THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Dr. Blanche C. Erov/n
 
 €\}t Morks of <3mQZ ISIiot 
 
 POEMS 
 
 Vol. I. 
 Illustrated Cabinet Edition
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Photo- Etching, — From Painting by George Fuller.
 
 lUusttatcS Cabinet Eattinn 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 BOSTON 
 DANA ESTES & COMPANY 
 
 PURLLSHERS
 
 PR 
 
 
 to sp^ SDcar 
 
 — E VER Y DAY DEARER — 
 HUSBAND. 
 
 762735
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 George Eliot as a Poet 1 
 
 Extracts from George Eliot's Life ...... 15 
 
 The Spanish Gypsi. Book I 25 
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. Book II 148 
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. Book III . 196
 
 iList of illustrations. 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 Fedalma Frontispiece 
 
 •'A figure lithe, all white aud saffron robed, 
 Flashed right across the circle " Page 70 
 
 " Fedalma entered, cast away the cloud 
 Of serge aud lineu, and, outbeaniing bright, 
 Advanced a pace towards Silva " 89 
 
 "My father . . . comes . • . my father" 125 
 
 " Ay, 't is a sword 
 That parts the Spanish noble and the true Zincala .... 232
 
 GEOEGE ELIOT A3 A POET. 
 
 {From the Contemporary Review, vol. viii. p. 397.) 
 
 As if a strong, delightful water that we knew only 
 as a river appeared in the character of a fountain ; 
 as if one whom we had wondered at as a good 
 walker or inexhaustible pedestrian, began to dance ; 
 as if Mr. Bright, in the middle of a public meeting, 
 were to oblige the company with a song, — no, no, 
 not like that exactly, but like something quite new, 
 — is the appearance of George Eliot in the character 
 of a poet. " The Spanish Gypsy," a poem in five 
 books, originally written, as a prefatory note informs 
 us, in the winter of 1864-65, and, after a visit to 
 Spain in 1867, re-written and amplified, is before us. 
 It is a great volume of three hundred and fifty 
 octavo pages ; and the first thing which strikes 
 the reader is, tliat it is a good deal longer than he 
 expected it would be. This is bad, to begin with. 
 What right has anybody to make a poem longer 
 than one expected ? The next thing that strikes 
 one is, — at all events, the next thing that struck 
 me was, as I very hastily turned over the book, — 
 that the fine largo of the author's manner, con- 
 tinued through so many pages, was a very little 
 burdensome in its effect. That may come of the 
 specific levity of my taste ; but it is as well to be 
 quite frank. 
 
 VOL. 1 — I
 
 2 POEMS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Dr. Holmes, of Boston, says — I fear I am re- 
 peating myself, as he did with his illustration of the 
 alighting huma — that a poem is like a violin in 
 the respect that it needs to be kept and used a good 
 deal before you know what music there is in it. If 
 that is so, what may here be said of George Eliot's 
 poem will have but little value ; for the book has 
 only been in my hand a few days, at a time when 
 my preoccupation is great, and reading is painful to 
 me. But, in the first place, I do really think my 
 hasty impressions are correct in this case; and, in 
 the second, I shall find some way of returning to the 
 book, ii after very often-repeated readings (according 
 to my habit) I alter any of my opinions. 
 
 In the Argosy I once gave reasons for looking 
 forward with deep interest to anything George Eliot 
 might do in the shape of poetry, and also hinted 
 the direction in which her risk of greater or less 
 failure appeared to me to lie. " You can never 
 reckon up these high-strung natures, ever ready to 
 be re-impregnated," or tell what surprises they may 
 have in store for you. It had often struck me that 
 there was a vein of poetic expression in the writing 
 of George Eliot, of which a hundred instances might 
 have been given. But the question of questions 
 remained : Had she such a power, not to say neces- 
 sity, of spontaneous expression in verse, that when 
 we saw her poetry we should inevitably say, as 
 Milton said of himself, that the expression in 
 verse was the right-hand speech, that in prose 
 the left-hand speech ? How fine are the shades 
 or gradations of quality in this repect, can be little 
 understood by those who have not, by instinct or 
 otherwise, fed, so to speak, on verse. For example, 
 we all know that Wordsworth often wrote, in the
 
 GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 3 
 
 printed form of verse, the most utterly detestable 
 prose. Yet lie could and did produce most exquisite 
 verse. Again, a living poet of the school of Words- 
 worth," Mr. Henry Taylor, barely, or little better 
 than barely, enables us to say of him that verse is 
 his right-hand and prose his left. Still, after some 
 little demur, we are able to say it; and we call 
 him a poet. 
 
 It must not be supposed that this is by any 
 means a matter of mere fluency, correctness, or ease 
 of numbers. Macaulay wrote verses far superior in 
 these particulars to many of Mr. Henry Taylor's and 
 many of Wordsworth's. Yet verse was, unequivo- 
 cally, Macaulay's left-hand ; and after adolescence, 
 few people can read his verse for poetry. If I were 
 not unwilling to rouse the prejudice of (I fear!) 
 most of my readers, I should here add Edgar Poe ; 
 and, indeed, I really cannot spare him as an illus- 
 tration. He must have some queer hybrid place, 
 all to himself (which it would take an essay to de- 
 fine) ; but though he may be said to have felt verse 
 his right-hand medium of expression, some few of us 
 hesitate to call him a poet. Not to complicate this 
 matter, let us come at once to the point. What is 
 it that in excellent verse differentiates ^ that which 
 is poetry and that which is not ? Not mere flu- 
 ency, but unconscious fluency; in a word, simplicity. 
 Whatever art may do for the poet, he must be a 
 swijjle musician to begin with. 
 
 In looking rapidly over this poem of George Eliot's 
 I have — let me confess it — I have been inclined 
 to fear that this " note " of simplicity is wanting. 
 And, in spite of an abundance of fine passages, I 
 
 ' I h;ivo seen this word olijected to as a scientific foppery; but iu 
 its form of lo dij/'erence, the verb is a good old Euglish verb.
 
 4 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 fear, also, there is not the perfect fluency of use and 
 wont. It has been maintained, under shelter of 
 Elizabethan models, that you may do almost any- 
 thing in dramatic blank verse, in the way of length- 
 ening and shortening the line. I object to the 
 doctrine, and maintain that the Elizabethan ex- 
 amples cited are, in many instances, mere bits of 
 negligence ; and, in others, roughnesses of work- 
 manship belonging to the lusty youth of a new art. 
 Blank verse means ten-syllable iambic lines. If 
 there are deviations from this form, as there often 
 are, and should be, they must be regulated devia- 
 tions, not accidental intrusions of other forms. . . , 
 The versification of " The Spanish Gypsy " often 
 breaks out into the very highest excellence ; but it 
 too often wants spontaneity and simplicity. 
 
 As the same observation applies to the lyrics, one 
 has little hesitation in coming to the conclusion 
 that the primal peculiarity which distinguishes the 
 singer from the ' sayer is either lacking in George 
 Eliot or that its function has suffered from disuse. 
 I still hesitate to say suffered irreparably, because 
 I still think the orbit of a genius like George Eliot's 
 incalculable. With such a noble ambition, and such 
 immense resources, one may do almost anything. 
 Thus, though I confess I now think it improbable 
 that George Eliot will ever exhibit in a poem the 
 true simplicity of the singer, and compel her readers 
 to admit that her music is better than her speech, 
 I hesitate, or well-nigh hesitate, in saying even so 
 much as that. It is very pathetic that a noble 
 ambition should come so near its mark and yet fail. 
 Only what are we to do ? The truth must be 
 spoken. 
 
 Against the presumption raised by the bulk of
 
 GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 5 
 
 the writing must, in fairness, be set the evidence of 
 particular passages, in which the author attains 
 such high excellence that if one had seen those 
 passages alone, there would have been no hesitation 
 or doubt on the score of melody. A few of these, 
 in some of which the reader will catch fine touches 
 of Elizabethan inspiration, I will pick out of the 
 mass. 
 • Take, for an example, this description of Zarca : — • 
 
 " He is of those 
 Who steal the keys from snoring Destiny 
 And make the prophets lie." 
 
 And this : — 
 
 " My vagabonds are a seed more generous, 
 Quick as the serpent, loving as tlie hound, 
 And beautiful as disinherited gods. 
 They have a promised land beyond the sea." 
 
 And this : — 
 
 '' Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall 
 Pencilled upon the grass ; high summer morns 
 When white light rains upon the quiet sea 
 And corutields tlush with ripeness." 
 
 And this : — 
 
 " Present and silent and unchangeable 
 As a celestial portent." 
 
 Lastly, the best lyric in the poem : — 
 
 " The world is great: the birds all fiy from me, 
 The stars are golden fruit ui)on a tree 
 All out of reach : my little sister went, 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 " The world is great : I tried to mount the hill 
 Above the pines, where the light lies so still, 
 But it rose higher : little Lisa went, 
 And I am lonely.
 
 6 POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 "The world is great : the wind comes rushing by, 
 I wonder where it comes from; sea-birds cry 
 And hurt my heart ; my little sister went, 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 " The world is great : the people laugh and talk, 
 And make loud holiday : how fast they walk! 
 I 'm lame, they push me : little Lisa went, 
 And I am lonely." 
 
 Besides the want of spontaneity and simplicity in 
 the verse, there are other points whicli make ns feel, 
 with whatever reluctance to admit the thing we 
 undoubtingly see, that in " The Spanish Gypsy " 
 something is wanting, and in that something every- 
 thing that endears a poem as a poem. The writing 
 has the diffuseness of literature rather than the 
 condensation of poetry ; and, admirable as some of 
 it is, we wish it away : at the lowest, we say to 
 ourselves, if a poet had had to utter this, our 
 pleasure would have been perfect ; but, as it is, what 
 is before us is almost too good, and yet it is not good 
 enough ; it does not compel us to think, le poete a le 
 frisson, either while we read or afterwards. There 
 is too much aggregation and accumulation about 
 it ; we are set thinking, and set feeling ; we are agi- 
 tated ; but we are not thrilled by any single sud- 
 dt'n notes. Lastly, or all but lastly, some of the 
 frequent touches of humorous detail are fatal: — 
 
 " Enter the Duke, Pal)lo, and Annilial, 
 Exit the cat, retreating towards the dark." 
 
 Tliis, and all this kind of thing, is gravely wrong in 
 a poem. In some cases the phraseology has this 
 species of modern familiarity and curtness ; in oth- 
 ers, the equally distinguishable larjo of the modern 
 pliilosophic manner, while what is supremely needed, 
 namely, finish, is what we in vain go longing for.
 
 GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 7 
 
 Finally, the intellectual groundwork, or outline, 
 of the poem shows far too plainly under the colouring 
 of passion and the movement of the story. Since 
 " Silas Marner " we have had no book from George 
 Eliot to which this criticism would not, in some 
 degree, be applicable. There is not room here for 
 any exhibition of all the recurring ideas of George 
 Eliot's writings, but one in particular has been 
 growing more and more prominent since " Silas 
 Marner," and of wdiich the first hint is in "The 
 Mill on the Floss." " If the past is not to bind us," 
 said Maggie Tulliver, in answer to the importunities 
 of Stephen Guest, " what is ? " In a noticeable and 
 well-remembered review of Mr. Lecky's "History of 
 Eationalism," George Eliot told us that the best 
 part of our lives was made up of organized traditions 
 (I quote from memory, but the meaning was plain). 
 Putting these two things together, we get the intel- 
 lectual ground-plan of " The Spanish Gypsy." Per- 
 haps the illustrious author of the poem would 
 resent the idea that any moral was intended to be 
 conveyed by her recent writings ; but, assuredly, 
 this moral is thrust upon us everywhere, in a way 
 which implies, if not intention, very eager belief. 
 
 Leaving the workmanship and the intellectual 
 conception, or interwoven moral criticism, of the 
 poem, and coming to the story, I am sure of only 
 echoing what all the world will say when I call 
 this in the highest degree poetic; and poetically 
 dramatic, too.- I must add, and with emphasis, that 
 the story seems to me to gain, as a story, by this 
 mode of presentation, — as I firmly believe "Ro- 
 mola " would have gained, if the question of perfect 
 poetic expression could have been got over. In 
 other words, although the manner of the novelist
 
 8 POEMS OF GEORGE ELTOT. 
 
 too often obtrudes itself in " The Spanish Gypsy," 
 the author has told the story more ahectingly, and 
 with much more of truthfulness and local colour 
 and manner, than she would have done if she had 
 been writing it as a novel. Compare, for example, 
 what I think are among the very finest things George 
 Eliot has ever done, — the scene between Juan the 
 troubadour and the Gypsy girls, at the opening of 
 Book III., and the scene in which Don Amador 
 reads to the retainers of Don Silva from " Las Siete 
 Partidas " the passage beginning, " Et esta gentileza 
 aviene en tres maneras " (the critical reader who 
 stumbles at the " et " must be informed that this is 
 thirteenth-century Spanish), — compare tliese two 
 scenes, I say, with the first scene in the barber's 
 shop, and the scene of the Florentine joke, in 
 " Romola," and note how very much the author 
 gains by assuming the dramatic form. I have heard 
 readers of much critical ability, and much poetic 
 and dramatic instinct, too, complain that they did 
 not see the force of those scenes in " Romola ; " but 
 it must be an incredibly dull person that misses the 
 force of those scenes in " The Spanish Gypsy." The 
 love-passages, also, are exquisitely beautiful ; and 
 in them again the author has gained by using the 
 dramatic form. I dare to add that she has, how- 
 ever, lost by some of the (so to speak) " stage- 
 directions." We don't want to be told how a man 
 and woman of the type of Don Silva and Fedalma ^ 
 look when they are saying certain things. We 
 can feel pretty sure when the moment would be too 
 
 1 I do not rememlaer having ever seen tin's name before ; it is an 
 ex(|nisitely musical word, and, I suppose, is intended to mean Faith 
 of the Soul ; or, more intelligibly to some people (uot to be envied), 
 Spiritual Fidelity.
 
 GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 9 
 
 sweet and solemn even for kissing. As Sam Slick 
 said, " Natur' teaches that air." 
 
 The story of " The Spanish Gypsy " is simply this : 
 Fedalma, a Zincala, is lost in her early childhood, 
 and brought up by a Spanish duchess, Don Silva's 
 mother. As she grows to womanhood Silva loves 
 her, and she is on the point of marrying him when 
 the narrative opens. But Fedalma's father, Zarca, 
 a Gypsy Moses, Hiawatha, or both, devoted to the 
 regeneration of his tribe, suddenly appears upon the 
 scene and claims his daughter. Will she marry 
 Don Silva, or go with her father and be the priest- 
 ess of a new faith to the Zincali? She decides to 
 accompany her father. Upon this Silva renounces 
 his position as a Spanish noble and Christian knight 
 and becomes a Zincalo. This implies the relinquish- 
 ment of his post as commander of the town and 
 fortress of Bedmar, which it is his duty to guard 
 against the Moors ; but he is not aware, at the time 
 he takes the Gypsy oath, that Zarca is already in 
 league with the Moors to take the fortress. Zarca 
 and the Moors, however, succeed in investing the 
 place, and some noble Spaniards, friends of Silva's, 
 including his uncle. Father Isidor, are slain. Mad 
 with remorse and rage, Silva stabs Zarca, but is 
 allowed to go free. The poem closes with the 
 departure of Silva to obtain absolution from the 
 Pope, in order that he may recommence the career 
 of a Christian knight, and the departure of Fedalnia 
 to begin, as best she may, the work bequeathed to 
 her by her father, namely, the regeneration of the 
 Zincali. 
 
 One thing is obvious on the face of this story,— 
 that Silva was guilty, in so far as he was an apostate. 
 But there will not be wanting readers who when
 
 10 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 asking the question wIki was the cause of all the 
 misery with which the narrative overtiows, will say, 
 Fedahna. It was all very well to say that her past 
 bound her. But which past ? When Zarca started 
 up, she was pledged by her " past " to Silva, and she 
 loved him. What Zarca imported into the situation 
 was, as lawyers say, new matter. The morrow 
 would have seen her married to Silva ; and what 
 then, if Zarca had appeared upon the stage with his 
 Gypsy patriotism ? All the future was dark to her, 
 there was no reason whatever to believe that either 
 she or Zarca would be able to regenerate the Gyp- 
 sies ; there was present actual proof that she was 
 essential to Silva, life of his life, and the bond of 
 his being. What right had she to forsake him ? It 
 is idle to discuss this, but since, as far as I can make 
 out, there is distinct teaching in the poem, and that 
 teaching is of no force unless Fedalma was, heijond 
 question, right, it is perfectly fair and appropriate to 
 suggest that there is room for question. It seems 
 to me a little curious that George Eliot does not see 
 that the same reason wliich made Sephardo, the 
 astrologer, a son first and a Jew afterwards, would 
 make Fedalma a betrothed woman first and a 
 Zincala next. 
 
 But I do not dwell upon this point, because I 
 look forw^ard to another opportunity of dealing with 
 what we are now^ entitled to assume is George Eliot's 
 evangel, — 
 
 " . . . . that Supreme, the irreversible Past." 
 
 Irreversible, no doubt, but — " Supreme ! " The 
 reader must not imagine that I am darting cap- 
 tiously at a word here. Not at alL George Eliot 
 has a very distmct meaning, wdiich is very distinctly
 
 GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. ii 
 
 affiliated to a certain mode of thought. To this 
 mode of thought may be traced the astounding 
 discords of her late writings, or rather the one 
 astounding discord which runs throucrh them. 
 
 In submitting to the world a poem, George Eliot 
 is under one serious disadvantage. There are certain 
 particulars in which she is not likely, in verse, to 
 excel her own prose. Clear and profound concep- 
 tion, and emphatic, luminous, and affecting presen- 
 tation of character, is one of them. The power of 
 inventing dramatic situation is another. In these 
 particulars " The Spanish Gypsy " falls behind noth- 
 ing that this distinguished writer has done ; though 
 I do not myself feel that either Fedalma or Zarca 
 is dramatically presented to us. Indeed, vivid as 
 George Eliot's painting of character always is, and 
 profoundly intelligent, I never thought it dramatic. 
 Nor is it. Here, as in the other books of George 
 Eliot, character is always most vividly described 
 and analyzed ; and what the people do is, of course, 
 in exact accordance with what is described; but 
 none of them reveal themselves without having had 
 the advantage of some criticism. None of them, 
 that is to say, reveal themselves by action only, or 
 by action and speech only, unless the speech takes 
 a criticfd form. Zarca is shadowy, and Fedalma 
 shadowy. But Juan and Silva we understand well 
 because they are criticised ; and Isidor the prior, and 
 Sephardo the Jew, we understand well, because 
 their talk is criticism of a kind which only a certain 
 order of mind could produce. Perhaps the finest 
 portions of the poem lie in some of these critical or 
 quasi -critical passages. Let us take " The Astrolo- 
 ger's Study": —
 
 12 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 "A room high up in Abdembman's tower, 
 A window open to the still warm eve, 
 And tbe bright disk of royal Jupiter. 
 Lamps burning low make little atmospheres 
 OF light amid the dimness; here and there 
 Show books and phials, stones and instruments. 
 In carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps 
 Right in the rays of Jupiter a small man. 
 In skull-cap bordered close with crisp gray curls, 
 And loose black gown showing a neck and breast 
 Protected by a dim-green amulet; 
 Pale-faced, with finest nostril wont to breathe 
 Ethereal passion in a world of thought; 
 Eyebrows jet-black and firm, yet delicate; 
 Beard scant and grizzled; moMih shut firm, with curves 
 So subtly turned to meanings exquisite. 
 You seem to read them as you read a word 
 Fall-vowelled, long descended, pregnant, — rich 
 With legacies from long, laborious lives." 
 
 Juan's criticism of himself: — 
 
 *' I can unleash my fancy if you wish 
 And hunt for phantoms : shoot an airy guess 
 And bring down airy likelihood, — some lie 
 Masked cunningly to look like royal truth 
 And cheat the shooter, while King Fact goes free, 
 Or else some image of reality 
 That doubt- will handle and reject as false. 
 Ask for conjecture, — I can thread the sky 
 Like any swallow, but, if you insist 
 On knowledge that would guide a pair of feet 
 Right to Bedmar, across the Moorish bounds, 
 A mule that dreams of stumbling over stones 
 Is better stored." 
 
 And, assuredly, I must not omit the study of the 
 character of Silva himself : — 
 
 "A man ol high-wrought strain, fastidious 
 In his acceptance, dreading all deliglit 
 That speedy dies and turns to carrion :
 
 GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 13 
 
 His senses mach exacting, deep instilled 
 
 With keen imagination's ditlicnlt needs ; — 
 
 Like strong-limbed monsters studded o'er with eyes. 
 
 Their hunger checked by overwhelming vision, 
 
 Or that fierce lion in symbolic dream 
 
 Snatched from the ground by wings and new-endowed 
 
 With a man's thought-propelled relenting heart. 
 
 Silva was both the lion and the man ; 
 
 First hesitating shrank, then fiercely sprang, 
 
 Or having sprung, turned pallid at his deed 
 
 And loosed the prize, paying his blood for naught. 
 
 A nature half-transformed, with qualities 
 
 That oft bewrayed each other, elements 
 
 Not blent but struggling, breeding strange eff'ects, 
 
 Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes. 
 
 Haughty and generous, grave and passionate ; 
 
 With tidal moments of devoutest awe, 
 
 Sinking anon to farthest ebb of doubt ; 
 
 Deliberating ever, till the sting 
 
 Of a recurrent ardour made him rush 
 
 Right against reasons that himself had drilled 
 
 And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed 
 
 Too proudly special for obedience. 
 
 Too subtly pondering for mastery : 
 
 Born of a goddess with a mortal sire. 
 
 Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity, 
 
 Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness 
 
 And perilous heightening of the sentient soul. 
 
 But look less curiously : life itself 
 
 May not express us all, may leave the worst 
 
 And the best too, like tunes in mechanism 
 
 Never awaked. In various catalogues 
 
 Objects stand variously." 
 
 There is only one living mind which could have 
 given us poetico-psychological studies of human 
 character like these. There is no comparison in 
 range of faculty between such a mind and John 
 Clare's. Is it not strange, and almost pathetic, that 
 an uncultivated peasant could sing, and touch us 
 with music, as no speech could; and yet that a
 
 14 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 highly cultivated mind like George Eliot's should 
 almost overwhelm our judgment by the richness 
 and volume of what it pours forth in the name of 
 song ; and yet that we are compelled to say the 
 biid-note is missing ? 
 
 Matthew Bkowke.
 
 EXTEACTS FROM GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE. 
 Edited by J. W. CROSS. 
 
 Among my wife's papers were four or five pages 
 of manuscript headed " Notes on the Spanish Gypsy 
 and Tragedy in General. " There is no evidence 
 as to the date at which this fragment was written, 
 and it seems to have been left unfinished. But 
 there was evidently some care to preserve it ; and 
 as I think she would not have objected to its pre- 
 sentation, I give it here exactly as it stands. It 
 completes the history of the poem, 
 
 " The subject of ' The Spanish Gypsy' was origi- 
 nally suggested to me by a picture which hangs in 
 the Scuola di' San Rocco at Venice, over the door 
 of the large Sala containing Tintoretto's frescos. 
 It is an Annunciation, said to be by Titian. Of 
 course I had seen numerous pictures of this subject 
 before ; and the subject had always attracted me. 
 But in this my second visit to the Scuola di' San 
 Rocco, this small picture of Titian's, pointed out 
 to me for the first time, brought a new train of 
 thought. It occurred to me that here was a great 
 dramatic motive of the same class as those used 
 by the Greek dramatists, yet specifically differing 
 from them. A young maiden, believing herself 
 to be on the eve of the chief event of her life, —
 
 i6 EXTRACTS FROM GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE. 
 
 marriage, — about to share in the ordinary lot 
 of womanhood, full of young hope, has suddenly 
 announced to her that she is chosen to fulfil a 
 great destiny, entailing a terribly different expe- 
 rience from that of ordinary womanhood. She is 
 chosen, not by any momentary arbitrariness, l)ut 
 as a result of foregoing hereditary conditions : she 
 obeys. ' Behold the handmaid of the Lord, ' Here, 
 I thought, is a subject grander than that of Iphi- 
 genia, and it has never been used. I came home 
 wuth this in my mind, meaning to give the motive 
 a clothing in some suitable set of historical and 
 local conditions. My reflections brought me noth- 
 ing that would serve me, except that moment in 
 Spanish history when the struggle with the Moors 
 was attaining its climax, and when there was the 
 gypsy race present under such conditions as would 
 enable me to get my heroine and the hereditary 
 claim on her among the gypsies. I required the 
 opposition of race to give the need for renouncing 
 the expectation of marriage. I could not use the 
 Jews or the Moors, because the facts of their his- 
 tory were too conspicuously opposed to the work- 
 ing out of my catastrophe. Meanwhile the subject 
 had become more and more pregnant to me. I saw 
 it might be taken as a symbol of the part which 
 is played in the general human lot by hereditary 
 conditions in the largest sense, and of the fact that 
 what we call duty is entirely made up of such 
 conditions ; for even in cases of just antagonism to 
 the narrow view of hereditarv claims, the whole 
 background of the particular struggle is made up of 
 our inherited nature. Suppose for a moment tliat 
 our conduct at great epochs was determined entirely 
 by reflection, without the immediate intervention
 
 EXTRACTS FROM GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE. 17 
 
 of feeling, which supersedes reflection, our determi- 
 nation as to the right would consist in an adjust- 
 ment of our individual needs to the dire necessities 
 of our. lot, partly as to our natural constitution, 
 partly as sharers of life with our fellow-beings. 
 Tragedy consists in the terrible difficulty of this 
 adjustment, — 
 
 " ' The dire strife of poor Humanity's afflicted will, 
 Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny.' 
 
 Looking at individual lots, I seemed to see in 
 each the same story, wrought out with more or 
 less of tragedy, and I determined the elements of 
 my drama under the influence of these ideas. 
 
 " In order to judge properly of the dramatic 
 structure it must not be considered first in the 
 light of doctrinal symbolism, but in the light of 
 a tragedy representing some grand collision in the 
 human lot. And it must be judged accordingly. 
 A good tragic subject must represent a possible, 
 sufficiently probable, not a common, action ; and 
 to be really tragic, it must represent irreparable 
 collision between the individual and the general 
 (in differing degrees of generality). It is the indi- 
 vidual with whom we sympathize, and the general 
 of which we recognize the irresistible power. The 
 truth of this test will be seen by applying it to 
 the greatest tragedies. The collision of Greek 
 tragedy is often that between hereditary, entailed " 
 Nemesis and the peculiar individual lot, awaken- 
 ing our sympathy, of the particular man or woman 
 whom the Nemesis is shown to grasp with terrific 
 force. Sometimes, as in the Oresteia, there is the 
 clashing of two irreconcilable requirements, — two 
 
 duties, as we should say in these times. The mur- 
 voL. I. — 2
 
 i8 EXTRACTS FROM GEORGE ELIOT'S LIEE. 
 
 der of the father must be avenged by the murder of 
 the mother, which must again be avenged. These 
 two tragic rehations of the individual and general, 
 and of two irreconcilable ' oughts,' may be — will 
 be — seen to be almost always combined. The 
 Greeks were not taking an artificial, entirely er- 
 roneous standpoint in their art, — a standpoint 
 which disappeared altogether with their religion 
 and their art. They had the same essential ele- 
 ments of life presented to them as we have, and 
 their art symbolized these in grand schematic 
 forms. The Prometheus represents the inefi'ectual 
 struggle to redeem the small and miserable race of 
 man, against the stronger adverse ordinances that 
 govern the frame of things with a triumphant 
 power. Coming to modern tragedies, what is it 
 that makes Othello a great tragic subject ? A 
 story simply of a jealous husband is elevated into 
 a most pathetic tragedy by the hereditary condi- 
 tions of Othello's lot, which give him a subjective 
 ground for distrust. Faust, Eigoletto (' Le Roi 
 s 'Amuse'), Brutus. It might be a reasonable 
 ground of objection against the whole structure of 
 ' The Spanish Gypsy, ' if it were shown that the 
 action is outrageously improbable, — lying outside 
 all that can be congruously conceived of human 
 actions. It is not a reasonable ground of objection 
 that they would have done better to act otherwise, 
 any more than it is a reasonable objection against 
 the Iphigenia that Agamemnon would have done 
 better not to sacrifice his daughter. 
 
 " As renunciations coming under the same great 
 class, take the renunciation of marriage where 
 marriage cannot take place without entailing mis- 
 ery on the children.
 
 EXTRACTS FROM GEORGE ELIOT'S LIEE. 19 
 
 " A tragedy has not to expound why the indivi- 
 dual must give way to the general ; it has to show 
 that it is compelled to give way, — the tragedy 
 consisting in the struggle involved, and often in 
 the entirely calamitous issue in spite of a grand 
 submission. Silva presents the tragedy of entire 
 rebellion; Fedalma, of a grand submission, which 
 is rendered vain by the effects of Silva's rebellion; 
 Zarca, the struggle for a great end, rendered vain 
 by the surrounding conditions of life. 
 
 " Now, what is the fact about our individual 
 lots ? A woman, say, finds herself on the earth 
 with an inherited organization : she may be lame, 
 she may inherit a disease, or what is tantamount 
 to a disease ; she may be a negress, or have other 
 marks of race repulsive in the community where 
 she is born, etc. One may go on for a long while 
 without reaching the limits of the commonest in- 
 herited misfortunes. It is almost a mockery to 
 say to such human beings, ' Seek your own hap- 
 piness. ' The utmost approach to well-being that 
 can be made in such a case is through large resig- 
 nation and acceptance of the inevitable, with as 
 much effort to overcome any disadvantage as good 
 sense will show to be attended with a likelihood 
 of success. Any one may say, that is the dictate 
 of mere rational rejection. But calm can in hardly 
 any human organism be attained by rational reflec- 
 tion. Happily, we are not left to that. Love, 
 pity, constituting sympathy, and generous joy with 
 regard to the lot of our fellow-men comes in, — has 
 been grov/ing since the beginning,. — enormously 
 enhanced by wider vision of results, by an imagi- 
 nation actively interested in the lot of maukiiid 
 generally; and these feelings become pietj- —that
 
 20 EXTRACTS FROM GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE. 
 
 is, loving, willing submission and heroic Prome- 
 thean effort towards high possibilities, which may 
 result from our individual life. 
 
 "There is really no moral 'sanction' but tliis 
 inward impulse. The will of God is the same 
 thing as the will of other men, compelling us to 
 work and avoid what they have seen to be harmful 
 to social existence. Disjoined from any perceived 
 good, the divine will is simply so much as we 
 have ascertained of the facts of existence which 
 compel obedience at our peril. Any other notion 
 comes from the supposition of arbitrary revelation. 
 
 " That favourite view, expressed so often in 
 Clough's poems, of doing duty in blindness as to 
 the result, is likely to deepen the substitution of 
 egoistic yearnings for really moral impulses. We 
 cannot be utterly blind to the results of duty, 
 since that cannot be duty which is not already 
 judged to be for human good. To say the contrary 
 is to say that mankind have reached no inductions 
 as to what is for their good or evil. 
 
 " The art which leaves the soul in despair is 
 laming to the soul, and is denounced by the 
 healthy sentiment of an active community. - The 
 consolatory elements in ' The Spanish Gypsy' are 
 derived from two convictions or sentiments which 
 so conspicuously pervade it that they may be said 
 to be its very warp, on which the whole action is 
 woven. These are : (1) The importance of indivi- 
 dual deeds; (2) The all-sufliciency of the soul's 
 passions in determining sympathetic action. 
 
 " In Silva is presented the claim -of fidelity to 
 social pledges ; in Fedalma, the claim constituted 
 by an hereditary lot less consciously shared. 
 
 " With regard to the supremacy of love : if it
 
 EXTRACTS FROM GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE. 21 
 
 were a fact without exception that man or woman 
 never did renounce tlie joys of L)ve, there could 
 never have sprung up a notion tliat such renuncia- 
 tion could present itself as a duty. If no parents 
 had ever cared for their children, how could pa- 
 rental affection have been reckoned among the ele- 
 ments of life ? But what are the facts in relation 
 to this matter ? Will any one say that faithful- 
 ness to the marriage tie has never been regarded as 
 a duty, in spite of the presence of the profoundest 
 passion experienced after marriage ? Is Guinevere's 
 conduct the type of duty ? "
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY,
 
 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 BOOK I. 
 
 'Tis the warm South, where Europe spreads her 
 
 lands 
 Like fretted leaflets, breathing on the deep : 
 Broad-breasted Spain, leaning with equal love 
 (A calm earth-goddess crowned with corn and 
 
 vines) 
 On the Mid Sea that moans with memories, 
 And on the untravelled Ocean, whose vast tides 
 Pant dumbly passionate with dreams of youth. 
 This river, shadowed by the battlements 
 And gleaming silvery towards the northern sky. 
 Feeds the famed stream that waters Andalus 
 And loiters, amorous of the fragrant air, 
 By Cordova and Seville to the bay 
 Fronting Algarva and the wanderin" flood 
 Of Guadiana. This deep mountain gorge 
 Slopes widening on the olive-plumdd plains 
 Of fair Granada : one far-stretching arm 
 Points to Elvira, one to eastward heights 
 Of Alpujarras where tlie new-bathed Day 
 With oriflamme uplifted o'er the peaks 
 Saddens the breasts of northward looking snows
 
 26 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 That loved the night, and soared with soaring stars; 
 
 Flashing the signals of his nearing swiftness 
 
 From Almeria's purple -shadowed bay 
 
 On to the far-ofi' rocks that gaze and glow, — 
 
 On to Alhambra, strong and ruddy heart 
 
 Of glorious Morisraa, gasping now, 
 
 A maiint^d giant in his agony. 
 
 This town that dips its feet within the stream. 
 
 And seems to .sit a tower-crowned Cybele, 
 
 Spreading her ample robe adown the rocks, 
 
 Is rich BedniLir : 't was Moorish long ago. 
 
 Bat now the Cross is sparkling on the Mosque, 
 
 And bells make Catholic the trembling air. 
 
 The fortress gleams in Spanish sunshine now 
 
 ('Tis south a mile before the rays are Moorish), — 
 
 Hereditary jewel, agraffe bright 
 
 On all the many-titled privilege 
 
 Of young Duke Silva. No Castilian knight 
 
 That serves Queen Isabel has higher charge ; 
 
 For near this frontier sits the Moorish king, 
 
 Not Boabdil the waverer, who usurps 
 
 A throne he trembles in, and fawning licks 
 
 The feet of conquerors, but that fierce lion 
 
 Grisly El Zagal, who has made his lair 
 
 In Guadix' fort, and rushing thence with strength, 
 
 Half his own fierceness, half the untainted heart 
 
 Of mountain bands that fight for holiday. 
 
 Wastes the fair lands that lie by Alcala, 
 
 Wreathinc: his horse's neck with Christian heads. 
 
 To keep the Christian frontier, — such high trust 
 Is young Duke Silva's; and the time is great. 
 (What times are little ? To the sentinel 
 That hour is regal when he mounts on guard.) 
 The fifteenth century since the Man Divine
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. rj 
 
 Taught find was hated in Capernaum 
 
 Is neai" its end, — is falling as a husk 
 
 Away from all the fruit its years have ripened. 
 
 The Moslem faith, now flickering like a torch 
 
 In a night struggle on this shore of Spain, 
 
 Glares, a broad column of advancing tlame, 
 
 Along the Danube and Illyrian shore 
 
 Far into Italy, where eager monks. 
 
 Who watch in dreams and dream the while they 
 
 watch. 
 See Christ grow paler in the baleful light, 
 Crying again the cry of the forsaken. 
 But faith, the stronger for extremity, 
 Becomes prophetic, hears the far-ofi" tread 
 Of western chivalry, sees downward sweep 
 The archangel Michael with the gleaming sword, 
 And listens for the shriek of hurrying fiends 
 Chased from their revels in God's sanctuary. 
 So trusts the monk, and lifts appealing eyes 
 To the high dome, the Church's firmament, 
 Where the blue light-pierced curtain, rolled away 
 Reveals the throne and Him who sits thereon. 
 So trust the men whose best hope for the world 
 Is ever that the world is near its end : 
 Impatient of the stars that keep their course 
 And make no pathway for the coming Judge. 
 
 But other futures stir the world's great heart. 
 
 The West now enters on the heritage 
 
 Won from the tombs of. mighty ancestors. 
 
 The seeds, the gold, the gems, the silent harps 
 
 That lay deep buried with the memories 
 
 Of old renown. 
 
 No more, as once in sunny Avignon, 
 
 The poet-scholar spreads the Homeric page,
 
 28 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 And gazes sadly, like the deaf at song; 
 Yov now the old epic voices ring again 
 And vibrate with the beat and melody- 
 Stirred by the warmth of old Ionian days. 
 The martyred sage, the Attic orator, 
 Immortally incarnate, like the gods, 
 In spiritual bodies, winged words 
 Holding a universe impalpable. 
 Find a new audience. Forevermore, 
 "With grander resurrection than was feigned 
 Of Attila's fierce Huns, the soul of Greece 
 Conquers the bulk of Persia. The maimed form 
 Of calmly joyous beauty, marble-limbed. 
 Yet breathing with the thought that shaped its 
 
   lips. 
 Looks mild reproach from out its opened grave 
 At creeds of terror; and the vine-wreathed god 
 Eising, a stifled question from the silence, 
 Fronts the pierced Image with the crown of thorns. 
 The soul of man is widening towards the past : 
 No longer hanging at the breast of life 
 Feeding in blindness to his parentage, — 
 Quenching all wonder with Omnipotence, 
 Praising a name with indolent piety, — 
 He spells the record of his long descent. 
 More largely conscious of the life that was 
 And from the height that shows where morning 
 
 shone 
 On far-off summits pale and gloomy now, 
 The horizon widens round him, and the west 
 Looks vast with untracked waves whereon his gaze 
 Follows the flight of the swift-vanished bird 
 That like the sunken sun is mirrored still 
 Upon the yearning soul within the eye. 
 And so in Cordova through patient nights
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 29 
 
 Columbus watclie.g, or he sails in dreams 
 
 Between the setting stars and finds new day ; 
 
 Then wakes again to the old weary days, 
 
 Girds on the cord and frock of pale Saint Francis, 
 
 And like him zealous pleads with foolish men. 
 
 " I ask but for a million maravedis : 
 
 Give me three caravels to find a world, 
 
 New shores, new realms, new soldiers for the 
 
 Cross. 
 Soji cosas grandes ! " Thus he pleads in vain; 
 Yet faints not utterly, but pleads anew. 
 Thinking, " God means it, and has chosen me." 
 For this man is the pulse of all mankind 
 Feeding an embryo future, offspring strange 
 Of the fond Present, that with mother-prayers 
 And mother-fancies looks for championship 
 Of all her loved beliefs and old-world ways 
 From that young Time she bears within her womb. 
 The sacred places shall be purged again. 
 The Turk converted, and the Holy Church, 
 Like the mild Virgin with the outspread robe, 
 Shall fold all tongues and nations lovingly. 
 
 But since God works by armies, who shall be 
 
 The modern Cyrus ? Is it France most Christian, 
 
 Who with his lilies and brocaded knights, 
 
 French oaths, French vices, and the newest style 
 
 Of out-puffed sleeve, shall pass from west to east, 
 
 A winnowing fan to purify the seed 
 
 For fair millennial harvests soon to come ? 
 
 Or is not Spain the land of chosen warriors ? — 
 
 Crusaders consecrated from the womb. 
 
 Carrying the sword-cross stamped upon their scula 
 
 By the long yearnings of a nation's life, 
 
 Through all the seven patient centuries
 
 30 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Since first Pelayo and liis resolute band 
 
 Trusted tlie God witliin tlieir Gotliic hearts 
 
 At Covadunga, and defied Maliound ; 
 
 Beginning so the Holy War of Spain 
 
 That now is panting with the eagerness 
 
 Of labour near its end. The silver cross 
 
 Glitters o'er Malaga and streams dread light 
 
 On' Moslem galleys, turning all their stores 
 
 From threats to gifts. What Spanish knight is he 
 
 Who, living now, holds it not shame to live 
 
 Apart from that hereditary battle 
 
 AVhich needs his sword ? Castilian gentlemen 
 
 Choose not their task, — they choose to do it well. 
 
