ponies 
 
 Rears surer- footed testimonies, 
 
 And every neighbour, staunch and true, 
 
 Swears, and Got pless her, what will do. 
 
 My gentry tell unpilloried lies, 
 
 But prompt and push to perjuries ; 
 
 Yet tho' you flusht them as they blundered 
 
 Thro' the rank stubble of three hundred, 
 
 Exclaim a perjury ! and you libel. . 
 
 Each his own way may use his bible ; 
 
 Else how is ours a freeborn nation, 
 
 Or wherefore was the Reformation ? 
 
 If you demand your debts, beware, 
 
 But rob'd, cry robbers ! if you dare : 
 
 You only lost a farm of late, 
 
 Stir, and you pay your whole estate:
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 339 
 
 Expose their villainies ; Dick Loose 
 Will shudder at the gross abuse, 
 Free them from prison on their bail, 
 And pledge them in his mellowest ale. 
 The lathy lantern-visaged Crawle 
 His queries and his doubts will drawl. 
 He the rich blacksmith's daughter won, 
 And wiled him to exclude the son. 
 Behold him at a lady's side! 
 And look, how he has learnt to ride, 
 Who pigged with choristers and scouts. 
 And rode but upon roundabouts. 
 Unenvied for too fair report 
 His father sweeps the bishop's court. 
 And legibly enough records 
 Two anti-paracletic words : 
 The ode should only be applied 
 To Priam's and to * * 's bride, 
 And those few more who growl and bite, 
 Or are too watchful in the night. 
 The other is so rude a name 
 It well deserves the sheet of shame, 
 Which his old honest rib repairs. 
 And scours from ironmoulds, and airs. 
 With brain of lead and brow of brass 
 Stands ready prowling BarnabaS; 
 
 z 2
 
 340 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To whisper him of timorous look 
 Yoii kiss the cover, not the book. 
 That Barnabas who, when he stood 
 Within the close o'erarching wood, 
 (A wood which on no forest frowns, 
 But tapers up in market-towns) 
 And stretcht his vast extent of chin 
 To all without, to none within, 
 In many breasts rais'd fierce desire 
 To stick it near the kitchen-fire, 
 In the dutch oven glittering' bright 
 With its clear rashers red and white. 
 " Ah what a burning shame, they say, 
 So many eggs are thrown away! " 
 " Tis death to puddings, cries a wench, 
 Between the judges and the French. 
 Look only there ! how living rises 
 From war and popery and assizes ! " 
 
 . The honest open-hearted Jack 
 Stands, fit successor, at his back. 
 Him pockets turn'd and watches twitcht 
 From jovial snoring friends enricht; 
 Him the shared tax from many a town^ 
 A true copartner of the crown, 
 And, eased of his ill-gotten wealth. 
 An uncle sent to heaven by stealth.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 341 
 
 Attended with each bright compeer, 
 O T * * on, I must leave thee here. 
 Where, thanks and thanks again to thee ! 
 The poor lost outcasts still are free. 
 Who wants a character or home, 
 A shirt or shilling, let him come : 
 Who flies his dun, or dupes his friend, 
 Lo ! England's furthest safest end : 
 Who lurks from sea to thieve on shore, 
 Club the dipt dollar, one mate more ! 
 No scruple checks, no conscience shocks, 
 Hope's at the bottom of the box. 
 Here all but Innocence may trust. 
 And all find Justice but the just.
 
 342 MISCELLANEOUS TOEMS. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Let this man smile, and that man sigh 
 To see the wheels of Fashion whirl ; 
 
 Place me in some cool arbour nigh 
 My mild and modest country girl ! 
 
 Or under whitening poplars, high 
 
 O'er flirting brooks, that glance and purl 
 
 To attract such flowers as peer and pry, 
 My mild and modest country girl ! 
 
 Would you not tire there P. .no, not I. . 
 
 Acids that melt the richest pearl 
 Are envy, pride, satiety. 
 
 My mild and modest country girl !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 343 
 
 Power, office, title, .up they fly 
 Against one light and sunny curl, 
 
 That plays above thine azure eye, 
 My mild and modest country girl ! 
 
 Knighthood's new spur the squire would try, 
 And vicount be emblazon'd earl. 
 
 Content is only seated by 
 
 My mild and modest counti-y girl. 
 
 Possession kings must fortify 
 
 With moat and barbican and merl : 
 
 Thine dwells in free security, 
 
 My mild and modest country girl ! 
 
 Great riches, great authority 
 
 Turn the best-tempered to a churl ; 
 With health and thee no crosses lie, 
 
 My mild and modest country girl !
 
 344 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Tho' Fame and Glory to the sky 
 Ambition's wind-worn flag unfurl, 
 
 With thee I'd live, for thee I'd die. 
 My mild and modest country girl ! 
 
