Scene A Street in the City.
They heard, as one that stands By the cold grave which hath but newly closed O'er his last friend doth hear some passer-by, Bid him be comforted!-Their hearts have died Within them!--We must perish, not as those That fall when battle's voice doth shake the hills, And peal through Heaven's great arch, but silently, And with a wasting of the spirit down,
A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark, Which lit us on our toils!-Reproach me not; My soul is darken'd with a heavy cloud- -Yet fear not I shall yield!
Save in proud scorn!-Each bitter day, o'erpass'd
By slow endurance, is a triumph won
For Spain's red cross. And be of trusting heart! A few brief hours, and those that turn'd away In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice, May crowd around their leader, and demand To be array'd for battle. We must watch For the swift impulse, and await its time,
As the bark waits the ocean's. You have chosen To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance, When they were weary; they had cast aside Their arms to slumber; or a knell, just then With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood Creep shuddering through their veins; or they had caught A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped forth
Strange omens from its blaze.
Lies deeper in their misery!-I have seen, In my night's course through this beleaguer'd city Things, whose remembrance doth not pass away As vapours from the mountains.-There were some, That sat beside their dead, with eyes, wherein Grief had ta'en place of sight, and shut out all But its own ghastly object. To my voice
Some answer'd with a fierce and bitter laugh, As men whose agonies were made to pass
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word, Dropt from the light of spirit.-Others lay— -Why should I tell thee, father! how despair Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down Unto the very dust?—And yet for this,
Fear not that I embrace my doom-Oh God! That 'twere my doom alone !—with less of fix'd And solemn fortitude.-Lead on, prepare
The holiest rites of faith, that I by them
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life, -But what are these?-Who hath not dearer lives Twined with his own?-I shall be lonely soon- Childless!-Heaven wills it so.
Perchance before the shrine my
With a less troubled motion.
[Exeunt GONZALez and Hernandez.
Scene-A Tent in the Moorish Camp.
ABDULLAH, ALPHONSO, CARLOS.
These are bold words: but hast thou look'd on death,
Fair stripling?-On thy cheek and sunny brow Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course
Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced The ibex of the mountains, if thy step
Hath climb'd some eagle's nest, and thou hast made His nest thy spoil, 'tis much!—And fear'st thou not The leader of the mighty?
Rear'd amongst fearless men, and 'midst the rocks And the wild hills, whereon my fathers fought And won their battles. There are glorious tales Told of their deeds, and I have learn'd them all. How should I fear thee, Moor?
Fields, where the combat's roar hath died away
Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flowers
Bloom o'er forgotten graves !—But know'st thou aught Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes fire,
And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds Trample the life from out the mighty hearts
That rul'd the storm so late?-Speak not of death, Till thou hast look'd on such.
A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook, And peasant-men, amidst the lowly vales; Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears, And crested knights!—I am of princely race, And, if my father would have heard my suit, I tell thee, infidel! that long ere now,
I should have seen how lances meet; and swords Do the field's work.
Boy! know'st thou there are sights
A thousand times more fearful?-Men may die Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring To battle-horn and tecbir.*-But not all So pass away in glory. There are those,
*Tecbir, the war-cry of the Moors and Arabs.
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