 The time is great, and greater no man's trust 
 Than his who keeps the fortress for his king, 
 Wearing great honours as some delicate robe 
 Brocaded o'er with names 't were sin to tarnish. 
 Born de la Cerda, Calatravan knight. 
 Count of Segura, fourth Duke of Bedmar, 
 Offshoot from that high stock of old Castile 
 Whose topmost branch is proud Medina Celi, — 
 Such titles with their blazonry are his 
 Who keeps this fortress, sworn Alcayde, 
 Lord of the valley, master of the town. 
 Commanding whom he will, himself commanded 
 By Christ his Lord who sees him from the Cross 
 And from bright heaven where the Mother pleads ; — 
 By good Saint James upon the milk-white steed, 
 Who leaves his bliss to fight for chosen Spain ; — 
 By the dead gaze of all his ancestors ; — 
 And by the mystery of his Spanish blood 
 Charged with the awe and glories of the past. 
 See now with soldiers in his front and rfear 
 He winds at evening through the narrow streets
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 31 
 
 That toward the Castle gate climb devious : 
 His charger, of fine Andalusian stock, 
 An Indian beauty, black but delicate, 
 Is conscious of the herald trumpet note. 
 The gathering glances, and familiar ways 
 That lead fast homeward : she forgets fatigue, 
 And at the light touch of the master's spur 
 Thrills with the zeal to bear him royally, 
 Arches her neck and clambers up the stones 
 As if disdainful of the difficult steep. 
 Night-black the charger, black the rider's plume. 
 But all between is bright with morning hues, — 
 Seems ivory and-gold and deep blue gems, 
 And starry flashing steel and pale vermilion. 
 All set in jasper : on his surcoat white 
 Glitter the sword-belt and the jewelled hilt, 
 Eed on the back and breast the holy cross. 
 And 'twixt the helmet and the soft-spun white 
 Thick tawny wavelets like the lion's mane 
 Turn backward from his brow, pale, wide, erect, 
 Shadowing blue eyes, — blue as the rain-washed 
 
 sky 
 That braced the early stem of Gothic kings 
 He claims for ancestry. A goodly knight, 
 A noble caballero, broad of chest 
 And long of limb. So much the August sun. 
 Now in the west but shooting half its beams 
 Past a dark rocky profile toward the plain. 
 At winding opportunities across the slope 
 Makes suddenly luminous for all who see : 
 For women smiling from the terraced roofs ; 
 For boys that prone on trucks with head up- 
 propped. 
 Lazy and curious, stare irreverent ; 
 For men who make obeisance with degrees
 
 32 POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Of good-will shading toward servility, 
 Where good-will ends and secret fear begins, 
 And curses, too, low-muttered through the teeth, 
 Explanatory to the God of Shem. 
 Five, grouped within a whitened tavern court 
 Of Moorish fashion, where the trellised vines 
 Purpling above their heads make odorous shade, 
 Note through the open door the passers-by, 
 Getting some rills of novelty to speed 
 The lagging stream of talk and help the wine. 
 'T is Christian to drink wine : whoso denies 
 His tlesh at bidding save of Holy Church, 
 Let him beware and take to Christian sins 
 Lest he be taxed with Moslem sanctity. 
 
 The souls are five, the talkers only three. 
 
 (No time, most tainted by wrong faith and rule, 
 
 But holds some listeners and dumb animals.) 
 
 Mine Host is one: he with the well -arched nose, 
 
 Soft-eyed, fat-handed, loving men for naught 
 
 But his own humour, patting old and young 
 
 Upon the back, and mentioning the cost 
 
 With confidential blandness, as a tax 
 
 That he collected much against his will 
 
 From Spaniards who were all his bosom friends; 
 
 Warranted Christian, — else how keep an inn. 
 
 Which calling asks true faith ? though like his 
 
 wine 
 Of cheaper sort, a trifle over-new. 
 His father was a convert, chose the chrism 
 As men choose physic, kept his chimney warm 
 With smokiest wood upon a Saturday, 
 Counted his gains and grudges on a chaplet, 
 And crossed himself asleep for fear of spies ; 
 Trusting the God of Israel would see
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 33 
 
 'T was Christian tyranny that made him base. 
 Our host his son was born ten years too soon. 
 Had heard his mother call him Ephraim, 
 Knew holy things from common, thought it sin 
 To feast on days when Israel's children mourned. 
 So had to be converted with his sire, 
 To doff the awe he learned as Ephraim, 
 And suit his manners to a Christian name. 
 But infant awe, that unborn breathing thing, 
 Dies with what nourished it, can never rise 
 From the dead womb and walk and seek new 
 
 pasture. 
 Baptism seemed to him a merry game 
 Not tried before, all sacraments a mode 
 Of doing homage for one's property, 
 And all religions a queer human whim 
 Or else a vice, according to degrees : 
 As, 'tis a whim to like your chestnuts hot, 
 Burn your own mouth and draw your face awry, 
 A vice to pelt frogs with them, — animals 
 Content to take life coolly. And Lorenzo 
 Would have all lives made easy, even lives 
 Of spiders and inquisitors, yet still 
 Wishing so well to flies and Moors and Jews, 
 He rather wished the others easy death ; 
 For loving all men clearly was deferred 
 Till all men loved each other. Such mine Host, 
 With cliiselled smile caressing Seneca, 
 The solemn mastiff' leaning on his knee. 
 
 His right-hand guest is solemn as the dog, 
 Square-faced and massive : Blasco is his name, 
 A prosperous silversmith from Aragon ; 
 In speech not silvery, rather tuned as notes 
 From a deep vessel made of plenteous iron, 
 
 VOL. I. — 3
 
 34 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Or some great bell of slow but certain swing 
 
 That, if you only wait, will tell the hour 
 
 As well as flippant clocks that strike in haste 
 
 And set off chiming a superfluous tune, — 
 
 Like Juan there, the spare man with the lute, 
 
 Who makes you dizzy with his rapid tongue, 
 
 Whirring athwart your mind with comment swift 
 
 On speech you would have finished by and by. 
 
 Shooting your bird for you while you are loading. 
 
 Cheapening your wisdom as a pattern known, 
 
 Woven by any shuttle on demand. 
 
 Can never sit quite still, too : sees a wasp 
 
 And kills it with a movement like a flash ; 
 
 Whistles low notes or seems to thrum his lute 
 
 As a mere hyphen 'twixt two syllables 
 
 Of any steadier man ; walks up and down 
 
 And snuffs the orange flowers and shoots a pea 
 
 To hit a streak of light let through the awning. 
 
 Has a queer face : eyes large as plums, a nose 
 
 Small, round, uneven, like a bit of wax 
 
 Melted and cooled by chance. Thin-fingered, lithe, 
 
 And as a squirrel noiseless, startling men 
 
 Only by quickness. In his speech and look 
 
 A touch of graceful wildness, as of things 
 
 Not trained or tamed for uses of the world ; 
 
 Most like the Fauns that roamed in days of old 
 
 About the listening whispering woods, and shared 
 
 The subtler sense of sylvan ears and eyes 
 
 Undulled by scheming thought, yet joined the rout 
 
 Of men and women on the festal days, 
 
 And played the syrinx too, and knew love's pains. 
 
 Turning their anguish into melody. 
 
 For Juan was a minstrel still, in times 
 
 Vfhen minstrelsy was held a thing outworn. 
 
 Spirits seem buried and their epitaph
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 35 
 
 Is writ in Latin by severest pens, 
 
 Yet still they flit above the trodden grave 
 
 And find new bodies, animating them 
 
 In quaint and ghostly way with antique souls. 
 
 So Juan was a troubadour revived, 
 
 Freshening life's dusty road with babbling rills 
 
 Of wit and song, living 'mid harnessed men 
 
 With limbs ungalled by armour, ready so 
 
 To soothe them weary, and to cheer them sad. 
 
 Guest at the board, companion in the camp, 
 
 A crystal mirror to the life around, 
 
 Flashing the comment keen of simple fact 
 
 Defined in words ; lending brief lyric voice 
 
 To grief and sadness ; hardly taking note 
 
 Of difference betwixt his own and others'; 
 
 But rather singing as a listener 
 
 To the deep moans, the cries, the wild strong joys 
 
 Of universal Nature, old yet young. 
 
 Such Juan, the third talker, shimmering bright 
 
 As butterfly or bird with quickest life. 
 
 The silent Roldax has his brightness too, 
 
 But only in his spangles and rosettes. 
 
 His party-coloured vest and crimson hose 
 
 Are dulled with old Valencian dust, his eyes 
 
 With straining fifty years at gilded balls 
 
 To catch them dancing, or with brazen looks 
 
 At men and women as he made his jests 
 
 Some thousand times and watched to count tliQ 
 
 pence 
 His wife was gathering. His olive face 
 Has an old writing in it, characters 
 Stamped deep by grins that had no merriment, 
 The soul's rude mark proclaiming all its blank; 
 As on some faces that have long grown old
 
 36 POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 In lifting tapers up to forms obscene 
 
 On ancient walls and chuckling with false zest 
 
 To please my lord, who gives the larger fee 
 
 For that hard industry in apishness. 
 
 Eoldan would gladly never laugh again ; 
 
 Pensioned, he would be grave as any ox. 
 
 And having beans and crumbs and oil secured 
 
 Would borrow no man's jokes forevermore. 
 
 'T is harder now because his wife is gone, 
 
 Who had quick feet, and danced to ravishment 
 
 Of every ring jewelled with Spanish eyes. 
 
 But died and left this boy, lame from his birth, 
 
 And sad and obstinate, though when he will 
 
 He sings God-taught such marrow-thrilling strains 
 
 As seem the very voice of dying Spring, 
 
 A flute-like wail that mourns the blossoms gone, 
 
 And sinks, and is not, like their fragrant breath, 
 
 With fine transition on the trembling air. 
 
 He sits as if imprisoned by some fear, 
 
 Motionless, with wide eyes that seem not made 
 
 For hungry glancing of a twelve-yeared boy 
 
 To mark the living thing that he could tease, 
 
 But for the gaze of some primeval sadness 
 
 Dark twin with light in the creative ray. 
 
 This little Pablo has his spangles too, 
 
 And large rosettes to hide his poor left foot 
 
 Eounded like any hoof (his mother thought 
 
 God willed it so to punish all her sins). 
 
 I said the souls were five, — besides the dog. 
 But there was still a sixth, with wrinkled face, 
 Grave and disgusted with all merriment 
 Not less than Ptoldan. It is Annibal, 
 The experienced monkey who performs the tricks, 
 Jumps through the hoops, and carries round the 
 hat.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 37 
 
 Once full of sallies and impromptu feats, 
 
 Now cautious not to light on auglit that 's new, 
 
 Lest he be whipped to do it o'er again 
 
 From A to Z, and make the gentry laugh : 
 
 A misanthropic monkey, gray and grim, 
 
 Bearing a lot that has no remedy 
 
 For want of concert in the monkey tribe. 
 
 We see the company, above their heads 
 
 The braided matting, golden as ripe corn, 
 
 Stretched in a curving strip close by the grapes, 
 
 Elsewhere rolled back to greet the cooler sky ; 
 
 A fountain near, vase-shapen and broad-lipped, 
 
 Where timorous birds alight with tiny feet, 
 
 And hesitate and bend wise listening ears. 
 
 And fly away again with undipped beak. 
 
 On the stone floor the juggler's heaped-up goods. 
 
 Carpet and hoops, viol and tambourine, 
 
 Where Annibal sits perched with brows severe, 
 
 A serious ape whom none take seriously. 
 
 Obliged in this fool's world to earn his nuts 
 
 By hard buffoonery. We see them all. 
 
 And hear their talk, — the talk of Spanish men. 
 
 With Southern intonation, vowels turned 
 
 Caressingly between the consonants, 
 
 Persuasive, willing, with such intervals 
 
 As music borrows from the wooing birds, 
 
 That plead with subtly curving, sweet descent, — 
 
 And yet can quarrel, as these Spaniards can. 
 
 Juan {near the doorway). 
 
 You hear the trumpet ? There 's old Ramon's blast, 
 No bray but his can shake the air so well. . . 
 He takes his trumpeting as solemnly 
 As angel charged to wake the dead; thinks war
 
 38 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Was made for trumpeters, and tlieir great art 
 ]\rade solely for themselves who understand it. 
 His features all have shaped themselves to blowing, 
 And when his trumpet's bagged or left at home 
 He seems a chattel in a broker's booth, 
 A spoutless watering-can, a promise to pay 
 No sum particular. fine old Kamon ! 
 The blasts get louder and the clattering hoofs ; 
 They crack the ear as well as heaven's thunder 
 For owls that listen blinking. There 's the banner. 
 
 Host (joining Mm : the others follow to the door). 
 
 The Duke has finished reconnoitring, then ? 
 We shall hear news. They say he means a sally, —   
 Would strike El Zagal's Moors as they push home 
 Like ants with bootv heavier than themselves : 
 Then, joined by other nobles with their bands. 
 Lay siege to Guadix. Juan, you 're a bird 
 That nest within the Castle. What say you? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Naught, I say naught. 'T is but a toilsome game 
 
 To bet upon that feather Policy, 
 
 And guess where after twice a hundred puffs 
 
 'Twill catch another feather crossing it: 
 
 Guess how the Pope will blow and how the king; 
 
 AVhat force my lady's fan has ; how a cough 
 
 Seizing the Padre's throat may raise a gust. 
 
 And how the queen may sigh the feather down. 
 
 Such catching at imaginary threads, 
 
 Such spinning twisted air, is not for me. 
 
 If I should want a game, I '11 rather bet 
 
 On racing snails, two large, slow, lingering snails, — 
 
 No spurring, equal weights, — a chance sublime,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 39 
 
 Nothing to guess at, pure uncertainty. 
 
 Here comes the Dake. They give but feeble shouts. 
 
 And some look sour. 
 
 Host. 
 
 That spoils a fair occasion. 
 Civility brings no conclusions with it, 
 And cheerful Vivas make the moments glide 
 Instead of grating like a rusty wheel. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 they are dullards, kick because they 're stung, 
 And bruise a friend to show they hate a wasp. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Best treat your wasp with delicate regard ; 
 
 When the right moment comes say, " By your 
 
 leave, " 
 Use your heel — so ! and make an end of him. 
 That 's if we talked of wasps ; but our young 
 
 Duke, — 
 Spain holds not a more gallant gentleman. 
 Live, live, Duke Silva ! 'T is a rare smile he has, 
 But seldom seen. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 A true hidalgo's smile, 
 That gives much favour, but beseeches none. 
 His smile is sweetened by his gravity: 
 It comes like dawn upon Sierra snows. 
 Seeming more generous for the coldness gone ; 
 Breaks from the calm, — a sudden opening flower 
 On dark deep waters : one moment shrouded close,
 
 40 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 A mystic shrine, the next a full-rayed .star, 
 Tlirilliiig, pulse-quickening as a living word. 
 1 '11 make a song of that. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Prithee, not now. 
 You '11 fall to staring like a wooden saint. 
 And wag your head as it were set on wires. 
 Here 's fresh sherbet. Sit, be good company. 
 {To Blasco. ) You are a stranger, sir, and cannot 
 
 know 
 How our Duke's nature suits.his princely frame. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Nay, but I marked his spurs, — chased cunningly ! 
 
 A duke should know good gold and silver plate ; 
 
 Then he will know the quality of mine. 
 
 I 've ware for tables and for altars tooj 
 
 Our Lady in all sizes, crosses, bells : 
 
 He '11 need such weapons full as much as swords 
 
 If he would capture any Moorish town. 
 
 For, let me tell you, when a mosque is cleansed . . • 
 
 Juan. -k 
 
 The demons fly so thick from sound of bells 
 And smell of incense, you may see the air 
 Streaked with them as with smoke. Why, they 
 
 are spirits : 
 You may well think how crowded they must be 
 To make a sort of haze. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 I knew not that. 
 Still, they 're of smoky nature, demons are ;
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 4r 
 
 And since you say so, —well, it proves the more 
 
 The need of bells and censers. Ay, your Duke 
 
 Sat well : a true hidalgo. I can judge, — 
 
 Of harness specially. I saw the camp, 
 
 The royal camp at Velez Malaga. 
 
 'Twas like the court of heaven, — such liveries'. 
 
 And torches carried by the score at night 
 
 Before the nobles. Sirs, I made a dish 
 
 To set an emerald in would fit a crown, 
 
 For Don Alonzo, lord of Aguilar. 
 
 Your Duke's no whit behind him in his mien 
 
 Or harness either. But you seem to say 
 
 The people love him not. 
 
 Host. 
 They 've naught against him. 
 But certain winds will make men's temper bad. 
 When the Solano blows hot venomed breath. 
 It acts upon, men's knives : steel takes to stabbing 
 Which else, with cooler winds, were honest steel, 
 Cutting but garlick. There 's a wind just now 
 Blows right from Seville — 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Ay, you mean the wind . . . 
 Yes, yes, a wind that 's rather hot . . . 
 
 Host. 
 
 With fagots. 
 
 Jfan. 
 A wind that suits not with our townsmen's blood. 
 Abram, 't is said, objected to be scorched, 
 And, as the learned Arabs vouch, he gave 
 The antipathy in full to Ishmacl. 
 'T is true, these patriarchs had their oddities.
 
 42 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Their oddities ? I 'in of their mind, I know. 
 
 Though, as to Abraham and Ishmael, 
 
 I 'm an old Christian, and owe nanght to tliem 
 
 Or any Jew among them. But I know 
 
 We made a stir in Saragossa — we : 
 
 The men of Aragon ring hard, — true metal. 
 
 Sirs, I 'm no friend to heresy, but then 
 
 A Christian's money is not safe. As how? 
 
 A lapsing Jew or any heretic 
 
 May owe me twenty ounces : suddenly 
 
 He 's prisoned, suffers penalties, — 't is well : 
 
 If men will not believe, 't is good to make them, 
 
 But let the penalties fall on them alone. 
 
 The Jew is stripped, his goods are confiscate ; 
 
 Now, where, I pray you, go my twenty ounces? 
 
 God knows, and perhaps the King may, but not I 
 
 And more, my son may lose his young wife's dower 
 
 Because 'twas promised since her father's soul 
 
 Pell to wrong thinking. How was I to know ? 
 
 I could but use my sense and cross myself. 
 
 Christian is Christian, — I give in, — but still 
 
 Taxing is taxing, though you call it holy. 
 
 We Saragossans liked not this new tax 
 
 They call the — nonsense, I 'm from Aragon! 
 
 I speak too bluntly. But, for Holy Church, 
 
 JSTo man believes more. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Nay, sir, never fear. 
 Good Master Roldan here is no delator. 
 
 PtOLDAN {starting from a reverie). 
 You speak to me, sirs ? I perform to-night — 
 The Pla-a Santiago. Twenty tricks,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 43 
 
 All different. I dance, too. And the boy 
 Sings like a bird. I crave your patronage. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Faith, you shall have it, sir. In travelling 
 I take a little freedom, and am gay. 
 You marked not what I said just now ? 
 
 EOLDAN. 
 
 I? no. 
 
 I pray your pardon. I 've a twinging knee 
 That makes it hard to listen. You were saying ? 
 
 Blasco, 
 
 Nay, it was naught. (Aside to Host.) Is it his 
 deepness ? 
 
 Host. 
 
 No. 
 He 's deep in nothing but his poverty. 
 
 Blasco. 
 But 'twas his poverty that made me think . . . 
 
 Host. 
 
 His piety might wish to keep the feasts 
 As well as fasts. No fear ; he hears not. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Good. 
 
 I speak my mind about the penalties, 
 
 But, look you, I 'm against assassination. 
 
 You know niv meaning — Master Arbu^s, 
 
 The grand Inquisitor in Aragon. 
 
 1 knew naught, — paid no copper towards the deed-
 
 44 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 But I was there, at prayers, within the church. 
 How could I help it ? Why, the saints were there, 
 And looked straight on above the altars. I . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 Looked carefully another way. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Why, at my beads. 
 'T was after midnight, and the canons all 
 Were chanting matins. I was not in church 
 To gape and stare. I saw the martyr kneel : 
 I never liked the look of him alive, — 
 He was no martyr then. I thought he made 
 An ugly shadow as he crept athwart 
 The bands of light, then passed within the gloom 
 By the broad pillar. 'T was in our great Seo, 
 At Saragossa. The pillars tower so large 
 You cross yourself to see them, lest white Death 
 Should hide behind their dark. And so it was. 
 I looked away again and told my beads 
 Unthinkingly ; but still a man has ears ; 
 And right across the chanting came a sound 
 As if a tree had crashed above the roar 
 Of some great torrent. So it seemed to me ; 
 For when you listen long and shut your eyes 
 Small sounds get thunderous. And he 'd a shell 
 Like any lobster : a good iron suit 
 From top to toe beneath the innocent serge. 
 That made the telltale sound. But then came 
 
 shrieks. 
 The chanting stopped and turned to rushing feet, 
 And in the midst lay Master Arbu^s, 
 Felled like an ox. T was wicked butchery. 
 Some honest men had hoped it would have scared
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 45 
 
 The Inquisition out of Aragon. 
 
 'T was money thro\Yn away, — I would say, 
 
 crime, — 
 Clean thrown away. 
 
 Host. 
 
 That was a pity now. 
 Next to a missing thrust, what irks me most 
 Is a neat well-aimed stroke that kills your man, 
 Yet ends in mischief, — as in Aragon. 
 It was a lesson to our people here. 
 Else there 's a monk within our city walls, 
 A holy, high-born, stern Dominican, 
 They might have made the great mistake to kill. 
 
 Blasgo. 
 What ! is he ? , . . 
 
 Host. 
 Yes ; a Master Arbuds 
 Of finer (quality. The Prior here 
 And uncle to our Duke. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 He will want plate : 
 A holy pillar or a crucifix. 
 But, did you say, he was like Arbuds ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 As a black eagle with gold beak and claws 
 
 Is like a raven. Even in his cowl. 
 
 Covered from head to foot, the Prior is known 
 
 From all the black herd round. When he uncovers 
 
 And stands white -frocked, with ivory face, his eyes 
 
 Black-gl(!aming, black his coronet of hair 
 
 Like shredded jasper, he seems less a man
 
 46 POEMS OF GEORGE ELTOT. 
 
 With struggling aims than pure incarnate Will, 
 
 Fit to subdue rebellious nations, nay, 
 
 That human flesh he breathes in, charged with 
 
 passion 
 Which quivers in his nostril and his lip, 
 But disciplined by long-indwelling will 
 To silent labour in the yoke of law. 
 A truce to thy comparisons, Lorenzo ! 
 Thine is no subtle nose for difference; 
 'T is dulled by feigning and civility. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Pooh, thou 'rt a poet, crazed with finding words 
 
 May stick to things and seem like qualities. 
 
 No pebble is a pebble in thy hands : 
 
 'T is a moon out of work, a barren egg, 
 
 Or twenty things that no man sees but thee. 
 
 Our father Isidor 's — a living saint. 
 
 And that is heresy, some townsmen think : 
 
 Saints should be dead, according to the Church. 
 
 My mind is this : the Father is so holy 
 
 'T were sin to wish his soul detained from bliss. 
 
 Easy translation to the realms above. 
 
 The shortest journey to the seventh heaven, 
 
 Is what I 'd never grudge him. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Piously said. 
 Look you, I 'm dutiful, obey the Church 
 When there 's no help for it : I mean to say. 
 When Pope and Bishop and all customers 
 Order alike. But there be bishops now, 
 And were aforetime, who have held it wrong. 
 This hurry to convert the Jews. As, how ? 
 Your Jew pays tribute to the bishop, say.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 47 
 
 That 's good, and must please God, to see the Church 
 Maintained in ways that ease the Christian's purse. 
 Convert the Jew. and where 's the tribute, pray ? 
 He lapses, too : 't is slippery work, -conversion : 
 And then the holy taxing carries off 
 His money at one sweep. No tribute more ! 
 He 's penitent or burnt, and there 's an end. 
 Now guess which pleases God . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Whether he likes 
 A well-burnt Jew or well-fed bishop best. 
 
 [While Juan put this problem theologic 
 Entered, with resonant step, another guest, — 
 A soldier : all his keenness in his sword, 
 His eloquence in scars upon his cheek. 
 His virtue in much slaying of the Moor: 
 With brow well-creased in horizontal folds 
 To save the space, as having naught to do : 
 Lips prone to whistle whisperingly, — no tune, 
 But trotting rhythm : meditative eyes. 
 Most often fixed upon his legs and spurs : 
 Invited much, and held good company : 
 Styled Captain Lopez.] 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 At your service, sirs. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Ha, Lopez ? Why, thou hast a face full-charged 
 As any herald's. What news of the wars ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 Such news as is most bitter on my tongua
 
 48 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 JUAJf. 
 Tbeu spit it forth. 
 
 Host. 
 Sit, Captain : here 's a cup, 
 Fresh-filled. What news ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 'T is bad. We make no sally • 
 We sit still here and wait whate'er the Moor 
 Shall please to do. 
 
 Host. 
 Some townsmen will be glad. 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 Glad, will they be ? But I 'm not glad, not I, 
 Nor any Spanish soldier of clean blood. 
 But the Duke's wisdom is to wait a siege 
 Instead of laying one. Therefore — meantime — 
 He will be married straightway. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha! 
 Thy speech is like an hourglass ; turn it down 
 The other way, 't will stand as well, and say 
 The Duke will wed, therefore he waits a siege. 
 But what say Don Diego and the Prior ? 
 The holy uncle and the fiery Don ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 Oh there be sayings running all abroad 
 As thick as nuts o'erturned. No man need lack. 
 Some say, 'twas letters changed the Duke's intent: 
 From Aialaga, says Bias. Frum Rome, says Quiutin.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 49 
 
 From spies at Guadix, says Sebastian. 
 Some say, 't is all a pretext, — say, the Duke 
 Is but a lapdog hanging on a skirt, 
 Turning his eyeballs upward like a monk : 
 'T was Don Diego said that, — so says Bias ; 
 Last week, he said . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Oh do without the " said " ! 
 Open thy mouth and pause in lieu of it. 
 I had as lief be pelted with a pea 
 Irregularly in the selfsame spot 
 As hear such iteration without rule. 
 Such torture of uncertain certainty. 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 Santiago ! Juan, thou art hard to please. 
 I speak not for my own delighting, L 
 I can be silent, L 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Nay, sir, speak on! 
 I like your matter well. I deal in plate. 
 This wedding touches me. Who is the bride ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 One that some say the Duke does ill to wed. 
 
 One that his mother reared — God rest her soul ! — 
 
 Duchess Diana, — she who died last year. 
 
 A bird picked up away from any nest. 
 
 Her name — the Duchess gave it — is Fedalma. 
 
 No harm in that. But the Duke stoops, they 
 
 sav, 
 In wedding her. And that 's the simple truth. 
 VOL. I. — 4 .
 
 so POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Thy simple truth is but a false opinion: 
 The simple truth of asses who believe • 
 Their thistle is the very best of food. 
 Fie, Lopez, thou a Spaniard with a sword 
 Dreamest a Spanish noble ever stoops 
 By doing honour to the maid he loves ! 
 He stoops alone when he dishonours her. 
 
 Lopez. 
 Nay, I said naught against her. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Better not. 
 Else I would challenge thee to fight with wits, 
 And spear thee through and through ere thou 
 
 couldst draw 
 The bluntest word. Yes, yes, consult thy spurs : 
 Spurs are a sign of knighthood, and should tell thee 
 That knightly love is blent with reverence 
 As heavenly air is blent with heavenly blue. 
 Don Silva's heart beats to a chivalric tune: 
 He wills no highest-born Castilian dame, 
 Betrothed to highest noble, should be held 
 More sacred than Fedalma. He enshrines 
 Her virgin image for the general worship 
 And for his own, — will guard her from the world, 
 Nay, his profaner self, lest he should lose 
 The place of his religion. He does well. 
 Naught can come closer to the poets' strain. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Or further from their practice, Juan, eh ? 
 If thou 'rt a specimen ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 51 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Wrong, my Lorenzo! 
 ToucKing Fedalma the poor poet plays 
 A finer part even than the noble Duke. 
 
 Lopez. . 
 By making ditties, singing with round mouth 
 Likest a crowing cock ? Thou meanest that ? 
 
 Juan. 
 Lopez, take physic, thou art getting ill, 
 Growing descriptive ; 't is unnatural. 
 I mean, Don Silva's love expects reward, 
 Kneels with a heaven to come ; but the poor poet 
 "Worships without reward, nor hopes to find 
 A heaven save in his worship. He adores 
 The sweetest woman for her sweetness' sake, 
 Joys in the love that was not born for him, 
 Because 't is lovingness, as beggars joy, 
 Warming their naked limbs on wayside walls, 
 To hear a tale of princes and their glory. 
 There 's a poor poet (poor, I mean, in coin) 
 Worships Fedalma with so true a love , 
 That if her silken robe were changed for rags, 
 And she were driven out to stony wilds 
 Barefoot, a scorned wanderer, he would kiss 
 Her ragged garment's edge, and only ask 
 For leave to be her slave. Digest that, friend, 
 Or let it lie upon thee as a weight 
 To check light thinking of Fedalma. 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 I? 
 I think no harm of her; I thank the saints 
 I wear a sword and peddle not in thinking.
 
 52 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT, 
 
 'T is Father Marcos says she '11 not confess 
 And loves not holy water ; says her blood 
 Is infidel ; says the Duke's wedding her 
 Is union of liirht with darkness. 
 
 'O 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Tush ! 
 
 [Now Juan — who by snatches touched his lute 
 With soft arpeggio, like a whispered dream 
 Of sleeping music, while he spoke of love, — 
 In jesting anger at the soldier's talk 
 Thrummed loud and fast, then faster and more 
 
 loud. 
 Till, as he answered, " Tush ! " he struck a chord 
 Sudden as whip-crack close by Lopez' ear. 
 Mine host and Blasco smiled, the mastiff barked, 
 Eoldan looked up and Annibal looked down. 
 Cautiously neutral in so new a case ; 
 The boy raised longing, listening eyes that seemed 
 An exiled spirit's waiting in strained hope 
 Of voices coming from the distant land. 
 But Lopez bore the assault like any rock : 
 That was not what he drew his sword at — he ! 
 He spoke with neck erect.] 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 If that 's a hint 
 The company should ask thee for a song, 
 Sing, then! 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ay, Juan, sing, and jar no more. 
 Something brand new. Thou 'rt wont to make my 
 
 ear 
 A test of novelties. Hast thou aught fresh ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 53 
 
 Juan, 
 
 As fresh as rain-drops. Here 's a Cancion 
 Sprin'gs like a tiny mushroom delicate 
 Out of the priest's foul scandal of Fedalma. 
 
 [He preluded with questioning intervals, 
 Eising, then falling just a semitone, 
 In minor cadence, — sound with poised wing 
 Hovering and quivering tov/ards the needed falL 
 Then in a voice that shook the willing air 
 With masculine vibration sang this song. 
 
 Should I long that dark were fair? 
 
 Say, song ! 
 
 LacJcs 7ny love aught, that I should long? 
 
 Darh the night, with Ireath all flow rs, 
 And tender hroken voice that fills 
 With ravishment the listening hotcrs : 
 Whisperings, tvooings. 
 Liquid rii^ples and soft ring-dove cooings 
 In low-toned rhythm that love's aching stills. 
 Dark the night, 
 Yet is she bright, 
 
 For in her dark she brings the mystic star, 
 . 2'rembling yet strong, as is the voice of love. 
 From some unknown afar, 
 radiant Dark ! darkly fostered ray ! 
 Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow Day. 
 
 While Juan sang, all round the tavern court 
 
 Gathered a constellation of black eyes. 
 
 Fat Lola leaned upon the balcony 
 
 With arms that might have pillowed Hercules
 
 54 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 (Who built, 't is known, the mightiest Spanish 
 
 towns) ; 
 Thin Alda's face, sad as a wasted passion, 
 Leaned o'er the nodding baby's; 'twixt the rails 
 The little Pepe showed his two black beads, 
 His flat-ringed hair and small Semitic nose 
 Complete and tiny as a new-born minnow j 
 Patting his head and holding in her arms 
 The baby senior, stood Lorenzo's wife 
 All negligent, her kerchief discomposed 
 By little clutches, woman's coquetry 
 Quite turned to mother's cares and sweet content. 
 These on the balcony, while at the door 
 Gazed the lank boys and lazy -shouldered men. 
 'T is likely too the rats and insects peeped. 
 Being southern Spanish ready for a lounge. 
 The singer smiled, as doubtless Orpheus smiled, 
 To see the animals both great and small. 
 The mountainous elephant and scampering mouse, 
 Held by the ears in decent audience ; 
 Then, when mine host desired the strain once 
 
 more, 
 He fell to preluding with rhythmic change 
 Of notes recurrent, soft as pattering drops 
 That fall from off the eaves in faery dance 
 When clouds are breaking ; till at measured pause 
 He struck, in rare responsive chords, a rc^frain.] 
 
 Host. 
 
 Come, then, a gayer romaunt, if thou wilt : 
 
 I quarrel not with change. What say you. Captain ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 All 's one to me. I note no change of tune, 
 Not 1, save in the ring of horses' hoofs,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 55 
 
 Or in the drums and trumpets when they call 
 To action or retreat. I ne'er could see 
 The good of singing. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Why, it passes time, — 
 Saves you from getting over-wise : that 's good. 
 For, look you, fools are merry here below, 
 Yet they will go to heaven all the same, 
 Having the sacraments ; and, look you, heaven 
 Is a long holiday, and solid men, 
 Used to much business, might be ill at ease 
 Not liking play. And so in travelling 
 I shape myself betimes to idleness 
 And take fools' pleasures . . . 
 
 Host. 
 
 Hark, the song begins! 
 
 Juan (sings). 
 Maiden, crowned with glossy blackness. 
 
 Lithe as jjanther forest-roaming, 
 Long-armed naiad, when she dances. 
 On a stream of ether floating , — 
 Bright, bright Fedalma t 
 
 Form all curves like softness drifted, 
 Wave-hissed marble roundly dimpling, 
 
 Far-off rausic slowly winged, 
 Gently rising, gently sinking, — 
 Briglit, bright Fedalma ! 
 
 Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf, 
 
 Clotcd high-born in noonday spotless, 
 
 Sudden perfect as the dew-bead, 
 Gem of earth and sky begotten, — 
 Bright, bi'ight Fedalma !
 
 56 POEMS OE GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Beauty has no mortal father, 
 Holy liijht her form engeiidered 
 
 Out of tremor, yearning, gladness, 
 Fresage sweet and joy remembered, — 
 Child of Light, Fedalma ! 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Faith, a good song, sung to a stirring tune. 
 I like the words returning in a round ; 
 It gives a sort of sense. Another such! 
 
 EoLDAN {rising). 
 
 Sirs, you will hear my boy. 'T is very hard 
 When gentles sing for naught to all the town. 
 How can a poor man live ? And now 't is time 
 I go to the Pla(ja, — who will give me pence 
 When he can hear hidalgos and give naught ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 True, friend. Be pacified. I '11 sing no more. 
 
 Go thou, and we will follow. Never fear. 
 
 My voice is common as the ivy leaves, 
 
 Plucked in all seasons, — hears no price ; the hoy's 
 
 Is like the almond blossoms. Ah, he 's lame ! 
 
 Host. 
 
 Load him not heavily. Here, Pedro ! help. 
 Go with them to the Plac^a, take the hoops. 
 The sights will pay thee. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 I '11 be there anon, 
 And set the fashion with a good white coin. 
 But let us see as well as hear.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 57 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ay, prithee. 
 Some, tricks, a dance. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Yes, 't is more rational. 
 
 RoLDAN {turning round loith the hundle and monkey 
 on his shoulders). 
 
 You shall see all, sirs. There 's no man in Spain 
 Knows his art better. I 've a twinging knee 
 Oft hinders dancing, and the boy is lame. 
 But no man's monkey has more tricks than mine. 
 
 [At this high praise the gloomy Annibal, 
 
 Mournful professor of high drollery, 
 
 Seemed to look gloomier, and the little troop 
 
 Went slowly out, escorted from the door 
 
 By all the idlers. From the balcony 
 
 Slowly subsided the black radiance 
 
 Of agate eyes, and broke in chattering sounds. 
 
 Coaxings and trampings, and the small hoarse 
 
 squeak 
 Of Pepe's reed. And our group talked again.] 
 
 Host. 
 
 I '11 get this juggler, if he quits him well. 
 An audience here as choice as can be lured. 
 For me, when a poor devil does his best, 
 'T is my delight to soothe his soul with praise. 
 What though the best be bad? remains the good 
 Of throwing food to a lean hungry dug. 
 I 'd give up the best jugglery in life 
 To see a miserable juggler pleased.
 
 S8 rOEMS OF GEOUGE ELIOT. 
 
 But that *s my humour. Crowds are malcontent. 
 And cruel as the Holy . . . Shall we go? 
 All of us now together ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 Well, not I. 
 I may be there anon, but first I go 
 To the lower prison. There is strict command 
 That all our Gypsy prisoners shall to-night 
 Be lodged within the fort. They 've forged enough 
 Of balls and bullets, — used up all the metah 
 At morn to-morrow they must carry stones 
 Up the south tower. 'T is a fine stalwart band, 
 Fit for the hardest tasks. Some say, the queen 
 Would have the Gypsies banished with the Jews. 
 Some say, 't were better harness them for work. 
 They 'd feed on any filth and save the Spaniard. 
 Some say — but I must go. 'T will soon be time 
 To head the escort. We shall meet again. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Go, sir, with God {exit Lopez). A very projDer man, 
 
 And soldierly. But, for this banishment 
 
 Some men are hot on, if ill pleases me. 
 
 The Jews, now (sirs, if any Christian here 
 
 Had Jews for ancestors, I blame him not; 
 
 We cannot all be Goths of Aragon), — 
 
 Jews are not fit for heaven, but on earth 
 
 They are most useful. 'T is the same with mules. 
 
 Horses, or oxen, or with any pig 
 
 Except Saint Anthony's. They are useful here 
 
 (The Jews, I mean) though they may go to hell. 
 
 And, look you, useful sins, — why Providence 
 
 Sends Jews to do 'em, saving Christian souls. 
 
 The very Gypsies, curbed and harnessed well,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 59 
 
 "Would make draught cattle, feed on vermin too, 
 
 Cost less than grazing brutes, and turn bad food 
 
 To handsome carcasses; sweat at the forge 
 
 For little wages, and well drilled and flogged 
 
 Might work like slaves, some Spaniards looking on, 
 
 I deal in plate, and am no priest to say 
 
 What God may mean, save when he means plain 
 
 sense ; 
 But when he sent the Gypsies wandering 
 In punishment because they sheltered not 
 Our Lady and Saint Joseph (and no doubt 
 Stole the small ass they fled with into Egypt), 
 Why send them here ? 'T is plain he saw the use 
 They 'd be to Spaniards. Shall we banish them, 
 And tell God we know better ? 'T is a sin. 
 They talk of vermin ; but, sirs, vermin large 
 Were made to eat the small, or else to eat 
 The noxious rubbish, and picked Gypsy men 
 Might serve in war to climb, be killed, and fall. 
 To make an easy ladder. Once I saw 
 A Gypsy sorcerer, at a spring and grasp. 
 Kill one who came to seize him : talk of strength ! 
 Nay, swiftness too, for while we crossed ourselves 
 He vanished like — say, like . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 
 A swift black snake. 
 Or like a living arrow fledged with will. 
 
 Blasco. 
 Why, did you see him, pray ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Not then, but now 
 As painters see the many in the one. 
 We have a Gypsy in Bedniar whose frame
 
 6o POEMS or GEOEGE ELIOT. 
 
 Nature compacted with such fine selection, 
 
 'T would yield a dozen types : all Spanish knights. 
 
 From him who slew Eolando at the pass 
 
 Up to the mighty Cid ; all deities, 
 
 Thronging Olympus in fine attitudes ; 
 
 Or all hell's heroes whom the poet saw 
 
 Tremble like lions, writhe like demigods. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Pause not yet, Juan, — more hyperbole! 
 Shoot upward still and flare in meteors 
 Before thou sink to earth in dull brown fact. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Nay, give me fact, high shooting suits not me. 
 I never stare to look for soaring larks. 
 What is this Gypsy ? 
 