 Thus round and round thee busily 
 
 Teaching my tinkling rhymes to twirl, 
 
 I did not well hear thy reply, 
 
 My mild and modest country girl ! * 
 
 * If the reader has any curiosity to know the origin of these 
 trifling verses, they were composed on the remark of a sciiolar, that 
 jmella in its cases ended many in Latin, and that girl ended none in 
 ours, from the impossibility of finding such a rhyme as would suit 
 the subject. It is something to do anything which nobody can do 
 better.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 345 
 
 xvri. 
 
 DIALOGUE AT WHIST. 
 
 Mrs. Clutterbuck — Mrs. Siiuffleton — and 
 Partner. 
 
 mrs. shuffleton. 
 Dear now! Mrs. Clutterbuck, 
 You have had such charming luck 
 
 In your sweet good man, 
 That you should not take it hard 
 Tho' you never got a card 
 
 Worth a pinch of bran. 
 
 MRS. CLUTTERBUCK. 
 
 To be sure, one feels at ease 
 With a man so made to please 
 All that is genteel. 
 
 MRS. SHUFFLETON. 
 
 When he walks into a room, 
 What address ! and what perfume ! 
 
 MllS. CLUTTERBUCK. 
 
 Grace from head to heel. 
 One looks how he holds his hat, 
 One would copy his cravat. 
 
 One comes up to me, 
 Saying, " Do excuse me, ma'am ! 
 Sure, as of my life, I am, 
 
 Yours that Lord must be."
 
 346 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Sir, says I, how could you know ? 
 True indeed, some time ago 
 
 Clutterbuck and I 
 Joined for better and for worse 
 Our young hearts and httle purse, 
 
 Bundling — weal or woe. 
 
 To her partner. 
 Did you let 'em win the knave ? 
 
 PARTNER. 
 
 Ma'am, that lady . . . 
 
 MRS. CLUTTERBUCK. 
 
 Well now, save 
 (If you can) the deal. 
 
 {To Mrs. Siiuffleton.) 
 Pray now Mrs. Shuffleton, 
 For the love of Christ ! ha' done — 
 
 MRS. SHUFFLETON. 
 
 I did wrong, I feel. 
 Yet upon a theme like this 
 One can hardly do amiss. 
 
 MRS. CLUTEERBUCK. 
 
 O my want of wit ! 
 Harping on that nasty lubber 
 She has really won the rubber ! 
 
 Bit, sir ! downright bit ! 
 
 MRS. SIIUFFLETON. 
 
 Bit ! ma'm ! what a word to use ! 
 I, who am not quite a goose, 
 Saw it in the wick.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 347 
 
 MRS. CLUTTERBUCK. 
 
 Well ! I'll never talk about 
 Him or any such a lout 
 When I want the trick. 
 
 MRS. SHUFFLETON. 
 
 And, or e'er I'd have my pride 
 In this manner mortified, 
 
 Ma'am, upon my life, 
 When I praise a man, I swear 
 I will praise him anywhere 
 
 But before his wife. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Say, who so dauntless ever trod the field 
 Of dreadful Mars ! whether by night or day 
 
 Numbers no more than one could make him yield. 
 Or turn his sounding battle-horn away. 
 
 Yet without name, so Destiny ordains. 
 Lies he of whom it may be truly said 
 
 The richest blood in Europe fiU'd his veins, 
 But could not buoy him o'er the vulgar dead.
 
 348 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The father of his country, Cosimo, 
 The wise Lorenzo, Leo, with the keys 
 
 Of heaven in his hand, came forth too slow 
 To save his life ; for 'twas not by disease 
 
 It waned away : ah ! like how many brave ! 
 
 'Twas by man's hand, in venturous youth he fell ! 
 And would'st not thou, Saint Philip Neri, save 
 
 The fluttering heart that loved thy race too well ? 
 
 But virgin blood, the tender Clementina's 
 Must be avenged, . O brood of Altoviti ! 
 
 Are ye become then Brutuses and Minas, 
 And pounce upon invader without pity ! 
 
 Think, ye who deem the plaint I pour too long, 
 'Tis not for friend, nor child, nor wife ; all those 
 
 We know by rote are worth but an old song, 
 A graver dirge must earn our gnat's repose.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 349 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the laugh of Spring. . she comes, 
 With airy sylphs and firy gnomes ; 
 On cruel mischief these intent, 
 And those as anxious to prevent. 
 So, now for frolic and for fun, 
 And swains forsworn and maids undone ; 
 So, now for bridegrooms and for brides, 
 And rivals hang'd by river-sides. 
 Here the hoarse-wooing dove is heard, 
 And there the cuckoo, taunting bird ! 
 But soon along the osier vale 
 Will warble the sweet nightingale, 
 Amid whose song chaste Eve must hear 
 The threats of love, the screams of fear. 
 The milk-maid's shriek of laughter shrill 
 From hovel close beneath the hill, 
 Before the door the whirring wheel, 
 Behind the hedge the ticklish squeal. 
 The shepherd rude, the hoyden wroth, 
 The boisterous rip of stubborn cloth. 
 The brisk repulse, the pressing pray'r. 
 Ah do ! and do it if you dare !
 
