Scene-The Aisle of a Gothic Church.

HERNANDEZ, GARCIAS, and others.

HERNANDEZ.

The rites are closed. Now, valiant men, depart,

Each to his place-I may not say, of rest;
Your faithful vigils for your sons may win
What must not be your own. Ye are as those
Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed

Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade
They may not sit. But bless'd be they who toil
For after days!-All high and holy thoughts
Be with you, warriors, through the lingering hours
Of the night-watch!

GARCIAS.

Aye, father! we have need

Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence

Our hearts against despair.

From youth a son of war.

Yet have I been

The stars have look'd

A thousand times upon my couch of heath,

Spread 'midst the wild sierras, by some stream

Whose dark-red waves look'd e'en as though their source

Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins

Of noble hearts; while many a knightly crest

Roll'd with them to the deep. And in the years
Of my long exile and captivity,

With the fierce Arab, I have watch'd beneath
The still, pale shadow of some lonely palm,
At midnight, in the desert; while the wind
Swell'd with the lion's roar, and heavily

The fearfulness and might of solitude

Press'd on my weary

heart.

HERNANDEZ (thoughtfully).

Thou little know'st

Of what is solitude!-I tell thee, those

For whom-in earth's remotest nook-howe'er
Divided from their path by chain on chain
Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude
Of rolling seas-there beats one human heart,
There breathes one being unto whom their name
Comes with a thrilling and a gladdening sound
Heard o'er the din of life! are not alone!
Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone;
For there is that on earth with which they hold
A brotherhood of soul!-Call him alone,

Who stands shut out from this!-And let not those

Whose homes are bright with sunshine and with love, Put on the insolence of happiness,

Glorying in that proud lot!—A lonely hour

Is on its way to each, to all; for Death

Knows no companionship.

GARCIAS.

I have look'd on Death

In field and storm and flood. But never yet
Hath aught weigh'd down my spirit to a mood
Of sadness, dreaming o'er dark auguries,

Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things

Are gathering round us. Death

upon

the earth,

Omens in Heaven!-The summer-skies put forth

No clear bright stars above us, but at times,
Catching some comet's fiery hue of wrath,
Marshal their clouds to armies, traversing
Heaven with the rush of meteor-steeds, the array
Of spears and banners, tossing like the pines
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm

Doth sweep the mountains.

HERNANDEZ.

Aye, last night I too

Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens;

And I beheld the meeting and the shock

Of those wild hosts i' th' air, when, as they closed,
A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles
The thunder's path, fell o'er them. Then were flung
Through the dull glare, broad cloudy banners forth,
And chariots seem'd to whirl, and steeds to sink,
Bearing down crested warriors. But all this
Was dim and shadowy ;-then swift darkness rush'd
Down on th' unearthly battle, as the deep
Swept o'er the Egyptian's armament.—I look'd—
And all that fiery field of plumes and spears
Was blotted from Heaven's face!-I look'd again—
And from the brooding mass of cloud leap'd forth
One meteor-sword, which o'er the reddening sea
Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes give
Unto a rocking citadel !—I beheld,

And yet my spirit sunk not.

GARCIAS.

Neither deem

That mine hath blench'd.-But these are sights and sounds

To awe the firmest.-Know'st thou what we hear

At midnight from the walls?—Were 't but the deep
Barbaric horn, or Moorish tambour's peal,

Thence might the warrior's heart catch impulses,

Quickening its fiery currents.

But our ears

Are pierced by other tones.

We hear the knell

For brave men in their noon of strength cut down,
And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge
Faint swelling through the streets.

Then e'en the air

Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament,

As if the viewless watchers of the land
Sigh'd on its hollow breezes!-To my soul,
The torrent-rush of battle, with its din
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply,
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe,
As the free sky's glad music unto him

Who leaves a couch of sickness.

HERNANDEZ (with solemnity).

If to plunge

In the mid-waves of combat, as they bear
Chargers and spearmen onwards; and to make
A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark
On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows;

If thus to dare were valour's noblest aim,
Lightly might fame be won!-but there are things
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch,
And courage temper'd with a holier fire!

Well mayst thou say, that these are fearful times,