 Host. 
 
 Chieftain of a band, 
 The Moor's allies, whom full a month ago 
 Our Duke surprised and brought as captives home. 
 He needed smiths, and doubtless the brave Moor 
 Has missed some useful scouts and archers too. 
 Juan's fantastic pleasure is to watch 
 These Gypsies forging, and to hold discourse 
 With this great chief, whom he transforms at 
 
 ' will 
 To sage or warrior, and like the sun 
 Plays daily at fallacious alchemy. 
 Turns sand to gold and dewy spider-webs 
 To myriad rainbows. Still the sand is sand, 
 And still in sober shade you see the web. 
 'T is so, I'll wager, with his Gypsy chief, — 
 A piece of stalwart cunning, nothing more.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 6i 
 
 Juan. 
 
 No! My invention had been all too poor 
 To frame this Zarca as I saw him first. 
 'T was when they stripped him. In his chief- 
 tain's gear, 
 Amidst his men he seemed a royal barb 
 Followed by wild-maned Andalusian colts. 
 He had a necklace of a strange device 
 In finest gold of unknown workmanship, 
 But delicate as Moorish, fit to kiss 
 Fedalma's neck, and play in shadows there. 
 He wore fine mail, a rich-wrought sword and belt, 
 And on his surcoat black a broidered torch, 
 A pine-branch flaming, grasped by two dark hands. 
 But when they stripped him of his ornaments 
 It was the bawbles lost their grace, not he. 
 His eyes, his mouth, his nostril, all inspired 
 With scorn that mastered utterance of scorn, 
 With power to check all rage until it turned 
 To ordered force, unleashed on chosen prey, — 
 It seemed the soul within him made his limbs 
 And made them grand. The bawbles were well 
 
 gone. 
 He stood the more a king, when bared to man. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Maybe. But nakedness is bad for trade. 
 And is not decent. Well-wrought metal, sir. 
 Is not a bawble. Had you seen the camp. 
 The royal camp at Yelez Malaga, 
 Ponce de Leon and the other dukes, 
 The king himself and all his thousand knights 
 For body-guard, 't would not have left you breath 
 To praise a Gypsy thus. A man's a man;
 
 62 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 But when you see a king, you see the work 
 Of many thousand men. King Ferdinand 
 Bears a fine presence, and hath proper limbs ; 
 But what though he were shrunken as a relic ? 
 You 'd see the gold and gems that cased him o'er, 
 And all the pages round him in brocade, 
 And all the lords, themselves a sort of kings, 
 Doing him reverence. That strikes an awe 
 Into a common man, — especially 
 A judge of plate. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Faith, very wisely said. 
 Purge thy speech, Juan. It is over-full 
 Of this same Gypsy. Praise the Catholic King. 
 And come now, let us see the juggler's skill. 
 
 The Placa Santiago. 
 
 'T is daylight still, but now the golden cross 
 Uplifted by the angel on the dome 
 Stands rayless in calm colour clear-defined 
 Against the northern blue ; from turrets high 
 The flitting splendour sinks with folded wing   
 Dark-hid till morning, and the battlements 
 Wear soft relenting whiteness mellowed o'er 
 By summers generous and winters bland, 
 lifow in the east the distance casts its veil. 
 And gazes with a deepening earnestness. 
 Tlie old rain-fretted mountains in their robes 
 Of shadow-broken gray ; the rounded hills 
 Pieddened with blood of Titans, whose huge limbs, 
 Entombed within, feed full the hardy flesh 
 Of cactus green and blue, broad-sworded aloes ; 
 Tlie cypress soaring black above the lines 
 Of white court-walls; the jointed sugar-canes
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 63 
 
 Pale-golden with their feathers motionless 
 
 In the warm quiet; — all thought-teaching form 
 
 Utters^ itself in firm unshimmering hues. 
 
 For the "reat rock has screened the westering sun 
 
 That still on plains beyond streams vaporous gold 
 
 Among the branches ; and within Bedmar 
 
 Has come the time of sweet serenity 
 
 When colour glows unglittering, and the soul 
 
 Of visible things shows silent happiness, 
 
 As that of lovers trusting though apart. 
 
 The ripe-cheeked fruits, the crimson-petalled 
 
 flowers ; 
 The wingi^d life that pausing seems a gem 
 Cunningly carven on the dark green leaf ; 
 The face of man with hues supremely blent 
 To difference fine as of a voice 'mid sounds : — 
 Each lovely light-dipped thing seems to emerge 
 J'lushed gravely from baptismal sacrament. 
 All beauteous existence rests, yet wakes. 
 Lies still, yet conscious, with clear open eyes 
 And gentle breath and mild suffused joy. 
 'T is day, but day that falls like melody 
 Repeated on a string with graver tones, — 
 Tones such as linger in a long farewell. 
 
 The Pla9a v/idens in the passive air, — 
 
 The Pla^a Santiago, where the church, 
 
 A mosque converted, shows an eyeless face 
 
 lieJ-checkered, faded, doing penance still, — 
 
 Bearing with Moorish arch the imaged saint, 
 
 Apostle, baron, Spanish warrior, 
 
 "Whose charger's hoofs trample the turbaned dead, 
 
 Whose banner with the Cross, the bloody sword. 
 
 Flashes athwart the Moslem's glazing eye, 
 
 And mocks his trust in Allah who forsakes.
 
 64 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Up to the church the Pla(^a gently slopes, 
 111 shape most like the pious palmer's shell, 
 Girdled with low white houses ; high above 
 Tower the strong fortress and sharp-angled wall 
 And W' ell-flanked castle gate. From o'er the roofs, 
 And from the shadowed patios cool, there spreads 
 The breath of flowers and aromatic leaves 
 Soothing the sense with bliss indefinite, — • 
 A baseless hope, a glad presentiment, 
 That curves the lip more softly, fills the eye 
 With more indulgent beam. And so it soothes, 
 So gently sways the pulses of the crowd 
 Who make a zone about the central spot 
 Chosen by Roldan for his theatre. 
 Maids with arched eyebrows, delicate-pencilled, dark, 
 Fold their round arms below the kerchief full ; 
 Men shoulder little girls ; and grandames gray, 
 But muscular still, hold babies on their arms ; 
 While mothers keep the stout legged boys in front 
 Against their skirts, as old Greek pictures show 
 The Glorious Mother with the Boy divine. 
 Youths keep the places for themselves, and roll 
 Large lazy eyes, and call recumbent dogs 
 (For reasons deep below the reach of thought). 
 The old men cough with purpose, wish to hint 
 Wisdom within that cheapens jugglery, 
 Maintain a neutral air, and knit their brows 
 In observation. None are quarrelsome, 
 Noisy, or very merry; for tlieir blood 
 Moves slowly into fervour, — they rejoice 
 Like those dark birds that sweep with heavy wing, 
 Cheering their mates with melancholy cries. 
 
 But now the gilded balls begin to play 
 
 In rhythmic numbers, ruled by practice fine
 
 THE SPANISH GITSY. 65 
 
 Of eye and muscle : all the juggler's form 
 Consents harmonious in swift-gliding change, 
 Easily forward stretched or backward bent 
 With" lightest step and movement circular 
 Eound a fixed point : 't is not the old Eoldaa 
 
 now, 
 The dull, hard, weary, miserable man, 
 The soul all parched to languid appetite 
 And memory of desire : 't is wondrous force 
 That moves in combination multiform 
 Towards conscious ends : 't is Roldan glorious, 
 Holding all eyes like any meteor, 
 KiniT of the moment save when Annibal 
 Divides the scene and plays the comic part, 
 Gazing with blinking glances up and down. 
 Dancing and throwing naught and catching it, 
 With mimicry as merry as the tasks 
 Of penance-working shades in Tartarus. 
 
 Pablo stands passive, and a space apart, 
 
 Holding a viol, waiting for command. 
 
 Music must not be wasted, but must rise 
 
 As needed climax ; and the audience 
 
 Is growing with late comers. Juan now, 
 
 And the familiar Host, with Blasco broad, 
 
 Find way made gladly to the inmost round 
 
 Studded with heads. Lorenzo knits the crowd 
 
 Into one family by showing all 
 
 Good-will and recognition. Juan casts 
 
 His large and rapid-measuring glance around ; 
 
 But — with faint quivering, transient as a breath 
 
 Shaking a llame — his eyes make sudden pause 
 
 Where l)y the jutting angle of a street 
 
 Castle-ward leading, stands a female form, 
 
 A kerchief pale square-drooping o'er the brow, 
 
 VOL. I. — 5
 
 66 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 About lier shoulders dim brown serge, — in garb 
 Most like a peasant-woman from the vale, 
 Who might have lingered after marketing 
 To see the show. What thrill mysterious, 
 Eay-borne from orb to orb of conscious eyes, 
 The swift observing sweep of Juan's glance 
 Arrests an instant, then with prompting fresh 
 Diverts it lastingly ? He turns at once 
 To watch the gilded balls, and nod and smile 
 At little round Pepita, blondest maid 
 In all Bedmar, — Pepita, fair yet flecked, 
 Saucy of lip and nose, of hair as red 
 As breasts of robins stepping on the snow, — 
 Who stands in front with little tapping feet, 
 And baby-dimpled hands that hide enclosed 
 Those sleeping crickets, the dark castanets. 
 But soon the gilded balls have ceased to play. 
 And Annibal is leaping through tbe lioops 
 That turn to twelve, meeting him as he flies 
 In the swift circle. Shuddering he leaps. 
 But with each spring flies swift and swifter still 
 To loud and louder shouts, while the great hoops 
 Are changed to smaller. Now the crowd is fired. 
 The motion swift, the living victim urged, 
 The imminent failure and repeated scape 
 Hurry all pulses and intoxicate 
 With subtle wine of passion many-mixt. 
 'T is all about a monkey leaping hard 
 Till near to gasping ; but it serves as well 
 As the great circus or arena dire, 
 Where these are lacking. Eoldan cautiously 
 Slackens the leaps and lays the hoops to rest, 
 And Annibal retires with reeling brain 
 And backward stagger, — pity, he could not 
 smile !
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 67 
 
 Now Eoldan spreads his carpet, now lie shows 
 
 Strange metamorphoses : the pebble black 
 
 Changes to whitest egg within his hand ; 
 
 A staring rabbit, with retreating ears, 
 
 Is swallowed by the air and vanishes ; 
 
 He tells men's thoughts about the shaken dice, 
 
 Their secret choosings ; makes the white bears 
 
 pass 
 With causeless act sublime from cup to cup 
 Turned empty on the ground, — diablerie 
 That pales the girls and puzzles all the boys : 
 These tricks are samples, hinting to the town 
 Eoldan 's great mastery. He tumbles next, 
 And Annibal is called to mock each feat 
 With arduous comicality and save 
 By rule romantic the great public mind 
 (And Eoldan 's body) from too serious strain. 
 
 But with the tumbling, lest the feats should fail, 
 
 And so need veiling in a haze of sound, 
 
 Pablo awakes the viol and the bow, — 
 
 The masculine bow that draws the woman's heart 
 
 From out the striijgs and makes them cry, yearn, 
 
 plead. 
 Tremble, exult, with mystic union 
 Of joy acute and tender suffering. 
 To play the viol and discreetly mix 
 Alternate with the bow's keen biting tones 
 Tlie throb responsive to the finger's touch. 
 Was rarest skill that Pablo half had caught 
 From an old blind and wandering Catalan; 
 The other half was rather heritage 
 From treasure stored by generations past 
 In winding chambers of receptive sense.
 
 68 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 The winged sounds exalt the thick-pressed crowd 
 With a new pulse in common, blending all 
 The gazing life into one larger soul 
 With dimly widened consciousness : as waves 
 In heightened movement tell of waves far off. 
 And the light changes ; westward stationed clouds, 
 The sun's ranged outposts, luminous message 
 
 spread, 
 Eousing quiescent things to doff their shade 
 And show themselves as added audience. 
 Now Pablo, letting fall the eager bow, 
 Solicits softer murmurs from the strings, 
 And now above them pours a wondrous voice 
 (Such as Greek reapers heard in Sicily) 
 With wounding rapture in it, like love's arrows; 
 And clear upon clear air as coloured gems 
 Dropped in a crystal cup of water pure, 
 Fall words of sadness, simple, lyrical : 
 
 SjJring comes hither, 
 
 Buds the rose; 
 Hoses wither, 
 
 Sweet spring goes. 
 Ojald, would she carry me I 
 
 Summer soars, — 
 
 Wide-winged day 
 White light pours. 
 Flies aivay. 
 Ojald, would he carry me ! 
 
 Soft winds Mow, 
 
 Westtvard born. 
 Onward go 
 
 Toivard the morn. 
 Ojald, would they carry me !
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSlf. 69 
 
 Sweet birds sing 
 
 O'er the graves. 
 Then take wing 
 Oer the waves. 
 Ojald, would they carry me ! 
 
 When the voice paused and left the viol's note 
 To plead forsaken, 't was as when a cloud, 
 Hiding the sun, makes all the leaves and flowers 
 Shiver. But when with measured change the strings 
 Had taught regret new longing, clear again. 
 Welcome as hope recovered, Howed the voice. 
 
 Warm whispering through the slender olive leaves 
 Came to me a gentle sound, 
 Whispering of a secret found 
 
 In the clear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves : 
 
 Said it was sleeping for me in the morn, 
 Called it gladness, called it joy, 
 Dreio me on — " Come hither, hoy " — 
 
 To where the blue wings rested on the corn. 
 
 I thought the gentle sound had ivhispered true, — 
 Thouglit the little heaven mine, 
 Leaned to clutch the thing divine, 
 
 And saw the blue wings melt within the blue. 
 
 The long notes linger on the trembling air, 
 
 With subtle penetration enter all • 
 
 The myriad corridors of the passionate soul, 
 
 Message-like spread, and answering action rouse. 
 
 Not angular jigs that warm the chilly limbs 
 
 In hoary northern mists, but action curved 
 
 To soft andante strains pitched plaintively. 
 
 Vibrations sympathetic stir all limbs : 
 
 Old men live l^ackward in their dancing imme,
 
 70 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 And move in menion' ; small legs and arms 
 
 With pleasant agitation purposeless 
 
 Go up and down like pretty fruits in gales. 
 
 All long in common for the expressive act 
 
 Yet wait for it ; as in the olden time 
 
 Men waited for the bard to tell their thought. 
 
 " The dance ! the dance ! " is shouted all around. 
 
 Now Pablo lifts the bow, Pepita now, 
 
 Ready as bird that sees the sprinkled corn, 
 
 When Juan nods and smiles, puts forth her foot 
 
 And lifts her arm to wake the castanets. 
 
 Juan advaaces, too, from out the ring 
 
 And bends to quit his lute ; for now the scene 
 
 Is empty ; Roldan, weary, gathers pence, 
 
 Followed by Anuibal with purse and stick. 
 
 The carpet lies a coloured isle untrod. 
 
 Inviting feet: " The dance, the dance," resounds, 
 
 The bow entreats with slow melodic strain. 
 
 And all the air with expectation yearns. 
 
 Sudden, with gliding motion like a flame 
 
 That through dim vapour makes a path of glory, 
 
 A figure lithe, all white and saffron-robed. 
 
 Flashed right across the circle, and now stood 
 
 With ripened arms uplift and regal head. 
 
 Like some tall flower whose dark and intense heart 
 
 Lies half within a tulip-tinted cup. 
 
 Juan stood fixed and pale ; Pepita stepped 
 Backward within the ring : the voices fell 
 From shouts insistent to more passive tones 
 Half meaning welcome, half astonishment. 
 " Lady Fedalma ! — will she dance for us ? " 
 
 Put she, sole swayed by impulse passionate. 
 Feeling all life was music and all eyes
 
 "A figure lithe, all white and saffron robed, 
 Flashed right across the circle J^ 
 
 Photo- Etching. — From Painting by W. L. Taylor.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 71 
 
 The waTming, quickening light that music makes. 
 
 Moved as, in dance religious, Miriam, 
 
 When on the Eed Sea shore she raised her voice, 
 
 And led the chorus of her people's joy ; 
 
 Or as the Trojan maids that reverent sang 
 
 Watching the sorrow-crowndd Hecuba : 
 
 Moved in slow curves voluminous, gradual. 
 
 Feeling and action flowing into one, 
 
 In Eden's natural taintless marriage -bond ; 
 
 Ardently modest,- sensuously pure. 
 
 With young delight that wonders at itself 
 
 And throbs as innocent as opening Howers, 
 
 Knowing not comment, — soilless, beautiful. 
 
 The spirit in her gravely glowing face 
 
 With sweet community informs her limbs. 
 
 Filling their fine gradation with the breath 
 
 Of virgin majesty ; as full vowelled words 
 
 Are new impregnate with the master's thought. 
 
 Even the chance-strayed delicate tendrils black. 
 
 That backward 'scape from out her wreathing 
 
 hair, — 
 Even the pliant folds that cling transverse 
 When with obliquely soaring bend altern 
 She seems a goddess quitting earth again — 
 Gather expression — a soft undertone 
 And resonance exquisite from the grand chord 
 Of her harmoniously bodied soul. 
 
 At first a reverential silence guards 
 
 The eager senses of the gazing crowd: 
 
 They hold their breath, and live by seeing her. 
 
 But soon the admiring tension finds relief, — 
 
 Sighs of delight, applausive murmurs low, 
 
 And stirrings gentle as of eardd corn 
 
 Or seed-bent grasses, when the ocean's breath
 
 70 POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Spreads landward. Even Juan is impelled 
 
 By the swift-travelling movement : fear and doubt 
 
 Give way before the hurrying energy ; 
 
 He takes his lute and strikes in fellowship, 
 
 Filling more full the rill of melody 
 
 Raised ever and anon to clearest flood 
 
 By Pablo's voice, that dies away too soon, 
 
 Like the sweet blackbird's fragmentary chant. 
 
 Yet wakes again, with varying rise and fall. 
 
 In songs that seem emergent memories 
 
 Prompting brief utterance, — little cancions 
 
 And villancicos, Andalusia-born. 
 
 Pablo (sings). 
 
 It was in the prime 
 
 Of the siv.eet Spring-time. 
 
 In the linnet's throat 
 
 Trembled the love-note, 
 Aiid the love-stirred air 
 llirilled the blossoms there. 
 
 Little shadows danced 
 Each a tiny elf, 
 
 Happy in large light 
 And the thinnest self. 
 
 It ivas but a minute 
 
 In a far-off Spring, 
 
 But each gentle thing, 
 Sweetly-wooing linnet. 
 
 Soft-thrilled hawthorn-tree, 
 Happy shadoivy elf 
 With the thinnest self, 
 
 Live still on in me. 
 Oh, the sweet, sweet prime 
 Of the past Spring-time I
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 73 
 
 And still the li^bt is chansiine; : bicrh above 
 Float soft pink clouds; others with deeper flush 
 Stretch^like flamingoes bending toward the south. 
 Comes a more solemn brilliance o'er the sky, 
 A meaning more intense upon the air, — 
 The inspiration of the dying day. 
 And Juan now, when Pablo's notes subside, 
 Soothes the regretful ear, and breaks the pause 
 With masculine voice in deep antiphony. 
 
 Juan (sings). 
 
 Day is dying ! Float, song, 
 Down the vjcstwari river. 
 
 Requiem chanting to the Dag, — 
 Day, the mighty Giver. 
 
 Pierced hy shafts of Time he Heeds 
 
 3Ielted rubies sending 
 Through the river and- the shy, 
 
 Earth and heaven Mending ; 
 
 All the long-drawn earthly hanJcs 
 Ujy to cloud-land lifting: 
 
 Sloio hettveen tlietn drifts the sivan, 
 'Twixt tivo heavens drifting. 
 
 Wings half open, like a floidr 
 
 Inly deeper flushing, 
 Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — 
 
 Virgin proudly blushing. 
 
 Day is dying ! Float, swan, 
 
 Down the ruby river; 
 Follow, song, in requiem 
 
 To the mighty Giver.
 
 74 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 The exquisite hour, the ardour of the crowd, 
 
 The strains more plenteous, and the gathering 
 
 mii,dit 
 Of action passionate where no effort is, 
 But self's poor gates open to rushing power 
 That blends the inward ebb and outward vast, — 
 All gathering influences culminate 
 And urge Fedalma. Earth and heaven seem one, 
 Life a glad trembling on the outer edge 
 Of unknown rapture. Swifter now she moves. 
 Filling the measure wuth a double beat 
 And widening circle ; now she seems to glow 
 With more declared presence, glorified. 
 Circling, she lightly bends and lifts on high 
 The multitudinous-sounding tambourine. 
 And makes it ring and boom, then lifts it higher 
 Stretching her left arm beauteous; now the crowd 
 Exultant shouts, forgetting poverty 
 In the rich moment of possessing her. 
 
 But sudden, at one point, the exultant throng 
 Is pushed and hustled, and then thrust apart : 
 Something approaches, — something cuts the ring 
 Of jubilant idlers, — startling as a streak 
 From alien wounds across the blooming flesh 
 Of careless sporting childhood. 'T is the baud 
 Of Gypsy prisoners. Soldiers lead the van 
 And make sparse flanking guard, aloof surveyed 
 By gallant Lopez, stringent in command. 
 The Gypsies chained in couples, all save one, 
 Walk in dark file with grand bare legs and arms 
 And savage melancholy in their eyes 
 That star-like gleam from out black clouds of hair; 
 Now they are full in sight, and now they stretch 
 Eight to the centre of the open space.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 75 
 
 Fedalma now, with gentle wheeling sweep 
 Returning, like the loveliest of the Hours 
 Strayed from her sisters, truant lingering, 
 Faces again the centre, swings again 
 The uplifted tambourine . . . 
 
 When lo ! with sound 
 Stupendous throbbing, solemn as a voice 
 Sent by the invisible choir of all the dead, 
 Tolls the great passing bell that calls to prayer 
 For souls departed : at the mighty beat 
 It seems the licrht sinks awe-struck, — 't is the note 
 Of the sun's burial; speech and action pause; 
 Religious silence and the holy sign 
 Of everlasting memories (the sign 
 Of death that turned to more diffusive life) 
 Pass o'er the Plaga. Little children gaze 
 With lips apart, and feel the unknown god ; 
 And the most men and women pray. Not all. 
 The soldiers pray ; the Gypsies stand unmoved 
 As pagan statues with proud level gaze. 
 But he who wears a solitary chain 
 Heading the file, has turned to face Fedalma. 
 She motionless, with arm uplifted, guards 
 The tambourine aloft (lest, sudden-lowered, 
 Its trivial jingle mar the duteous pause), 
 Reveres the general prayer, but prays not, stands 
 With level glance meeting that Gypsy's eyes, 
 That seem to her the sadness of the world 
 Rebuking her, the great bell's hidden thought 
 Now first unveiled, — the sorrows unredeemed 
 Of races outcast, scorned, and wandering. 
 Why does he look at her ? why she at him ? 
 As if the meeting light between their eyes 
 Made permanent union ? His deep-knit brow, 
 Inflated nostril, scornful lip compressed.
 
 76 POEMS OY GEOIIGE ELIOT. 
 
 Seem a dark liieroglypli of coining fate 
 AVritten before her. Father Isidor 
 Had terrible eyes, and was her enemy ; 
 She knew it and defied him ; all her soul 
 Bounded and hardened in its separateness 
 When they encountered. But this prisoner, — • 
 This Gypsy, passing, gazing casually, — 
 Was he her enemy too ? Slie stood all quelled, 
 The impetuous joy that hurried in her veins 
 Seemed backward rushing turned to chillest awe, 
 Uneasy wonder, and a vague self-doubt. 
 The minute brief stretched measureless, dream- 
 filled 
 By a dilated new-fraught consciousness. 
 
 Now it was gone ; the pious murmur ceased. 
 The Gypsies all moved onward at command 
 And careless noises blent confusedly. 
 But the ring closed again, and many ears 
 Waited for Pablo's music, many eyes 
 Turned towards the carpet: it lay bare and dim. 
 Twilight was there, — the bright Fedalma gone. 
 
 A handsome room in the Castle. On a table a rich 
 
 jewel-cashct. 
 
 Silva had dropped his mail and with it all 
 
 The heavier harness of his warlike cares. 
 
 He had not seen Fedalma; miser-like 
 
 He hoarded through the hour a costlier joy 
 
 By longing oft-repressed. Now it was earned; 
 
 And with observance wonted he would send 
 
 To ask admission. Spanish gentlemen 
 
 Who wooed fair dames of noble ancestry 
 
 Did homage with rich tunics and slashed sleeves 
 
 And outward-surging linen's costly snow;
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. n 
 
 With broidered scarf transverse, and rosary 
 
 Handsomely wrought to fit high-blooded prayer ; 
 
 So hinting in how deep respect they held 
 
 Thaf'self they threw before their lady's feet. 
 
 And Silva — that Fedalma's rate should stand 
 
 No jot below the highest, that her love 
 
 Might seem to all the royal gift it was — 
 
 Turned every trifle in his mien and garb 
 
 To scrupulous language, uttering to the world 
 
 That since she loved him he went carefully, 
 
 Bearing a thing so precious in his hand. 
 
 A man of high-wrought strain, fastidious 
 
 In his acceptance, dreading all delight 
 
 That speedy dies and turns to carrion : 
 
 His senses much exacting, deep instilled 
 
 AVith keen imagination's difhcult needs ; — 
 
 Like strong-limbed monsters studded o'er with 
 
 eyes, 
 Their hunger checked by overwhelming vision, 
 Or that fierce lion in symbolic dream 
 Snatched from the ground by wings and new- 
 endowed 
 With a man's thought-propelled relenting heart. 
 Silva was both the lion and the man ; 
 First hesitating shrank, then fiercely sprang, 
 Or having sprung, turned pallid at his deed 
 And loosed the prize, paying his blood for naught. 
 A nature half-transformed, with qualities 
 That oft bewrayed each other, elements 
 Not blent but struggling, breeding strange effects, 
 Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes. 
 Haughty and generous, grave and passionate ; 
 With tidal moments of devoutest awe, 
 Sinking anon to furthest ebb of doubt; 
 Deliberating ever, till the sting
 
 78 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Of a recurrent ardour made him rush 
 
 Right against reasons that himself had drilled 
 
 And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed 
 
 Too proudly special for obedience, 
 
 Too subtly pondering for mastery : 
 
 Born of a goddess with a mortal sire, 
 
 Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity. 
 
 Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness 
 
 And perilous heightening of the sentient soul. 
 
 But look less curiously : life itself 
 
 May not express us all, may leave the worst 
 
 And the best too, like tunes in mechanism 
 
 Never awaked. In various catalogues 
 
 Objects stand variously. Silva stands 
 
 As a young Spaniard, handsome, noble, brave, 
 
 With titles many, high in pedigree; 
 
 Or, as a nature quiveringly poised 
 
 In reach of storms, whose qualities may turn 
 
 To murdered virtues that still w^alk as ghosts 
 
 Within the shuddering soul and shiiek remorse; 
 
 Or, as a lover ... In the screening time 
 
 Of purple blossoms when the petals crowd 
 
 And softly crush like cherub cheeks in heaven, 
 
 Who thinks of greenly withered fruit and worms? 
 
 Oh the warm southern spring is beauteous ! 
 
 And in love's spring all good seems possible: 
 
 No threats, all promise, brooklets ripple full 
 
 And bathe the rushes, vicious crawling things 
 
 Are pretty eggs, the sun shines graciously 
 
 And parches not, the silent rain beats warm 
 
 As childhood's kisses, days are young and grow, 
 
 And earth seems in its sweet beginning time 
 
 Fresh made for two who live in Paradise. 
 
 Silva is in love's spring, its freshness breathed 
 
 Within his soul along the dusty ways
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 79 
 
 While marching homeward ; 't is around him now 
 
 As in a garden fenced in for delight, — 
 
 And he may seek delight. Smiling he lifts 
 
 A whistle from his belt, but lets it fall 
 
 Ere it has reached his lips, jarred by the sound 
 
 Of ushers' knocking, and a voice that craves 
 
 Admission for the Prior of San Domingo. 
 
 Pkior {entering). 
 
 You look perturbed, my son. I thrust myself 
 Between you and some beckoning intent 
 That wears a face more smiling than my own. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Father, enough that you are here. I wait, 
 
 As always, your commands, — nay, should have 
 
 sought 
 An early audience. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 To give, I trust, 
 Good reasons for your change of policy ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Strong reasons, father. 
 
 Prior, 
 
 Ay, but are they good ? 
 I have known reasons strong, but strongly evil. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 'T is possible. I but deliver mine 
 
 To your strict judgment. Late despatches sent 
 
 With urgence by the Count of I]avien, 
 
 No hint on my part prompting, with besides
 
 8o POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 The testified concurrence of the king 
 
 And our Grand Master, have made peremptory 
 
 The course which else had been but rationah 
 
 Without the forces furnished by allies 
 
 The siege of Guadix would be madness. More, 
 
 El Zagal has his eyes upon Bedmar : 
 
 Let him attempt it : in three weeks from hence 
 
 The Master and the Lord of Aofuilar 
 
 Will bring their forces. We shall catch the Moors, 
 
 The last gleaned clusters of their bravest men. 
 
 As in a trap. You have my reasons, father. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 And they sound well. But free-tongued rumour adds 
 
 A pregnant supplement, — in substance this; 
 
 That inclination snatches arguments 
 
 To make indulgence seem judicious choice; 
 
 That you, commanding in God's Holy War, 
 
 Lift prayers to Satan to retard the fight 
 
 And give you time for feasting, — wait a siege, 
 
 Call daring enterprise impossible, 
 
 Because you 'd marry ! You, a Spanish duke, 
 
 Christ's general, would marry like a clown. 
 
 Who, selling fodder dearer for the war. 
 
 Is all the merrier ; nay, like the brutes, 
 
 Who know no awe to check their appetite. 
 
 Coupling 'mid heaps of slain, while still in front 
 
 The battle rages. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Rumour on your lips 
 Is eloquent, father. 
 
 Prior. 
 Is she true ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 8i 
 
 .Don Silva. 
 
 Perhaps. 
 T seek to justify my public acts 
 And hot my private joy. Before the world 
 Enough if I am faithful in command, 
 Betray not by my deeds, swerve from no task 
 My knightly vows constrain me to : herein 
 I ask all men to test me. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 Knightly vows ? 
 Is it by their constraint that you must marry 1 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Marriage is not a breach of them. I use 
 A sanctioned liberty . . . your pardon, father, 
 I need not teach you what the Church decrees. 
 But facts may weaken texts, and so dry up 
 The fount of eloquence. The Church relaxed 
 Our Order's rule before I took the vows. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 Ignoble liberty ! you snatch your rule 
 
 From what God tolerates, not what he loves ? — 
 
 Inquire what lowest offering may suffice. 
 
 Cheapen it meanly to an obolus, 
 
 Buy, and then count the coin left in your purse 
 
 For your debauch ? — Measure obedience 
 
 By scantest powers of feeble brethren 
 
 Whom Holy Church indulges ? — Ask great Law, 
 
 The rightful Sovereign of the human soul. 
 
 For what it pardons, not what it commands ? 
 
 Oh fallen knighthood, penitent of high vows, 
 
 Asking a charter to degrade itself ! 
 
 VOL. I. — 6
 
 82 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Such poor apology of rules relaxed 
 Blunts not suspicion of that doubleness 
 Your enemies tax you with. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oh, for the rest. 
 Conscience is harder than our enemies, 
 Knows more, accuses with more nicety, 
 Nor needs to question Rumour if we fall 
 Below the perfect model of our thought. * 
 I fear no outward arbiter. — You smile ? 
 
 Prioe. 
 
 Ay, at the contrast 'tw^ixt your portraiture 
 And the true image of your conscience, shown 
 As now I see it in your acts. I see 
 A drunken sentinel who gives alarm 
 ,At his own shadow, but when scalers snatch 
 His weapon from his hand smiles idiot-like 
 •At games he 's dreaming of. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 A parable ! 
 The husk is rough, — holds something bitter, 
 doubtless. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 Oh, the husk gapes with meaning over-ripe. 
 You boast a conscience that controls your deeds, 
 Watches your knightly armour, guards your rank 
 From stain of treachery, — you, helpless slave, 
 AVhose will lies nerveless in the clutch of lust, — 
 Of blind mad passion, — passion itself most helj)less, 
 Storm-driven, like the monsters of the sea. 
 Oh famous conscience !
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 83 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Pause there ! Leave unsaid 
 Aught that will match that text. More were too 
 
 much, 
 Even from holy lips. I own no love 
 But such as gruards mv honour, since it guards 
 Hers whom I love ! I suffer no foul words 
 To stain the gift I lay before her feet ; 
 And, being hers, my honour is more safe. 
 
 Priok. 
 
 Verse-makers' talk ! iit for a world of rhymes. 
 
 Where facts are feigned to tickle idle ears, 
 
 Where good and evil play at tournament 
 
 And end in amity, — a world of lies, — 
 
 A carnival of words where every year 
 
 Stale falsehoods serve fresh men. Your honour 
 
 safe ? 
 What honour has a man with double bonds ? 
 Honour is shifting as the shadows are 
 To souls that turn their passions into laws. 
 A Christian knight who weds an infidel . . . 
 
 'O' 
 
 Don Silva {fiercely). 
 An infidel ! 
 
 Prior. 
 
 May one day spurn the Cross, 
 And call that honour! — one day find his sword 
 Stained with his brother's blood, and call that 
 
 honour! 
 Apostates' honour? — harlots' chastity! 
 Renegades' faithfulness ? — Iscariot's 1
 
 84 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Strong words and bnrning ; but they scorch not me. 
 Fedalma is a daughter of the Church, — 
 Has been baptized and nurtured in the faith. 
 
 Priok. 
 
 Ay, as a thousand Jewesses, who yet 
 Are brides of Satan in a robe of Hames. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Fedalma is no Jewess, bears no marks 
 That tell of Hebrew blood. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 She bears the marks 
 Of races unbaptized, that never bowed 
 Before the holy signs, were never moved 
 By stirrings of the sacramental gifts. 
 
 Don Silva {scornfaUn). 
 
 Holy accusers practise palmistry, 
 
 And, other witness lacking, read the skin. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 I read a record deeper than the skin. 
 
 What! Shall the trick of nostrils and of lips 
 
 Descend through generations, and the soul 
 
 That moves within our frame like God in worlds — 
 
 Convulsing, urging, melting, withering — 
 
 Imprint no record, leave no documents, 
 
 Of her great history ? Shall men bequeath 
 
 The fancies of their palate to their sons, 
 
 And shall the shudder of restraining awe, 
 
 The slow- wept tears of contrite memory,
 
 THE SPANISH GITSY. 85 
 
 Faith's prayerful labour, and the food divine 
 Of fasts ecstatic, — shall these pass away 
 Lika wind upon the waters, tracklessly ? 
 Shall the mere curl of eyelashes remain 
 And god-enshrining symbols leave no trace 
 Of tremors reverent? — That maiden's blood 
 Is as unchristian as the leopard's. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Say, 
 Unchristian as the Blessed Virgin's blood 
 Before the angel spoke the word, " All hail ! " 
 
 Prior {smiling Utterly). 
 
 Say I not truly ? See, your passion weaves 
 Already blasphemies ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 'T is you provoke them. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 I strive, as still the Holy Spirit strives, 
 
 To move the will perverse. But, failing this, 
 
 God commands other means to save our blood. 
 
 To save Castilian glory, — nay, to save 
 
 The name of Christ from blot of traitorous deeds. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Of traitorous deeds ! Age, kindred, and your cowl 
 
 Give an ignoble license to your tongue. 
 
 As for your threats, fulfil them at your peril. 
 
 'T is you, not I, will gibbet our great name 
 
 To rot in infamy. If I am strong 
 
 In patience now, trust me, I can be strong 
 
 Then in defiance.
 
 86 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Prior, 
 
 Miserable man ! 
 Your strength will turn to anguish, like the strength 
 Of fallen angels. Can you change your blood ? 
 You are a Christian, with the Christian awe 
 In every vein. A Spanish noble, born 
 To serve your people and your people's faith. 
 Strong, are you ? Turn your back upon the Cross, — 
 Its shadow is before you. Leave your place : 
 Quit the great ranks of knighthood : you will walk 
 Forever with a tortured double self, 
 A self that will be hungry while you feast. 
 Will blush with shame wliile you are glorified, 
 Will feel the ache and chill of desolation, 
 Even in the very bosom of your love. 
 Mate yourself with this woman, fit for what ? 
 To make the sport of Moorish palaces 
 A lewd Herodias , . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Stop ! no other man, 
 Priest though he were, had had his throat left free 
 For passage of those words. I would have clutched 
 His serpent's neck, and flung him out to hell! 
 A monk must needs defile the name of love : 
 He knows it but as tempting devils paint it. 
 You think to scare my love from its resolve 
 With arbitrary consequences, strained 
 By rancorous effort from the thinnest motes 
 Of possibility? — cite hideous lists 
 Of sins irrelevant, to frighten me 
 With bugbears' names, as women fright a child? 
 Poor pallid wisdom, taught by inference 
 Froijj blood drained life, where phantom terrors rule^
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. %1 
 
 And all achievement is to leave undone ! 
 Paint the day dark, make sunshine cold to me, 
 Abolish the earth's fairness, prove it all 
 A fiction of my eyes, — then, after that, 
 Profane Fedalma. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 Oh, there is no need : 
 She has profaned herself. Go, raving man, 
 And see her dancing now. Go, see your bride 
 riaunting her beauties grossly in the gaze 
 Of vulgar idlers, — eking out the show 
 Made in the Pla(}a by a mountebank. 
 I hinder you no further. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It is false ! 
 
 Prior. 
 Go, prove it false, then. 
 
 [Father Is i dor 
 Drew on his cowl and turned away. The face 
 That flashed anathemas, in swift eclipse 
 Seemed Silva 's vanished confidence. In haste 
 He rushed unsignalled through the corridor 
 To where the Duchess once, Fedalma now. 
 Had residence retired from din of arms, — 
 Knocked, opened, found all empty, — said 
 With muffled voice, " Fedalma !" — called more 
 
 loud. 
 More oft on Inez, the old trusted nurse, — 
 Then searched the terrace-garden, calling still, 
 But heard no answering sound, and saw no face 
 Save painted faces staring all unmoved
 
 88 POExMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 By agitated tones. He hurried back, 
 
 Giving half-conscious orders as he went 
 
 To page and usher, that they straight should seek 
 
 Lady Fedahua ; then with stinging shame 
 
 Wished himself silent ; reached again the room 
 
 Where still the Father's menace seemed to hang 
 
 Thickening the air; snatched cloak and plumdd 
 
 hat, 
 And grasped, not knowing why, his poniard's 
 
 hilt; 
 Then checked himself and said : — ] 
 
 If he spoke truth ! 
 To know were wound enough, — to see the truth 
 Were fire upon the wound. It must be false ! 
 His hatred saw amiss, or snatched mistake 
 In other men's report. I am a fool! 
 But where can she be gone ? gone secretly ? 
 And in my absence? Oh, she meant no wrong! 
 I am a fool ! — But where can she be gone ? 
 With only Inez ? Oh, she meant no wrong ! 
 I swear she never meant it. There 's no wrong 
 But she would make it momentary right 
 By innocence in doing it. . . . 
 
 And yet. 
 What is our certainty? Why, knowing all 
 That is not secret. Mighty confidence ! 
 One pulse of Time makes the base hollow, — sends 
 The towering certainty we built so high 
 Toppling in fragments meaningless. What is — 
 What will be — must be — pooh! they wait the 
 
 key 
 Of that which is not yeL ; all other keys 
 Are made of our conjectures, take their sense 
 From humours fooled by hope, or by despair.
 
 " Fedalma entered, cast away the cloua 
 Of serge and linen, and, oiitbeaming bright 
 Advanced a pace towards Silva." 
 
 Photo- Etching.— From Painting by W. St. John Har^jer
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 89 
 
 Know what is good ? Oh God, we know not yet 
 If bliss itself is not young misery 
 With fangs swift growing. . . . 
 