 350 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But whence, at every field we pass, 
 Tliose hollows in the starting grass ? 
 The little Loves have gambol'd there, 
 Or fought or wrestled pair by pair. 
 Moist are the marks of struggling feet, 
 And the bruis'd herbage still smells sweet. 
 Let Nancy now, if Nancy will, 
 Return the kiss she took so ill. 
 If gentler thoughts thy bosom move, 
 Come Nancy, give the kiss of love. 
 Soft is the bank I rest on here, 
 And soft the river murmurs near : 
 Above, the wandering dimples play, 
 Run round, unwind, and melt away : 
 Beneath, more regular, more slow, 
 The grassy weeds wave to and fro. 
 While the sharp reed, it peers so high, 
 Shakes at each swell that passes by. 
 The poor tired bird who fain would drink, 
 But fears th' abrupt and crumbling brink, 
 Sees that his weight 'twill not sustain. 
 And hovers, and flies back again. 
 My Nancy, thus I thirst for you, 
 And he flies off as I may do.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 351 
 
 XX. 
 
 I would invoke you once again, 
 Pale shades of gloomy Walcheren, 
 
 By every name most dear ! 
 But every name what voice could call 
 What tears could flow enough for all, 
 
 Within the circling year ! 
 
 Yet comfort you, illustrious band, 
 That might have saved your native land 
 
 Had life and health remain'd ! 
 Who cast you on those sands accurst, 
 Traitor ! he sold his country first 
 
 And gave her up enchain'd. 
 
 No human power the wretch shall screen 
 That sent you to the misty scene. 
 
 Where glory never shone ! 
 His vacant buoyant heart shall rue 
 The lingering death he brought on you, 
 
 And wish that death his own.
 
 352 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 PROGRESS OF EVENING. 
 
 From yonder wood mark blue-eyed Eve procede ; 
 First thro' the deep and warm and secret glens, 
 Thro' the pale-glimmering privet-scented lane, 
 And thro' those alders by the river-side : 
 Now the soft dust impedes her, which the sheep 
 Have hollow'd out beneath their hawthorn shade. 
 But ah ! look yonder ! see a misty tide 
 Rise up the hill, lay low the frowning grove, 
 Enwrap the gay white mansion, sap its sides 
 Until they sink and melt away like chalk ; 
 Now it comes down against our village-tower, 
 Covers its base, floats o'er its arches, tears 
 The clinging ivy from the battlements. 
 Mingles in broad embrace the obdurate stone, 
 All one vast ocean ! and goes swelling on 
 In slow and silent, dim and deepening waves.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 353 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Under the hollies of thy breezy glade, 
 
 Need wood, m youth with idle pace I rode, 
 
 Where pebbly rills their varied chirrup made, 
 
 Rills which the fawn with tottering knee bestrode. 
 
 Twilight was waning, yet I checkt my pace, 
 Slow as it was, and longer would remain ; 
 
 Here first, here only, had I seen the face 
 
 Of Nature free from change and pure from stain. 
 
 Here in the glory of her power she lay, 
 
 Here she rejoiced in all the bloom of health ; 
 
 Soon must I meet her faint and led astray, 
 
 Freckled with feverish whims and wasted wealth. 
 
 'Z ^
 
 354 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Thou whom the wandering comets guide, 
 O turn awhile to Virtue's side, 
 Goddess by all adored ! and deign 
 Once more to smile on rising Spain. 
 No secret pang my bosom wrings 
 For prostrate lords and captive kings ; 
 I, mighty Power, invoke thy aid 
 To Valour crost and Faith betray'd. 
 O leave the marshal'd ranks of war, 
 Nor blindly urge Bellona's car. 
 When hearts so generous, arms so brave, 
 Resist the conqueror, spurn the slave, 
 And striking home for equal laws 
 Pray Fortune to sustain the cause. 
 Not such is theirs as wafted o'er 
 The crescent and the crafty Moor ; 
 No tears for virgin honour flow, 
 No father calls the avenging foe ; 
 Napoleon leads no faithless host, 
 Nor tears the heart that trusts him most, 
 A rescued son, a prince restored, 
 Against his country draws the sword.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 355 
 
 And wily priests in vengeful mood 
 Surround their fires with dykes of blood : 
 Turn then, O Fortune, and sustain 
 The cause of Freedom and of Spain ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 TO ALPUENTE. 
 
 So ! the winds and the waters must waft thee again, 
 Alpuente ! afar from the sight of thy Spain ; 
 And England, averse to the brave and the true, 
 Awaken the Continent's curses anew. 
 Lusitania received thee ; her aim is thine own. 
 To hold Fraud and Perjury back from the throne. 
 One Briton forbids it. .that Briton whose hand 
 Unravels in darkness all Freedom has plann'd. 
 In the gloom of the night, when the softer sea-airs 
 Were bringing thee slumbers, and soothing thy cares. 
 By allaying the throbs of too tender f\ breast 
 Which is wasting away at thy wrongs unredrest, 
 
 2 A 2
 
 356 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Thou ail (liagged. . among- whom ? among Britons free- 
 born ! 
 Believe me, I speak it in sorrow, not scorn.. 
 Yes, the elder among them at least were born free, 
 And must grieve at indignities heap'd upon thee! 
 How then ! could not Exile (that drove eighty years 
 Before her) nor Woman's nor Virtue's own tears, 
 Once touch into feeling ev'n Castlereagh's tool, 
 Tho' the heaviest log in the rottenest school ! 
 And what name is the ship's he has chosen, to please 
 The parricide's sister and her Portuguese ? 
 A name known to Glory, and Glory alone, 
 The defense of the people and pride of the throne . . 
 The Marlbro ! ! Such service would better befit 
 The Canninq or Croker, the Melvile or Pitt.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 357 
 
 XXV. 
 
