Jul.Guilt hath pavilions, but no privacy.The very engine of his hatred checksThe torturer in his transport of revenge,Which, while it swells his bosom, shakes his powerAnd raises friends to his worst enemy.
Muza. Where now are thine? will they not curse the dayThat gave thee birth, and hiss thy funeral?Thou hast left none who could have pitied thee.
Jul.Many, nor those alone of tenderer mould,For me will weep—many alas thro’ me!Already I behold my funeral.The turbid cities wave and swell with it,And wrongs are lost in that day’s pageantry:Opprest and desolate, the countrymanReceives it like a gift; he hastens home,Shews where the hoof of Moorish horse laid wasteHis narrow croft and winter garden-plot,Sweetens with fallen pride his children’s lore,And points their hatred; but applauds their tears.Justice, who came not up to us thro’ life,Loves to survey our likeness on our tombs,When rivalry, malevolence, and wrath,And every passion that once stormed around,Is calm alike without them as within.Our very chains make the whole world our own,Bind those to us who else had past us by,Those at whose call brought down to us, the lightOf future ages lives upon our name.
Muza. I may accelerate that meteor’s fall,And quench that idle ineffectual lightWithout the knowledge of thy distant world.
Jul.My world and thine are not that distant one.Is age less wise, less merciful, than grief,To keep this secret from thee, poor old man?Thou canst not lessen, canst not aggravateMy sufferings, canst not shorten nor extendHalf a sword’s length between my God and me.I thank thee for that better thought than fame,Which none however, who deserve, despise,Nor lose from view till all things else are lost.
Abd.Julian, respect his age, regard his power.Many who feared not death, have dragged alongA piteous life in darkness and in chains.Never was man so full of wretchednessBut something may be suffered after all,Perhaps in what clings round his breast, and helpsTo keep the ruin up, which he amidstHis agony and phrenzy overlooks,But droops upon at last, and clasps, and dies.
Jul.Altho’ a Muza send far underground,Into the quarry whence the palace rose,His mangled prey, climes alien and remoteMark and record the pang; while overheadPerhaps he passes on his favorite steed,Less heedful of the misery he inflictsThan of the expiring sparkle from a stone,Yet we, alive or dead, have fellow menIf ever we have served them, who collectFrom prisons and from dungeons our remains,And bear them in their bosom to their sons.Man’s only reliques are his benefits;These, be there ages, be there worlds, between,Retain him in communion with his kind:Hence is our solace, our security,Our sustenance, till heavenly truth descends—Losing in brightness and beatitudeThe frail foundations of these humbler hopes—And, like an angel, guiding us, at onceLeaves the loose chain and iron gate behind.
Muza. Take thou my justice first, then hope for theirs.I, who can bend the living to my will,Fear not the dead, and court not the unborn:Their arm will never reach me, nor shall thine.
Abd.Pity, release him, pardon him, my father.Forget how much thou hatest perfidy,Think of him, once so potent, still so brave,So calm, so self-dependent in distress—I marvel at him—hardly dare I blame,When I behold him fallen from so high,And so exalted after such a fall.Mighty must that man be, who can forgiveA man so mighty; seize the hour to rise,Another never comes: O say, my father,Say, “Julian,be mine enemy no more.”He fills me with a greater awe than e’erThe field of battle, with himself the first,When every flag that waved along our hostDrooped down the staff, as if the very windsHung in suspense before him—bid him goAnd peace be with him, or let me depart.Lo! like a god, sole and inscrutable,He stands above our pity.
Jul.For that wish,Vain as it is, ’tis virtuous—O, for that,However wrong thy censure and thy praise,Kind Abdalazis, mayst thou never feelThe rancour that consumes thy father’s breast,Nor want the pity thou hast sought for me.
Muza. Now hast thou sealed thy doom.
Jul.And thou thy crimes.
Abd.O father, heed him not: those evil wordsLeave neither blight nor blemish—let him go.
Muza. A boy, a very boy, art thou indeed!One who in early day would sally outTo chase the lion, and would call it sport,But, when more wary steps had closed him round,Slink from the circle, drop the toils, and blanchLike a lithe plant from under snow in spring.
Abd.He who ne’er shrunk from danger, might shrink now,And ignominy would not follow here.
Muza. Peace, Abdalazis! how is this? he bearsNothing that warrants him invulnerable,Shall I then shrink to smite him? shall my fearsBe greatest at the blow that ends them all?Fears? no! ’tis justice—fair, immutable,Whose measured step, at times, advancing nigh,Appalls the majesty of kings themselves.
[Aside.
O were he dead! tho’ then revenge were o’er!
Officer. Thy wife, Count Julian!
Jul.Speak!
Offi.Is dead!
Jul.AdieuEarth, and the humblest of all earthly hopes,To hear of comfort, tho’ to find it vain.Thou murderer of the helpless! shame of man!Shame of thy own base nature! ’tis an actHe who could perpetrate could not avow,Stained, as he boasts to be, with innocent blood,Deaf to reproach, and blind to retribution.
Offi.Julian, be just; ’twill make thee less unhappy.Grief was her end: she held her younger boyAnd wept upon his cheek; his naked breastBy recent death now hardening and inert,Slipt from her knee; again with frantic graspShe caught it, and it weighed her to the groundThere lay the dead—
Jul.She?
Offi.—And the youth her son.
Jul.Receive them to thy peace, eternal God!O soother of my hours, while I beheldThe light of day, and thine! adieu, adieu!And, my Covilla! dost thou yet survive?Yes, my lost child, thou livest yet—in shame!O agony, past utterance! past thought!That throwest death, as some light idle thing,With all its terrors, into dust and air—I will endure thee; I, whom heaven ordainedThus to have served beneath my enemies,Their conqueror, thus to have revisitedMy native land with vengeance and with woe.Henceforward shall she recognise her sons,Impatient of oppression or disgrace,And rescue them, or perish; let her holdThis compact, written with her blood, and mine.
[To the guards.
Now follow me—but tremble[128]—years shall rollAnd wars rage on, and Spain at last be free.
THE END.
J. MOYES, PRINTER,Greville Street, Hatton Garden, London.
[32]She attempts, but is unable, to speak.
[35]In Asturia, bordering on Biscay.
[36]Del Campo, in Castile.
[40]Covilla hesitates.
[58]Guard hesitates. Opas goes.
[128]To Muza, &c.