 But some outward harm 
 May even now be hurting, grieving her. 
 Oh, I must search, — face shame, — if shame be there. 
 Here, Perez! hasten to Don Alvar, — tell him 
 Lady Fedalma must be sought, — is lost, — 
 Has met, I fear, some mischance. He must send 
 Towards divers points. I go myself to seek 
 First in the town. . . , 
 
 • 
 
 [As Perez oped the door, 
 Then moved aside for passage of the Duke, 
 Fedalma entered, cast away the cloud 
 Of serge and linen, and, outbeaming bright, 
 Advanced a pace towards Silva, — but then paused, 
 For he had started and retreated ; she, 
 Quick and responsive as the subtle air 
 To change in him, divined that she musf wait 
 Until they were alone : they stood and looked. 
 Within the Duke was struggling confluence 
 Of feelings manifold, — pride, anger, dread, 
 Meeting in stormy rush with sense secure 
 That she was present, with the satisfied thirst 
 Of gazing love, with trust inevitable 
 As in beneficent virtues of the light 
 And all earth's sweetness, that Fedalma 's soul 
 Was free from blemishing purpose. Yet proud 
 
 wrath 
 Leaped in dark flood above the purer stream 
 That strove to drown it: Anger seeks its prey, —   
 Something to tear with sharp-edged tootb and 
 
 claw, 
 Likes not to go off hungry, leaving Love
 
 90 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 To feast on milk and honeycomb at will. 
 
 Silva's heart said, he must be happy soon, 
 
 She being there ; but to be happy, — first 
 
 He must be angry, having cause. Yet love 
 
 Shot like a stifled cry of tenderness 
 
 All through the harshness he would fain have 
 
 given 
 
 To the dear word,] 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Fedalma ! 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 my Lord ! 
 
 Yon are come back, and I was wandering ! 
 
 Don Silva {coldly, hut with suppressed agitation). 
 You meant I should be ignorant. 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 Oh no, 
 
 J should have told you after, — not before, 
 
 Lest you should hinder me. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Then my known wish 
 Can make no hindrance ? 
 
 Ledalma {archly). 
 
 That depends 
 On what the wish may be. You wished me once 
 Not to uncage the birds. I meant to obey : 
 But in a moment something — something stronger. 
 Forced me to let them out. It did no harm. 
 They all came back again, — the silly birds ! 
 I told you, after.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 91 
 
 Don Silva {with Jiaughty coldness). 
 
 Will you tell me now 
 What was the prompting stronger than my wish 
 That made you wander? 
 
 Fedalma {advancing a step toioards him, with a 
   sudden look of anxiety). 
 
 Are you angry ? 
 
 Don Silva {smiling hitterhj). 
 
 Angry ? 
 A man deep-wounded may feel too much paiu 
 To feel much anger. 
 
 Fedalma {still more anxiously). 
 
 You — deep-wounded ? 
 
 Yes! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Have I not made your place and dignity 
 The very heart of my ambition ? You, — 
 No enemy could do it, — you alone 
 Can strike it mortally. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, Silva, nay. 
 Has some one told you false ? I only went 
 To see the world with Inez, — see the town, 
 The people, everything. It was no harm. 
 I did not mean to dance : it happened so • 
 
 At last . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 God, it 's true, then ! — true that you, 
 A maiden nurtured as rare ilowers are,
 
 92 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 The very air of heaven sifted fine 
 Lest any mote should mar your purity, 
 Have flung yourself out on the dusty way 
 For common eyes to see your beauty soiled 1 
 You own it true, — you danced upon the Plac^a? 
 
 Fedalma {iiToudlij). 
 
 Yes, it is true. I was not wrong to dance. 
 The air was filled with music, with a song 
 That seemed the voice of the sweet eventide, — 
 The glowing light entering through eye and ear, — 
 That seemed our love, — mine, yours, — they are 
 
 but one, — 
 Trembling through all my limbs, as fervent words 
 Tremble within my soul and must be spoken. 
 And all the people felt a common joy 
 And shouted for the dance. A brightness soft 
 As of the angels moving down to see 
 Illumined the broad space. The joy, the life 
 Around, within me, were one heaven : I longed 
 To blend them visibly : I longed to dance 
 Before the people, — be as mounting flame 
 To all that burned within them ! Nay, I danced ; • 
 There was no longing : I but did the deed 
 Being moved to do it. 
 
 {As Fedalma speaks, she and Don Silva are grad- 
 ually drawn nearer to each other.) 
 
 Oh, I seemed new-waked 
 To life in unison with a multitude, — 
 Feeling my soul upborne by all their souls, 
 Floating within their gladness ! Soon I lost 
 All sense of separateness : Fedalma died 
 As a star dies, and melts into the light. 
 I was not, but joy was, and love and triumph.
 
 THE SPANISH aiPSY. 93 
 
 Nay, my dear lord, I never could do aught 
 But I must feel you present. And once done, 
 Why, you must love it better than your wish. 
 I pray you, say so, — say, it was not wrong ! 
 
 ( While Fedalma has heen making this last 
 appeal, they have gradually come close 
 together, ctnd at last embrace.) 
 
 Don Silva {holding her hands). 
 
 Dangerous rebel ! if the world without 
 Were pure as that within . . . but 't is a book 
 Wherein you only read the poesy 
 And miss all wicked meanings. Hence the need 
 For trust — obedience — call it what you will — 
 Towards him whose life will be your guard, — to- 
 wards me 
 Who now am soon to be your husband. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Yes ! 
 That very thing that when I am your wife 
 I sliall be something different, — shall be 
 I know not what, a duchess with new thoughts, — 
 For nobles never think like common men, 
 Nor wives like maidens (oh, you wot not yet 
 How much I note, with all my ignorance), — 
 That very thing has made me more resolve 
 To have my will before I am your wife. 
 How can the Duchess ever satisfy 
 Fedalma 's unwed eyes ? and so to-day 
 I scolded Inez till she cried and went. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It was a guilty weakness : she knows well 
 That since you pleaded to be left more free
 
 94 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 From tedious tendance and control of dames 
 Whose rank matched better with your destiny, 
 Her charge — my trust — was weightier. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, my lord, 
 You must not blame her, dear old nurse. She cried. 
 AVhy, you would have consented too, at last. 
 I said such things ! I was resolved to go. 
 And see the streets, the shops, the men at work, 
 The women, little children, — everything, 
 Just as it is when nobody looks on. 
 And I have done it ! We were out four hours. 
 I feel so wise. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Had you but seen the town, 
 You innocent naughtiness, not shown yourself, — 
 Shown yourself dancing, — you bewilder me! —   
 Frustrate my judgment with strange negatives 
 That seem like poverty, and yet are wealth 
 In precious womanliness, beyond the dower 
 Of other women : wealth in virgin gold. 
 Outweighing all their petty currency. 
 You daring modesty ! You shrink no more 
 From gazing men than from the gazing flowers 
 Thatj dreaming sunshine, open as you pass. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No, I should like the world to look at me 
 
 With eyes of love that make a second day. 
 
 I think your eyes would keep the life in me 
 
 Thou"h I had naught to feed on else. Their blue 
 
 Is better than the heavens', — hold more love 
 
 For me, Fedalma,— is a little heaven 
 
 For this one little world that looks up now.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 95 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 precious little world ! you make the heaven 
 As the earth makes the sky. But, dear, all eyes. 
 Though looking even on you, have not a glance 
 That cherishes . . , 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Ah no, I meant to tell you, — 
 Tell how my dancing ended with a pang. 
 There came a man, one among many more, 
 But he came first, with iron on his limbs. 
 And when the bell tolled, and the people prayed, 
 And I stood pausing, — then he looked at me. 
 O Silva, such a man ! I thought he rose 
 From the dark place of long-imprisoned souls, 
 To say that Christ had never come to them. 
 It was a look to shame a seraph's joy 
 And make him sad in heaven. It found me therej — 
 Seemed to have travelled far to find me there 
 And grasp me, — claim this festal life of mine 
 As heritage of sorrow, chill my blood 
 With the cold iron of some unknown bonds. 
 The gladness hurrying full within my veins 
 "Was sudden frozen, and I danced no more. 
 But seeing you let loose the stream of joy, 
 Mingling the present with the sweetest past. 
 Yet, Silva, still I see him. Who is he ? 
 Who are those prisoners with him ? Are they 
 Moors ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, they are Gypsies, strong and cunning knaves, 
 
 A double gain to us by the Moors' loss : 
 
 The man you mean — their chief — is an ally
 
 96 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 The infidel will miss. His look might chase 
 A herd of monks, and make them fly more swift 
 Than from St. Jerome's lion. Such vague fear, 
 Such bird-like tremors when that savage glance 
 Turned full upon you in your height of joy 
 Was natural, was not worth emphasis. 
 Forget it, dear. This hour is worth whole days 
 When we are sundered. Danger urges us 
 To quick resolve. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 What danger ? What resolve ? 
 I never felt chill shadow in my heart 
 Until this sunset. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 A dark enmity 
 Plots how to sever us. And our defence 
 Is speedy marriage, secretly achieved. 
 Then publicly declared. Beseech you, dear. 
 Grant me this confidence ; do my will in this. 
 Trusting the reasons why I overset 
 All my own airy building raised so high 
 Of bridal honours, marking when you step 
 From off your maiden throne to come to me 
 And bear the yoke of love. There is great need. 
 I hastened home, carrying this prayer to you 
 Within my heart. The bishop is my friend, 
 Furthers our marriage, holds in enmity — 
 Some whom we love not and who love not us. 
 By this night's moon our priest will be de^ 
 
 spatched 
 From Jal-n. I shall march an escort strong 
 To meet him. Ere a second sun from this 
 Has risen — you consenting — we may wed.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 97 
 
 Fedalma. 
 None knowing that we wed ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Beforehand none 
 Save Inez and Don Alvar. But the vows 
 Once safely binding us, my household all 
 Shall know you as their Duchess. No man then 
 Can aim a blow at you but through my breast. 
 And what stains you must stain our ancient name; 
 If any hate you I will take his hate 
 And wear it as a glove upon my helm ; 
 Nay, God himself will never have the power 
 To strike you solely and leave me unhurt^ 
 He having made us one. Now put the seal 
 Of your dear lips on that. 
 
 Eedalma, 
 
 A solemn kiss ? — 
 Such as I gave you when you came that day 
 From Cordova, when first we said we loved ? 
 When you had left the ladies of the court 
 For thirst to see me ; and you told me so ; 
 And then I seemed to know why I had lived. 
 I never knew before. A kiss like that ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, yes, you face divine ! When was our kiss 
 Like any other ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, I cannot tell 
 What other kisses are. But that one kiss 
 Remains upon my lips. The angels, spirits, 
 vol.. I. — 7
 
 98 POE]\rS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Creatures -with finer sense, may see it there. 
 And now another kiss that ^vill not die, 
 Saying, To-morrow I shall be your wife! 
 
 {They kiss, and jniuse a moment, looking ear- 
 nestli/ in each other's eyes. Then Fedalma, 
 breaking away from Don Silva, stands at 
 a little distance from him with a, look of 
 roguish delight,') 
 
 Now I am glad I saw the town to-day 
 
 Before I am a Duchess, —glad I gave 
 
 This poor Fedalma all her wish. For once, 
 
 Long years ago, I cried when Inez said, 
 
 " You are no more a little girl ; " I grieved 
 
 To part forever from that little girl 
 
 And all her happy world so near the ground. 
 
 It must be sad to outlive aught we love. 
 
 So I shall grieve a little for these days 
 
 Of poor unwed Fedalma. Oh, they are sweet, 
 
 And none will come just like them. Perhaps the 
 
 wind 
 Wails so in winter for the summers dead, 
 And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries 
 For what has been and is not. Are they, Silva ? 
 {She comes nearer to him again, and lays her 
 
 hand on his arm, looking up at him with 
 
 melancholy.) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Why, dearest, you began in merriment, 
 
 And end as sadly as a widowed bird. 
 
 Some touch mysterious has new-tuned your soul 
 
 To melancholy sequence. You soared high 
 
 In that wild flight of rapture when you danced, 
 
 And now you droop. 'T is arbitrary grief,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 99 
 
 Surfeit of happiness, that mourns for loss 
 Of unwed love, which does but die like seed 
 For fuller harvest of our tenderness. 
 We in our wedded life shall know no loss. 
 We shall new-date our years. What went before 
 Will be the time of promise, shadows, dreams ; 
 But this, full revelation of great love. 
 For rivers blent take in a broader heaven. 
 And we shall blend our souls. Away with grief! 
 When this dear head shall wear the double crown 
 Of wife and Duchess, — spiritually crowned 
 With sworn espousal before God and man, — 
 Visibly crowned with jewels that bespeak 
 The chosen sharer of my heritage, — 
 My love will gather perfectness, as thoughts 
 That nourish us to magnanimity 
 Grow perfect with more perfect utterance. 
 Gathering full-shapen strength. And then these 
 gems, 
 
 (Dox SiLVA draws Fedalma towards the jewel- 
 casket on the iahle, and opens it.) 
 
 Helping the utterance of my soul's full choice, 
 Will be the words made richer by just use. 
 And have new meaning in their lustrousness. 
 You know these jewels ; they are precious signs 
 Of long-transmitted honour, heightened still 
 ^y worthy wearing; and I give them you, — 
 Ask you to take them, — place our house's trust 
 In her sure keeping whom my heart has found 
 Worthiest, most beauteous. These rubies — see —   
 Were falsely placed if not upon your brow. 
 
 (Fedalma, ivhile Don Silva holds open the 
 casket, bends over it, looking at the jewels 
 with delight.)
 
 100 POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Ah, I remember them. In childish doys 
 I felt as if they were alive and breathed. 
 I used to sit with awe and look at them. 
 And now they will be mine ! 1 '11 put them on. 
 Help me, my lord, and you shall see me now 
 Somewhat as I shall look at Court with you, 
 That we may know if I shall bear them well. 
 I have a fear sometimes : I think your love 
 Has never paused within your eyes to look, 
 And only passes through them into mine. 
 But when the Court is looking, and the queen. 
 Your eyes will follow theirs. Oh, if you saw 
 That I was other than you wished, — 't were death ! 
 
 Don Silva {taking up a jewel and placing it 
 against her ear). 
 
 Nay, let us try. Take out your ear-ring, sweet. 
 This ruby glows with longing for your ear. 
 
 Fedalma (taking out her ear-rings, and then lifting 
 up the other jewels, one hy one). 
 
 Pray, fasten in the rubies. 
 
 (Don Silva legins to put in the ear-ring.) 
 
 I was right! 
 These gems have life in them : their colours speak, 
 Say what words fail of. So do many things, — 
 The scent of jasmine, and the fountain's plash, 
 The moving shadows on the far-off hills. 
 The slanting moonlight and our clasping hands. 
 Silva, there 's an ocean round our words 
 That overflows and drowns them. Do you know
 
 THE SrANISII GYPSY. loi 
 
 Sometimes when we sit silent, and the air 
 Breathes gently on us from the orange-trees,_ 
 It seems that with the whisper of a word 
 Our souls must shrink, get poorer, more apart. 
 Ts it not true ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, dearest, it is true. 
 Speech is but broken light upon the depth 
 Of the unspoken : even your loved words 
 Float in the larger meaning of your voice 
 As something dimmer. 
 
 {He is still trying in vain to fasten the second 
 ear-ring, ivhile she has stooped again over 
 the casket.) 
 
 Fedalma {raising her head). 
 
 Ah ! your lordly hands 
 Will never fix that jewel. Let me try. 
 Women's small finger-tips have eyes. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, no! 
 I like the task, only you must I5e still. 
 
 {She stands perfectly still, clasping her hands 
 together while he fastens the second ear- 
 ring. Suddenly a clanking noise is heard 
 without.) 
 
 Fedalma {starting with an expression of pain). 
 
 What is that sound? — that jarring cruel sound? 
 'T is there, — outside. 
 
 {She tries to start away towards the window 
 but Don Silva detains her.)
 
 I02 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oh heed it not, it comes 
 From workmen in the outer gallery. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 It is the sound of fetters : sound of work 
 Is not so dismal. Hark, they pass along ! 
 I know it is those Gypsy prisoners. 
 I saw them, heard their chains. Oh horrible, 
 To be in chains ! Why, I with all my bliss 
 Have longed sometimes to fly and be at large , 
 Have felt imprisoned in my luxury 
 With servants for my jailers. my lord, 
 Do you not wish the world were different ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It will be different when this war has ceased. 
 You, wedding me, will make it different, 
 Making one life more perfect 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 That is true ! 
 And I shall beg much kindness at your hands 
 For those who are" less happy than ourselves. — 
 {Brightening.) Oh, I shall rule you! ask for many 
 
 things 
 Before the world, which you will not deny 
 For very pride, lest men should say, " The Duka 
 Holds liglitly by his Duchess; he repents 
 His humble choice. " 
 
 {She breaks away from him and returns to the 
 jewels, taking up a necklace, and clasping it 
 on her neck, while he takes a circlet of dia- 
 monds and rubies and raises it towards her 
 head as he speaks. )
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 103 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Doubtless, I shall persist 
 In loving you, to disappoint the world; 
 Out of pure obstinacy feel myself 
 Happiest of men. Now, take the coronet. 
 
 {He places the circlet on her head.) 
 
 The diamonds want more light. See, from this 
 
 lamp 
 I can set tapers burning. . 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 Tell me, now, 
 When all these cruel wars are at an end, 
 And when we go to Court at Cordova, 
 Or Seville, or Toledo, — wait awhile, 
 I must be farther off for you to see, —   
 
 {She retreats to a distance from him, and then 
 advances slotvlt/.) 
 Now think (I would the tapers gave more light !) 
 If when you show me at the tournaments 
 Among the other ladies, they wdll say, 
 " Duke Silva is well matched. His bride was 
 
 naught. 
 Was some poor foster-child, no man knows what ; 
 Yet is her carriage noble, all her robes 
 Are worn with grace : she might have been well 
 
 born. " 
 Will they say so ? Think now we are at Court, 
 And all eyes bent on me. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Fear not, my Duchess! 
 Some knight who loves may say his lady-love 
 Is fairer, being fairest. None can say
 
 104 POEMS or GEOKGE ELIOT. 
 
 Don Silva's bride nnulit better fit lier rank. 
 
 'o 
 
 You will make rank seem natural as kind, 
 
 As eagle's plumage or the lion's might. 
 
 A crown upon your brow would seem God-made. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Then I am glad ! I shall try on to-night 
 The other jewels, — have the tapers lit. 
 And see the diamonds sparkle. 
 
 {She goes to the casket again.) 
 
 Here is gold, — 
 A necklace of pure gold, — most finely wrought. 
 
 {She takes out a large gold necklace and holds 
 it up hefore her, tlien turns to Don Silva.) 
 But this is one that you have worn, my lord ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, love, I never wore it. Lay it down. 
 
 {He puts the necklace gently out of her hand, 
 then joins both her hands and holds them 
 up between his own.) 
 You must not look at jewels any more, 
 But look at me. 
 
 Fedalma {looking up at him). 
 
 you dear heaven ! 
 I should see naught if you were gone. 'T is true 
 My mind is too much given to gauds, — to things 
 That fetter thought within this narrow space. 
 That comes of fear. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 What fear ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYrSY. kos 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Fear of myself. 
 For when I walk upon the battlements 
 And see the river travelling toward the plain, 
 The mountains screening all the world beyond, 
 A lonsina comes that haunts me in my dreams, — • 
 Dreams where I seem to spring from off the walls, 
 And Hy far, far away, until at last 
 I find myself alone among the rocks, 
 Eemember then that I have left yon, — try 
 To fly back to you, — and my wings are gone! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 A wicked dream ! If ever I left you, 
 
 Even in dreams, it was some demon dragged me, 
 
 And with fierce struggles I awaked myself. 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 It is a hateful dream, and when it comes, — 
 
 I mean, when in my waking hours there comes 
 
 That longing to be free, I am afraid : 
 
 I run down to my chamber, plait my liair. 
 
 Weave colours in it, lay out all my gauds, 
 
 And in my mind make new ones prettier. 
 
 You see I have two minds, and both are foolish. 
 
 Sometimes a torrent rushing through my soul 
 
 Escapes in wild strange wishes ; presently, 
 
 It dwindles to a little babbling rill 
 
 And plays among the pebbles and the flowers. 
 
 iTiez will have it I lack broidery, 
 
 Savs naujiht else oives content to noble maids. 
 
 But I have never broidered, — never will. 
 
 No, when I am a Duchess and a wife 
 
 I shall ride forth — may I not ? — by your side.
 
 io6 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, you shall ride upon a palfrey, black 
 To match Bavieca. Not Queen Isabel 
 Will be a sight more gladdening to men's eyes, 
 Than my dark queen Fedalma. 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 Ah, but you, 
 You are my king, and I shall tremble still 
 "With some great fear that throbs within my love. 
 Does your love fear ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Ah, yes ! all preciousness 
 To mortal hearts is guarded by a fear. 
 All love fears loss, and most that loss supreme, 
 Its own perfection, — seeing, feeling change 
 From high to lower, dearer to less dear. 
 Can love be careless ? If we lost our love 
 What should we find ? — with this sweet Past torn off, 
 Our lives deep scarred just where their beauty lay 1 
 The best we found thenceforth were still a worse : 
 The only belter is a Past that lives 
 On through an added Present, stretching still 
 In liope unchecked by shaming memories 
 To life's last breath. And so I tremble too 
 Before my queen Fedalma. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 That is just. 
 T were hard of Love to make us women fear 
 And leave you bold. Yet Love is not quite even. 
 For feeble creatures, little birds and fawns, 
 Are shaken more by fear, while large strong things 
 Can bear it stoutly. So we women still
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 107 
 
 Are not well dealt with. Yet would I choose to be 
 
 Fedalraa loving Silva. You, my lord, 
 
 Hold the worse share, since you must love poor me. 
 
 But' is it what we love, or how we love. 
 
 That makes true good ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 subtlety ! for me 
 'T is what I love determines how I love. 
 The goddess with pure rites reveals herself 
 And makes pure worship. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Do you worship me ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Ay, with that best of worship which adores 
 Goodness adorable. 
 
 Fedalma {arclihj). 
 
 Goodness obedient. 
 Doing your will, devoutest worshipper ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, — listening to this prayer. This very night 
 I shall go forth. And you will rise with day 
 And wait for me ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Yes. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I shall surely come. 
 And then we shall be married. Now I go 
 To audience fixed in Abderahman's tower. 
 Farewell, love! (They emir ace.)
 
 io8 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Some chill dread possesses me ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oh, confidence has oft been evil angury, 
 
 So dread may hold a promise. Sweet, farewell ! 
 
 I shall send tendance as I pass, to bear 
 
 This casket to your chamber. — One more kiss. 
 
 (^Exit.') 
 
 Fedalma (ivhen Don Silva is gone, returning to the 
 casket, and looking dreamily at the jeivels). 
 
 Yes, now that good seems less impossible ! 
 
 Now it seems true that I shall be his wife, • 
 
 Be ever by his side, and make a part 
 
 In all his purposes. . . . 
 
 These rubies greet me Duchess. How they glow ! 
 
 Their prisoned souls are throbbing like my own. 
 
 Perchance they loved once, were ambitious, proud; 
 
 Or do they only dream of wider life. 
 
 Ache from intenseness, vearn to burst the wall 
 
 Compact of ci'ystal splendour, and to flood 
 
 Some wider space with glory ? Poor, poor gems! 
 
 We must be patient in our prison-house. 
 
 And find our space in loving. Pray you, love me. 
 
 Let us be glad together. And you, gold, — 
 
 (She takes up the gold necklace.) 
 
 You wondrous necklace, — will you love me too, 
 And be my amulet to keep me safe 
 From eyes that hurt ? 
 
 (She spreads out the necklace, meaning to 
 
 clasp it on her neck. Then pauses, startled, 
 
 holding it he/ore her.)
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 109 
 
 Why, it is magical ! 
 He says he never wore it, — • yet these lines, — 
 Nay^ if he had, I should remember well 
 'T was he, no other. And these twisted lines,— 
 They seem to speak to me as writing would, 
 To bring a message from the dead, dead past. 
 What is their secret ? Are they characters ? 
 I never learned them ; yet they stir some sense 
 That once I dreamed, — I have forgotten what. 
 Or was it life ? Perhaps I lived before 
 In some strange world where first my soul was 
 
 shaped, 
 And all this passionate love, and joy, and pain, 
 That come, I know not whence, and sway my 
 
 deeds. 
 Are dim yet mastering memories, blind yet strong, 
 That this world stirs within me; as this chain 
 Stirs some strange certainty of visions gone. 
 And all my mind is as an eye that stares 
 Into the darkness painfully. 
 
 ( While Fed ALMA has been looking at the neck- 
 lace, Juan has entered, a7id finding himself 
 unohserved hy her, says at last,) 
 
 Sen or a ! 
 
 Fedalma starts, and gathering the necklace together 
 
 turns round — 
 
 Juan, it is you! 
 
 Juan. 
 
 I met the Duke, — 
 Had waited long without, no matter why, — 
 And when he ordered one to wait on you 
 And carry forth a burden you would give, 
 
 1 i)rayed for leave to be the servitor.
 
 no POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Don Silva owes me twenty granted wishes 
 That I have never tendered, lacking aught 
 That I could wish for and a Duke could grant; 
 But this one wish to serve you, weiglis as much 
 As twenty other longings. 
 
 Fedalma {smiling). 
 
 That sounds well. 
 You turn your speeches prettily as songs. 
 But I will not forget the many days 
 You have neglected me. Your pupil learns 
 But little from you now. Her studies flag. 
 The Duke says, " That is idle Juan's way: 
 Poets must rove, — are honey-sucking birds 
 And know not constancy. " Said he quite true? 
 
 Juan, 
 
 O lady, constancy has kind and rank. 
 
 One man's is lordly, plump, and bravely clad, 
 
 Holds its head high, and tells the world its 
 
 name : 
 Another man's is beggared, must go bare, 
 And shiver through the world, the jest of all, 
 But that it puts the motley on, and plays 
 Itself the jester. But I see you hold 
 The Gypsy's necklace: it is quaintly wrought. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 The Gypsy's ? Do you know its history ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 No further back than when I saw it taken 
 From off its wearer's neck, — the Gypsy chief's.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. m 
 
 Fed ALMA {eagerlij). 
 
 What ! lie who paused, at tolliug of the bell, 
 Before me in the Plac^a ? 
 
 JUAX. 
 
 Yes, I saw 
 His look fixed on you. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Know you aught of him ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Something and nothing, — as I know the sky, 
 
 Or some great story of the olden time 
 
 That hides a secret. I have oft talked with 
 
 him. 
 He seems to say much, yet is but a wizard 
 Who draws down rain by sprinkling ; throws mo 
 
 out 
 Some pregnant text that urges comment ; casts 
 A sharp-hooked question, baited with such skill 
 It needs must catch the answer. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It is hard 
 That such a man should be a prisoner, — 
 Be chained to work. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Oh, he is dangerous ! 
 Granada with this Zarca for a king 
 Might still maim Christendom. He is of those 
 Who steal the keys from snoring Destiny
 
 112 POEMS OF GEORGE ELTOT. 
 
 And make the prophets lie. A Gypsy, too, 
 Suckled by hunted beasts, whose mother-milk 
 Has tilled liis veins with hate. 
 
 Fed ALMA.. 
 
 I thought his eyes 
 Spoke not of hatred, — seemed to say he bore 
 The pain of those who never could be saved. 
 What if the Gypsies are but savage beasts 
 And must be hunted ? — let them be set free. 
 Have benefit of chase, or stand at bay 
 And fight for life and offspring. Prisoners! 
 Oh, they have made their fires beside the streams, 
 Their walls have been the rocks, the pillared pines, 
 Their roof the living sky that breathes with 
 
 light : 
 They may well hate a cage, like strong-winged 
 
 birds, 
 Like me, who have no wings, but only wishes. 
 I will beseech the Duke to set them free. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Pardon me, lady, if I seem to warn, 
 Or try to play the sage. What if the Duke 
 Loved not to hear of Gypsies ? if their name 
 Were poisoned for him once, being used amiss ? 
 I speak not as of fact. Our nimble souls 
 Can spin an insubstantial universe 
 Suiting our mood, and call it possible, 
 Sooner than see one grain with eye exact 
 And give strict record of it. Yet by chance 
 Our fancies may be truth and make us seers. 
 'T is a rare teeming world, so harvest-full, 
 Even guessing ignorance may pluck some fruit. 
 Note what I say no further than will stead
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 113 
 
 The siege you lay. I would not seem to tell 
 Aught that the Duke may think and yet withhold : 
 It were a trespass in me. 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 Fear not, Juan. 
 Your words bring daylight with them when you 
 
 speak. 
 I understand your care. But I am brave, — 
 Oh, and so cunning! — always I prevail. 
 Now, honoured Troubadour, if you will be 
 Your pupil's servant, bear this casket hence. 
 Nay, not the necklace : it is hard to place. 
 Pray go before me ; Inez will be there. 
 
 {Exit Juan with the casket^ 
 
 Fed ALMA {looking again at the necklace). 
 
 It is his past clings to you, not my own. 
 If we have each our angels, good and bad. 
 Fates, separate from ourselves, who act for us 
 When we are blind, or sleep, then this man's fate. 
 Hovering about the thing he u.«ed to wear, 
 Has laid its grasp on mine appealingly. 
 Dangerous, is he ? — well, a Spanish knight 
 Would have his enemy strong, — defy, not bind 
 
 him. 
 I can dare all tilings when my soul is moved 
 By something hidden that possesses me. 
 If Silva said this man must keep his chains 
 I should find ways to free him, — disobey 
 And free him as I did the birds. But no! 
 As soon as we are wed, I '11 put my prayer. 
 And he will not deny me : he is good. 
 Oh, I shall have much power as well as joy ! 
 Duchess Ft'dalma may do what she will. 
 
 VOL I — 8
 
 114 POEMS OF GEOKGE ELIOT, 
 
 A Street by the Castle, Juan lea7is against a para- 
 pet, in moonli(jl)t, and touches his lute half un- 
 consciousl/f. Pki'ITA stands on tiptoe watcJiing 
 him, and then advances till her shadoiv falls in 
 front of him. He looks towards her. A jji^ce 
 of white draper// throion over her head catches 
 the moonliyht. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Ha ! my Pepita ! see how thin and long 
 Your shadow is, 'T is so your ghost will be, 
 When you are dead, 
 
 Pepita {crossing herself ). 
 
 Dead ! — Oh the blessed saints ! 
 You would be glad, then, if Pepita died ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Glad ! why ? Dead maidens are not merry. Ghosts 
 Are doleful company. I like you living. 
 
 Pepita. 
 
 1 think you like me not. I wish you did. 
 Sometimes you sing to me and make me dance. 
 Another time you take no heed of me, 
 Not though I kiss my hand to you and smile. 
 But Andres would be glad if I kissed him. 
 
 Juan. 
 My poor Pepita, I am old, 
 
 Pepita, 
 
 No, no. 
 You have no wrinkles.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 115 
 
 Juan. 
 Yes, I have — within ; 
 The wrinkles are within, my little bird. 
 Why, I have lived through twice a thousand years, 
 And kept the company of men whose bones 
 Crumbled before the blessed Virgin lived. 
 
 Pepita (crossing herself). 
 
 Nay, God defend us, that is wicked talk ! 
 You say it but to scorn me. (IFith a soh.) I 
 will go. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Stay, little pigeon. I am not unkind. 
 
 Come, sit upon the wall. Nay, never cry. 
 
 Give me your cheek to kiss. There, cry no more ! 
 
 (Pepita, sitting on the loio parapet, jJiUs up 
 her cheek to JUAN, who kisses it, putting his 
 hand under her chin. She takes his hand 
 and kisses it.) 
 
 Pepita. 
 
 I like to kiss your hand. It is so good, — 
 
 So sm«oth and soft. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Well, well, I '11 sing to you. 
 
 Pepita. 
 A pretty song, loving and merry ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Yes.
 
 ii6 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 (Juan sings.) 
 
 Memory, 
 Tell to me 
 What is fair, 
 Past comjjare, 
 
 In the land of Tubal ? 
 
 Is it Sjjving's 
 lovely things. 
 Blossoms white, 
 Eosy dight ? 
 
 Then it is Fepita. 
 
 Summer s crest 
 Red-guld tressed. 
 
 Cornflowers peeping under t — 
 Idle noons. 
 Lingering w.oons, 
 Sudde7i cloud, 
 Lightning's shroud, 
 Sudden rain, 
 Quick again 
 
 Smiles where late was thunder ? 
 
 Are all these 
 Made to lolease ? 
 So too is Pepita. 
 
 Autumns prime, 
 Apple-time, 
 SmootJi cheek round. 
 Heart all sound ? — 
 Js it this 
 Yuu wouhl kiss ? 
 TJicn it is Pepita,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. n? 
 
 You can bring 
 No sweet thing^ 
 But my mind 
 Still shall find 
 It is my Fepita. 
 
 Memory 
 Says to me 
 It is she, — 
 She is fair 
 Past compare 
 
 In the land of Tubal. 
 
 Pepiat (seizing Juan's hand again). 
 Oh, then, you do love me 1 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Yes, in the song. 
 
 Peptta (sadly). 
 Not out of it ? — not love me out of it ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Only a little out of it, my bird. 
 
 When I was singing I was Andres, say, 
 
 Or one who loves you better still than Andres. 
 
 Pepita. 
 Not yourself ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 No! 
 
 Pepita (throwing his hand doion pettishly). 
 
 Then take it back again! 
 I will not have it !
 
 ii8 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Listen, little one. 
 Juan is not a living man all by himself: 
 His life is breathed in him by other men, 
 And they speak out of him. He is their voice. 
 Juan's own life he gave once quite away. 
 It was Pepita's lover singing then, — not Juan. 
 We old, old poets, if we kept our hearts, 
 Should hardly know them from another man's. 
 They shrink to make room for the many more 
 We keep within us. There, now, — one more 
 
 kiss. 
 And then go home again. 
 
 .L'EPITA (a little frifjhtcned, after letting JUAN 
 kiss licr). 
 
 You are not wicked ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Ask your confessor, — tell him what I said. 
 
 (Pepita goes, ivhile Juan thrums his lute 
 again, a.nd sings.) 
 
 Came a pretty maid 
 
 By the moon's pure light, 
 Loved me well, she said. 
 
 Eyes vjith tears all bright, 
 A pretty maid ! 
 
 But too late she strayed. 
 Moonlight pure was there; 
 
 She was naught hut shade 
 Hiding the more fair. 
 
 The heavenly maid !
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 119 
 
 A vaulted room all stone. The light shed from a 
 high lamp. Wooden chairs, a desk, book-shelves. 
 The Prior, in white frock, a black rosary with a 
 crucifix of ebomj and ivory at his side, is walk- 
 ing up and down, holding a written paper in his 
 hands, which are clasped behind him. 
 
 What if this witness lies ? he says he heard her 
 
 Counting her bhisphemies on a rosary, 
 
 And in a bold discourse with Salomo, 
 
 Say that the Host was naught but ill-mixed flour, 
 
 That it was mean to pray, — she never prayed. 
 
 1 know the man who wrote this for a cur, 
 
 Who follows Don Diego, sees life's good 
 
 In scraps my nephew flings to him. What then ? 
 
 Particular lies may speak a general truth. 
 
 I guess him false, but know her heretic, -^^ 
 
 Know her for Satan's instrument, bedecked 
 
 With heathenish charms, luring the souls of men 
 
 To damning trust in good unsanctified. 
 
 Let her be prisoned, — questioned, — she will give 
 
 Witness against herself, that were this false . . . 
 
 {He looks at the paper again and reads., then 
 again thrusts it behind him.) 
 
 The matter and the colour are not false : 
 
 The form concerns the witness, not the judge; 
 
 For proof is gathered by the sifting mind, 
 
 Not given in crude and formal circumstance. 
 
 Suspicion is a heaven-sent lamp, and I, —   
 
 I, watchman of the Holy Oflice, ])ear 
 
 That lamp in trust. I will keep faithful watch. 
 
 The Holy Inquisition's discipline 
 
 Is mercy, saving her, if penitent, — 
 
 God grant it ! — else, — root up the poison-plant,
 
 120 rOEMS OF GEOKGE ELIOT. 
 
 Though 'twere a lily with a golden heart ! 
 
 This spotless maiden with her pagan soul 
 
 Is the arch-enemy's trap : he turns his back 
 
 On all the prostitutes, and watches her 
 
 To see her poison men with false belief 
 
 ]n rebel virtues. She has poisoned Silv'a; 
 
 His shifting mind, dangerous in fitfulness. 
 
 Strong in the contradiction of itself, 
 
 Carries his young ambitions wearily, 
 
 As holy vows regretted. Once he seemed 
 
 The fresh-oped flower of Christian knighthood, born 
 
 For feats of holy daring ; and I said : 
 
 " That half of life which I, as monk, renounce, 
 
 Shall be fulfilled in him : Silva will be 
 
 That saintly noble, that wise warrior. 
 
 That blameless excellence in worldly gifts 
 
 I would jiave been, had I not asked to live 
 
 The higher life of man impersonal 
 
 Who reigns o'er all things by refusing all. 
 
 "What is his promise now ? Apostasy 
 
 From every high intent : — languid, nay, gone. 
 
 The prompt devoutness of a generous heart, 
 
 The strong obedience of a reverent will, 
 
 That breathes the Church's air and sees her light, 
 
 He peers and strains with feeble questioning, 
 
 Or else he jests. He thinks I know it not, — 
 
 I who have read the history of his lapse, 
 
 As clear as it is writ in the angel's book. 
 
 He will defy me, — flings great words at rne, — 
 
 Me who have governed all our house's acts, 
 
 Since I, a strijding, ruled his stripling father. 
 
 This maiden is the cause, and if they wed. 
 
 The Holy War may count a captain lost. 
 
 For better he were dead than ke.^p his place. 
 
 And fill it infamouslv : in God's war
 
 TOE SPANTSH GYPSY. 121 
 
 Slackness is infamy. Shall I stand by 
 
 And let the tempter win ? defraud Christ's cause, 
 
 And blot his banner ? — all for scruples weak 
 
 Of pity towards their young and frolicsome blood ; 
 
 Or nice discrimination of the tool 
 
 By which my hand shall work a sacred rescue ? 
 
 The fence of rules is for the purl)lind crowd; 
 
 They walk by averaged precepts ; sovereign men, 
 
 Seeing by God's light, see the general 
 
 By seeing all the special, — own no rule 
 
 But their full vision of the moment's worth. 
 
 'T is so God governs, using wicked men, — 
 
 Nay, scheming fiends, to work his purposes. 
 
 Evil that good may come ? Measure the good 
 
 Before you say what 's evil. Perjury ? 
 
 I scorn the perjurer, but I will use him 
 
 To serve the holy truth. There is no lie 
 
 Save in Ins soul, and let his soul be judged. 
 
 I know the truth, and act upon the truth. 
 
 God, thou knowest that my will is pure. 
 
 Thy servant owns naught for himself, his wealth 
 
 Is but obedience. And I have sinned 
 
 In keeping small respects of human love, — 
 
 Calling it mercy. Mercy ? Where evil is 
 
 True mercy must be terrible. Mercy would save. 
 
 Save whom ? Sa've serpents, locusts, wolves ? 
 
 Or out of pity let the idiots gorge 
 
 Within a famished town ? Or save the gains 
 
 Of men who trade in poison lest they starve ? 
 
 Save all things mean and foul that clog the earth 
 
 StiHintf the better? Save the fools who cling 
 
 For refuge round their hideous idol's limbs, 
 
 So leave the idol grinning unconsumed. 
 
 And save the fools to breed idolaters ?
 
 122 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELTOT. 
 
 Oil mercy worthy of the licking liound 
 
 Tliiit knows no future but its fet^ding time! 
 
 Mercy has eyes that pierce the ages, — sees 
 
 From heights divine of the eternal purpose 
 
 Far-scattered consequence in its vast sum ; 
 
 Chooses to save, but with illumined vision 
 
 Sees that to save is greatly to destroy. 
 
 'T is so the Holy Inquisition sees : its wrath 
 
 Is fed from the strong heart of wisest love. 
 