 In Clementina's artless mien 
 
 Lucilla asks me what I see, 
 And are the roses of sixteen 
 Enough for me ? 
 
 Lucilla asks, if that be all, 
 
 Have I not cull'd as sweet before. . 
 Ah yes, Lucilla ! and their fall 
 I still deplore. 
 
 I now behold another scene, 
 
 Where Pleasure beams with heaven's own light. 
 More pure, more constant, more serene. 
 And not less bright. . 
 
 Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose. 
 
 Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, 
 And Modesty who, when she goes. 
 Is gone for ever.
 
 358 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 I leave with unaverted eye the towers 
 Of Pisa, pining o'er her desert stream. 
 
 Pleasure (they say) yet lingers in thy bowers, 
 Florence, thou patriot's sigh, thou poet's dream ! 
 
 could I find thee as thou once wert known. 
 Warlike, erect, and liberal, and free ! 
 
 But the pure Spirit from thy wreck has flown, 
 And only Pleasure's phantom dwells with thee.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 359 
 
 XXVIL 
 AN ARAB TO HIS MISTRESS 
 
 AGAINST ANGER. 
 
 Look thou yonder, look and tremble, 
 Thou whose passion swells so high ; 
 
 See those ruins ! that resemble 
 Flocks of camels as they lie. 
 
 'Tvvas a fair but froward city, 
 Bidding tribes and chiefs obey, 
 
 'Till he came who, deaf to pity, 
 Tost the imploring arm away. 
 
 Spoil'd and prostrate, she lamented 
 What her pride and folly wrought 
 
 But was ever Pride contented. 
 Or would Folly e'er be taught?
 
 3G0 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Strong are cities ; Rage o'erthrows 'cm ; 
 
 Rage o'crswells the gallant ship ; 
 Stains it not the cloud-white bosom, 
 
 Flaws it not the ruby lip ? 
 
 All that shields us, all that charms us, 
 Brow of ivory, tower of stone, 
 
 Yield to Wrath ; another's harms us. 
 But we perish by our own. 
 
 Night may send to rave and ravage 
 
 Panther and hyena fell ; 
 But their manners, harsh and savage, 
 
 Little suit the mild gazell. 
 
 When the waves of life surround thee, 
 Quenching oft the light of love, 
 
 When the clouds of doubt confound thee. 
 Drive not from thy breast the dove.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 361 
 
 XXVIIL 
 
 Mother, I cannot mind my wheel ; 
 
 My fingers ache, my lips are dry: 
 Oh ! if you felt the pain I feel ! 
 
 But oh, who ever felt as I ! 
 
 No longer could I doubt him true. . 
 
 All other men may use deceit; 
 He always said my eyes were blue. 
 
 And often swore my lips were sweet.
 
 362 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 IMITATION OF THE MANNER OF CATULLUS. 
 
 Aurelius, Sire of Hungrinesses ! 
 Thee thy old friend Catullus blesses, 
 And sends thee three fine watercresses. 
 
 There are who would not think me quite 
 (Unless we were old friends) polite 
 To mention whom you should invite. 
 
 Look at them well ; and turn it o'er 
 In your own mind. . I'd have but four. 
 Lucullus, Cesar, and two more.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 363 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Friendship ! I place no trust in thee, 
 Tho' flourishing so fair in fable, 
 
 Or seated with Mythology, 
 
 Or with a bumper-glass at table. 
 
 Since first my razor ranged for beard. 
 Friendship ! in many another place 
 
 Thy voice (and loud enough) I've heard, 
 But never have beheld thy face.
 
 364 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 xxxr. 
 
 Maria ! I have said adieu 
 To one alone so fair as you ; 
 And she, beyond my hopes, at last 
 Returns and tells me of the past ; 
 While happier for remembering well 
 Am I to hear and she to tell. 
 Whether gay Paris may again 
 Admire you gayest of her train, 
 Or, Love for pilot, you shall go 
 Where Orellana's waters flow. 
 And cull, annd Brazilian bowers. 
 Of richer fruits and gaudier flowers. . 
 Or on the Seine or on the Line 
 Remember one command of mine : 
 Love with as steddy love as e'er 
 Illumed the only breast so fair ; 
 That, in another year at most, 
 Whether the Alps or seas are crost, 
 Something may scatter from the flame 
 Fresh luster o'er Pereira's name.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 365 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE DUCHESS DE GUICHE AT 
 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 Children ! while childhood lasts, one day 
 Alone be less your gush of play. 
 As you ascend that cloven steep 
 Whence Lerici o'erlooks the deep, 
 And watch the hawk and plover soar, 
 And bow-winged curlew quit the shore. 
 Think not, as graver heads might do, 
 The same with equal ease could you ; 
 So light your spirits and your forms. 
 So fearful is your race of storms. 
 
