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Scene A Street in the City.

HERNANDEZ, GONZALEZ.

Would they not hear?

HERNANDEZ.

GONZALEZ.

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!

HERNANDEZ.

Breathe not the word,

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.

GONZALEZ.

Alas! the cause

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.

Let us begone.

heart may

beat

[Exeunt GONZALez and Hernandez.

Scene-A Tent in the Moorish Camp.

ABDULLAH, ALPHONSO, CARLOS.

ABDULLAH.

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?

ALPHONSO.

I have been

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?

ABDULLAH.

So, thou hast seen

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.

ALPHONSO.

I was not born

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.

ABDULLAH.

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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