 For love must needs make hatred. He who loves 
 
 God and his law must hate the foes of God. 
 
 And I have sinned in being merciful : 
 
 Being slack in hate, I have been slack in love. 
 
 {He takes the crucifix and holds it up he fore 
 
 him) 
 
 Thou shuddering, bleeding, thirsting, dying God, 
 Thou Man of Sorrows, scourged and bruised and torn. 
 Suffering to save, — wilt tliou not judge the world? 
 This arm which held the children, this pale hand 
 That gently touched the eyelids of the blind. 
 And opened passive to the cruel nail, 
 Shall one day stretch to leftward of thy throne. 
 Charged with the power that makes the lightning 
 
 strong. 
 And hurl thy foes to everlasting hell. 
 And thou. Immaculate Motlier, Virgin mild, 
 Thou seven-fold pierced, thou pitying, pleading 
 
 Queen, 
 Shalt see and smile, while the black filthy souls 
 Sink with foul weight to their eternal place. 
 Purging the Holy Light. Yea, I have sinned 
 And called it mercy. But I shrink no more. 
 To-morrow morn this temptress shall be safe 
 Under the Holy Inquisition's key.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 123 
 
 ITe thinks to wed her, and defy me then. 
 She being shiehled by our house's name. 
 But he shall never wed her. I have said. 
 
 The time is come, Exurge, Domine, 
 Judica causani tuam. Let thy foes 
 Be driven as the smoke before the wind, 
 And melt like wax upon the furnace lip ! 
 
 A large cliamher richhj furnisJicd opening on a 
 terrace-garden, the trees visible through the window 
 in faint moonlight. Flowers hanging about the 
 window, lit up by the tapers. The casket of jewels 
 open on a table. The gold necklace lying near. 
 Fedalma, splendidly dressed and adorned with 
 pearls and rubies, is walking up and down. 
 
 So soft a night was never made for sleep, 
 
 But for the waking of the finer sense 
 
 To every murmuring and gentle sound, 
 
 To subtlest odours, puLses, visitings 
 
 That touch our frames with wings too delicate 
 
 To be discerned amid the blare of day. 
 
 {She pauses near the window to gather some 
 jasmine : then walks again.) 
 
 Surely these flowers keep happy watch, — theii 
 
 breath 
 Is their fond memory of the loving light. 
 I often rue the hours I lose in sleep : 
 It is a bliss too brief, only to see 
 This glorious world, to hear the voice of love,. 
 To feel the touch, the breath of tenderness, 
 And then to rest as from a spectacle. 
 I need the curtained stillness of the night
 
 124 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 To live through all my happy hours agam 
 
 With more selection, — cull them quite away 
 
 From blemished moments. Then in loneliness 
 
 The face that bent before me in the day 
 
 Eises in its own light, more vivid seems 
 
 Painted upon the dark, and ceaseless glows 
 
 With sweet solemnity of gazing love, 
 
 Till like the heavenly blue it seems to grow 
 
 Nearer, more kindred, and more cherishing, 
 
 Mingling with all my being. Then the words, 
 
 The tender low-toned words come back again. 
 
 With repetition welcome as the chime 
 
 Of softly hurrying brooks, — " My only love, — 
 
 My love while life shall last, — my own Fedalma ! " 
 
 Oh, it is mine, — the joy that once has been ! 
 
 Poor eager hope is but a stammerer. 
 
 Must listen dumbly to great memory, 
 
 Who makes our bliss the sweeter by her telling. 
 
 , {She pauses a moment musingly.) 
 
 But that dumb hope is still a sleeping guard 
 
 Whose quiet rhythmic breath saves me from dread 
 
 In this fair paradise. For if the earth 
 
 Broke oft' with tiower-fringed edge, visibly sheer, 
 
 Leaving no footing for my forward step 
 
 But empty blackness . . . 
 
 Nay, there is no fear, — 
 They will renew themselves, day and my joy, 
 And all that past which is securely mine, 
 Will be the hidden root that nourishes 
 Our still unfolding, ever-ripening love ! 
 
 ( While she is uttering the last words,) a little 
 bird falls softly on the floor behind her ; 
 she hears the light sound of its fall and 
 turns round.)
 
 '' My father . . . comes . . . my father," 
 
 Photo-Etching-.— From Painting by W. St. John Harper,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 125 
 
 Did something enter ? . . . 
 
 Yes, this little bird . , . 
 (She lifts it.) 
 
 Dead and yet warm : 't was seeking sanctuary, 
 And died, perhaps of fright, at the altar foot. 
 Stay, there is something tied beneath the wing ! 
 A strip of linen, streaked with blood, — what blood ? 
 The streaks are written words, — are sent to me, — 
 
 God, are sent to me ! Dear child, Fedalma, 
 Be brave, give no alarm, — your Father comes I 
 
 (She lets the bird fall again.) 
 My Father . . . comes . . . my Father. . . . 
 
 (She turns in quivering expectation toward the 
 window. There is perfect stillness a few mo- 
 ments until Zarca appears at the window. 
 He enters quickly and noiselessly; then 
 stands still at his full height, and at a dis- 
 tance from Fedalma.) 
 
 Fedalma (in a low distinct tone of terror). 
 
 It is he ! 
 
 1 said his fate had laid its hold on mine. 
 
 Zarca (advancing a step or two). 
 You know, then, who I am ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 The prisoner, — 
 He whom I saw in fetters, — and this necklace — 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 Was [jlayed with by your fingers when it hung 
 About my neck, full fifteen years ago!
 
 £26 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Fedalma (starts, looks at the necHace. and handles 
 it, then speaks as if unconsciously). 
 
 Full fifteen years ago ! 
 
 Zakca, 
 
 The very day 
 I lost you, when you wore a tiny gown 
 Of scarlet cloth with golden broidery : 
 'T was clasped in front by coins, — two golden 
 
 coins. 
 The one towards the left was split in two 
 Across the King's head, right from brow to nape, 
 A dent i' the middle nicking in the cheek. 
 You see I know the little gown by heart. 
 
 Fedalma (growing paler and more tremulous). 
 Yes. It is true, — I have the gown, — the clasps,— 
 The braid, — sore tarnished : — it is long ago ! 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 But yesterday to me ; for till to-day 
 I saw you always as that little child. 
 And when they took my necklace from me, still 
 Your fingers played about it on my neck. 
 And still those buds of fingers on your feet 
 Caught in its meshes as you seemed to cHmb 
 Up to my shoulder. You were not stolen all. 
 You had a double life fed from my heart. . . . 
 
 (Fedalma, letting fall the necklace, makes an 
 imprdsive movement totvards him with out- 
 stretched hands.) 
 
 For the Zincalo loves his children well. ^
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 127 
 
 Fedat.ma {shrinking, tremhlmg, and letting fall licr 
 
 hands). 
 
 How came it that vou sought me, — no, — T mean 
 How came it that you knew me, — that you lost me ? 
 
 Zarca {standing perfectly still). 
 
 Poor child ! I see, I see, — your ragged father 
 Is welcome as the piercing wintry wind 
 Within this silken chamber. It is well. 
 I would not have a child who stooped to feign, 
 And aped a sudden love. True hate were better. 
 
 Fedalma {raising her eyes towards him, with a flash 
 of admiration, and looking at him fixedly). 
 
 Father, how was it that we lost each other ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I lost you as a man may lose a diamond 
 
 Wherein he has compressed his total wealth, 
 
 Or the right hand whose cunning makes him 
 
 great : 
 I lost you by a trivial accident. 
 Marauding Spaniards, sweeping like a storm 
 Over a spot within the Moorish bounds, 
 Near where our camp lay, doubtless snatched you up, 
 When Zind, your nurse, as she confessed, was 
 
 urged 
 By burning thirst to wander towards the stream, 
 And leave you on the sand some paces off" 
 Playing with peb])les, while she dog-like lapped. 
 'T was so I lost you, — never saw you more 
 Until to-day I saw you dancing ! Saw 
 The cliild of the Zincalu making sport 
 For those who spit upon her people's name.
 
 128 POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Fedalma {vehemently'). 
 
 It was not sport. What if the world looked on ? — 
 I danced for joy, — for love of all the world. 
 But when you looked at me my joy was stabbed, — 
 Stabl)ed with your pain. I wondered . . . now I 
 
 know . . . 
 It was my father's pain. 
 
 {^She pauses a moment with eyes hent down- 
 ward, during which Zarca examines her 
 face. Then she says quickly,) 
 
 How were you sure 
 At once I was your child ? 
 
 Zaeca. 
 
 Oh, I had witness strong 
 As any Cadi needs, before I saw you ! 
 I fitted all my memories with the chat 
 Of one named Juan, — one whose rapid talk 
 Showers like the blossoms from a liiiht-twifjfied 
 
 shrub, 
 If you but coughed beside it. I learned all 
 The story of your Spanish nurture, — all 
 The promise of your fortune. When at last 
 I fronted you, my little maid full-grown, 
 Belief was turned to vision : then I saw 
 That she whom Spaniards called the bright Fe- 
 dalma, — 
 The little red-frocked foundling three years old, — 
 Grown to such perfectness the Christian Duke 
 Had wooed her for his Duchess, — was the child, 
 Sole offspring of my flesh, that Lambra bore 
 One hour before the Christian, hunting us. 
 Hurried her on to death. Therefore I sought you, 
 Therefore I come to claim you - — claim my child,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 129 
 
 Not from the Spaniard, not from him who robbed. 
 But from herself. 
 
 (Fedalma has gradually a'pproached close to 
 Zarca, and ivith a loiv sob sinks on her 
 knees before him. He stoops to kiss her 
 hrow, and lays his hands on her head.) 
 
 Zarca (with solemn tenderness). 
 Then my chikl owns her father ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Father! yes. 
 I will eat dust before I will deny 
 The liesh I spring from. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 There my daughter spoke. 
 Away then with these rubies ! 
 
 {He seizes the eirclet of rubies and flings it on 
 the ground. Fedalma, starting from the 
 ground with strong emotion, shrinks back- 
 ward.) 
 
 Such a crown 
 Is infamy on a Zincala's brow. ' 
 
 It is her people's blood, decking her shame. 
 
 Fedalma (after a moment, slo%vly and distinctly, as 
 if accepting a doom). 
 
 Then ... I am ... a Zincala ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Of a blood 
 Unmixed as virgin wine-juice. 
 VOL I. — 9
 
 I30 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Of a race 
 More outcast and despised than Moor or Jew ? 
 
 Zarca. • 
 
 Yes : wanderers whom no god took knowledge of 
 To give them laws, to fight for them, or blight 
 Another race to make tliem ampler room ; 
 A people with no home even in memory, 
 No dimmest lore of giant ancestors 
 To make a common hearth for jiiety. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 A race that lives on prey as foxes do 
 
 With stealthy, petty rapine : so despised, 
 
 It is not persecuted, only spurned, 
 
 Crushed underfoot, warred on by chance like rats, 
 
 Or swarming flies, or reptiles of the sea 
 
 Dragged in the net unsought, and flung far off 
 
 To perish as they may ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 You paint us well. 
 So abject are the men whose blood we share; 
 Untutored, unbefriended, unendowed ; 
 No favourites of heaven or of men. 
 Therefore I cling to them ! Therefore no lure 
 Shall draw me to disown them, or forsake 
 The meagre wandering herd that lows for help 
 And needs me for its guide, to seek my pasture 
 Among the well-fed beeves that graze at will. 
 Because our race have no great memories, 
 I will so live they shall remember me 
 For deeds of such divine beneficence
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 13X 
 
 As rivers have, that teach men what is good 
 
 By blessing them. I have been schooled, — have 
 
 caught 
 Lore from the Hebrew, deftness from the Moor, — 
 Know tire rich heritage, the milder life. 
 Of nations fathered by a miglity Past ; 
 But were our race accursed (as they who make 
 Good luck a god count all unlucky men) 
 I would espouse their curse sooner than take 
 My gifts from brethren naked of all good. 
 And lend them to the rich for usury. 
 
 (Fedalma again advances, and putting forth 
 her right hand grasps Zarca's left. He 
 places his other hand on Aer shoulder. 
 They stand so, looking at each other.) 
 
 Zaeca. 
 
 And you, my child ? are you of other mind. 
 Choosing forgetfulness, hating the truth 
 That says you are akin to needy men ? — 
 Wishing your father were some Christian Duke, 
 Who could hang Gypsies when their task was done, 
 While you, his daughter, were not bound to -care ? 
 
 Fedalma (in a troubled, eager voice). 
 
 No, I should always care — I cared for you — 
 For all, before I dreamed . . . 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Before you dreamed 
 You were a born Zincala, — in the bonds 
 Of the Zhicali's faith. 
 
 Fedalma {hitterhj). 
 
 Zincali's faith ? 
 Men say they have none.
 
 132 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Zakca. 
 
 Oh, it is a faith 
 Taught by no priest, but by their beating hearts. 
 Faith to each other: tlie fidelity 
 Of fellow- wanderers in a desert place 
 Who share the same dire thirst, and therefore 
 
 share 
 The. scanty water: the fidelity 
 Of men whose pulses leap with kindred fire, 
 Who in the flash of eyes, the clasp of hands, 
 The speech that even in lying tells the truth 
 Of heritage inevitable as past deeds, 
 Nay, in the silent bodily presence feel 
 .The mystic stirring of a common life 
 Which makes the many one : fidelity 
 To that deep consecrating oath our sponsor Fate 
 Made through our infant breath when we were 
 
 born, 
 The fellow-heirs of that small island. Life, 
 Where we must dig and sow and reap with brothers. 
 Fear thou that oath, my daughter, — nay, not 
 
 fear. 
 But love it ; for the sanctity of oaths 
 Lies not in lightning that avenges them. 
 But in the injury wrought by broken bonds 
 And in the garnered good of human trust. 
 And you have sworn, — even with your infant 
 
 breath 
 You too were pledged . . . 
 
 Fedalma (lets go Zarca's hand and sinks hackvxvrd 
 on her knees, with hent head, as if before some im- 
 pending cricshing weighty. 
 
 What have I sworn ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 133 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 To live the life of the Zincala's clu'ld : 
 
 The child of him who, being chief, will he 
 
 The saviour of his tribe, or if he fail 
 
 Will choose to fail rather than basely win 
 
 The prize of renegades. Nay — will not choose — 
 
 Is there a choice for strong souls to be weak ? 
 
 For men erect to crawl like hissinir snakes ? 
 
 I choose not, — I (uu Zarca. Let him choose 
 
 Who halts and wavers, having appetite 
 
 To feed on garbage. You, my child, — are you 
 
 Halting and wavering ? 
 
 Fedalma (raising her head). 
 
 Say what is my task ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 To be the angel of a homeless tribe : 
 
 To help me bless a race taught by no prophet. 
 
 And make their name, now but a badge of scorn, 
 
 A glorious banner floating in their midst. 
 
 Stirring the air they breathe with impulses 
 
 Of generous pride, exalting fellowship 
 
 Until it soars to magnanimity. 
 
 I '11 guide my brethren forth to their new land. 
 
 Where they shall plant and sow and reap their 
 
 own. 
 Serving each other's needs, and so be spurred 
 To skill in all the arts that succour life ; 
 Where we may kindle our first altar-fire 
 From settled hearths, and call our Holy Place 
 The hearth that binds us in one family. 
 That land awaits them : they await their chief, — 
 Me who am prisoned. All depends on you.
 
 134 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Fedalma (rising to her full height, and looking sol' 
 emnhj at Zauca). 
 
 Father, your cliild is ready ! She will not 
 
 Forsake her kindred : she will brave all scorn 
 
 Sooner than scorn herself. Let Spaniards all, 
 
 Christians, Jews, Moors, shoot out the lip and say, 
 
 " Lo, the first hero in a tribe of thieves." 
 
 Is it not written so of them ? They, too, 
 
 Were slaves, lost, wandering, sunk beneath a curse, 
 
 Till Moses, Christ, and Mahomet were born, 
 
 Till beings lonely in their greatness lived, 
 
 And lived to save their people. Father, listen. 
 
 To-morrow the Duke weds me secretly : 
 
 But straight he will present me as his wife 
 
 To all his household, cavaliers and dames 
 
 And noble pages. Then I will declare 
 
 Before them all : " I am his daughter, his, 
 
 The Gypsy's, owner of this golden badge." 
 
 Then I shall win your freedom; then the Duke — 
 
 Why, he will be your son ! — will send you forth 
 
 With aid and honours. Then, before all eyes 
 
 I '11 clasp this badge on you, and lift my brow 
 
 For you to kiss it, saying by that sign, 
 
 " I glory in my father." This, to-morrow. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 A woman's dream, — who thinks by smiling well 
 To ripen figs in frost. What ! marry first. 
 And then proclaim your birth ? Enslave yourself 
 To use your freedom ? Share another's name. 
 Then treat it as you will ? How will that tune 
 Eing in your bridegroom's ears, — that sudden 
 
 song 
 Of triumph in your Gypsy father ?
 
 THE SPANISH GITSY. 135 
 
 Fedalma Qliscouraged). 
 
 Nay, 
 I meant not so. We marry hastily — 
 Yet there is time — there will be : — in less space 
 Than he can take to look at me, I '11 speak 
 And tell him all. Oh, I am not afraid ! 
 His love for me is stronger than all hate ; 
 Nay, stronger than my love, which cannot sway 
 Demons that haunt me, — tempt me to rebel. 
 Were he Fedalma and I Silva, he 
 Could love confession, prayers, and tonsured monks 
 If my soul craved them. He will never hate 
 The race that bore him what he loves the most. 
 I shall but do more strongly what I will. 
 Having his will to help me. And to-morrow, 
 Father, as surely as this heart shall beat, 
 You, every chained Zincalo, shall be free. 
 
 Zarca {coming nearer to her, and laying his hand on 
 
 her shoulder). 
 
 Too late, too poor a service that, my child ! 
 
 Not so the woman who would save her tribe 
 
 Must help its heroes, — not by wordy breath. 
 
 By easy prayers strong in a lover's ear, 
 
 By showering wreaths and sweets and wafted kisses. 
 
 And then, when all the smiling work is done. 
 
 Turning to rest upon her down again, 
 
 And whisper languid pity for her race 
 
 Upon the bosom of her alien spouse. 
 
 Not to such petty mercies as can fall 
 
 'Twixt stitch and stitch of silken broidery work. 
 
 Such miracles of mitred saints who pause • 
 
 Beneath their gilded canopy to heal 
 
 A man sun-stricken : not to such trim merit
 
 136 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 As soils its dainly shoes for charity 
 
 And simpers meekly at the pious stain, 
 
 But never trod with naked bleeding feet 
 
 Where no man praised it, and where no Church 
 
 blessed : 
 Not to such almsdeeds fit for holidays 
 "Were you, my daughter, consecrated, — bound 
 By laws that, breaking, you will dip your bread 
 In murdered brother's, blood and call it sweet, — 
 When you were l)orn in the Zincalo's tent. 
 And lifted up in sight of all your tribe. 
 Who greeted you with shouts of loyal joy, 
 Sole offspring of the chief in whom they trust 
 As in the oft-tried never-failing flint 
 They strike their fire from. Other work is yours, 
 
 Fedaima. 
 What work ? — what is it that you ask of me ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 A work as pregnant as the act of men 
 
 Who set their ships aflame and spring to land, 
 
 A fatal deed . . . 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Stay ! never utter it ! 
 If it can part my lot from his whose love 
 Has chosen me. Talk not of oaths, of birth, 
 Of men as numerous as the dim white stars, — 
 As cold and distant, too, for my heart's pulse. 
 No ills on earth, though you should count them up 
 With grains to make a mountain, can outweigh 
 For me, his ill who is my supreme love. 
 All sorrows else are but imagined flames.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 137 
 
 Ma kino; me shudder at an unfelt smart. 
 r>nt his imagined sorrow is a fire 
 That scorches me. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I know, I know it well, — 
 The first young passionate wail of spirits called 
 To some great destiny. In vain, my daughter! 
 Lay the young eagle in what nest you will, 
 The cry and swoop of eagles overhead 
 Vibrate prophetic in its kindred frame, 
 And make it spread its wings and poise itself 
 For the eagle's flight. Hear what you have to do. 
 (Fedalma breaks from him and stands ludf 
 . averted, as if she dreaded the effect of his 
 looks and words. ) 
 
 My comrades even now file off their chains 
 
 In a low turret by the battlements, 
 
 Where we were locked with slight and sleepy 
 
 "guard, — • 
 We who had files hid in our shaggy hair, 
 And possible ropes that waited but our will 
 In half our garments. Oh, the Moorish blood 
 Euns thick and warm to us, though thinned by 
 
 chrism. 
 I found a friend among our jailers,   — one 
 Who loves the Gypsy as the Moor's ally. 
 I know the secrets of this fortress. Listen. 
 Hard by yon terrace is a narrow stair. 
 Cut in the living rock, and at one point 
 In its slow straggling course it branches off 
 Towards a low wooden door, that art has bossed 
 To such unevenness, it seems one piece 
 With the rough-hewn rock. Opened, it leads 
 Through a broad passage burrowed underground
 
 138 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 A good half-mile out to the open plain : 
 Made for escape, in dire extremity 
 From siege or luirning, of the house's wealth 
 In women or in gold. To find that door 
 Needs one who knows the number of tlie steps 
 Just to the turning-point ; to open it, 
 Needs one who knows the secret of the bolt. 
 You have that secret : you will ope that door. 
 And fly with us. 
 
 Fed ALMA {recediyig a little, and gathering herself up 
 in an attitude of resolve opposite to Zarca). 
 
 No, I will never fly ! 
 Never forsake that chief half of ray soul 
 Where lies my love. I swear to set you free. 
 Ask for no more ; it is not possible. 
 Father, my soul is not too base to ring 
 At touch of your great thoughts ; nay, in my blood 
 There streams the sense unspeakable of kind, 
 As leopard feels at ease with leopard. But, — 
 Look at these hands ! You say when they were 
 
 little 
 They played about the gold upon your neck. 
 I do believe it, for their tiny pulse 
 Made record of it in the inmost coil 
 Of growing memory. But see them now! 
 Oh they have made fresh record ; twined themselves 
 With other throbbing hands whose pulses feed 
 Not memories only but a blended life, — 
 Life that will bleed to death if it be severed. 
 Have pity on me, father! Wait the morning; 
 Say you will wait the morning. I will win 
 Your freedom openly : you shall go forth 
 With aid and honours. Silva will deny 
 Naught to my asking . . .
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 139 
 
 Zarca {with contemptuous decision). 
 
 Till you ask him aught 
 Wherein he is powerless. Soldiers even now 
 Murmur against him that he risks the town, 
 And forfeits all the prizes of a foray 
 To get his bridal pleasure with a bride 
 Too low for Rim. They'll murmur more and louder 
 If captives of our pith and sinew, fit 
 For all the work the Spaniard hates, are freed, — 
 Now, too, when Spanish hands are scanty. What, 
 Turn Gypsies loose instead of hanging them ! 
 'T is flat against the edict. Nay, perchance 
 Murmurs aloud may turn to silent threats 
 Of some well-sharpened dagger ; for your Duke 
 Has to his heir a pious cousin, who deems 
 The Cross were better served if he were Duke. 
 Such good you'll work your lover by your prayers, 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Then, I will free you now ! You shall be safe. 
 Nor he be blamed, save for his love to me. 
 I will declare what I have done : the deed 
 May put our marriage off. . . . 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Ay, till the time 
 When you shall be a queen in Africa, 
 And he be prince enough to sue for you. 
 You cannot free us and come back to him. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 And why ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I would compel you to go forth.
 
 140 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Pedalma. 
 You tell me that ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Yes, for I 'd have you choose ; 
 Though, being of the blood you are, — my blood, — 
 You have no right to choose. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I only owe 
 A daughter's debt ; I was not born a slave. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 No, not a slave ; but you were born to reign. 
 'T is a compulsion of a higher sort. 
 Whose fetters are the net invisible 
 That holds all life together. Royal deeds 
 May make long destinies for multitudes. 
 And you are called to do them. You belong 
 Not to the petty round of circumstance 
 That makes a woman's lot, but to your tribe, 
 Who trust in me and in my blood with trust 
 That men call blind; but it is only blind 
 As unyeaned reason is, that growing stirs 
 Within the womb of superstition. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No! 
 I belong to him who loves me — whom T love — 
 Who chose me — whom I chose — to whom I 
 
 pledged 
 A woman's truth. And that is nature too, 
 Issuing a fresher law than laws of birth.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 141 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Well, then, unmake yourself from a Zincala, — 
 TJnmake yourself from being child of mine ! 
 Take holy water, cross your dark skin white ; 
 Round your proud eyes to foolish kitten looks ; 
 Walk mincingly, and smirk, and twitch your robe: 
 Unmake yourself, — doff all the eagle plumes 
 And be a parrot, chained to a ring that slips 
 Upon a Spaniard's thumb, at will of his 
 That you should prattle o'er his words again ! 
 Get a small heart that flutters at the smiles 
 Of that plump penitent and greedy saint 
 Who breaks all treaties in the name of God, 
 Saves souls by confiscation, sends to heaven 
 The altar-fumes of burninc; heretics. 
 And chaffers with the Levite for the gold ; 
 Holds Gypsies beasts unfit for sacrifice, 
 So sweeps them out like worms alive or dead. 
 Go, trail your gold and velvet in her presence ! — • 
 Conscious Zincala, smile at your rare luck, 
 While half your brethren . . . 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I am not so vile ! 
 It is not to such mockeries that I cling, 
 Not to the flaring tow of gala-lights : 
 It is to him — my love — the face of day. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 What, will you part him from the air he breathes, 
 Never inliale with him although you kiss him ? 
 Will you adopt a soul without its thoughts, 
 Or grasp a life apart from flesh and blood ? 
 Till then you cannot wed a Spanish Duke
 
 142 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 And not wed shame at mention of your race, 
 And not wed hardness to their miseries, — 
 Nay, not wed murder. Would you save my life 
 Yet stab my purpose ? maim my every limb, 
 Put out my eyes, and turn me loose to feed ? 
 Is that salvation ? rather drink my blood. 
 That child of mine who weds my enemy, — 
 Adores a God who took no heed of Gypsies, — 
 Forsakes her people, leaves their poverty 
 To join the luckier crowd that mocks their 
 
 woes, — 
 That child of mine is doubly murderess, 
 Murdering her father's hope, her people's trust. 
 Such draughts are mingled in your cup of love. 
 And when you have become a thing so poor. 
 Your life is all a fashion v/ithout law 
 Save frail conjecture of a changing wish. 
 Your worshipped sun, your smiling face of day, 
 Will turn to cloudiness, and you will shiver 
 In your thin finery of vain desire. 
 Men call his passion madness ; and he, too. 
 May learn to think it madness : 't is a thought 
 Of ducal sanity. 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 No, he is true ! 
 And if I part from him I part from joy. 
 Oh, it was morning with us, — I seemed young. 
 But now I know I am an aged sorrow, — 
 My people's sorrow. Father, since I am yours, — 
 Since I must walk an unslain sacrifice. 
 Carrying the knife within me, quivering, — 
 Put cords upon me, drag me to the doom 
 My birth has laid upon me. See, I kneel : 
 I cannot will to go.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 143 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Will then to stay ! 
 Say yoli will take your better, painted such 
 By blind desire, and choose the hideous worse 
 For thousands who were happier but for you. 
 My thirty followers are assembled now 
 Without this terrace : I your father wait 
 That you may lead us forth to liberty, — 
 ^Restore me to my tribe, — five iiundred men 
 Whom I alone can save, alone can rule, 
 And plant them as a mighty nation's seed. 
 Why, vagabonds who clustered round one man, 
 Their voice of God, their prophet, and their 
 
 Twice grew to empire on the teeming shores 
 
 Of Africa, and sent new royalties 
 
 To feed afresh the Arab sway in Spain. 
 
 My vagabonds are a seed more generous. 
 
 Quick as the serpent, loving as the hound, 
 
 And beautiful as disinherited gods. 
 
 They have a promised land beyond the sea; 
 
 There I may lead them, raise my standard, call 
 
 All wandering Zincali to that home, 
 
 And make a nation, — bring light, order, law, 
 
 Instead of chaos. You, my only heir. 
 
 Are called to reign for me when I am "one. 
 
 Now choose your deed : to save or to destroy. 
 
 You, woman and Zincala, fortunate 
 
 Above your fellows, — you who hold a curse 
 
 Or blessing in the hollow of your liand, — 
 
 Say you will loose that hand from fellowship, 
 
 Let go the rescuing rope, hurl all the tribes. 
 
 Children and countless beings yet to come, 
 
 Down from the upward path of light and joy.
 
 144 rOEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Back to the dark and marshy wilderness 
 
 AVhere life is naught but blind tenacity 
 
 Of that which is. Say you will curse your race ! 
 
 Fedalma {rising and stretching out her arms in 
 
 deprecation). 
 
 No, no, — I will not say it, — I will go! 
 Father, I choose ! I will not take a heaven 
 Haunted by shrieks of far-off misery. 
 This deed and I have ripened with the hours ; 
 It is a part of me, — awakened thought 
 That, rising like a giant, masters me, 
 And grows into a doom. mother life. 
 That seemed to nourish me so tenderly. 
 Even in the womb you vowed rne to the fire. 
 Hung on my soul the burden of men's hopes. 
 And pledged me to redeem ! — I'll pay the debt. 
 You gave me strength that I should pour it all 
 Into this anguish. I can never shrink 
 Back into bliss, — my heart has grown too big 
 With things that might be. Father, I will go. 
 I will strip off these gems. Some happier bride 
 Shall wear them, since Fedalma would be dowered 
 With naught but curses, dowered with misery 
 Of men, — of women, who have hearts to bleed 
 As hers is bleeding. 
 
 {She sinks on a seat, and begins to take off her 
 Jewels.) 
 
 Now, good gems, we part. 
 Speak of me always tenderly to Silva. 
 
 {She pauses, turning to Zakca ) 
 
 O father, will the women of our tribe 
 
 Suffer as I do, in the years to come 
 
 When you have made them great in Africa ?
 
 THE SrANISII GYPSY. 145 
 
 Redeemed from ignorant ills only to feel 
 
 A conscious woe ? Then, — is it worth the pains ? 
 
 Were it not better when we reach that shore 
 
 To raise a funeral-pile and perish all \ 
 
 So closing np a myriad avenues 
 
 To misery yet unwrought ? My soul is faint, —   
 
 Will these sharp pangs buy any certain good ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Nay, never falter : no great deed is done 
 
 By falterers who ask for certainty. 
 
 No sood is certain, but the steadfast mind, 
 
 The undivided will to seek the good : 
 
 'T is that compels the elements, and wrings 
 
 A human music from the indifferent air. 
 
 The greatest gift the hero leaves his race 
 
 Is to have been a hero. Say we fail ! — 
 
 We feed the high ti'adition of the world, 
 
 And leave our spirit in Zincalo breasts. 
 
 Fedalma (7.inclaspinfj her jeivdled belt, and throwing 
 
 it down). 
 
 Yes, say that we shall fail ! I will not count 
 On aught but being faithful. I will take 
 This yearning self of mine and strangle it. 
 I will not be half-hearted : never yet 
 Fedalma did aught with a wavering soul. 
 Die, my young joy, — die, all my hungry hopes,— 
 The milk you cry for from the breast of life 
 Is thick with curses. Oh, all fatness here 
 Snatches its meat from leanness, — feeds on graves. 
 I will seek nothing but to slum what 's base. 
 The saints were cowards who stood by to see 
 Christ crucified : they should have flung themselves 
 Upon the Roman spears, and died in vain, — 
 VOL. 1. — 10
 
 146 rOEMS OF GEOltCiE ELIOT. 
 
 The grandest death, to die in vain, — for love 
 Greater than sways the forces of the world. 
 That death shall be my bridegroom. I will wed 
 The curse of the Zincali. father, come! 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 No curse has fallen on us till we cease 
 To help each other. You, if you are false 
 To that first fellowship, lay on the curse. 
 But write now to the Spaniard : briefly say 
 That I, your father, came ; that you obeyed 
 The fate which made you a Zincala, as his fate 
 Made him a Spanish duke and Christian knight. 
 He must not think . . . 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Yes, I will write, but he. 
 Oh, he would know it, — he. would never think 
 The chain that dragged me from him could be 
 
 aught 
 But scorching iron entering in my soul. 
 
 (She writes.) 
 
 Silva, sole love, — he came, — my father came. 
 
 I am the (kmghter of the Gypsy chief 
 
 Who means to he the Saviour of our tribe. 
 
 He calls on me to live for his great end. 
 
 To live ? nay, die for it. Fedalma dies 
 
 In leaving Silva : all that lives henceforth 
 
 Is the Zincala. (She rises.) 
 
 Father, now I go 
 To wed my people's lot. 
 
 Zapca. 
 
 To wed a crown. 
 We will make royal the Zincali 's lot, —
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 147 
 
 Give it a country, homes, and monuments 
 
 Held sacred through the lofty memories 
 
 That we shall leave behind us. Comg, my Queen ! 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Stay, my betrothal ring ! — one kiss, — farewell ! 
 O love, you were my crown. No other crown 
 Is aught but thorns on my poor woman's brow. 
 
 {Exeunt. )
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 SiLYA was marching homeward while the moon 
 Still shed mild brightness like the far-off hope 
 Of those pale virgin lives that wait and pray. 
 The stars thin-scattered made the heavens large, 
 Bending in slow procession; in the east 
 Emergent from the dark waves of the hills, 
 Seeming a little sister of the moon, 
 Glowed Venus all unquenched. Silva, in haste, 
 Exultant and yet anxious, urged his troop 
 To quick and quicker march : he had delight 
 In forward stretching shadows, in the gleams 
 That travelled on the armour of the van, 
 And in the many-hoofed sound : in all that told 
 Of hurrying movement to o'ertake his thought 
 Already in Bedmar, close to Fedalma, 
 Leading her forth a wedded bride, fast vowed, 
 Defying Father Isidor. His glance 
 Took in with much content the priest who rode 
 Firm in his saddle, stalwart and broad-backed. 
 Crisp-curled, and comfortably secular, 
 Bight in the front of him. But by degrees 
 Stealthily faint, disturbing with slow loss 
 That showed not yet full promise of a gain, 
 The light was changing and the watch intense 
 Of moon and stars seemed weary, shivering : 
 The sharp white brightness passed from off the rocks 
 Carrying the shadows : beauteous Night lay dead 
 Under the pall of twilight, and the love-star 
 Sickened and shrank. The troop was winding now
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. . 149 
 
 Upward to where a pass between the peaks 
 Seemed like an opened gate, — to Silva seemed 
 An outer-gate of heaven, for through that pass 
 They entered his own valley, near Bedmar. 
 Sudden within the pass a horseman rose 
 One instant dark upon the banner pale 
 Of rock-cut sky, the next in motion swift 
 With hat and plume high shaken, — ominous. 
 Silva had dreamed his future, and the dream 
 Held not this messenger. A minute more, — 
 It was his friend Don Alvar whom he saw 
 Eeining his horse up, face to face with him, 
 Sad as the twilight, all his clothes ill-girt, — • 
 As if he had been roused to see one die, 
 And brought the news to him whom death had 
 
 robbed. 
 Silva believed he saw the worst, — the town 
 Stormed by the infidel, — or, could it be 
 Fedalma dragged? — no, there was not yet time. 
 But with a marble face, he only said, 
 " What evil, Alvar ? " 
 
 " What this paper speaks. " 
 It was Fedalma's letter folded close 
 And mute as yet for Silva. But his friend 
 Keeping it still sharp-pinched against his breast, • 
 " It will smite hard, my lord : a private grief. 
 I would not have you pause to read it here. 
 Let us ride on, — we use the moments best, 
 Reacliing the town with speed. The smaller ill 
 Is that our Gypsy prisoners have escaped. " 
 " No moYQ. Give me the paper, —   nay, I know, —   
 'T will make no difference. Bid them march on 
 
 faster. " 
 Silva pushed forward, — held the paper crushed 
 Close in his right. " They have imprisoned her,
 
 ISO POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 lie said to Alvar in low, hard-cut tones, 
 
 Like a drcani-speech of slumbering revenge. 
 
 " No, — when they came to fetch her, she was gone." 
 
 Swift as the right touch on a spring, that word 
 
 Made Silva read the letter. She was gone ! 
 
 But not into locked darkness, — only gone 
 
 Into free air, — where he might find her yet. 
 
 The bitter loss had triumph in it, — what! 
 
 They would have seized her with their holy claws ? 
 
 The Prior's sweet morsel of despotic hate 
 
 Was snatched from of^' his lips. This misery 
 
 Had yet a taste of joy. 
 
 But she was gone ! 
 The sun had risen, and in the castle walls 
 The light grew strong and stronger, Silva walked 
 Through the long corridor where dimness yet 
 Cherished a lingering, flickering, dying hope: 
 Fedalma still was there, — he could not see 
 The vacant place that once her presence iilled. 
 Can we believe that the dear dead are gone ? 
 Love in sad weeds forgets the funeral day, 
 Opens the chamber door and almost smiles, — 
 Then sees the sunbeams pierce athwart the bed 
 Where the pale face is not. So Silva 's joy, 
 Like the sweet hal)it of caressing hands 
 That seek the memory of another hand, 
 Still lived on fitfully in spite of words. 
 And, numbing thought with vngue illusion, dulled 
 The slow and steadfast beat of certainty. 
 But in the rooms inexorable light 
 Streamed through the open window where she fled, 
 Streamed on the belt and coronet thrown down, — 
 Mute witnesses, — sought out the typic ring 
 That sparkled on the crimson, solitary. 
 Wounding him like a word. hateful light!
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 151 
 
 It filled the chambers with her absence, glared 
 On all the motionless things her hand had touchedj 
 Motionless all, — save where old Inez lay 
 Sunk on the floor holding her rosary, 
 Makintj its shadow tremble with her fear. 
 And Silva -passed her by because she grieved : 
 It was the lute, the gems, the pictured heads, 
 He longed to crush, because they made no sign 
 But of insistence that she was not there, 
 She who had filled his sight and hidden them. 
 He went forth on the terrace tow'rd the stairs, 
 Saw the rained petals of the cistus flowers 
 Crushed by large feet ; but on one shady spot 
 Far down the steps, where dampness made a home. 
 He saw a footprint delicate-slippered, small, 
 So dear to him, he searched for sister-prints, 
 Searched in the rock-hewn passage with a Lamp 
 For other trace of her, and found a glove ; 
 But not Fedalma's. It was Juan's glove, 
 Tasselled, perfumed, embroidered with his name, 
 A gift of dames. Then Juan, too, was gone ? 
 Full-mouthed conjecture, hurrying through the 
 
 town, 
 Had spread the tale already, — it was he 
 That helped the Gypsies' flight. He talked and 
 
 sanG[ 
 Of noth.ing but the Gypsies and Fedalma. 
 He drew the threads together, wove the plan. 
 Had lingered out by moonlight and been seen 
 Strolling, as was his wont, within the walls. 
 Humming his ditties. So Don Alvar told, 
 Conveying outside rumour. But the Duke 
 Keeping his haughtiness as a visor closed 
 Winild show no agitated front in quest 
 Of small disclosures. What her writing bore
 
 152 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Had been enough. He knew that she was gone, 
 Knew why. 
 
 " The Duke, " some said, " will send a force, 
 Eetake the prisoners, and bring back his bride. " 
 But others, winking, " Nay, her wedding dress ' 
 Would be the sa/i-beiiito. 'T is a fi^h't 
 Between the Duke and Prior. Wise bets will choose 
 The churchman : he 's the iron, and the Duke" — 
 " Is a fine piece of pottery, " said mine host, 
 Softening the epigram with a bland regret. 
 