 Mild be the sunbeams, mild the gales, 
 Along Liguria's pendenvales, 
 Whether from changeful Magra sped 
 Or Tanaro's unquiet bed. 
 Let Apennine and Alpine snows . 
 Be husht into unwaked repose. 
 While Italy gives back again 
 More charms and virtues than remain, 
 Which France with loftier pride shall own 
 Than all her brightest arms have won.
 
 366 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Let me sit down and muse by thee 
 
 Awhile, aerial Fiesole ! 
 
 Thy shelter'd walks and cooler grots, 
 
 Villas and vines and olive-plots, 
 
 Catch me, entangle me, detain me, 
 
 And laugh to hear that aught can pain me. 
 
 'Twere just, if ever rose one sigh 
 
 To find the lighter mount more high, 
 
 Or any other natural thing 
 
 So trite that Fate would blush to sing, 
 
 Of Honour's sport or Fortune's frown, 
 
 Clung to my heart and kept it down. 
 
 But shun'd have I on eveiy side 
 
 The splash of newly-mounted Pride, 
 
 And never was the child to dabble 
 
 In the spawn-puddle of a rabble. 
 
 Not Rabelais* pen, Le Sage's, Scarron's, 
 
 Or Swift's could sketch. . the knights and barons, 
 
 Pitt and Peg Nicholson have made, 
 
 And wiles in law and wealth in trade. 
 
 O country ! how enricht !. . in titles. . 
 
 Splendid and cheap as penny-whistles.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 367 
 
 No banker's boy, no kitchen wench, 
 
 But wears them. . T , mother F . . 
 
 And why not thou, who not a whit art 
 
 Behind them in desert, V ? 
 
 What has the zephyr brought so sweet ! 
 'Tis the vine-blossom round my seat. 
 Ah ! how much better here at ease 
 And quite alone to catch the breeze. 
 Than roughly wear life's waning day 
 On rotten forms with Castlereagh, 
 Mid public men for private ends, 
 A friend to foes, a foe to friends ! .,^ 
 Long since with youthful chases warm, 
 And when ambition well might charm. 
 And when the choice before me lay, 
 I heard the din and turn'd away. 
 Hence oftentimes imperial Seine 
 Hath listen'd to my early strain, 
 And past the Rhine and past the Rhone 
 My Latian muse is heard and knov/n. 
 Nor is the life of one recluse 
 An alien quite from public use. 
 Where alders mourn'd their fruitless beds 
 A thousand cedars raise their heads, 
 And from Segovia's hills remote. 
 My sheep enrich my neighbour's cote. 
 The wide and easy road I lead 
 Where never paced the harnest steed,
 
 368 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Where hardly dared the goat look down 
 Beneath her parent mountain's frown, 
 Suspended, while the torrent-spray 
 Springs o'er the crags that roll away. 
 Cares if I had, 1 turn'd those cares 
 Toward my partridges and hares, 
 At every dog and gun I heard 
 Ill-auguring for some truant bird. 
 Or whisker'd friend of jet-tipt ear. 
 Until the frighten'd eld limpt near. 
 These knew me. . and 'twas quite enough. 
 I paid no Morning Post to puff, 
 Saw others fame and wealth increase. 
 Ate my own mutton-chop in peace, 
 Open'd my window, snatcht my glass, 
 And, from the rills that chirp and pass, 
 A pure libation pour'd to thee, 
 Unsoil'd uncitied Liberty ! 
 
 Lanthony ! an ungenial clime, 
 And the broad wing of restless Time, 
 Have rudely swept thy massy walls 
 And rockt thy abbots in their palls. . 
 I loved thee by thy streams of yore, 
 By distant streams I love thee more ; 
 For never is the heart so true 
 As bidding what we love adieu. 
 Yet neither where we first drew breath. 
 Nor where our fathers sleep in death,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 369 
 
 Nor where the mystic ring was given, 
 The link from earth that reaches heaven. 
 Nor London, Paris, Florence, Rome, . 
 In his own heart's the wise man's home. . 
 Stored with each keener, kinder, sense. 
 Too firm, loo lofty, for offense, 
 Unlittered by the tools of state, 
 And greater than the great world's great. 
 If mine no glorious works may be, 
 Grant, Heaven ! and 'tis enough for me, 
 (While many squally sails flit past, 
 And many break the ambitious mast) 
 From all that they pursue, exempt. 
 The stormless bay of deep contempt! 
 