 There was the thread that in the new-made knot 
 Of obstinate circumstance seemed hardest drawn, 
 Vexed most the sense of Silva, in these hours 
 Of fresh and angry pain, — there, in that fight 
 Against a foe whose sword was magical, 
 His shield invisible terrors, — against a foe 
 Who stood as if upon the smoking mount 
 Ordaining plagues. All else, Fedalma's flight, 
 The father's claim, her Gypsy birth disclosed, 
 Were momentary crosses, hindrancexi 
 A Spanish noble might despise. This Chief 
 Might still be treated with, would not refuse 
 A proffered ransom, which would better serve 
 Gypsy prosperity, give him more power 
 Over his tribe, than any fatherhood : 
 Nay, all the father in him must plead loud 
 For marriage of his daughter where she loved, — 
 Her love being placed so high and lustrously. 
 The keen Zincalo had foreseen a price 
 That would be paid him for his daughter's dower,— 
 Might soon give signs. Oh, all his purpose lay 
 Face upward. Silva here felt strong, and smiled. 
 What could a Spanish noble not command? 
 He only helped the Queen, because he chose, —
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 153 
 
 Could war on Spaniards, and could spare the Moor,^ 
 
 Buy justice, or defeat it, — if he would : 
 
 Was loyal, not from weakness but from strength 
 
 Of liigh resolve to use his birthright well. 
 
 For nobles too are gods, like Emperors, 
 
 Accept perforce their own divinity 
 
 And wonder at the virtue of their touch, 
 
 Till obstinate resistance sliakes their creed. 
 
 Shattering that self whose wholeness is not rounded 
 
 o 
 
 Save in the plastic souls of other men. 
 
 Don Silva had been suckled in that creed 
 
 (A speculative noble else, knowing Italian), 
 
 Held it absurd as foolish argument 
 
 If any failed in deference, was too proud 
 
 Not to be courteous to so poor a knave 
 
 As one who knew not necessary truths 
 
 Of birth and precedence ; but cross his will. 
 
 The miracle-working will, his rage leaped out 
 
 As by a right divine to rage more fatal 
 
 Than a mere mortal man's. And now that will 
 
 Had met a stronger adversary, — strong 
 
 As awful ghosts are whom we cannot touch, 
 
 While they grasp w.s, subtly as poisoned air, 
 
 In deep-laid fibres of inherited fear 
 
 That lie below all courage. 
 
 Silva said, 
 " She is not lost to me, might still be mine 
 But for the Inquisition, — the dire hand 
 That waits to clutch her with, a hideous grasp. 
 Not passionate, human, living, but a grasp 
 As in the death-throe when the liuman soul 
 Departs and leaves force unrelenting, locked, 
 Not to be loosened save by slow de^ay 
 That frets the universe. Father Isidor 
 Has willed it so: his phial dropped the oil
 
 154 rOEMS OF CEOr.GM ELIOT. 
 
 To catch the air-horne motes of idle slander; 
 
 He fed tlie fascinated gaze that clung 
 
 Tionnd all her movements, frank as growths 
 
 With the new hateful interest of suspicion. 
 
 What barrier is this Gypsy ? a mere gate 
 
 I '11 find the key for. The one barrier, 
 
 The tightening cord that winds about my limbs, 
 
 Is this kind uncle, this imperious saint, 
 
 He who will save me, guard me from myself. 
 
 And he can work his will : I have no help 
 
 Save reptile secrecy, and no revenge 
 
 Save that I will do what he schemes to hinder. 
 
 Ay, secrecy, and disobedience, — these 
 
 No tyranny can master. Disobey ! 
 
 You may divide the universe with God, 
 
 Keeping your will unbent, and hold a world 
 
 Wliere he is not supreme. The Prior shall know it ! 
 
 His will shall breed resistance : he shall do 
 
 The thing he would not, further what he hates 
 
 By hardening my resolve." 
 
 But 'neath this inward speech, — 
 Predominant, hectoring, the more passionate voice 
 Of many-blended consciousness, — there breathed 
 Murmurs of doubt, the weakness of a self 
 That is not one ; denies and yet believes ; 
 Protests with passion, "This is natural," — 
 Yet owns the other still wT^re truer, better, 
 Could nature follow it. A self disturbed 
 By budding growths of reason premature 
 That breed disease. Spite of defiant rage 
 Silva half shrank before the steadfast man 
 Whose life was one compacted whole, a state 
 Where the rule changed not, and the law was strong. 
 Tlien straightway he reserrted that forced tribute, 
 Kousing rebellion with intenser will.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 155 
 
 But soon this inward strife the slow-paced hours 
 
 Slackened ; and the soul sank with hunger-pangs, 
 
 Hunger of love. Debate was swept right down 
 
 By certainty of loss intolerable. 
 
 A little loss ! only a dark-tressed maid 
 
 Who had no heritage save her beauteous being! 
 
 But in the candour of her virgin eyes 
 
 Saying, I love ; and in the mystic charm 
 
 Of her dear presence, Silva found a heaven 
 
 Where faith and hope were drowned as stars in day. 
 
 Fedalma there, each momentary J^ow 
 
 Seemed a whole blest existence, a full cup 
 
 That, flowing over, asked no pouring hand 
 
 From past to future. All the world was hers. 
 
 Splendour was but the herald trum^iet note 
 
 Of her imperial coming : penury 
 
 Vanished before her as before a sem 
 
 The pledge of treasuries. Fedalma there, 
 
 He thought all loveliness was lovelier, 
 
 She crowning it : all goodness credible, 
 
 Because of the great trust her goodness bred. 
 
 For the strong current of that passionate love 
 
 Wliich urged his life tow'rds hers, like urgent floods 
 
 That hurry through the various-mingled earth, 
 
 Carried within its stream all qualities 
 
 Of what it penetrated, and made love 
 
 Only another name, as Silva was. 
 
 For the whole man that breathed within his frania 
 
 And she was gone. Well, goddesses will go; 
 
 But for a noble there were mortals left 
 
 Sliaped just like goddesses, — hateful sweet! 
 
 O impudent jjleasure that should dare to fronp 
 
 With vul'iar visatje memories divine ! 
 
 ■o" 
 
 The nol)le's birthright of miraculous will 
 Turning / icould to must he, spurning all
 
 156 POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Offered as? suhstitiite for what it chose, 
 
 Tightened and fixed in strain irrevocable 
 
 Tlie passionate selection of that love 
 
 Which came not first but as all-conquering last. 
 
 Great Love has many attributes, and shrines 
 
 For varied worshippers, but his force divine 
 
 Shows most its many-named fulness in the man 
 
 Whose nature multitudinously mixed, 
 
 Each ardent impulse grappling with a thought 
 
 Eesists all easy gladness, all content 
 
 Save mystic rapture, where the questioning soul 
 
 Flooded with consciousness of good that is 
 
 Finds life one bounteous answer. So it was 
 
 In Silva's nature. Love had mastery there, 
 
 Not as a holiday ruler, but as one 
 
 W]io quells a tumult in a day of dread, 
 
 A welcomed despot. 
 
 Oh, all comforters, 
 All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy, 
 Came with her coming, in her presence lived. 
 Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall 
 Pencilled upon the grass ; high summer morns 
 When white light rains upon the quiet sea 
 And corn-fields flush witli ripeness ; odours soft, — 
 Dumb vagrant bliss that seems to seek a home 
 And find it deep within 'mid stirrings vague 
 Of far-off moments when our life was fresh ; 
 All sweetly-tempered music, gentle change 
 Of sound, form, colour, as on wide lagoons 
 At sunset when fi-om black far-floating prows 
 Comes a clear wafted song ; all exquisite joy 
 Of a subdued desire, like some strong stream 
 Made placid in the fulness of a lake, — 
 All came with her sweet presence, for she brought 
 The love supreme which gathers to its realm
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 157 
 
 All powers of loving. Subtle nature's hand 
 Waked with a touch the intricate harmonies 
 In her own manifold work. Fedalma there, 
 Fastidiousness became the prelude fine 
 For full-contentment, and young melancholy, 
 Lost for its origin, seemed but the pain 
 Of waiting for that perfect happiness — 
 The happiness was gone ! 
 
 He sat alone. 
 Hating companionship that was not hers ; . 
 Felt bruised with hopeless longing ; drank, as 
 
 wine, 
 Illusions of what had been, would have been ; 
 Weary with anger and a strained resolve, 
 Sought passive happiness in a waking dream. 
 It has been so with rulers, emperors, 
 Nay, sages who held secrets of great Time, 
 Sharing his hoary and beneficent life, — 
 Men who sat throned among the multitudes, — 
 They have sore sickened at the loss of one. 
 Silva sat lonely in her chamber, leaned 
 Where she had leaned, to feel the evening breath 
 Shed from the orange-trees ; when suddenly 
 His grief was echoed in a sad young voice 
 Far and yet near, brought by aerial wings. 
 
 The world is great : the birds all fly from me. 
 The stars are golden fruit upon a tree 
 All out of reach : my little sister went. 
 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 The world is great : I tried to motmt the hill 
 Above the pines, wJiere the light lies so still. 
 But it rose higher : little Lisa went, 
 
 And I am lonely.
 
 ISS rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 The world is great : the ivind comes rusliing hy, 
 I wonder where it comes from ; sea-lirch cry 
 And hurt my heart : my little sister went, 
 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 The ivorld is great : the people laugh and talJc, 
 And make loud holiday : how fast they walk ! 
 I 'm lame, they jjush me : little Lisa went, 
 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 'T was ral)lo, like the wounded spirit of song 
 Pouring melodious pain to cheat the hour 
 Fo\ idle soldiers in the castle court. 
 Dreamily Silva heard and hardly felt 
 The song was outward, rather felt it part 
 Of his own aching, like the lingering day, 
 Or slow and mournful cadence of the hell. 
 r>ut when the voice had ceased, he longed for it. 
 And fretted at the pause, as memory frets 
 When words that made its body fall away 
 And leave it yearning dumhly. Silva then 
 Bethought him whence the voice came, framed per- 
 force 
 Some outward im;.ge of a life not his 
 That made a sorrowful centre to the world, — 
 A hoy lame, melancholy-eyed, who bore 
 A viol, — yes, that very child he saw 
 This morning eating roots by the gateway, — 
 
 saw 
 As one fresh-ruined sees and spells a name 
 And knows not what he does, yet finds it writ 
 Full in the inner record. Hrirk, again ! 
 The voice and viol. Silva c^ll3d his thought 
 To guide his ear and track the travelling sound.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. . 159 
 
 bird that used to press 
 Thy head against my cheek 
 With touch that seemed to speak 
 
 And ask a tender " yes" — 
 
 Ay de mi, my bird ! 
 
 tender downy breast 
 
 And ivarmly beating heart, 
 
 That beating seemed a part 
 Of me tvho gave it rest, — 
 
 Ay de mi, my bird ! 
 
 The western court ! The sincjer miirht be seen 
 From the upper gallery : quick the Duke was there 
 Looking upon the court as on a stage. 
 Men eased of armour, stretched upon the ground. 
 Gambling by snatches ; shepherds from the hills 
 Who brought their bleating friends for slaughter; 
 
 grooms 
 Siiouldering loose harness ; leather-aproned smiths, 
 Traders with wares, green-suited serving-men, 
 Made a round audience ; and in their midst 
 Stood little Pablo, pouring forth his song, 
 Just as the Duke had pictured But the song 
 Was strangely companied by Roldan's play 
 With the swift-gleaming balls, and now was crushed 
 B/ peals of laughter at grave Annibal, 
 Who carrying stick and purse o'erturned the pence, 
 ]\Iaking mistake by rule. Silva had thought 
 To melt hard bitter grief by fellowship 
 With the world-sorrow treml)ling in his ear 
 In Pablo's voice; had meant to give command 
 For the boy's presence ; but this company, 
 This mountebank and monkey, must be — stay ! 
 Nut be excepted — must be ordered too
 
 i6o rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Into his private presence; they had brought 
 
 Suggestion of a ready shapen tool 
 
 To cut a path between his helpless wish 
 
 And what it imaged. A ready shapen tool ! 
 
 A spy, an envoy whom he might despatch 
 
 In unsuspected secrecy, to hnd 
 
 The Gypsies' refuge so that none beside 
 
 Miiiht learn it. And this iug^ler could be bribed, 
 
 Would have no fear of Moors, — for who would kill 
 
 Dancers and monkeys ? — could pretend a journey 
 
 Back to his home, leaving his boy the while 
 
 To please the Duke with song. Without such 
 
 chance, — 
 An envoy cheap and secret as a mole 
 Who could go scathless, come back for his pay 
 And vanish straight, tied by no neighbourhood, — 
 Without such chance as this poor juggler brought, 
 Finding Fedalma was betraying her. 
 
 Short interval betwixt the thought and deed. 
 
 Iloldan was called to private audience 
 
 With Annibal and Pablo. All the world 
 
 (By which I mean the score or two who heard) 
 
 Shrugged high their shoulders, and supposed the 
 
 Duke 
 Would fain beguile the evening and replace 
 His lacking happiness, as was tlie right 
 Of nobles, who could pay for any cure, 
 And wore naught broken, save a broken limb. 
 In truth, at first, the Duke bade Pablo sing, 
 Ikit, while he sang, called Roldan wide apart, 
 And told him of a mis.'^ion secret, brief, — 
 A quest which well performed might earn much 
 
 gold, 
 But, if betrayed, another sort of wages.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. i6i 
 
 Eoldan was ready ; " wished above all for gold 
 And never wished to speak ; had worked enough 
 At wagging liis old tongue and chiming jokes ; 
 Thought it was others' turn to play the fool. 
 Give him but pence enough, no rabbit, sirs, 
 Would eat and stare and be more dumb than lie. 
 Give him his orders." 
 
 They were given straight ; 
 Gold for the journey, and to buy a mule 
 Outside the gates through which he was to pass 
 Afoot and carelessly. The boy would stay 
 Within the castle, at the Duke's command, 
 And must have naught but ignorance to betray 
 For threats or coaxing. Once the quest performed. 
 The news delivered with some pledge of truth 
 Safe to the Duke, the juggler should go forth, 
 A fortune in his girdle, take his boy 
 And settle firm as any planted tree 
 In fair Valencia, never more to roam. 
 " Good : good ! most worthy of a great hidalgo ! 
 And Roldan was the man ! But Annibal, — 
 A monkey like no other, though morose 
 In private character, yet full of tricks, — 
 'T were hard to carry him, yet harder still 
 To leave the boy and him in company 
 And free to slip away. The boy was wild 
 And shy as mountain kid ; once hid himself 
 And tr'ed to run away; and Annibal, 
 Who always took the lad's side (he was small. 
 And they were nearer of a size, and, sirs, 
 Your monkey has a spite against us men 
 For being bigger), — Anni])al went too. 
 Would, hardly know himself, were he to lose 
 Both boy and monkey, — and 't was property, 
 Tlie trouble he had put in Annibal. 
 
 VOL, I. — 1 1
 
 t62 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 He did n't choose another man should heat 
 
 His boy and monkey. If they ran away 
 
 Some man would snap tliem up, and square himsell* 
 
 And say they were his goods, — he 'd taught them, 
 
 — no ! 
 He Eoldan had no mind another man 
 Should fatten by his monkey, and the boy 
 Should not be kicked by any pair of sticks 
 Calling himself a juggler." . . . 
 
 But the Duke, 
 Tired of that hammering, signed that it should cease ; 
 Bade Roldan quit all fears, — the boy and ape 
 Should be safe lodged in Abderahman's tower, 
 In keeping of the great physician there, 
 The Duke's most special confidant and friend. 
 One skilled in taming brutes, and always kind. 
 The Duke himself this eve would see them lodged. 
 Roldan must go, — spend no more words, — but go. 
 
 A room high up in Abderahman's tower, 
 A window open to the still warm eve. 
 And the bright disk of royal Jupiter. 
 Lamps burning low make little atmospheres 
 Of light amid the dimness ; here and there 
 Show books and phials, stones and instruments. 
 In carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps 
 Right in the rays of Jupiter a small man. 
 In skull-cap bordered close with crisp gray curls, 
 And loose black gown showing a neck and breast 
 Protected by a dim-green amulet ; 
 Pale-faced, with finest nostril wont to breathe 
 Ethereal passion in a world of thought ; 
 Eyebrows jet-black and firm, yet delicate ; 
 Beard scant and grizzled ; mouth shut firm, with 
 curves
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 163 
 
 So subtly turned to meanings exquisite, 
 You seem to read them as you read a word 
 Full-vowelled, long-descended, pregnant, — rich 
 With legacies from long, laborious lives. 
 Close by him, like a genius of sleep, 
 Purrs the gray cat, bridling, with snowy breast. 
 A loud knock. " Forward ! " in clear vocal ring. 
 Enter the Duke, Pablo, and Annibal. 
 Exit the cat, retreating toward the dark. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 You slept, Sephardo. I am come too sooil 
 
 Sephaedo. 
 
 Nay, my lord, it was I who slept too long. 
 I go to court among the stars to-night, 
 So bathed my soul beforehand in deep sleep. 
 But who are these ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Small guests, for whom I ask 
 Your hospitality. Their owner comes 
 Some short time hence to claim them. I am pledged 
 To keep them safely ; so I bring them you, 
 Trusting your friendship for small animals. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 Yea, am not I too a small animal ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I shall be much beholden to your love 
 If you will be their guardian. I can trust 
 No other man so well as you. The boy 
 Will please you with his singing, touches too 
 The viol wondrously.
 
 164 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Sephaedo. 
 
 They are welcome both. 
 Their names are ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Pablo, this — this Annibal, 
 And yet, I hope, no warrior. 
 
 Sephaedo. 
 
 We'll make peace. 
 Come, Pablo, let us loosen our friend's chain. 
 Deign you, my lord, to sit. Here, Pablo, thou — 
 Close to my chair. Now Annibal shall choose. 
 
 [The cautious monkey, in a Moorish dress, 
 
 A tunic white, turban and scymitar, 
 
 Wears these stage garments, nay, his very flesh 
 
 With silent protest ; keeps a neutral air 
 
 As aiming at a metaphysic state 
 
 'Twixt " is" and " is not;" lets his chain be loosed 
 
 By sage Sephardo's hands, sits still at first. 
 
 Then trembles out of his neutrality. 
 
 Looks up and leaps into Sephardo's lap, 
 
 And chatters forth his agitated soul, 
 
 Turning to peep at Pablo on the floor.] 
 
 Sephaedo. 
 See, he declares we are at amity ! 
 
 Don Silva, 
 No brother sage had read your nature faster. 
 
 Sephaedo. 
 
 Why, so he is a brother sage. Man thinks 
 Brutes have no wisdom, since they know not his :
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 165 
 
 Can we divine their world ? — the hidden life 
 That mirrors us as hideous shapeless power, 
 Cruel supremacy of sharp -edged death, 
 Or fate that leaves a bleeding mother robbed ? 
 Oh, they have long tradition and swift speech, 
 Can tell with touches and sharp darting cries 
 Whole histories of timid races taught 
 To breathe in terror by red-handed man. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Ah, you denounce my sport with hawk and. 
 
 hound. 
 I would not have the angel Gabriel 
 As hard as you in noting down my sins. 
 
 Sephaedo. 
 
 Nay, they are virtues for you warriors, — 
 Hawking and hunting ! You are merciful 
 When you leave killing men to kill the brutes. 
 But, for the point of wisdom, I would choose 
 To know the mind that stirs between the wincjs 
 Of bees and building wasps, or fills the woods 
 With myriad murmurs of responsive sense 
 And true-aimed impulse, rather than to know 
 The thoughts of warriors. 
 
 ■o' 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yet they are warriors too,- 
 Your animals. Your judgment limps, Sephardo : 
 Death is the king of this world ; 't is his park 
 Where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain 
 Are music for his banquet; and the masque, — 
 The last grand masque for his diversion, is 
 The Holy Inquisition.
 
 i66 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Sephahdo. 
 
 Ay, anon 
 I may chime in with you. But not the less 
 My judgment has firm feet. Though death were 
 
 king, 
 And cruelty his right-hand minister, 
 Pity insurgent in some human breasts 
 Makes spiritual empire, reigns supreme 
 As persecuted faith in faithful hearts. 
 Your small physician, weighing ninety pounds, 
 A petty morsel for a healthy shark, 
 Will worship mercy throned within his soul 
 Though all the luminous angels of the stars 
 Burst into cruel chorus on his ear, 
 Singing, " We know no niercy. " He would cry 
 " I know it" still, and soothe the frightened bird 
 And feed the child a-hungered, walk abreast 
 Of persecuted men, and keep most hate 
 For rational torturers. There I stand firm. 
 But you are bitter, and my speech rolls on 
 Out of your note. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, no, I follow you. 
 I too have that within which I will worship 
 In spite of — yes, Sephardo, I am bitter. 
 I need your counsel, foresight, all your aid. 
 Lay these small guests to bed, then we will talk. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 See, they are sleeping now. The boy has made 
 My leg his pillow. For my brother sage, 
 He '11 never heed us ; he knit long ago 
 A sound ape-system, wherein men are brutes
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 167 
 
 Emitting doubtful noises. Pray, my lord, 
 Unlade what burdens you : my ear and hand 
 Are servants of a heart much bound to you. 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 Yes, yours is love that roots in gifts bestowed 
 By you on others, and will thrive the more 
 The more it gives. I have a double want : 
 First a confessor, — not a Catholic ; 
 A heart without a livery, — naked manhood. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 My lord, I will be frank, there 's no such thing 
 
 As naked manhood. If the stars look down 
 
 On any mortal of our shape, whose strength 
 
 Is to judge all things without preference. 
 
 He is a monster, not a faithful man. 
 
 While my heart beats, it shall wear livery, — 
 
 My people's livery, whose yellow badge 
 
 Marks them for Christian scorn. I will not say 
 
 Man is first man to me, then Jew or Gentile : 
 
 That; suits the rich 7narranos ; but to me 
 
 My father is first father and then man. 
 
 So much for frankness' sake. But let that pass. 
 
 'T is true at least, I am no Catholic, 
 
 But Salomo Sephardo, a born Jew, 
 
 Willing to serve Don Silva. 
 
 o 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oft you sing 
 Another strain, and melt distinctions down. 
 As no more real than the wall of dark 
 Seen by small fishes' eyes, that pierce a .span 
 In the wide ocean. Now you league yourself 
 To hem me, hold me prisoner in bonds
 
 i68 rOEMS OF CF.nUCI' KT/iOT. 
 
 Made, say you, — how ? — by God or Demiurge, 
 By spirit or tlesh, — I care not ! Love was made 
 Stronger than bonds, and where they press must 
 
 break them. 
 I came to you that I might breathe at Large, 
 And now you stitie me with talk of birth, 
 Of race and livery. Yet you knew Fedalma. 
 She was your friend, Sepbardo. And you know 
 She is gone from me, — know the hounds are loosed 
 To dog me if I seek her. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Yes. I know. 
 Forgive me that I used untimely speech, 
 Pressing a bruise. I loved her well, my lord : 
 A woman mixed of such fine elements 
 That were all virtue and religion dead 
 She 'd make them newly, being what she was. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Was ? say not was, Sephardo! She still lives, — 
 
 Is, and is mine ; and I will not renounce 
 
 What heaven, nay, what she gave me. I will 
 
 sin, 
 If sin I must, to win my life again. 
 The fault lie with those powers who have embroiled 
 The world in hopeless conflict, where all truth 
 Fights manacled with falsehood, and all good 
 Makes but one palpitating life with evil, 
 
 (Don Silva pauses. SErHARDO is silent.) 
 Sephardo, speak ! am I not justified ? 
 You taught my mind to use the wing that soars 
 Above the petty fences of the herd : 
 Now, when I need your doctrine, you are dumb.
 
 THE SPANISH GITSY. 169 
 
 Sephakdo. 
 
 Patience! Hidalgos want interpreters 
 Of untold dreams and riddles ; they insist 
 On dateless horoscopes, on formulas 
 To raise a possible spirit, nowhere named. 
 Science must be their wishing cap ; the stars 
 Speak plainer for high largesse. No, my lord! 
 I cannot counsel you to unknown deeds. 
 Thus much I can divine : you wish to find 
 Her whom you love, — to make a secret search. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 That is begun already : a messenger 
 Unknown to all has been despatched this night. 
 Bat forecast must be used, a plan devised, 
 Eeady for service when my scout returns, 
 Bringing the invisible thread to guide my steps 
 Toward that lost self my life is aching with. 
 Sephardo, I will go : and I must go 
 Unseen by all save you ; though, at our need, 
 We may trust Alvar. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 A grave task, my lord. 
 Have you a shapen purpose, or mere will 
 That sees the end alone and not the means ? 
 Eesolve will melt no rocks. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 But it can scale them. 
 This fortress has two private issues : one. 
 Which served the Gypsies' flight, to me is closed: 
 Our bands must watch tlie outlet, now betrayed 
 To cunning enemies. Remains one other, 
 Known to no man save me : a secret left
 
 I70 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 As heirloom in our liouse : a secret safe 
 
 Even from him,— from Father Isidor. 
 
 'T is he who forces me to use it, — he : 
 
 All 's virtue that cheats bloodliounds. Hear 
 
 Sephardo. 
 Given, my scout returns and brings me news 
 I can straight act on, I shall want your aid. 
 The issue lies below this tower, your fastness. 
 Where, by my charter, you rule absolute. 
 I shall feign illness ; you with mystic air 
 Must speak of treatment asking vigilance 
 (Nay, I am ill, — my life has half ebbed out), 
 I shall be whimsical, devolve command 
 On Don Diego, speak of poisoning. 
 Insist on being lodged within this tower, 
 And rid myself of tendance save from you 
 And perhaps from Alvar. So I shall escape 
 Unseen by spies, shall win the days I need 
 To ransom her and have her safe enshrined. 
 No matter, were my flight disclosed at last : 
 I shall come back as from a duel fought 
 Which no man can undo. Now you know all. 
 Say, can I count on you ? 
 
 Sephakdo. 
 
 For faithfulness 
 In aught that I may promise —yes, my lord. 
 But — for a pledge of faithfulness — this warning. 
 I will betray naught for your personal harm : 
 I love you. But note this, — I am a Jew ; 
 And while the Christian persecutes my race, 
 I'll turn at need even the Christian's trust 
 Into a weapon and a shield for Jews. 
 Shall Cruelty crowned — wielding the savage force 
 Of multitudes, and calling savageness God
 
 ^ THE SPANISH GYPSY. 171 
 
 Who gives it victory — upbraid deceit 
 And ask for faithfulness ? I love you well. 
 You are my friend. But yet you are a Christian, 
 Wliose birth has bound you to the Catholic kings. 
 There may come moments when to share my joy 
 Would make you traitor, when to share your grief 
 Would make me other than a Jew . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 What need 
 To urge that now, Sepliardo ? I am one 
 Of many Spanish nobles who detest 
 The roaring bigotry of the herd, would fain 
 Dash from the lips of king and queen the cup 
 Filled with besotting venom, half infused 
 By avarice and half by priests. And now, — 
 Now when the cruelty you flout me with 
 Pierces me too in the apple of my eye. 
 Now when my kinship scorches me like hate 
 Flashed from a mother's eye, you choose this time 
 To talk of birth as of inherited ra2;e 
 Deep-down, volcanic, fatal, bursting forth 
 From under hard-tauQ-ht reason ? Wondrous friend- 
 
 ship ! 
 My uncle Isidor's echo, mocking me, 
 From the opposing quarter of the heavens, 
 With iteration of the thing I know. 
 That I 'm a Christian knight and Spanish noble! 
 The consequence ? Why, that I know. It lies 
 In my own hands and not on raven tongues. 
 ^ The knight and noble shall not wear the chain 
 Of false-linked thouGfhts in brains of other men. 
 What question was there 'tvvixt us two, of aught 
 That makes division ? When I come to you 
 I come for other doctrine than the Prior's.
 
 172 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 My lord, you are o'erwrought by pain. My words, 
 
 That carried innocent meaning, do but float 
 
 Like little emptied cups upon the flood 
 
 Your mind brings with it. I but answered you 
 
 With regular proviso, such as stands 
 
 In testaments and charters, to forefend 
 
 A possible case which none deem likelihood ; 
 
 Just turned my sleeve, and pointed to the brand 
 
 Of brotherhood that limits every pledge. 
 
 Superfluous nicety, — the student's trick, 
 
 Who will not drink until he can define 
 
 What water is and is not. But enough. 
 
 My will to serve you now knows no division 
 
 Save the alternate beat of love and fear. 
 
 There's danger in this quest, — name, honour, 
 
 life,— 
 My lord, the stake is great, and are you sure . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, I am sure of naught but this, Sephardo, 
 That I will go. Prudence is but conceit 
 Hoodwinked by ignorance. There's naught exists 
 That is not dangerous and holds not death 
 For souls or bodies. Prudence turns its helm 
 To flee the storm and lands 'mid pestilence. 
 Wisdom must end by throwing dice with folly 
 But for dire passion which alone makes choice. 
 And I have chosen as the lion robbed 
 Chooses to turn upon the ravisher. 
 If love were slack, the Prior's imperious will 
 Would move it to outmatch him. But, SephardO; 
 Were all else mute, all passive as sea-calms, 
 My soul is one great hunger, — I must see her.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 173 
 
 Now you are smiling. Oh, you merciful men 
 Pick up coarse griefs and fling them in the face 
 Of us whom life with long descent has trained 
 To subtler pains, mocking your ready balms. 
 You smile at my soul's hunger 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Science smiles 
 And sways our lips in spite of us, my lord, 
 When thought weds fact, — when maiden prophecy 
 Waiting, believing, sees the bridal torch. 
 I use not vulgar measures for your grief, 
 My pity keeps no cruel feasts ; but thought 
 Has joys apart, even in blackest woe, 
 And seizing some fine thread of verity 
 Knows momentary godhead. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 And your thought ? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Seized on the close agreement of your words 
 With what is written in your horoscope. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Reach it me now. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 By your leave, Annibal. 
 {He jjlaces Annibal on Pablo's lap and rises. 
 The hoy moves loitliout waking, and his head 
 falls on the opposite side. Sepeaudo fetches 
 a cushion and lays Pablo's head gently 
 down upon it, then goes to reach the parch- 
 ment from a cabinet. Annibal, having 
 waked up in alarm, shuts his eyes quickly 
 again and pretends to sleep.)
 
 174 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I wish, by new appliance of your skill, 
 Eeading afresh the records of the sky, 
 You could detect more special augury. 
 Such chance oft happens, for all characters 
 Must shrink or widen, as our wine-skins do, 
 For more or less that we can pour in them ; 
 And added years give ever a new key 
 To fixed prediction. 
 
 Sephardo {returning ivith the parchment and reseat- 
 ing himself). 
 
 True ; our growing thought 
 Makes srow^ng revelation. But demand not 
 Specific augury, as of sure success 
 In meditated projects, or of ends 
 To be foreknown by peeping in God's scroll. 
 I say — nay, Ptolemy said it, but wise books 
 For half the truths they hold are honoured tombs — 
 Prediction is contingent, of effects 
 Where causes and concomitants are mixed 
 To seeming wealth of possibilities 
 Beyond our reckoning. Who will pretend 
 To tell the adventures of each single fish 
 Within the Syrian Sea ? Show me a fish, 
 I'll weigh him, tell his kind, what he devoured, 
 What would have devoured him, — but for one 
 
 Bias 
 Who netted him instead; nay, could I tell 
 That had Bias missed him, he would not have 
 
 died 
 Of poisonous mud, and so made carrion, 
 Swept off at last by some sea-scavenger ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 175 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Ay, now you talk of fishes, you get hard. 
 I note you merciful men : you can endure 
 Torture of fishes and hidalgos. Follows ? 
 
 Sephaedo. 
 
 By how much, then, the fortunes of a man 
 
 Are made of elements refined and mixed 
 
 Beyond a tunny's, what our science tells 
 
 Of the stars' influence hath contingency 
 
 In special issues. Thus, the loadsttme draws, 
 
 Acts like a will to make the iron submiss ; 
 
 But garlic rubbing it, that chief effect 
 
 Lies in suspense ; the iron keeps at large, 
 
 And garlic is controller of the stone. 
 
 And so, my lord, your horoscope declares 
 
 Naught absolutely of your sequent lot. 
 
 But, by our lore's authentic rules, sets forth 
 
 What gifts, what dispositions, likelihoods, 
 
 The aspects of the heavens conspired to fuse 
 
 With your incorporate soul. Aught more than 
 
 this 
 Is vulgar doctrine. For the ambient. 
 Though a cause regnant, is not absolute. 
 But sufl'ers a determining restraint 
 From action of the subject qualities 
 In proximate motion. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yet you smiled just now 
 At some close fitting of my horoscope 
 With present fact, — with this resolve of mine 
 To quit the fortress ?
 
 176 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. ' 
 
 Sephakdo. 
 
 Nay, not so, I smiled, 
 Observing how the temper of your soul 
 Sealed long tradition of the influence shed 
 By the heavenly spheres. Here is your horoscope : 
 The aspects of the moon with Mars conjunct. 
 Of Venus and the Sun with Saturn, lord 
 Of the ascendant, make symbolic speech 
 Whereto your words gave running paraphrase. 
 
 Don Silva {iinpaticntly). 
 
 What did 1 say ?. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 You spoke as oft you did 
 When I was schooling you at Cordova, 
 And lessons on the noun and verb were drowned 
 With sudden stream of general debate 
 On things and actions. Always in that stream 
 1 saw the play of babbling currents, saw 
 A nature o'er -endowed with opposites 
 Making a self alternate, where each hour 
 Was critic of the last, each mood too strong 
 For tolerance of its fellow in close yoke. 
 The ardent planets stationed as supreme, 
 Potent in action, sutler light malign 
 From luminaries large and coldly bright 
 Inspiring meditative doubt, which straight 
 Doubts of itself, by interposing act 
 Of Jupiter in the fourth house fortified 
 With power ancestral. So, my lord, I read 
 The changeless in the changing ; so I read 
 The constant action of celestial })0wers 
 Mixed into waywardness of mortal men,
 
 THE SPANISH GYrSY. 177 
 
 Whereof no sage's eye can trace the course 
 And see the close. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Fruitful result, sage ! 
 Certain uncertainty. 
 
 Sepiiaedo, 
 Yea, a result 
 Fruitful as seeded earth, where certainty 
 Would be as barren as a globe of gold. 
 I love you, and would serve you well, my lord. 
 Your rashness vindicates itself too much, 
 Puts harshness on of cobweb theory 
 While rushing like a cataract. Be warned. 
 Eesolve with you is a fire-breathing steed. 
 But it sees visions, and may feel the air 
 Impassable with thoughts that come too late, 
 Ptising from out the grave of murdered honour. 
 Look at your image in your horoscope : 
 
 {Layimj the horoscope before SiLVA.) 
 You are so mixed, my lord, that each to-day 
 May seem a maniac to its morrow. 
 
 Don Silva (pushing away the horoscope, rising and 
 turning to look out at the open window). 
 
 No! 
 No morrow e'er will say that I am mad 
 Not to renounce her. Piisks ! I know them all. 
 I've dogged each lurking, ambushed consequence, 
 I've handled every chance to know its shape 
 As blind men liandle bolts. Oh, I'm too sane, 
 I see the Prior's nets. He does my deed ; 
 For he has narrowed all my life to this, — 
 That I must find her by some hidden means. 
 
 {He turns (ind stands close in front of Sephardo.) 
 
 vol. I. — \2
 
 178 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 One word, Sephardo, — leave that horoscope, 
 
 Which is but iteration of myself, 
 
 And give me promise. vShall I count on you 
 
 To act upon my signal ? Kings of Spain 
 
 Like me have found their refuge in a Jew, 
 
 And trusted in his counsel. You will help me ? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Yes, my lord, I will help you. Israel 
 
 Is to the nations as the body's heart: 
 
 Thus saith the Book of Light : and I will act 
 
 So that no man may ever say through me 
 
 " Your Israel is naught," and make my deeds 
 
 The mud they fling upon my brethren. 
 
 I will not fail you, save, — you know the terms: 
 
 I am a Jew, and not that infamous life 
 
 That takes on bastardy, will know no father. 
 
 So shrouds itself in the pale abstract, Man. 
 
 You should be sacrificed to Israel 
 
 If Israel needed it. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 I fear not that. 
 I am no friend of fines and banishment. 
 Or flames that, fed on heretics, still gape. 
 And must have heretics made to feed them still. 
 I take your terms, and, for the rest, your love 
 Will not forsake me. 
 
 Sephaedo. 
 
 'Tis hard Eoman love, 
 That looks away and stretches forth the sword 
 Bared for its master's breast to run upon. 
 But you will have it so. Love shall obey. 
 
 (Silva turns to the ivindow again, and is silent 
 for a few moments, looking at the sky.)
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 179 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 See now, Sepharclo, you would keep no faith 
 To smooth the path of cruelty. Confess, 
 The deed I would not do, save for the strait 
 Another brings me to (quit my command, 
 Eesign it for brief space, I mean no more), — 
 Were that deed branded, then the brand should fix 
 On him who urged me. 
 
 Sephakdo. 
 
 Will it, though, my lord ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 I speak not of the fact, but of the right. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 My lord, you said but now you were resolved. 
 Question not if the world will be unjust 
 Branding your deed. If conscience has two courts 
 With differing verdicts, where shall lie the appeal 1 
 Our law must be without us or within. 
 The Highest speaks through all our people's voice, 
 Custom, tradition, and old sanctities ; 
 Or he reveals himself by new decrees 
 Of inward certitude. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 My love for her 
 Makes highest law, must be the voice of God. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 I tliought, but now, you seemed to make excuse, 
 And plead as in some court where Spanisli knights 
 Are tried by other laws than those of love.
 
 I So POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 'T was momentary. I shall dare it all. 
 How the great planet glows, and looks at me, 
 And seems to pierce me with his effluence ! 
 Were he a living God, these rays that stir 
 In me the pulse of wonder were in him 
 Fulness of knowledge. Are you certified, 
 Sephardo, that the astral science shrinks 
 To such pale ashes, dead symbolic forms 
 For that congenital mixture of effects 
 Which life declares without the aid of lore ? 
 If there are times propitious or malign 
 To our first framing, then must all events 
 Have favouring periods : you cull your plants 
 By signal of the heavens, then why not trace 
 As others would by astrologic rule 
 Times of good augury for momentous acts,— 
 As secret journeys ? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 my lord, the stars 
 Act not as witchcraft or as muttered spells. 
 I said before they are not absolute. 
 And tell no fortunes. I adhere alone 
 To such tradition of their agencies 
 As reason fortifies. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 A barren science ! 
 Some argue now 't is folly. 'T were as well 
 Be of their mind. If those bright stars had 
 
 will,— 
 But they are fatal fires, and know no love. 
 Of old, I think, the world was happier
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. i8i 
 
 With many gods, who held a struggling life 
 As mortals do, and helped men in the straits 
 Of forced misdoing. I doubt that horoscope. 
 
 (Don Silva turns from the window and re- 
 seats himself opposite Sephaedo.) 
 
 I am most self-contained, and strong to bear. 
 No man save you has seen my trembling lip 
 Uttering her name, since she was lost to me. 
 I'll face the progeny of all my deeds. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 May they be fair ! No horoscope makes slaves. 
 'T is but a mirror, shows one image forth, 
 And leaves the future dark with endless " ifs. " 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I marvel, my Sephardo, you can pinch 
 
 With confident selection these few grains, 
 
 And call them verity, from out the dust 
 
 Of crumbling error. Surely such thought creeps, 
 
 With insect exploration of the world. 
 
 Were I a Hebrew, now, I would be bold. 
 
 Why should you fear, not being Catholic ? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Lo ! you yourself, my lord, mix subtleties 
 With gross belief ; by momentary lapse 
 Conceive, with all the vulgar, that we Jews 
 Must hold ourselves God's outlaws, and defy 
 All good with blasphemy, because we hold 
 Your good is evil ; think we must turn pale 
 To see our portraits painted in your hell, 
 And sin the more for knowing we are lost.
 
 i82 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Eead not my words with malice. I but meant, 
 My temper hates an over-cautious march. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 The Unnamable made not the search for truth 
 
 To suit hidalgos' temper. I abide 
 
 By that wise spirit of listening reverence 
 
 Which marks the boldest doctors of our race. 
 
 For truth, to us, is like a living child 
 
 Born of two parents : if the parents part 
 
 And will divide the child, how shall it live? 
 
 Or, I will rather say : Two angels guide 
 
 The path of man, both aged and yet young, 
 
 As angels are, ripening through endless years. 
 
 On one he leans : some call her Memory, 
 
 And some, Tradition ; and her voice is sweet, 
 
 With deep mysterious accords : the other, 
 
 Floating above, holds down a lamp which streams 
 
 A light divine and searching on the earth. 
 
 Compelling eyes and footsteps. Memory yields, 
 
 Yet clings with loving check, and shines anew 
 
 Eeflecting all the rays of that bright lamp 
 
 Our angel Eeason holds. We had not walked 
 
 But for Tradition; we walk evermore 
 
 To higher paths, by brightening Eeason 's lamp. 
 
 Still we are purblind, tottering. I hold less 
 
 Than Aben-Ezra, of that aged lore 
 
 Brought by long centuries from Chaldtean plains ; 
 
 The Jew-taught Florentine rejects it all. 
 
 For still the light is measured by the eye. 
 
 And the weak organ fails. I may see ill ; 
 
 But over all belief is faithfulness, 
 
 Which fulfils vision with obedience.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 183 
 
 So, I must grasp my morsels : truth is oft 
 Scattered in fragments round a stately pile 
 Built half of error; and the eye's defect 
 May hreed too much denial. But, my lord, 
 I weary your sick soul. Go now with me 
 Into the turret. We will watcli the spheres, . 
 And see the constellations bend and plunge 
 Into a depth of being where our eyes 
 Hold them no more. We'll quit ourselves and be 
 The red Aldebaran or bright Sirius, 
 And sail as in a solemn voyage, bound 
 On some great quest we know not. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Let us go. 
 She may be watching too, and thought of her 
 Sways me, as if she knew, to every act 
 Of pure allegiance. 
 
 Sephakdo. 
 
 That is love's perfection, — 
 Tuning the soul to all her harmonies 
 So that no chord can jar. Now we will mount. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 A large hall in the Castle, of Moorish architecture. 
 Oil the side where the windows are, an outer gal- 
 lery. Pages and other young genilemen attached 
 to Don Silva's household, gathered chiejly at one 
 end of the hall. Some are moving about; others 
 are lounging on the carved benches; others, half 
 stretched on ^^zeccs of matting and carpet, are 
 gambling. Arias, a stripling of fifteen, sings by 
 snatches in a boyish treble, as he walks up and
 
 i84 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 down, and tosses hack the nuts which another 
 youth flings towards him. In the middle Don 
 Amador, a gaunt, gray-haired soldier, in a hand- 
 some uniform, sits in a marble red-cushioned 
 chair, with a large look spread out on his knees, 
 from ivhich he is reading aloud, while his voice is 
 half drowned by the talk that is going on around 
 him, first one voice and then another surging above 
 the hum. 
 
 Akias {singing). 
 
 There ivas a holy hermit 
 
 Who co2inted all things loss 
 For Christ his Master's glory : 
 
 He made an ivory cross, 
 And as he knelt before it 
 
 And wept his murdered Lord, 
 The ivory turned to iron, 
 
 The cross became a sword. 
 
 Jos6 {from the floor). 
 
 I say, twenty cruzados ! thy Galician wit 
 Cau never count. 
 
 Hernando {also from the floor). 
 And thy Sevillian wit always counts double. 
 
 Arias {singing). 
 
 The tears that fell upon it, 
 
 They turned to red, red rust, 
 The tears that fell from off it 
 
 Made writing in the dust. 
 The holy hermit, gazing, 
 
 Sato words upon the ground : 
 " The sword be red forever 
 
 With the blood of false Mahound''
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 185 
 
 Don Amador (looking up from his hook, and rais^ 
 
 ing his voice). 
 
 What, gentlemen ! Our glorious Lady defend us ! 
 
 Enriquez {from the benches). 
 
 Serves the infidels right ! They have sold Chris- 
 tians enough to people half the towns in Paradise. 
 If the Queen, now, had divided the pretty damsels 
 of Malaga among the Castilians who have been 
 helping in the holy war, and not sent half of them 
 to Naples . . . 
 
 Arias (singing again). 
 
 At the battle of Clavijo 
 In the days of King Ramiro, 
 Help us, Allah! cried the Moslem, 
 Cried the Spaniard, Heaven's chosen, 
 
 God and Santiago ! 
 
 Fabian. 
 Oh, the very tail of our chance has vanished. 
 The royal army is breaking up, — going home for 
 the winter. The Grand Master sticks to his own 
 border. 
 
 Arias {singing). 
 
 Straight out-flushing like the rainbow, 
 See him come, celestial Baron, 
 Mounted knight, with red-crossed banner. 
 Plunging earthward to tJie battle, 
 
 Glorious Santiago ! 
 
 HURTADO. 
 
 Yes, yes, through the pass of By-and-by you go 
 to the valley of Never. We might have done a 
 great feat, if the Marquis of Cadiz . . ,
 
 i86 rOE]\lS OF GEORGE ELIOT, 
 
 Arias (sings). 
 
 As tlic Jlamc heforc the swift wind, 
 
 See, he fires us, we hum with him ! 
 
 Flash OUT sivords, dash Pagans backward, — 
 
 Victory he ! pale fear is allah ! 
 
 God with Santiago! 
 
 Don Amador (raising his voice to a cry). 
 
 Sangie de Dios, geutlemeu ! 
 
 {He shuts the book, and lets it fall with a 
 bang on the floor. There is instant silence.) 
 To what good end is it that I, who studied at 
 SaLamanca, and can write verses agreeable to the 
 glorious Lady with the point of a sword which 
 hath done harder service, am reading aloud in a 
 clerkly manner from a book which hath been culled 
 from the flowers of all books, to instruct you in 
 the knowledge befitting those who would be knights 
 and worthy hidalgos. I had as lief be reading in 
 a belfry. And gambling too ! As if it were a time 
 when we needed not the help of God and the 
 saints ! Surely for the space of one hour ye might 
 subdue your tongues to your ears that so your 
 tongues might learn somewhat of civility and 
 modesty. Wherefore am I master of the Duke's 
 retinue, if my voice is to run along like a gutter 
 in a storm ? 
 
 HuRTADO (lifting up the book, and. respectfully pre- 
 senting it to Don Amador). 
 
 Pardon, Don Amador! The air is so commoved 
 by your voice, that it stirs our tongues in spite 
 of us.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 187 
 
 Don Amador (reopening the book'). 
 
 Confess, now, it is a goose -headed trick, that 
 when rational sounds are made for your edifica- 
 tion, you find naught in it but an occasion for pur- 
 poseless gabble. I will report it to tlie Duke, and 
 the reading-time shall be doubled, and my office of 
 reader shall be handed over to Fray Domingo. 
 
 ( While Don Amador has been speaking, Don 
 SiLVA, with Dox Alyar, has aijpeared 
 walking ill the outer gallery on which the 
 windows are opened.) 
 
 All {in concert). 
 No, no, no. 
 
 Don Amador. 
 
 Are ye ready, then, to listen, if I finish the 
 wholesome extract from the Seven Parts, wherein 
 the wise King Alfonso hath set down the reason 
 why knights should be of gentle birth ? Will ye 
 now be silent? 
 
 All. 
 Yes, silent. 
 
 Don Amador. 
 
 But when I pause, and look up, I give any leave 
 to speak, if he hath aught pertinent to say. 
 
 (Reads^ 
 
 " And this nobility cometh in three ways : first, 
 by lineage ; secondly, by science ; ami thirdly, by 
 valour and worthy behaviour. Now, although they 
 who gain nobility through science or good deeds are
 
 i88 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 riglitfully called noble and gentle ; nevertheless, 
 they are with the highest fitness so called who are 
 noble by ancient lineage, and lead a worthy life as 
 by inheritage from afar ; and hence are more bound 
 and constrained to act well, and guard themselves 
 from error and wrong-doing ; for in their case it is 
 more true that by evil-doing they bring injury and 
 shame not only on themselves, but also on those 
 from whom they are derived," 
 
 (Don Amador places his forefinger for a 
 mark on the 'page, and looks iqo, while he 
 keeps his voice raised, as wishing Don Silva, 
 to overhear him in the judicious discharge 
 of his function.) 
 Hear ye that, young gentlemen ? See ye not 
 that if ye had but bad manners even, they disgrace 
 you more than gross misdoings disgrace the low- 
 born ? Think you, Arias, it becomes the son of 
 your house irreverently to sing and iling nuts, to 
 the interruption of your elders ? 
 
 Arias {sitting on the fioor and leaning hackward on 
 
 his elbows). 
 Nay, Don Amador ; King Alfonso, they say, was 
 a heretic, and I think that is not true writing. For 
 noble birth gives us more leave to do ill if we like. 
 
 Don Amador {lifting his hrows). 
 What bold and blasphemous talk is this ? ' 
 
 ARIAS. 
 
 Why, nobles are only punished now and then, in 
 a grand way, and have their heads cut off, like the 
 Grand Constable. I should n't mind that.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 189 
 
 Jose. 
 
 Nonsense, Arias ! nobles liave their heads cut off 
 because their crimes are noble. If they did what 
 was unknightly, they would come to shame. Is n't 
 that true, Don Amador ? 
 
 Don Amador. 
 
 Arias is a contumacious puppy, who will bring 
 dishonour on his parentage. Pray, sirrah, whom did 
 you ever hear speak as you have spoken ? 
 
 Arias. 
 
 Nay, I speak out of my own head. I shall go 
 and ask the Duke. 
 
 HURTADO. 
 
 Now, now ! you are too bold, Arias. 
 
 Arias. 
 
 Oh, he Ls never angry with me {dropjiing his 
 voice), because the Lady Fedalma liked me. She 
 said I was a good boy, and pretty, and that is what 
 you are not, Hurtado. 
 
 HURTADO. 
 
 Girl-face ! See, now, if you dare ask the Duke. 
 
 (Don Silva is just entering tlie hall from the 
 gallery, rvith Alvar behind him, intending 
 to pass out at the other end. All rise with 
 homage. DoN SiLVA hows coldly and ab- 
 stractedly. Arias advances from the group, 
 and goes up to Don Silva.)
 
 I90 POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Artas. 
 
 My lord, is it true that a noble is more disliononrcd 
 than other men if he does aught dishonourable ? 
 
 Don Silva {first blushing deeply, and grasping Jtis 
 snmrd, then raising his havid and giving Arias 
 a blow on the ear). 
 
 Varlet ! 
 
 Arias. 
 
 My lord, I am a gentleman. 
 
 (Don Silva 2Jus]ies him away, and passes on 
 hurriedly.) 
 
 Don Alvar (following and turning to speak). 
 
 Go, go ! you should not speak to the Duke when 
 you are not called upon. He is ill and much 
 distempered. 
 
 (Arias retires, flushed, with tears in his eyes. 
 His companions look too much surprised 
 to triumph. DoN Amador remains silent 
 and confused.) 
 
 The Placa Santiago during busy market time. Jll'uJes 
 and asses laden ivith fruits and vegetables. 
 Stalls and booths filled, with 7varcs of all sorts. 
 A crotvd of buyers and sellers. A stalwart 
 woman with keen eyes, leaning over the panniers 
 of a mule laden with apphs, watches Lorenzo, 
 %vho is lounging through the market. As he 
 approaches her, he is met by Blasco. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 "Well met, friend.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 191 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Ay, for we are soon to part, 
 And I would see you at the hostelry, 
 To take my reckoning. I go forth to-daj. 
 
 LOKENZO. 
 
 'T is grievous parting with good company. 
 I would I had the gold to pay such guests 
 For all my pleasure in their talk. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Wliy, yes ; 
 A solid-lieaded man of Aragon 
 Has matter in him that you Southerners lack. 
 You like my company, — 'tis natural. 
 But, look you, I have done my business well. 
 Have sold and ta'en commissions. I come straight 
 From — you know who — I like not naming him. 
 I 'm a thick man : you reach not my backbone 
 With any toothpick. But I tell you this : 
 He reached it with his eye, right to the marrow ! 
 It gave me heart that I had plate to sell, 
 For, saint or no saint, a good silversmith 
 Is wanted for God's service ; and my plate — 
 He judged it well — bought nobly. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 A great man, 
 And holy ! 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Yes, I 'in glad I leave to-day. 
 For there are stories give a sort of smell, — 
 One's nose has fancies. A good trader, sir,
 
 19? POE]\rS OF GEOIIGE ELTOT. 
 
 Likes not this plague of lapsing in the air, 
 
 Most caught liy men Avith funds. And they do 
 
 say 
 There 's a great terror here in Moors and Jews, 
 I would say, Christians of unhappy blood. 
 'T is monstrous, sure, that men of substance lapse, 
 And risk their property. I know I 'ni sound. 
 .No heresy was ever bait to me. Whate'er 
 Is the right faith, that I believe, — naught else. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Ay, truly, for the flavour of true faith 
 
 Ouce known must sure be sweetest to the taste. 
 
 But an uneasy mood is now abroad 
 
 Within the town ; partly, for that the Duke 
 
 Being sorely sick, has yielded the command 
 
 To Don Diego, a most valiant man. 
 
 More Catholic than the Holy Father's self, 
 
 Half chiding God that he will tolerate 
 
 A Jew or Arab ; though 't is plain they 're made 
 
 For profit of good Christians. And weak heads — • 
 
 Panic will knit all disconnected facts —   
 
 Draw hence belief in evil auguries, 
 
 Eumours of accusation and arrest, 
 
 All air-begotten. Sir, you need not go. 
 
 But if it must be so, I'll follow you 
 
 In fifteen minutes, — finish marketing, 
 
 Then be at home to speed you on your way. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Do so. I'll back to Saragossa straight. 
 
 The court and nobles are retiring now 
 
 And wending northward. There'll be fresh demand 
 
 For bells and images against the Spring,
 
 THE SrANISII GYPSY. 193 
 
 When doubtless our great Catholic sovereigns 
 Will move to conquest of these eastern parts. 
 And cleanse Granada from the infidel. 
 Stay, sir, with God until we meet again! 
 
 LOREXZO. 
 
 Go, sir, with God, until I follow you ! 
 
 {Exit Blasco. Lorenzo passes on toivards 
 the market-woman, wJio, as he ajij^roachcs, 
 raises herself from her leaning attitude.) 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Good day, my mistress. How 's your merchandise ? 
 
 Fit for a host to buy ? Your apples now, 
 
 They have fair cheeks ; how are they at the core ? 
 
 Market -Woman. 
 
 Good, good, sir ! Taste and try. See, here is 
 
 one 
 Weighs a man's head. The best are bound with 
 
 tow : 
 They 're worth the pains, to keep the peel from 
 
 splits. 
 
 {She takes out an apple hound with toiu, and, 
 as she puts it into Lorenzo's hand, speaks 
 in a lower tone.) 
 
 'T is called the Miracle. You open it, 
 And find it full of speech, 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Ay, give it me, 
 I'll take it to the Doctor in the tower. 
 He feeds on fruit, and if he likes the sort 
 
 VOL. I.— 13
 
 194 POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 I'll buy them for him. Meanwhile, drive your ass 
 liound to my hostelry. I'll straight be there. 
 You'll not refuse some barter? 
 
 Market-Woman. 
 
 No, not I. 
 
 Feathers and skins. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Good, till we meet again. 
 (Lorenzo, after smellinfj at the apple, iwis it 
 into a loouch-lihe basket which hangs before 
 him, and walks away. The woman drives 
 off the mule.) 
 
 A Letter. 
 
 " Zarca, the chief of the Zincali, greets 
 The King El Zagal. Let the force be sent 
 With utmost swiftness to the Pass of Luz. 
 A good five hundred added to my bands 
 Will master all the garrison : the town 
 Is half with us, and will not lift an arm 
 Save on our side. My scouts have found a way 
 Where once we thought the fortress most secure; 
 Spying a man upon the height, they traced, 
 By keen conjecture piercing broken sight, 
 His downward path, and found its issue. There 
 A file of us can mount, surprise the fort 
 And give the signal to our friends within 
 To ope the gates for our confederate bands, 
 Who will lie eastward ambushed by the rocks. 
 Waiting the night. Enough ; give me command, 
 Bedmar is yours. Chief Zarca will redeem 
 His pledge of highest service to the Moor:
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 195 
 
 Let the Moor, too, be faithful and repay 
 The Gypsy with the furtherance he needs 
 To lead his people over Bahr el Scham 
 And plant them on the shore of Africa. 
 So may the King El Zagal live as one 
 Who, trusting Allah will be true to him, 
 Maketli himself as Allah true to friends. "
 
 BOOK ITI. 
 
 Quit now the town, and with a journeying dream 
 
 Swift as the wings of sound yet seeming slow 
 
 Through multitudinous compression of stored sense 
 
 And spiritual space, see walls and towers 
 
 Lie in the silent whiteness of a trance, 
 
 Giving no sign of that warm life within 
 
 That moves and murmurs through their hidden 
 
 heart. 
 Pass o'er the mountain, wind in sombre shade, 
 Then wind into the light and see the town 
 Shrunk to white crust upon the darken rock. 
 Turn east and south, descend, then rise anew 
 'Mid smaller mountains ebbing towards the plain : 
 Scent the fresh breath of the height loving herbs 
 That, trodden by the pretty parted hoofs 
 Of nimble goats, sigh at the innocent bruise, 
 And with a mingled difference exquisite 
 Pour a sweet burden on the buoyant air. 
 Pause now and be all ear. Far from the south. 
 Seeking the listening silence of the heights, 
 Comes a slow-dying sound, — the Moslems' call 
 To prayer in afternoon. Bright in the sun 
 Like tall white sails on a green shadowy sea 
 Stand Moorish watch-towers : 'neath that eastern 
 
 sky 
 Couches unseen the strength of Moorish Baza : 
 Where the meridian bends lies Guadix, hold 
 Of brave El Zagal. This is Moorish land.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 197 
 
 Where Allnh lives unconquered in dark breasts 
 And blesses still the many-nonrishing earth 
 With dark-armed industry. See from the steep 
 The scattered olives hurry in gray throngs 
 Down towards the valley, where the little stream 
 Parts a green hollow 'twixt the gentler slopes ; 
 And in that hollow, dwellings : not white homes 
 Of building Moors, but little swarthy tents 
 Such as of old perhaps on Asian plains, 
 Or wending westward past the Caucasus, 
 Our fathers raised to rest in. Close they swarm 
 About two taller tents, and viewed afar 
 Might seem a dark-robed crowd in penitence 
 That silent kneel ; but come now in their midst 
 And watch a busy, bright-eyed, sportive life ! 
 Tall maidens bend to feed the tethered goat, 
 The ragged kirtle fringing at the knee 
 Above the living curves, the shoulder's smoothness 
 Parting the torrent strong of ebon hair. 
 Women with babes, the wild and neutral glance 
 Swayed now to sweet desire of mothers' eyes. 
 Rock their strong cradling arms and chant low 
 
 strains 
 Taught by monotonous and soothing winds 
 That fall at night-time on the dozing ear. 
 The crones plait reeds, or shred the vivid herbs 
 Into the caldron : tiny urchins crawl 
 Or sit and gurgle forth their infant joy. 
 Lads lying sphinx-like with uplifted breast 
 Propped on their elbows, their black manes tossed 
 
 back, 
 Fling up the coin and watch its fatal fall, 
 Dispute and scramble, run and wrestle fierce, 
 Then fall to play and fellowship again ; 
 Or in a thieving swarm they run to plague
 
 198 rOEMS OF GEOKGE ELIOT. 
 
 The grnndsires, who return with rnhbits slung, 
 And with the mules fruit-laden from the fields. 
 Some striplings choose the smooth stones from the 
 
 brook 
 To serve the slingers, cut the twigs for snares, 
 Or trim the hazel-wands, or at the bark 
 Of some exploring dog they dart away 
 With swift precision towards a moving speck. 
 These are the brood of Zarca's Gypsy tribe; 
 Most like an earth-born race bred by the Sun 
 On some rich tropic soil, the father's light 
 Flashing in coal black eyes, the mother's blood 
 With bounteous elements feeding their young limbs. 
 The stalwart men and youths are at the wars 
 Following their chief, all save a trusty band 
 Who keep strict watch along the northern heights. 
 
 But see, upon a pleasant spot removed 
 
 From the camp's hubbub, where the thicket strong 
 
 Of huge-eared cactus makes a bordering curve 
 
 And casts a shadow, lies a sleeping man 
 
 With Spanish hat screening his upturned face, 
 
 His doublet loose, his right arm backward flung. 
 
 His left caressing close the long-necked lute 
 
 That seems to sleep too, leaning tow'rds its lord. 
 
 He draws deep breath secure but not unwatched. 
 
 Moving a-tiptoe, silent as the elves, 
 
 As mischievous too, trip three barefooted girls 
 
 Not opened yet to womanhood, — dark flowers 
 
 In slim long buds : some paces farther off 
 
 Gathers a little white-teethed shaggy group, 
 
 A grinning chorus to the merry play. 
 
 The tripping girls have robbed the sleeping man 
 
 Of all his ornaments. Hita is decked 
 
 AVith an embroidered scarf across her rags ;
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 199 
 
 Tralla, with thorns for pins, sticks two rosettes 
 Upon her threadbare woollen; Hinda now, 
 Prettiest and boldest, tucks her kirtle up 
 As wallet for the stolen buttons, — then 
 Bends with her knife to cut from off the hat 
 The aigrette and the feather ; deftly cuts. 
 Yet wakes the sleeper, who with sudden start 
 Shakes oft' the raaskin2[ hat and shows the face 
 Of Juan : Hinda swift as thought leaps back, 
 But carries oft' the feather and aigrette, 
 And leads the chorus of a happy laugh, 
 Running with all the naked-footed imps, 
 Till with safe survey all can face abuut 
 And watch for signs of stimulating chase. 
 While Hinda ties long grass around her brow 
 To stick the feather in with majesty. 
 Juan still sits contemplative, with looks 
 Alternate at the spoilers and their work. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Ah, you marauding kite, — my feather gone! 
 
 My belt, my scarf, my buttons and rosettes ! 
 
 This is to be a brother of Zincali ! 
 
 The fiery-blooded children of the Sun, — - 
 
 So says chief Zarca, — children of the Sun! 
 
 Ay, ay, the black and stinging flies he breeds 
 
 To plague the decent body of mankind. 
 
 Orpheus, professor of the gai saher. 
 
 Made all the brutes polite, they say, by dint of song. 
 
 Pregnant, — but as a guide in daily life 
 
 Delusiva For if song and music cure 
 
 The barbarous trick of thieving, 'tis a cure 
 
 That works as slowly as old Doctor Time 
 
 In curing folly. Why, the minxes there 
 
 Have rhythm in their toes, and music rings
 
 200 rOEiMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 As readily from them as from little bells 
 Swung 1)}' the breeze. Well, I will try the physic. 
 
 {He touches his lute.] 
 Hem! taken rightly, any single thing 
 The Rabbis say, implies all other things. 
 A knotty task, though, the unravelling 
 Meum and Tmtvi from a saraband : 
 It needs a subtle logic, nay, perhaps 
 A good large property, to see the thread. 
 
 {He touches the lute again) 
 There 's more of odd than even in this world, 
 Else pretty sinners would not be let off 
 Sooner than ugly ; for if honeycombs 
 Are to be got by stealing, they should go 
 Where life is bitterest on the tong\ie. And yet, — 
 Because this minx has pretty ways I wink 
 At all her tricks, though if a Hat-faced lass, 
 With eyes askew, were half as bold as she, 
 I should chastise her with a hazel switch. 
 I 'm a plucked peacock, — even my voice and wit 
 Without a tail ! — why, any fool detects 
 The absence of your tail, but twenty fools 
 May not detect the presence of your wit. 
 
 - {He touches his Ivte again.) 
 Well, I must coax my tail back cunningly, 
 For to run after these brown lizards, — ah! 
 I think the lizards lift their ears at this. 
 
 {As he thrums his lute the lads and girls 
 gradually approach: he touches it more 
 brislig, and HiNDA, adva7icing, begins to 
 move arms and legs with an initiatory 
 dancing movement, smiling coaxingly at 
 Juan. He suddenly stops, lays down his 
 lute and folds his arms.) 
 What, you expected a tune to dance to, eh ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 201 
 
 HiXDA, HiTA, Tralla, AND THE REST {clapping tJicir 
 
 hands). 
 
 Yes, yes, a tune, a tune ! 
 
 Juan. 
 
 But that IS what you cannot have, my sweet 
 brothers and sisters. The tunes are all dead, — 
 dead as the tunes of the lark when you have 
 plucked his wings off; dead as the song of the 
 grasshopper when the ass has swallowed him. I 
 can play and sing no more. Hinda has killed my 
 tunes. 
 
 {All cry out in consternation. HiNDA gives a 
 
 wail and tries to txamine the lute. JuAN 
 
 waves her off.) 
 
 Understand, Senora Hinda, that the tunes are 
 in me ; they are not in the lute till I put them 
 there. And if you cross my humour, I shall be as 
 tuneless as a bag of wool. If the tunes are to be 
 brought to life again, I must have my feather back. 
 
 (Hinda kisses his hands and feet coaxinghj.) 
 
 No, no! not a note will come for coaxing. The 
 feather, I say, the feather ! 
 
 (Hinda sorrowfully takes off the feather, and 
 gives it to Juan.) 
 Ah, now let us see. Perhaps a tune will come. 
 
 {He plays a measure, and the three girls begin 
 to dance ; then he suddenly stops.) 
 No, the tune will not come : it wants the aigrette 
 {pointing to it on Hinda 's neck). 
 
 (Hinda, ivith rather less hesitation, hut again 
 sorrowfully, takes off tJce aigrette, and gives 
 it to him.)
 
 202 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Ha ! {he jplays again, Ivt, after rather a longer 
 time, again stops.) No, no; 'tis the buttons are 
 wanting, Hinda, the buttons. This tune feeds 
 chiefly on buttons, — a hungry tune. It wants 
 one, two, three, four, five, six. Good ! 
 
 {After Hinda has given up the buttons, and 
 Juan has laid them down one hy one, he 
 begins to play again, going on longer than 
 before, so that the daMcers become excited by 
 the rnovement. Then he sto^JS.) 
 
 Ah, Hita, it is the belt, and, Tralla, the rosettes, 
 — both are wanting. I see the tune will not go 
 on without them. 
 
 (Hita and Tralla take off the belt and 
 rosettes, and lay them down quickly, being 
 fired by the dancing, and eager for the 
 music. All the articles lie by Juan's side 
 on the ground.) 
 
 Good, good, my docile wild-cats ! Now I think 
 the tunes are all alive again. Now you may dance 
 and sing too. Hinda, my little screamer, lead 
 off with the song I taught you, and let us see if 
 the tune will go right on from beginning to end. 
 
 (He plays. The dance begins again, Hinda 
 singing. All the other boys and girls join 
 in the chorus, and all at last dance wildly.) 
 
 Song. 
 
 All things journey : sun and moon., 
 Morning, noon, and afternoon. 
 
 Night and all her stars: 
 'Twixt the east and ivestern bars
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 203 
 
 Round they journey, 
 Come and go ! 
 
 We go with them ! 
 For to roam, and ever roam, 
 Is the wild Ziiicali's home. 
 
 Earth is good, the hillside breaks 
 By the ashen roots and makes 
 
 Hungry nostrils glad : 
 Then we run till we are tnad. 
 
 Like the horses. 
 And we cry. 
 
 None shall catch us ! 
 Svjift tvinds wing us, — we are free, — 
 Brink the air, — Zincali we ! 
 
 Falls the snow : the pine-branch split. 
 Call the fire out, see it fiit. 
 
 Through the dry leaves riin. 
 Spread and gloiv, and inake a sun 
 
 In the dark tent : 
 warm dark ! 
 
 Warm as conies ! 
 Strong fire loves us, we are warm, ! 
 Who shall work Zincali harm ? 
 
 Onward journey : fires are spent ; 
 Sunward, sunward ! lift the tent. 
 
 Run before the rain. 
 Through the pass, along the plain. 
 
 Hurry, hurry. 
 
 Lift us, wind ! 
 
 Like the horses. 
 For to roam and ever roam. 
 Is the wild Zincali s hoirie.
 
 204 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 (When the dance is at its height, Hind A 
 breaks atvay from the rest, and dances 
 round JuAN, who is 7iow standing. As he 
 tiu^ns a little to watch her movement, some 
 of the hoys skip towards the feather, 
 aigrette, &c., snatch them up, and run 
 away, swiftly folloived by HiTA, Tralla, 
 and the rest. Hind a, as she turns again, 
 sees them, screams, and falls in her whirl- 
 ing ; but immediately gets up, and rushes 
 after them, still screaming with rage ) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Santiago ! these imps get bolder. Haha ! Senora 
 Hinda, this finishes your lesson in ethics. You 
 have seen the advantage of giving up stolen goods. 
 Now you see the ugliness of thieving when prac- 
 tised by others. That fable of mine about the 
 tunes was excellently devised. I feel like an 
 ancient sage instructing our lisping ancestors. My 
 memory will descend as the Orpheus of Gypsies. 
 But I must prepare a rod for those rascals. I '11 
 bastinado them with prickly pears. It seems to 
 me these needles will have a sound moral teaching 
 in them. 
 
 ( IVliile Juan taTces a hnife from his belt, and 
 surveys the prickly pear, Hinda returns.) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Pray, Senora, why do you fume ? Did you want 
 to steal my ornaments again yourself ? 
 
 Hinda (sohbitig). 
 
 No ; I thought you would give them me back 
 again.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 205 
 
 Juan. 
 What, did you want the tunes to die again ? Do 
 you like finery better than dancing ? 
 
 HiNDA. 
 
 Oh, that was a tale ; I shall tell tales too, when 
 I want to get anything I can't steal. And I know 
 what I will do. I shall tell the boys I've found 
 some little foxes, and I will never say where they 
 are till they give me back the feather ! 
 
 {She runs off again. ) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Hem ! the disciple seems to seize the mode 
 sooner than the matter. Teaching virtue with 
 this prickly pear may only teach the youngsters to 
 use a new weapon ; as your teaching orthodoxy 
 with fagots may only bring up a fashion of roast- 
 ing. Dios ! my remarks grow too pregnant, — my 
 wits get a plethora by solitary feeding on the 
 produce of my own wisdom. 
 
 (As he puts up his knife again, Hinda comes 
 running hack, and crying, " Our Queen ! 
 our Queen ! " Juan adjusts his garments 
 and his lute, while HiNDA turns to meet 
 Fedalma, who wears a Moorish dress, with 
 gold ornaments, her Hack hair hanging 
 round her in "plaits, a white turhan on 
 her head, a dagger hy her side. She carries 
 a scarf on her left arm, which she holds up 
 as a shade.) 
 
 Fedalma {patting Hinda's head). 
 How now, wild one ? Yoii are hot and panting. 
 Go to my tent, and help Nouna to plait reeds.
 
 2o6 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 (HiXDA kisses Fedalma's hand, and runs off. 
 Fedalma advances totvards Juan, who 
 kneels to take up the edge of her cymar, 
 and kisses it.) 
 
 Juan. 
 How is it with you, lady ? You look sad. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Oh, I am sick at heart. The eye of day. 
 
 The insistent summer sun, seems pitiless, 
 
 Shining in all the barren crevices 
 
 Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark, 
 
 Where I may dream that hidden waters lie ; 
 
 As pitiless as to some shipwrecked man, 
 
 Who, gazing from his narrow shoal of sand 
 
 On the wide unspecked round of blue and blue. 
 
 Sees that full light is errorless despair. 
 
 The insects* hum that slurs the silent dark 
 
 Startles, and seems to cheat me, as the tread 
 
 Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher 
 
 Who holds her heart and waits to hear them 
 
 pause. 
 And hears them never pause, but pass and die. 
 Music sweeps by me as a messenger 
 Carrying a message that is not for me. 
 The very sameness of the hills and sky 
 Is obduracy, and the lingering hours 
 Wait round me dumbly, like superfluous slaves, 
 Of whom I want naught but the secret news 
 They are forbid to tell. And, Juan, you — 
 You, too, are cruel — would be over-wise 
 In judging your friend's needs, and choose to 
 
 hide 
 Something I crave to know.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 207 
 
 Juan. 
 
 I, lady ? 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 You. 
 Juan. 
 
 I never had the virtue to hide aught, 
 
 Save what a man is whipped for publishing. 
 
 I 'm no more reticent than the voluble air, — 
 
 Dote on disclosure, — never could contain 
 
 The latter half of all my sentences, 
 
 But for the need to utter the beginning. 
 
 My lust to tell is so importunate 
 
 That it abridges every other vice. 
 
 And makes me temperate for want of time. 
 
 I dull sensation in the haste to say 
 
 'T is this or that, and choke report with surmise. 
 
 Judge, then, dear lady, if I could be mute 
 
 When but a glance of yours had bid me speak. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, sing such falsities ! — you mock me worse 
 
 By speech that gravely seems to ask belief. 
 
 You are but babbling in a part you play 
 
 To please my father. Oh, 't is well meant, say 
 
 you, — 
 Pity for woman's weakness. Take my thanks. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Thanks angrily bestowed are red-hot coin 
 Burning your servant's palm. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Deny it not. 
 You know how many leagues this camp of ours
 
 2oS POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Lies from Bedmar, — what mountains lie between, — 
 Could tell me if you would about the Duke, — 
 That he is comforted, sees how he gains 
 By losing the Zincala, finds how slight 
 The thread Fedalma made in that rich web, 
 A Spanish noble's life. No, that is false! 
 He never would think lightly of our love. 
 Some evil has befallen him, — he 's slain, — 
 Has sought for danger and has beckoned death 
 Because I made all life seem treachery. 
 Tell me the worst, — be merciful,— no worst, 
 Against the hideous painting of my fear, 
 Would not show like a better. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 If I speak, 
 Will you believe your slave ? For truth is scant ; 
 And where the appetite is still to hear 
 And not believe, falsehood would stint it less. 
 How say you? Does your huuger's fancy choose 
 The meagre fact ? 
 
 Fedalma {seating herself on the ground). 
 
 Yes, yes, the truth, dear Juan. 
 Sit now, and tell me all. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 That all is naught. 
 I can unleash my fancy if you wish 
 And hunt for phantoms : shoot an airy guess 
 And bring down airy likelihood,— some lie 
 Masked cunningly to look like royal truth 
 And cheat the shooter, while King Fact goes free, 
 Or else some image of reality 
 That doubt will handle and reject as false.
 
 THE SrANISII GYPSY. 209 
 
 Ask for conjecture, — I can thread the sky 
 Like any swallow, but, if you insist. 
 On knowledge that would guide a pair of feet 
 Eight to Bedmar, across the Moorish bounds, 
 A mule that dreams of stumbling over stones 
 Is better stored. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 And you have gathered naught 
 About the border wars ? No news, no hint 
 Of any rumours that concern the Duke, — 
 Kumours kept from me by my father ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 None. 
 Your father trusts no secrets to the echoes. 
 Of late his movements have been hid from all 
 Save those few hundred picked Zincali breasts 
 He carries with him. Think you he 's a man 
 To let his projects slip from out his belt. 
 Then whisper him who haps to find them strayed 
 To be so kind as keep his counsel well ? 
 Why, if he found me knowing aught too much, 
 He would straight gag or strangle me, and say, 
 " Poor hound ! it was a pity that his bark 
 Could chance to mar my plans : he loved my 
 
 daughter, — 
 The idle hound had naught to do but love, 
 So followed to the battle and got crushed. " 
 
 Fedalma (Jiolding out her hand, which JuAN kisses). 
 
 Good Juan, I could have no nobler friend. 
 You 'd ope your veins and let your life-blood, out 
 To save another's pain, yet hide the deed 
 Witli jesting, — say, 't was merest accident, 
 
 \ 01,. I. — 14
 
 2IO rOEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 A sportive scratch that went hy chance too deep, — 
 And die content with men'.s slight tliought of you. 
 Finding your glory in another's joy. 
 
 Ju-AN. 
 
 Dub not my likings virtues, lest they get 
 A drug-like taste, and breed a nausea. 
 Honey 's not sweet, commended as cathartic. 
 Such names are parchment labels upon gems 
 Hiding their colour. What is lovely seen 
 Priced in a tariff? — lapis lazuli, 
 Such bulk, so many drachmas : amethysts 
 Quoted at so much ; sapphires higher still. 
 The stone like solid heaven in its blueness 
 Is what I care for, not its name or price. 
 So, if I live or die to serve my friend 
 'T is for my love — 't is for my friend alone, 
 And not for any rate that friendship bears 
 In heaven or on earth. Nay, I romance, — 
 I talk of Roland and the ancient peers. 
 In me 't is hardly friendship, only lack 
 Of a substantial self that holds a weight ; 
 So I kiss larger things and roll with them. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, you will never hide your soul from me; 
 I've seen the jewel's Hash, and know 't is there, 
 Muffle it as you will. That foam-like talk 
 Will not wash out a fear which blots the good 
 Your presence brings me. Oft I'm pierced afresh 
 Through all the pressure of my selfish griefs 
 By thought of you. It was a rash resolve 
 Made you disclose yourself when you kept watch 
 About the terrace wall : — your pity leaped 
 Seeing my ills alone and not your loss,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 21 t 
 
 Self -doomed to exile. Juan, you must repent. 
 'T is not in nature that resolve, which feeds 
 On strenuous actions, should not pine and die 
 In these long days of empty listlessness. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Repent ? Not I. Eepentance is the weight 
 
 Of indigested meals eat yesterday. 
 
 'T is for large animals that gorge on prey, 
 
 Not for a honey-sipping butterfly. 
 
 I am a thing of rhythm and redondillas, — 
 
 The momentary rainbow on the spray 
 
 Made by the thundering torrent of men's lives: 
 
 No matter whether I am here or there ; 
 
 I still catch sunbeams. And in Africa, 
 
 Where melons and all fruits, they say, grow large, 
 
 Fables are real, and the apes polite, 
 
 A poet, too, may prosper past belief : 
 
 I shall grow epic, like the Florentine, 
 
 And sing the founding of our infant state. 
 
 Sing the Zincalo's Carthage. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Africa ! 
 Would we were there ! Under another heaven, 
 In lands where neither love nor memory 
 Can plant a selfish hope,— in lands so far 
 I should not seem to see the outstretched arms 
 That seek me, or to hear the voice that calls. 
 I should feel distance only and despair ; 
 So rest forever from the thought of bliss. 
 And wear my weight of life's great chain unstrug- 
 
 Juan, if I could know he would forget,—
 
 212 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Nay, not forget, forgive me, — be content 
 
 That I forsook him for no joy, but sorrow; 
 
 For sorrow chosen rather than a joy 
 
 That destiny made base ! Then he would taste 
 
 No bitterness in sweet, sad memory, 
 
 And I should live unblemished in his thought, 
 
 Hallowed like her who dies an unwed bride. 
 
 Our words have wings, but tly not where we would. 
 
 Could mine but reach him, Juan ! 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Speak but the wish, — 
 My feet have wings,— I '11 be your Mercury. 
 I fear no shadowed perils by the way. 
 No man will wear the sharpness of his sword 
 On me. Nay, I 'm a herald of the Muse, 
 Sacred for Moors and Spaniards. I will go,— 
 Will fetch you tidings for an amulet. 
 But stretch not hope too strongly towards that mark 
 As issue of my wandering. Given, I cross 
 Safely the Moorish border, reach Bedmar : 
 Fresh counsels may prevail there, and the Duke 
 Being absent in the field, I may be trapped. 
 Men who are sour at missing larger game 
 May wing a chattering sparrow for revenge. 
 It is a chance no further worth the note 
 Than as a warning, lest you feared worse ill 
 If my return were stayed. I might be caged ■; 
 They would not harm me else. Untimely death. 
 The red auxiliary of the skeleton. 
 Has too much work on hand to think of me ; 
 Or, if he cares to slay me, I shall fall 
 Choked with a grape-stone for economy. 
 The likelier chance is that I go and come, 
 Bringing you comfort back.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 213 
 
 FedaLMA {starts from her seat and walls to a little 
 distance, standing a few moments loith her hack 
 towards JuAN, then she turns round quickly, and 
 goes towards him). 
 