 2 B
 
 370 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Ye little household gods, that make 
 My heart leap lighter with your play, 
 
 And never let it sink or ake, 
 Unless you are too far away ; 
 
 Eight years have flown, and never yet 
 One day has risen up between 
 
 The kisses of my earlier pet, 
 
 And few the hours he was not seen. 
 
 How can I call to you from Rome ? 
 
 Will mamma teach what babbo said ? 
 Have ye not heard him talk at home 
 
 About the city of the dead ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 371 
 
 Marvellous tales will babbo tell.. 
 
 If you do'nt clasp his throat too tight. . 
 Tales which you, Arnold, will love well, 
 
 Tho' Julia's cheek turns pale with fright. 
 
 How swimming o'er the Tiber Clelia 
 Headed the rescued virgin train ; 
 
 And, loftier virtue ! how Cornelia 
 
 Lived when her two brave sons were slain. 
 
 This is my birthday : may ye waltze 
 Till mamma cracks her best guitar ! 
 
 Yours are true pleasures : those are false 
 We wise ones follow from afar. 
 
 What shall I bring you ? would you like 
 Urn, image, glass.. red, yellow, blue. 
 
 Stricken by Time, .who soon must strike 
 As deep the heart that beats for you. 
 
 2 B 2
 
 372 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 TO CORINTH. 
 
 Queen of the double sea, beloved of him 
 
 Who shakes the world's foundations, thou hast seen 
 
 Glory in all her beauty, all her forms; 
 
 Seen her walk back with Theseus when he left 
 
 The bones of Sciron bleaching to the wind, 
 
 Above the ocean's roar and cormorant's flight, 
 
 So high that vastest billows from above 
 
 Shew but like herbage waving in the mead ; 
 
 Seen generations throng thy Isthmian games, 
 
 And pass away . . . the beautiful, the brave. 
 
 And them who sang their praises. 
 
 But, O Queen, 
 Audible still, and far beyond thy clifis. 
 As when they first were uttered, are those words 
 Divine which praised the valiant and the just ; 
 And tears have often stopt, upon that ridge 
 So perilous, him who brought before his eye 
 The Colchian babes. 
 
 " Stay ! spare him ! save the last ! 
 Medea ! ... is that blood ? again ! it drops 
 From my imploring hand upon my feet. . . 
 I will invoke the Eumenides no more . .
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 373 
 
 I will forgive thee, . bless thee. . bend to thee 
 In all thy wishes ... do but thou, Medea, 
 Tell me, one lives. 
 
 " And shall I too deceive ?" 
 Cries from the firy car an angry voice ; 
 And swifter than two falling stars descend 
 Two breathless bodies, .warm, soft, motionless, 
 As flowers in stillest noon before the sun, 
 They lie three paces from him . . such they lie 
 As when he left them sleeping side by side, 
 A mother's arm round each, a mother's cheeks 
 Between them, flusht with happiness and love. 
 He was more changed than they were. . doomed to shew 
 Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarred 
 Grief hunts us down the precipice of years. 
 And whom the faithlesss prey upon the last. 
 
 To give the inertest masses of our earth 
 Her loveliest forms was thine, to fix the Gods 
 Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round 
 With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. 
 A nobler work remains : thy citadel 
 Invites all Greece : o'er lands and floods remote 
 Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee : 
 Confide then in thy strength, and unappalled 
 Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings 
 Run bellowing, where their herdsmen goad them on   
 Instinct is sharp in them and terrour true. . 
 They smell the floor wheron their necks must lie.
 
 374 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Wert thou but blind, O Fortune, then perhaps 
 Thou mightest always have avoided me : 
 For never voice of mine (young, middle-aged, 
 Or going down on tottering knee the shelf 
 That crumbles with us to the vale of years) 
 Called thee aside, whether thou rannest on 
 To others who expected, or didst throw 
 Jnto the sleeper's lap the unsought prize. 
 But blind thou art not ; the refreshing cup 
 For which my hot heart thirsted, thou hast ever 
 (When it was full and at the lip) struck down.
 
 ON THE DEAD.
 
 377 
 
 ON THE DEAD 
 
 ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH OF A MOTHER AND 
 THREE CHILDREN. 
 
 Again, my soul, sustain the mournful page ! 
 Is there no difference ? none of place ? of age ? 
 How the words tremble, how the lines unite ! 
 What dim confusion floats before my sight ! 
 Thrice happy strangers, to whose roving eyes 
 Unwet with tears these public columns rise ! 
 Whate'er this shameful world contains of new. 
 These are events the least observed by you. 
 
 O Lambe, my early guide, my guardian friend, 
 Must thus our pleasures, thus our prospects end ! 
 All that could swell thy heart, thy soul elate. 
 Heaven gave, but pondering found one gift too great.
 