 No, Juan, no ! 
 Those yearning words come from a soul infirm, 
 Crying and struggling at the pain of bonds 
 Which yet it would not loosen. He knows all, — 
 All that he needs to know : I said farewell : 
 I stepped across the cracking earth and knew 
 'T would yawn behind me. I must walk right on. 
 No, Juan, I will win naught by risking you : 
 The possible loss would poison hope. Besides, 
 'T were treachery in me : my father wills 
 That we — all here — should rest within this camp. 
 If I can never live, like him, on faith 
 In glorious morrows, I am resolute. 
 While he treads painfully with stillest step 
 And beady brow, pressed 'neath the weight of arms, 
 Shall I, to ease my fevered restlessness, 
 Eaise peevish moans, shattering that fragile silence 1 
 No ! On the close-thronged spaces of the earth 
 A battle rages : Fate has carried me 
 'Mid the thick arrows : I will keep my stand,— 
 Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast 
 To pierce another. Oh, 't is written large 
 The thing I have to do. But you, dear Juan, 
 Kenounce, endure, are brave, unurged by aught 
 Save the sweet overflow of your good will. 
 
 {She seats herself again.) 
 
 Juan. 
 Nay, I endure naught worse than napping sheep, 
 When nimble birds uproot a (leecy lock
 
 ::i4 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 To line their nest with. See! your bondsman, 
 
 Queen, 
 The minstrel of your court, is featherless ; 
 Deforms your presence by a moulting garb ; 
 Shows like a roadside bush culled of its buds. 
 Yet, if your graciousness will not disdain 
 A poor plucked songster, — shall he sing to you? 
 Some lay of afternoons, — some ballad strain 
 Of those who ached once but are sleeping now 
 Under the sun-warmed flowers ? 'T will cheat the 
 
 time. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Thanks, Juan, later, when this hour is passed. 
 My soul is clogged with self ; it could not float 
 On with the pleasing sadness of your song. 
 Leave me in this green spot, but come again, — 
 Come with the lengthening shadows. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Then your slave 
 "Will go to chase the robbers. Queen, farewell ! 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Best friend, my well-spring in the wilderness! 
 
 [While Juan sped along the stream, there came 
 From the dark tents a ringing joyous shout 
 That thrilled Fedalma with a summons grave 
 Yet welcome too. Straightway she rose and 
 
 stood, 
 All languor banished, with a soul suspense 
 like one who waits high presence, listening. 
 Was it a message, or her father's self 
 That made the camp so glad ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 215 
 
 It was himself! 
 Slie saw him now advancing, girt with arms 
 That seemed like idle trophies hung for show 
 Beside the weight and fire of living strength 
 That made his frame. He glanced with absent 
 
 triumph, 
 As one who conquers in some field afar 
 And bears off unseen spoil. But nearing her, 
 His terrible eyes intense sent forth new rays, — 
 A sudden sunshine where the licjhtning was 
 'Twixt meeting dark. All tenderly he laid 
 His hand upon her shoulder ; tenderly. 
 His kiss upon her brow.] 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 My royal daughter! 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Father, I joy to see your safe return. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Nay, I but stole the time, as hungry men 
 
 Steal from the morrow 's meal, made a forced march 
 
 Left Hassan as my watch-dog, all to see 
 
 My daughter, and to feed her famished hope 
 
 With news of promise. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Is the task achieved 
 That was to be the herald of our fiiijht ? 
 
 "O' 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Not outwardly, but to my inward vision 
 Things are achieved when they are well beguiL 
 The perfect archer calls the deer his own
 
 2i6 POEMS OF GEORGE EIJOT. 
 
 While yet the shaft is whistling. His keen eye 
 
 Never sees failure, sees the mark alone. 
 
 You have heard naught, then, — had no messenger? 
 
 Febalma. 
 
 I, father ? no : each quiet day has fled 
 
 Like the same moth, returning with slow wing> 
 
 And pausing in the sunshine. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 It is well. 
 You shall not long count days in weariness. 
 Ere the full moon has waned again to new. 
 We shall reach Almeria : Berber ships 
 Will take us for their freight, and we shall go 
 With plenteous spoil, not stolen, bravely won 
 By service done on Spaniards. Do you shrink ? 
 Are you aught less than a Zincala ? 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 No; 
 But I am more. The Spaniards fostered me. 
 
 Zaeca. 
 
 They stole you first, and reared you for the flames. 
 I found you, rescued you, that you might live 
 A true Zincala's life; else you were doomed. 
 Your bridal bed had been the rack. 
 
 Fed alma (wi a low tone). 
 
 They meant -- 
 To seize me ? — ere he came ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Yes, I know all. 
 They found your chamber empty.
 
 THE SPANISH GITSY. 217 
 
 Fed ALMA {eagerly). 
 
 Then you know, — 
 {Checking herself.') 
 Father, my soul would be less laggard, fed 
 With fuller trust. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 My daughter, I must keep 
 The Arab's secret. Arabs are our friends, 
 Grappling for life with Christians who lay waste 
 Granada's valleys, and with devilish hoofs 
 Trample the young green corn, with devilish play 
 Fell blossomed trees, and tear up well-pruned 
 
 vines : 
 Cruel as tigers to the vanquished brave, 
 They wring out gold by oaths they mean to break ; 
 Take pay for pity and are pitiless ; 
 Then tinkle bells above the desolate earth. 
 And praise their monstrous gods, supposed to love 
 The flattery of liars. I will strike 
 The full-gorged dragon. You, my child, must 
 
 watch 
 The battle with a heart, not fluttering 
 But duteous, firm-weighted by resolve, 
 Choosing between two lives, like her who holds 
 A dagger which must pierce one of two breasts, 
 And one of them her father's. Nay, you divine, — 
 I speak not closely, but in parables ; 
 Put one for many. 
 
 Fed ALMA {collecting herself, and looJcing firmly at 
 
 Zarca). 
 
 Then it is your will 
 That I ask nothing ?
 
 2i8 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Z.VRCA. 
 
 You shall know enongli 
 To trace the sequence of the seed and flower. 
 El Zagal trusts me, rates my counsel high : 
 He, knowing I have won a grant of lands 
 Within the Berber's realm, wills me to be 
 The tongue of his good cause in Africa, 
 So gives us furtherance in our pilgrimage 
 For service hoped, as well as service done 
 In that great feat of which I am the eye, 
 And my three hundred Gypsies the best arm. 
 More, I am charged by other noble Moors 
 With messages of weight to Telemsan. 
 Ha, your eye flashes. Are you glad ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Yes, glad 
 That men are forced to honour a Zincalo. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Oh, fiditincf for dear life men choose their swords 
 
 For cutting only, not for ornament. 
 
 What naught but Nature gives, man takes per- 
 
 force 
 Where she bestows it, though in vilest place. 
 Can he compress invention out of pride. 
 Make heirship do the work of muscle, sail 
 Towards great discoveries with a pedigree ? 
 Sick men ask cures, and Nature serves not hers 
 Daintily as a feast. A blacksmith once 
 Founded a dynasty and raised on high 
 The leathern apron over armies spread 
 Between the mountains like a lake of steel.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 219 
 
 Fedalma (bitterly). 
 
 To be contemned, then, is fair augury.   
 That pledge of future good at least is ours. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Let men contemn us : 't is such blind contempt 
 
 That leaves the winged broods to thrive in warmth 
 
 Unheeded, till they fill the air like storms. 
 
 So we shall thrive, — still darkly shall draw force 
 
 Into a new and multitudinous life 
 
 That likeness fashions to community. 
 
 Mother divine of customs, faith, and laws. 
 
 'T is ripeness, 't is fame's zenith that kills hope. 
 
 Huge oaks are dying, forests yet to come 
 
 Like in the twigs and rotten-seeming seeds. 
 
 Fed alma. 
 
 And our Zincali ? Under their poor husk 
 Do you discern such seed ? You said our band 
 Was the best arm of some hard enterprise ; 
 They give out sparks of virtue, then, and show 
 There's metal in their earth ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Av, metal fine 
 In my brave Gypsies. Not the lithest Moor 
 Has lither limbs for scaling, keener eye 
 To mark the meaning of the farthest speck 
 That tells of change ; and they are disciplined 
 By faith in me, to such obedience 
 As needs no spy. My scalers and my scouts 
 Are to the Moorish force they're leagued withal 
 As bow-string to the bow ; while I their chief 
 Command the enterprise and guide the will
 
 220 rOEMS OF GEOKGE ELIOT. 
 
 Of Moorish captains, as the pilot guides 
 With eye-instructed hand the passive helm. 
 For high device is still the highest force, 
 And he who holds the secret of the wheel 
 May make the rivers do what work he would. 
 With thoughts impalpable we clutch men's souls, 
 Weaken tlie joints of armies, make them fly 
 Like dust and leaves before the viewless wind. 
 Tell me what 's mirrored in the tiger's heart, 
 I'll rule that too. 
 
 Fedalma {wrought to a glow of admiration). 
 
 my imperial father ! 
 'T is where there breathes a mighty soul like yours 
 That men's contempt is of good augury. 
 
 Zarca (seizing both Fedalma's hands, and looking 
 at her searchingly). 
 
 And you, my daughter, are you not the child 
 
 Of the Zincalo ? Does not his great hope 
 
 Thrill in your veins like shouts of victory ? 
 
 'T is a vile life that like a garden pool 
 
 Lies stagnant in the round of personal loves ; 
 
 That has no ear save for the tickling lute . 
 
 Set to small measures, — deaf to all the beats 
 
 Of that large music rolling o'er the world : 
 
 A miserable, petty, low-roofed life, 
 
 That knows the mighty orbits of the skies 
 
 Through naught save light or dark in its own caBin. 
 
 The very brutes will feel the force of kind 
 
 And move together, gathering a new soul, —   
 
 The soul of multitudes. Say now, my child, 
 
 You will not falter, not look back and long 
 
 For unfledged ease in some soft alien nest. 
 
 The crane with outspread wing that heads the file
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 221 
 
 Pauses not, feels no backward impulses : 
 
 Behind it summer was, and is no more; 
 
 Before it lies the summer it will reach 
 
 Or fall m the mid-ocean. And you no less 
 
 Must feel the force sublime of growing life. 
 
 New thoughts are urgent as the growth of wings; 
 
 The widening vision is imperious 
 
 As higher members bursting the worm's sheath. 
 
 You cannot grovel in the worm's delights : 
 
 You must take winged pleasures, winged pains. 
 
 Are you not steadfast ? Will you live or die 
 
 For aught below your royal heritage ? 
 
 To him who holds the flickering brief torch 
 
 That lights a beacon for the perishing, 
 
 Aught'else is crime. Are you a false Zincala ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Father, my soul is weak, the mist of tears 
 Still rises to my eyes, and hides the goal 
 Which to your undimmed sight is clear and change- 
 less. 
 But if I cannot plant resolve on hope 
 It will stand tirm on certainty of woe. 
 I choose the ill that is most like to end 
 With my poor being. Hopes have precarious life. 
 They are oft blighted, withered, snapped sheer off 
 In vigorous growth and turned to rottenness. 
 But faithfulness can feed on suffering, 
 And knows no disappointment. Trust in me ! 
 If it were needed, this poor trembling hand 
 Should grasp the torch, — strive not to let it fall 
 Though it were burning down close to my flesh, 
 No beacon lighted yet : through the damp dark 
 I should still hear the cry of gasping swimmers. 
 Father. I will be true !
 
 222 POEMS or GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I trust that word. 
 And. for your sadness, — you are young, — the 
 
 bruise 
 Will leave no mark. The worst of misery 
 Is when a nature framed for noblest things 
 Condemns itself in youth to petty joys. 
 And, sore athirst for air, breathes scanty life 
 Gasping from out the shallows. You are saved 
 From such poor doubleness. The life we choose 
 Breathes high, and sees a full-arched firmament. 
 Our deeds shall speak like rock-hewn messages. 
 Teaching great purpose to the distant time. 
 Now I must hasten back. I shall but speak- 
 To Nadar of the order he must keep 
 In setting watch and victualling. The stars 
 And the young moon must see me at my post. 
 Nay, rest you here. Farewell, my younger self, — 
 Strong-hearted daugliter ! Shall I live in you 
 When the earth covers me ? 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 My father, death 
 Should give your will divineness, make it strong   
 With the beseechings of a mightv soul 
 That left its work unfinished. Kiss rae now : 
 
 {Tliey embrace, and she adds trernulousl// as 
 they part) 
 And when you see fair hair be pitiful. 
 
 \^Exit Zarca. 
 
 (FedaLMA seats herself on, the hank, leans her 
 head forward^ and eovers her face loith her 
 drapery. Wliile she is seated thus, HiNDA
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 223 
 
 comes from the hank, with a braiieh of 
 musk roses in her hand. Seeing Fed alma 
 with head bent and covered, she pauses, and 
 begins to move on tiptoe.) 
 
 HiNDA. 
 
 Our Queen \ Can she be crying ? There she sits 
 As I did every day when my dog Saad 
 Sickened and yelled, and seemed to yell so loud 
 After we 'd buried him, I oped his grave. 
 
 (^She comes forward on tiptoe, kneels at Fe- 
 dalma's/cc^, and embraces them. Fed alma 
 uncovers her head.) 
 
 Hinda ! what is it ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Hinda. 
 
 Queen, a branch of roses, — 
 So sweet, you '11 love to smell them. 'T was the 
 
 last. 
 I climbed the bank to get it before Tralla, 
 And slipped and scratched my arm. But I don't 
 
 mind. 
 You love the roses, — so do I. I wish 
 The sky would rain down roses, as they rain 
 From off the shaken bush. Why will it not ? 
 Then all the valley would be pink and white 
 And soft to tread on. They would fall as light 
 As feathers, smelHng sweet ; and it would be 
 Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once ! 
 Over the sea, Queen, where we soon shall go. 
 Will it rain roses ?
 
 224 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No, my prattler, no ! 
 It never will rain roses : when we want 
 To have more roses we must plant more trees. 
 But you want nothing, little one, — the world 
 Just suits you as it suits the tawny squirrels. 
 Come, you want nothing. 
 
 HiNDA. 
 
 Yes, I want more berries, — 
 Eed ones, — to wind about my neck and arms 
 When I am married, — on my ankles too 
 I want to wind red berries, and on my head. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Who is it you are fond of ? Tell me, now. 
 
 Hind A. 
 
 Queen, you know ! It could be no one else 
 But Ismael. He catches birds, — no end ! 
 Knows where the speckled fish are, scales the rocks 
 And sings and dances with me when I like. 
 How should I marry and not marry him ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Should you have loved him, had he been a Moor, 
 Or white Castilian ? 
 
 Hinda {starting to her feet, then kneeling again). 
 
 Are you angry, Queen ? 
 Say why you will think shame of your poor Hinda ? 
 She 'd sooner be a rat and hang on thorns 
 To parch until the wind had scattered her. 
 Than be an outcast, spit at by her tribe.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 225 
 
 Ffdalma. 
 
 Hinda, I know you are a good Zincala. 
 But would you part from Ismaul ? leave him now 
 If your chief bade you, — said it was for good 
 To all your tribe that you must part from him ? 
 
 Hinda {giving a sharp cry). 
 Ah, will he say so ? 
 
 Fed ALMA {almost fierce in her earnestness). 
 
 Nay, child, answer me. 
 Could you leave Ismael ? get into a boat 
 And see the waters widen 'twixt you two 
 Till all was water and you saw him not, 
 And knew that you would never see him more? 
 If 't was your chief's command, and if he said 
 Your tribe would all be slaughtered, die of plague, 
 Of famine, — madly drink each other's blood .... 
 
 Hinda (trcmUing). 
 
 Queen, if it is so, tell Ismael. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 You would obey, then ? part from him forever ? 
 
 Hinda. 
 
 How could we live else ? With our brethren 
 
 lost ? — 
 No marriage feast ? The day would turn to dark. 
 Zincali cannot live without their tribe. 
 
 1 must obey ! Poor Ismael — poor Hinda I 
 But will it ever be so cold and dark ? 
 
 Oh, I would sit upon the rocks and cry. 
 And cry so long that I could cry no more : 
 Then I should go to sleep. 
 
 VOL. I. — 15
 
 226 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No, Hinda, no! 
 Thou never shalt be called to part from him. 
 I will have berries for thee, red and black, 
 And I will be so glad to see thee glad. 
 That earth will seem to hold enough of joy 
 To outw^eigh all the pangs of those who part 
 Be comforted, bright eyes. See, I will tie 
 These roses in a crown, for thee to wear, 
 
 Hinda {da/ppiiig her hands, while Fedalma puts the 
 roses on her head). 
 
 Oh, I 'm as glad as many little foxes, — 
 
 I will find Ismacl, and tell him all. {She runs off,) 
 
 Fedalma {alone). 
 
 She has the strength I lack. Within her world 
 
 The dial has not stirred since first she woke : 
 
 No changing light has made the shadows die. 
 
 And tautiht her trusting soul sad difference. 
 
 For her, good, right, and law are all summed up 
 
 In what is possible ; life is one web 
 
 Where love, joy, kindred, and obedience 
 
 Lie fast and even, in one warp and woof 
 
 With thirst and drinking, hunger, food, and sleep. 
 
 She knows no struggles, sees no double path : 
 
 Her fate is freedom, for her will is one 
 
 With the Zincalo's law, the only law 
 
 She ever knew. For me — oh, I have fire within, 
 
 But on my will there falls the chilling snow 
 
 Of thoughts that come as subtly as soft flakes, 
 
 Yet piess at last with hard and icy weight. 
 
 I could be firm, could give myself the wrench 
 
 And walk erect, hiding my life-long wound,
 
 THE SPANISH GYI'SY. 227 
 
 If I but saw tlie fruit of all my pain 
 
 With that strong vision which commands the soul, 
 
 And makes great awe the monarcli of desire. 
 
 But now I totter, seeing no far goal : 
 
 I tread the rocky pass, and pause and grasp, 
 
 Guided by flashes. When my father comes. 
 
 And breathes into my soul his generous hope, — 
 
 By his own greatness making life seem great. 
 
 As the-«lear heavens bring sublimity, 
 
 And show earth larger, spanned by that blue vast, — 
 
 Eesolve is strong : I can embrace my sorrow. 
 
 Nor nicely weigh the fruit ; possessed with need 
 
 Solely to do the noblest, though it failed, — 
 
 Though lava streamed upon my breathing deed 
 
 And buried it in night and barrenness. 
 
 But soon the glow dies out, the warrior's music 
 
 That vibrated as strength througli all my limbs 
 
 Is heard no longer ; over the wide scene 
 
 There 's naught but chill gray silence, or the hum 
 
 And fitful discord of a vulgar world. 
 
 Then I sink helpless, — .sink into the arms 
 
 Of all sweet memories, and dream of bliss : 
 
 See looks that penetrate like tones ; hear tones 
 
 That flash looks with them. Even now I feel 
 
 Soft airs enwrap me, as if yearning rays 
 
 Of some far presence touched me with their warmth 
 
 And brought a tender murmuring. . . . 
 
 [Wliile she mused, 
 A figure came from out the olive-trees 
 That bent close-whispering 'twixt the parted hills 
 Beyond the crescent of thick cactus : paused 
 At sight of her ; then slowly forward moved 
 With careful step, and gently said, "Fkdalma!" 
 Fearing lest fancy had enslaved her sense,
 
 228 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 She quivered, rose, but turned not. Soon again : 
 
 "Fedalma, it is Silva!" Then she turned. 
 
 He, with bared head and arms entreating, beamed 
 
 Like morning on her. Vision held her still 
 
 One moment, then with gliding motion swift, 
 
 Inevitable as the melting stream's, 
 
 She found her rest within his circling arms.] 
 
 Fedalma. ^ 
 
 love, you are living, and believe in me ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Once more we are together. Wishing dies, — 
 Stifled with bliss. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 You did not hate me, then, — 
 Think me an ingrate, — think my love was small 
 That I forsook you ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Dear, I trusted you 
 As holy men trust God. You could do naught 
 That was not pure and loving, — though the deed 
 Might pierce me unto death. You had less trust, 
 Since you suspected mine. 'T was wicked doubt. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, when I saw you hating me the fault 
 Seemed in my lot, — the poor Zincala's, — her 
 On whom you lavished all your wealth of love 
 As price of naught but sorrow. Then I said, 
 " 'T is better so. He will be happier ! " 
 ]>ut soon that thought, struggling to be a hope. 
 Would end in tears.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 229 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It was a cruel thought. 
 Happier ! True misery is not begun 
 Until I cease to love thee. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Silva ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Mine! 
 
 {They stand a moment or two in silence.) 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I thought I had so much to tell you, love, — 
 Long eloquent stories, — how it all liefell, — 
 The solemn message, calling me away 
 To awful spousals, where my own dead joy, 
 A conscious ghost, looked on and saw me wed. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oil that grave speech would cumber our quick souls 
 Like bells that waste the moments with their loud- 
 ness. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 And if it all were said, 't would end in this, 
 That I still loved you when I fled away. 
 'T is no more wisdom than the little birds 
 Make known by their soft twitter when they feel 
 Each other's heart beat. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 All the deepest things 
 We now say with our eyes and meeting pulse : 
 Our voices need but prattle.
 
 230 POEMS OF GEOEGE ELIOT. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I forget 
 All the drear days of thirst in this one draught. 
 
 {Again they are silent for a few moments.) 
 But tell me how you came ? Where are your 
 
 guards ? 
 Is there no risk ? And now I look at you, 
 This garb is strange . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I came alone. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Alone ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, — fled in secret. There was no way else 
 To find you safely. 
 
 Fedalma {letting one hand fall and moving a little 
 from him with a look of sudden terror, while he 
 clasps her more firmly ly the other arm). 
 
 Silva ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It is naught. 
 Enough that I am here. Now we will cling. 
 What powder shall hinder us ? You left me once 
 To set your father free. That task is done, 
 And you are mine again. I have braved all 
 That I might find you, see your father, win 
 His furtherance in bearing you away 
 To some safe refuge. Are we not betrothed ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 231 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Oh, I am trembling 'neath the rush of thoughts 
 That come like griefs at morning, — ^look at me 
 With awful faces, from the vanishing haze 
 That momently had hidden them. 
 
 Don Silya. 
 
 What thoughts 1 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Forgotten burials. There lies a grave 
 Between this visionary present and the past. 
 Our joy is dead, and only smiles on us 
 A loving shade from out the place of tombs. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Fedalma, your love faints, else aught that parts us 
 Would seem but superstition. Love supreme 
 Defies all sophistry, — risks avenging fires. 
 I have risked all things. But your love is faint. 
 
 Fedalma {retreating a little, hut ]<:ec2nng his hand), 
 
 Silva, if now between us came a sword. 
 Severed my arm, and left our two hands clasped. 
 This poor maimed arm would feel the clasp till 
 
 death. 
 What parts us is a sword . . . 
 
 (Zarca has been advancing in the hack- 
 ground. He has drawn his sword, and 
 now thrusts the naked blade between them. 
 Silva lets go Fedalma's hand, and grasps 
 his sivord. Fedalma, startled at first, 
 stands firmly, as if prepared to interpose 
 between her father and the Duke.)
 
 232 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Ay, 't is a sword 
 Thfit parts the Spanish noble and the true Zincala: 
 A sword that was baptized in Christian blood, 
 When once a band, cloaking with Spanish law 
 Their brutal rapine, would have butchered us, 
 And then outraged our women. 
 
 {Resting the point of his sword on the ground.) 
 
 My lord Duke, 
 I was a guest within your fortress once 
 Against nry will ; had entertainment too, — 
 Much like a galley slave's. Pray, have you sought 
 The poor Zincalo's camp, to find return 
 For that Castilian courtesy ? or rather 
 To make amends for all our prisoned toil 
 By this great honour of your unasked presence ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Chief, I have brought no scorn to meet your 
 
 scorn. 
 I came because love urged me, — that deep love 
 I bear to her whom you call daughter, — her 
 Whom I reclaim as my betrotht^d bride. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Doubtless you bring for final argument 
 
 Your men-at-arms who will escort your bride ? 
 
 Don Silva, 
 
 I came alone. The only force I bring 
 Is tenderness. Nay, I will trust besides 
 In all the pleadings of a father's care 
 To wed his daughter as her nurture bids.
 
 "Ay, 'tis a swora 
 That parts the Spanish noble and the true Zincala." 
 
 Photo-Etching.— From Painting by W. St. John Harper,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 233 
 
 And for your tribe, — whatever purposed good 
 Your thoughts may cherish, I ^vill make secure 
 With the strong surety of a noble's power: 
 My wealth shall be your treasury. 
 
 Zarca {^unth irony). 
 
 My thanks ! 
 To me you offer liberal price ; for her 
 Your love's beseeching will be force supreme. 
 She will go with you as a willing slave, 
 Will give a word of parting to her father, 
 Wave farewells to her tribe, then turn and say : 
 " Now, my lord, I am nothing but your bride ; 
 I am quite culled, have neither root nor trunk, 
 Now wear me with your plume ! " 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yours is the wrong 
 -Feigning in me one thought of her below 
 The highest homage. I would make my rank 
 The pedestal of her worth ; a noble's sword, 
 A noble's honour, her defence; his love 
 The life-long sanctuary of her womanhood. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I tell you, were you King of Aragon, 
 
 And won my daughter's hand, your higher rank 
 
 Would blacken her dishonour, 'T were excuse 
 
 If you were beggared, homeless, spit upon. 
 
 And so made even with her people's lot; 
 
 For then she would be lured by want, not wealth. 
 
 To be a wife amongst an alien race 
 
 To whom her tribe owes curees.
 
 234 POEMS OF GEOTIGE ELTOT. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Such blind hate 
 Is fit for beasts of prey, but not for men. 
 My hostile acts against you should but count 
 As ignorant strokes against a friend unknown ; 
 And for the wrongs inflicted on your tribe 
 By Spanish edicts or the cruelty 
 Of Spanish vassals, am I criminal ? 
 Love comes to cancel all ancestral hate. 
 Subdues all heritage, proves that in mankind 
 Union is deeper than division, 
 
 Zaeca. 
 
 Ay, 
 Such love is common : I have seen it oft, — 
 Seen many women rend the sacred ties 
 That bind them in high fellowship with men, 
 Making them mothers of a people's virtue ; 
 Seen them so levelled to a handsome steed 
 That yesterday was Moorish property, 
 To-day is Christian, — wears new-fashioned gear, 
 Neighs to new feeders, and will prance alike 
 Under all banners, so the banner be 
 A master's who caresses. Such light change 
 You call conversion; we Zincali call 
 Conversion infamy. Our people's faith 
 Is faithfulness; not the rote-learned belief 
 That we are heaven's highest favourites. 
 But the resolve that, being most forsaken 
 Among the sons of men, we will be true 
 Each to the other, and our common lot. 
 You Christians burn men for their heresy : 
 Our vilest heretic is that Zincala 
 Who, choosing ease, forsakes her people's woes. 
 The dowry of my daughter is to be
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 235 
 
 Chief woman of her tribe, and rescne it. 
 A bride witli such a dowry has no match 
 Among the subjects of that Catholic Queen 
 Who would have Gypsies swept into the sea 
 Or else would have them gibbeted. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 And you, 
 Fedalma's father, — you who claim the dues 
 Of fatherhood, — will offer up her youth 
 To mere grim idols of your fantasy ! 
 Worse than all Pagans, with no oracle 
 To bid you murder, no sure good to win. 
 Will sacrifice your daughter, — to no god, 
 But to a hungry fire within your soul, 
 Mad hopes, blind hate, that like possessing fiends 
 Shriek at a name ! This sweetest virgin, reared 
 As garden flowers, to give the sordid world 
 Glimpses of perfectness, you snatch and thrust 
 On dreary wilds ; in visions mad, proclaim 
 Semiramis of Gypsy wanderers ; 
 Doom, with a broken arrow in her heart. 
 To wait for death 'mid squalid savages : 
 For what ? You would be saviour of your tribe ; 
 So said Fedalma's letter; rather say, 
 You have the will to save by ruling men, 
 But first to rule ; and with that flinty will 
 You cut your way, though the first cut you give 
 Gash your child's bosom, 
 
 ( While Silva has been speaking, with grow- 
 ing passion, Fedalma has placed herself 
 between him and her father.) 
 
 Zarca (with calm irony^. 
 
 You are loud, my lord ! 
 You only are the reasonable man ;
 
 236 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 You have a heart, I none. Fedalma's uood 
 Is what you see, you care for ; wliile I seek 
 No good, not even my own, urged on by naught 
 But hellish hunger, which must still he fed 
 Though in the feeding it I suffer throes. 
 Fume at your own opinion as you will : 
 I speak not now to you, but to my daughter. 
 If she still calls it good to mate with you, 
 To be a Spanish duchess, kneel at court, 
 And hope her beauty is excuse to men 
 When women whisper, " She was a Zincala ; " 
 If she still calls it good to take a lot 
 That measures joy for her as she forgets 
 Her kindred and her kindred's misery, 
 Nor feels the softness of her downy couch 
 Marred by remembrance that she once forsook 
 The place that she was born to, — let her go! 
 If life for her still lies in alien love. 
 That forces her to shut her soul from truth 
 As men in shameful pleasures shut out day ; 
 And death, for her, is to do rarest deeds. 
 Which, even failing, leave new faith to men. 
 The faith in human hearts, — then, let her go! 
 She is my only offspring; in her veins 
 She bears the blood her tribe has tiusted in ; 
 Her heritage is their obedience, 
 And if I died, she might still lead them forth 
 To plant the race her lover now reviles 
 Where they may make a nation, and may risa 
 To grander manhood than his race can show ; 
 Then live a goddess, sanctifying oaths. 
 Enforcing right, and ruling consciences. 
 By law deep-graven in exalting deeds. 
 Through the long ages of her people's life. 
 If she can leave that lot for silken shame.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 237 
 
 For kisses honeyed by oblivion, — 
 
 The bliss of drunkards or the blank of fools, — 
 
 Then let her go ! You Spanish Catholics, 
 
 When you are cruel, base, and treacherous, 
 
 For ends not pious, tender gifts to God, 
 
 And for men's wounds offer much oil to churches: 
 
 We have no altars for such healing oifts 
 
 As soothe the heavens for outraoe done on earth. 
 
 We have no priesthood and no creed to teach 
 
 That the Zincala who might save her race 
 
 And yet abandons it, may cleanse that blot, 
 
 And mend the curse her life lias been to men, 
 
 By saving her own soul. Her one base choice 
 
 Is wrong unchangeable, is poison shed 
 
 Where men must drink shed by her poisoning will. 
 
 Now choose, Fedalma ! 
 
 [But her choice was made. 
 Slowly, while yet her father spoke, she moved 
 From where oblique with deprecating arms 
 She stood between the two who swayed her heart: 
 Slowly she moved to choose subliraer pain ; 
 Yearning, yet shrinking ; wrought upon by awe, 
 Her own brief life seeming a little isle 
 Remote through visions of a wider world 
 With fates close-crowded ; firm to slay her joy 
 That cut her heart with smiles beneath the knife, 
 Like a sweet babe foredoomed by prophecy. 
 She stood apart, yet near her father : stood 
 Hand clutching hand, her limbs all tense with will 
 That strove against her anguish, eyes that seemed 
 
 a soul 
 Yearning in death towards him she loved and left. 
 He faced her, pale with passion and a will 
 Fierce to resist whatever might seem strong
 
 238 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 And ask him to submit: he saw one end, — 
 He must be conqueror; monarch of his lot 
 And not its tributary. But she spoke 
 Tenderly, pleadingly.] 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 My lord, farewell ! 
 'T was well we met once more ; now we must part. 
 I think we had the chief of all love's joys 
 Only in knowing that we loved each other. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I thought we loved with love that clings till death, 
 Clings as brute mothers bleeding to their young, 
 Still sheltering, clutching it, though it were dead ; 
 Taking the death-wound sooner than divide. 
 I thought we loved so. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Silva, it is fate. 
 Great Fate has made me heiress of this woe. 
 You must forgive Fedalma all her debt : 
 She is quite beggared : if she gave herself, 
 'T would be a self corrupt with stifled- thoughts 
 Of a forsaken better. It is truth 
 My father speaks: the Spanish noble's wife 
 Would be a false Zincala. I will bear 
 The heavy trust of my inheritance. 
 See, 'twas my people's life that throbbed in me; 
 An unknown need stirred darkly in ray soul. 
 And made me restless even in my bliss. 
 Oh, all my bliss was in our love ; but now 
 I may not taste it : some deep energy 
 Compels me to choose hunger. Dear, farewell ! 
 1 must go with my people.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 239 
 
 [She stretched foith 
 Her tender hands, that oft had lain in his, 
 The hands he knew so well, that sight of them 
 Seemed like their touch. But he stood still as 
 
 death ; 
 Locked motionless by forces opposite : 
 His frustrate hopes still battled with despair; 
 His will was prisoner to the double grasp 
 Of rage and hesitancy. All the travelled way 
 Behind him, he had trodden confident, 
 Euling munificently in his thought 
 This Gypsy father. Now the father stood 
 Present and silent and unchangeable 
 As a celestial portent. Backward lay 
 The traversed road, the town's forsaken wall, 
 The risk, the daring ; all around him now 
 Was obstacle, save where the rising flood 
 Of love close pressed by anguish of denial 
 Was sweeping him resistless ; save where she 
 Gazing stretched forth her tender hands, that 
 
 hurt 
 Like parting kisses. Then at last he spoke.] 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, I can never take those liands in mine, 
 Then let them go forever ! 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It must be. 
 We may not make this world a paradise 
 By walking it together hand in liand. 
 With eyes that meeting feed a double strength. 
 We must be only joined by pains divine 
 Of spirits blent in mutual memories. 
 Silva, our joy is dead.
 
 240 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 But love still lives, 
 And has a safer guard in wretchedness. 
 Tedalma, women know no perfect love : 
 Loving the strong, they can forsake the strong ; 
 Man clings because the being whom he loves 
 Is weak and needs him. I can never turn 
 And leave you to your difficult wandering ; 
 Know that you tread the desert, bear the storm; 
 Shed tears, see terrors, faint with weariness. 
 Yet live away from you. I should feel naught 
 But your imagined pains : in my own steps 
 See your feet bleeding, taste your silent tears, 
 And feel no presence but your loneliness. 
 No, I will never leave you ! 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 My lord Duke, 
 I have been patient, given room for speech, 
 Bent not to move my daughter by command, 
 Save that of her own faithfulness. But now, 
 All further words are idle elegies 
 Unfitting times of action. You are here 
 With the safe conduct of that trust you showed 
 Coming alone to the Zincalo's camp. 
 I would fain meet all trust with courtesy 
 As well as honour ; but my utmost power 
 Is to afford you Gypsy guard to-night 
 Within the tents that keep the northward lines, 
 And for the morrow, escort on your way 
 Back to the Moorish bounds. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 What if my words 
 Were meant for deeds, decisive as a leap
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 241 
 
 Into the current ? It is not my wont 
 To utter hollow words, and speak resolves 
 Like verses banded in a madrigal. 
 I spoke in action first : I faced all risks 
 To find Fedalma. Action speaks again 
 When I, a Spanish noble, here declare 
 That I abide with her, adopt her lot, 
 Claiming alone fulfilment of her vows 
 As my betrothed wife. 
 
 Fedalma (wresting herself from him, and standing 
 opposite with a look of terror^. 
 
 Nay, Silva, nay! 
 You could not live so ; spring from your high 
 place . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, I have said it. And you, chief, are bound 
 By her strict vows, no stronger fealty 
 Being left to cancel them. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Strong words, my lord), 
 Sounds fatal as the hammer-strokes that shape 
 The glowing metal : they must shape your life. 
 That you will claim my daughter is to say 
 That you will leave your Spanish dignities. 
 Your home, your wealth, your people, to become 
 A true Zincalo ; share your wanderings, 
 And be a match meet for my daughter's dower 
 By living for her tribe ; take the deep oath 
 That binds you to us ; rest within our camp, 
 Nevermore IkjUI command of Spanish men. 
 And keep my orders. See, my lord, you lock 
 A many-winding chain, — a heavy chain. 
 
 VOL. I. — IG
 
 242 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I have but one resolve : let the rest follow. 
 What is my rank ? To-morrow it will be filled 
 By one who eyes it like a carrion bird, 
 Waiting for death. I shall be no more missed 
 Than waves are missed that leaping on the rock 
 Find there a bed and rest. Life's a vast sea 
 That does its mighty errand without fail, 
 Panting in unchanged strength though waves are 
 
 changing. 
 And I have said it. She shall be my people, 
 And where she gives her life I will give mine. 
 She shall not live alone, nor die alone. 
 I will elect my deeds, and be the liege, 
 Not of my birth, but of that good alone 
 I have discerned and chosen. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Our poor faith 
 Allows not rightful choice, save of the right 
 Our birth has made for us. And you, my lord, 
 Can still defer your choice, for some days' space. 
 I march perforce to-night ; you, if you will, 
 Under Zincalo guard, can keep the heights 
 With silent Time that slowly opes the scroll 
 Of change inevitable ; taking no oath 
 Till my accomplished task leaves me at large 
 To see you keep your purpose or renounce it. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Chief, do I hear amiss, or does your speech 
 Eing with a doubleness which I had held 
 Most alien to you ? You would put me off. 
 And cloak evasion with allowance ? No !
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 243 
 
 We will complete our pledges. I will take 
 That oath which binds not me alone, but you, 
 To join my life forever with Fedalma's. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I wrangle not, — time presses. But the oath 
 Will leave you that same post upon the heights ; 
 Pledged to remain there while my absence lasts. 
 You are agreed, my lord ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Agreed to all. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Then I will give the summons to our camp. 
 
 We will adopt you as a brother now. 
 
 In the Zincalo's fashion. [^xit Zarca. 
 
 (Silva takes Fedalma's hands.) 
 
 Fed alma. 
 
 O my lord! 
 I think the earth is trembling : naught is firm. 
 Some terror chills me with a shadowy grasp. 
 Am I about to wake, or do you breathe 
 Here in this valley ? Did the outer air 
 Vibrate to fatal words, or did they shake 
 Only my dreaming soul ? You a Zincalo ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I3 then your love too faint to raise belief 
 Up to that height ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Silva, had you but said 
 That you would die, — that were an easy task
 
 244 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 For you who oft have fronted death in war. 
 But so to live for me, — you, used to rule, — 
 You could not breathe the air my father breathes : 
 His presence is subjection. Go, my lord! 
 Fly, while there yet is time. Wait not to speak 
 I will declare that I refused your love, — 
 Would keep no vows to you . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It is too late. 
 You shall not thrust me back to seek a good 
 Apart from you. And what good ? Why, to face 
 Your absence, — all the want that drove me forth 
 To work the will of a more tyrannous friend 
 Than any uncowled father. Life at least 
 Gives choice of ills ; forces me to defy. 
 But shall not force me to a weak defiance. 
 The power that threatened you, to master me. 
 That scorches like a cave-hid dragon's breath, 
 Sure of its victory in spite of hate, 
 Is what I last will bend to, — most defy. 
 Your father has a chieftain's ends, befitting 
 A soldier's eye and arm : were he as strong 
 As the Moors' prophet, yet the prophet too 
 Had younger captains of illustrious fame 
 Among the infidels. Let him command, 
 For when your father speaks, I shall hear you. 
 Life were no gain if you were lost to me : 
 I would straight go and seek the Moorish walls. 
 Challenge their bravest, and embrace swift death. 
 The Glorious Mother and her pitying Son 
 Are not Inquisitors, else their heaven were hell. 
 Perhaps they hate their cruel worshippers. 
 And let them feed on lies. I'll rather trust 
 They love you and have sent me to defend you.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 245 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I made my creed so, just to suit my mood 
 And smooth all hardship, till my father came 
 And taught my soul by ruling it. Since then 
 I cannot weave a dreaming happy creed 
 Where our love's happiness is not accursed. 
 My father shook my soul awake. And yovi, — 
 What the Zincala may not quit for you, 
 I cannot joy that you should quit for her. 
 
 Don Silya. 
 
 Oh, Spanish men are not a petty band 
 Where one deserter makes a fatal breach. 
 Men, even nobles, are more plenteous 
 Than steeds and armour ; and my w^eapons left 
 Will find new hands to wield them. Arrogance 
 Makes itself champion of mankind, and holds 
 God's purpose maimed for one hidalgo lost. 
 See where your father comes and brings a crowd 
 Of witnesses to hear my oath of love; 
 The low red sun glows on them like a fire ; 
 This seems a valley in some strange new world, 
 Where we have found each other, my Fedalma. 
 
 END- OF VOL. I.
 
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