 378 ON THE DEAD. 
 
 When marble-cold her meek Eliza lay, 
 Was this the hour to snatch thy love away ! 
 W'hen the fond mother claspt her fever'd child, 
 Death hail'd the omen, waved his dart, and smiled, 
 Nor unobserv'd his lengthen'd wings o'erspread 
 With deeper darkness each devoted head. 
 She knows his silent footsteps ; they have past 
 Two other babes, two more have breathed their last. 
 What now avails thee, what avail'd thee then, 
 To shine in science o'er the sons of men ! 
 Each varying plant, each tortuous root to know, 
 How latent pests from lucid waters ^ow, 
 All the deep bosom of the air contains, 
 Fire's parent strength and earth's prolific veins. 
 The last unwelcome lesson teaches this. 
 Frail are alike our knowledge and our bliss : 
 Against the storms of fate, the racks of pain, 
 Wisdom is impotent and virtue vain. 
 
 What unknown pow'rs this pausing hand controul, 
 What sacred horrors thrill this alter'd soul ! 
 What radiant finger points out heaven's decree ? 
 'Tis thou, O angel, and I bend to thee. 
 No blushes now that well-earn'd name can raise, 
 Nor canst thou longer shrink from mortal praise. 
 I feel thy smile of pure celestial love 
 Repress our sorrows, our complaints reprove. 
 Let those who knew thee, spare thy sacred sleep. 
 Those who have never known thee, those may weep.
 
 ON THE DEAD. 379 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah what avails the sceptred race. 
 Ah what the form divine ! 
 
 What every virtue, every grace ! 
 Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
 
 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 
 
 May weep, but never see, 
 A night of memories and sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee.
 
 380   ON lilK DEAD. 
 
 in. 
 
 And tliou too, Nancy ! why should Heaven remove 
 
 Each tender object of my early love ? 
 
 Why was I happy ? O ye conscious rocks ! 
 
 Was I not happy ? when lone's locks 
 
 Claspt round her neck and mine their golden chain, 
 
 Ambition, fame, and fortune, smiled in vain. 
 
 While warring winds with deaf'ning fury blew, 
 
 Near, and more near, our cheeks, our bosoms, grew. 
 
 Wave after wave the lashing ocean chased, 
 
 She smiled, and prest me closer to her waist. 
 
 " Suppose this cave should crush us," once I cried; 
 
 " It cannot fall," the loving maid replied. 
 
 " You, who are shorter, may be safe," I said; 
 
 " O let us fly !" exclamed the simple maid. 
 
 Springing, she drew me forward by the hand 
 
 Upon the sunny and the solid sand. 
 
 And then lookt round, with fearful doubt, to see 
 
 If, what I spoke so seriously, could be. 
 
 Ah memory, memory ! thou alone canst save 
 Angelic beauty from the grasping grave. 
 And shall she perish ? by yon stars I swear. 
 Here she shall live, though fate hath placed her there.
 
 ON THE DEAD. 381 
 
 The sigh of soft surrender, and the kiss 
 For absence, doubt, obedience, merit this. 
 Tho' Nancy's name for ever dwell unknown 
 Beyond her briar-bound sod and upright stone ; 
 Yet, in the lover's, in the poet's eye, 
 The gentle young lone ne'er shall die. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Child of a day, thou knowest not 
 The tears that overflow thy urn, 
 
 The gushing eyes that read thy lot, 
 Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return ! 
 
 And why the wish ! the pure and blest 
 Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep. 
 
 O peaceful night ! O envied rest ! 
 Thou wilt not ever see her weep.
 
 382 ON THE DEAD. 
 
 ON A POET IN A WELSH CPIURCH-YARD. 
 
 Kind souls ! who strive what pious hand shall bring 
 The first-found crocus from reluctant Spring, 
 Or blow your wintry fingers while they strew 
 This sunless turf with rosemary and rue, 
 Bend o'er your lovers first, but mind to save 
 One sprig of each to trim a poet's grave. 
 
 VI. 
 FOR AN URN AT THORESBY-PARK, 
 
 THE RESIDENCE Of THE LATE EARL MANVERS. 
 
 If in the summer-time, O guest, 
 
 Thou comest where these waters rest, 
 
 And where these gentle swells of land 
 
 Their ever- verdant turf expand. 
 
 Not opener these, nor those more clear. 
 
 Than was the soul that late dwelt here. 
 
 If in the winter thou hast crost 
 
 The scene benumbed with snow and frost. 
 
 Ask those thou meetest at the gate 
 
 If they are not as desolate.
 
 ON THE DEAD. 383 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yes, In this chancel once we sat alone, 
 
 Dorothea ! thou wert bright with youth. 
 Freshness like Morning's dwelt upon thy cheek, 
 While here and there above the level pews. 
 Above the housings of the village dames. 
 
 The musky fan its groves and zephyrs waved. 
 
 1 know not why, since we had each our book 
 And lookt upon it stedfastly, first one 
 Outran the learned labourer from the desk, 
 Then tript the other, and limpt far behind, 
 
 And smiles gave blushes birth, and blushes smiles. 
 Ah me ! where are they flown, my lovely friend ! 
 Two seasons like that season thou hast lain 
 Cold as the dark-blue stone beneath my feet, 
 While my heart beats as then. . but not with joy ! 
 
 O my lost friends ! why were ye once so dear ! 
 
 And why were ye not fewer, O ye few ! 
 
 Must winter, spring, and summer, thus return, 
 \ Commemorating some one torne away, 
 \ Till half the months at last shall take, with me, 
 
 'Their names from those upon your scatter'd graves !
 
 384 ON THE DEAD. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Tears driven back upon the fountain-head, 
 And Sorrow's voice supprest, 
 
 Heave, while in quiet sleep repose the dead . 
 Oh ! when will they too rest ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE. 
 
 Lo ! where the four mimosas blend their shade, 
 
 In calm repose at last is Landor laid; 
 
 For ere he slept he saw them planted here 
 
 By her his soul had ever held most dear, 
 
 And he had lived enough when he had dried her tear.
 
 ADDITIONS. 
 
 P. 205, 1. 20, after " They cannot enter Pedro's." culd 
 
 If indeed 
 You have quite ceast to love me, say it not ; 
 Let Watchfulness and Doubt walk slow before 
 Sad Certainty : let every fibre throb 
 Daily and nightly in the dim suspense; 
 Only bid Pity hold the light of Truth 
 Back, nor break suddenly my dream of bliss ; 
 For fragile is the vase, containing one 
 Poor simple flower dipt in it by yourself, 
 And, if you saw it broken at your feet, 
 You might weep too, ere you could turn away ; 
 Then never say that you have ceast to love me. 
 
 P. 236, 1. A,' after " O horrible ! O blasphemy ! O lust 
 Of change in princes ! " add 
 
 You would fain Ijecome 
 
 (Tho' prince) M'hat people call, I think, a patriot, 
 
 2 c
 
 386 ADDITIONS. 
 
 Hard husky thing with httle kernel in it, 
 And bitter as the water of Hell-streams. 
 
 rEDUO. 
 
 No, Madam ! I abjure the uncleauliness 
 
 Of name so prostituted : prince I am, 
 
 And claim my birthright, and wish others theirs. 
 
 Two cackling mothers hatch two separate broods 
 
 Of patriots ; neither shall infest my house. 
 
 I shun the noisier, but I loathe far more 
 
 Patriots with tags about their carcases 
 
 Bedolled with bits of ribbon and rag-lace. 
 
 And dangling, dainty, jeweled crucifix. 
 
 The puffed heart's pride and not its purifier. . 
 
 Limbs, lives, and fortunes, all before the king, 
 
 Until he ask the hazard of the same ; 
 
 Then the two broods unite, .one step, one voice. 
 
 For their dear country in its sad estate. 
 
 These, these are changeful. Ines, do not weep. 
 
 P. 2.36, 1.22, after " Pull lliy loose curls around." add 
 
 Exactly like. . I know not what they're like. 
 They are so frightful . . tossing here and there 
 By their own rustic untamed springiness, 
 Even when thou movest neither head not body ! 
 
 P. 236, after the 27th line, insert 
 
 (To PEDRO aside.) 
 Thou art perhaps more obstinate than she.
 
 ADDITIONS. 387 
 
 I have my doubts, .rainy-eyed girls see double. . 
 Toss on two pillows, and drop tears on each. . 
 I would say nothing more. .1 may be wrong, 
 But other names than Pedro may have crept 
 Among the curtains in Don Pedro's house. 
 
 INES. 
 
 may they ever ! glorious names ! Blest saints 
 Of Paradise ! have ye not watcht my sleep ? 
 Have ye not given me thoughts of him, and hopes, 
 And visions, when I prayed you to protect 
 Him and his children, and that gracious queen 
 Who sees me not aright thro love of him, 
 Wishing him loftier aims and brighter joys. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 My doubts now darken : do not thine at this 
 Evasion ? 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 O my Ines ! sure the Blest 
 Are the more blest to share thy love with me. 
 And I to share it, as I do, with them. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 How the man raves ! no stain, no spot in her ! 
 Immaculate ! beware ! repeat the word 
 With those unholy lips, call her that name 
 Which only one of mortal race had ever. . 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Lady ! that one was meek no less than pure.
 
 388 ADDITIONS. 
 
 QUEKN. 
 
 So am I too, who suffer all this wrong, 
 
 This violence, this scoffing, this deceit, 
 
 From one like her, false, loathsome, dull, low-born. 
 
 Others know all ; 1 know not half, nor would. 
 
 PEDUO. 
 
 Hot lolling tongues bespatter fairest names 
 With foulest slurs : black shows not upon black. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Well ! let us hope ! all may be right at last. 
 There are bad minds, Don Pedro, in the world, 
 As you must have observed. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 A glimpse or two. 
 
 QUEEN. 
 
 I did then wisely when I warned you both, 
 Tho 'tis a thankless office, as most are 
 Where we consume our days in doing good. 
 
 {To INES.) 
 
 Yet little as thou hast deserved of me, &c. &c. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BRAnBL'RY AND EVANS, rUINTKRS.
 
 r
 
 
 '^iC;' •; 
 
 .;:'^;:;i.;C¥V:a'lf=:
 
 University o) California, Los Anoeles 
 
 L 006 335 6 
 
 6 6 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 367 279 7