The Project Gutenberg eBook ofCount JulianThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Count JulianAuthor: Walter Savage LandorRelease date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4008]Most recently updated: October 27, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1812 John Murray edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNT JULIAN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Count JulianAuthor: Walter Savage LandorRelease date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4008]Most recently updated: October 27, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1812 John Murray edition by David Price
Title: Count Julian
Author: Walter Savage Landor
Author: Walter Savage Landor
Release date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4008]Most recently updated: October 27, 2014
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1812 John Murray edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNT JULIAN ***
Transcribed from the 1812 John Murray edition by David Price, ccx074@pglaf.org
A
TRAGEDY.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR JOHN MURRAY, FLEET STREET,By James Moyes, Greville Street, Hatton Garden.
1812.
Thedaughter of Count Julian is usually called Florinda—a fictitious appellation, unsuitable to the person and to the period. Never was one devised more incompatible with the appearance of truth, or more fatal to the illusions of sympathy. The city of Covilla, it is reported, was named after her. Here is no improbability: there would be a gross one in deriving the word, as is also pretended, from La Cava. Cities, in adopting a name, bear it usually as a testimony of victories or as an augury of virtues. Small and obscure places, occasionally, receive what their neighbours throw against them; as Puerto de la mala muger in Murcia. A generous and enthusiastic people, beyond all others in existence or on record, would affix no stigma to innocence and misfortune.
It is remarkable that the most important era in Spanish history should be the most obscure. This is propitious to the poet, and above all to the tragedian. Few characters of such an era can be glaringly misrepresented, few facts offensively perverted.
CountJulian.
Roderigo, King of Spain.
Opas, Metropolitan of Seville.
Sisabert, betrothed toCovilla.
Muza, Prince of Mauritania.
Abdalazis, son ofMuza.
Tarik, Moorish Chieftain.
Covilla, daughter ofJulian.
Egilona, wife ofRoderigo.
Officers.
Hernando,Osma,Ramiro, &c.
Camp of Julian.
OPAS. JULIAN.
Opas. See her, Count Julian: if thou lovest God,See thy lost child.
Jul.I have avenged me, Opas,More than enough: I sought but to have hurledThe brands of war on one detested head,And died upon his ruin. O my country!O lost to honour, to thyself, to me,Why on barbarian hands devolves thy cause,Spoilers, blasphemers!
Opas. Is it thus, Don Julian,When thy own ofspring, that beloved child,For whom alone these very acts were doneBy them and thee, when thy Covilla standsAn outcast, and a suppliant at thy gate,Why that still stubborn agony of soul,Those struggles with the bars thyself imposed?Is she not thine? not dear to thee as ever?
Jul.Father of mercies! show me none, whene’erThe wrongs she suffers cease to wring my heart,Or I seek solace ever, but in death.
Opas. What wilt thou do then, too unhappy man?
Jul.What have I done already? All my peaceHas vanished; my fair fame in after-timesWill wear an alien and uncomely form,Seen o’er the cities I have laid in dust,Countrymen slaughtered, friends abjured!
Opas. And faith?
Jul.Alone now left me, filling up in partThe narrow and waste intervals of grief:It promises that I shall see againMy own lost child.
Opas. Yes, at this very hour.
Jul.Till I have met the tyrant face to face,And gain’d a conquest greater than the last;Till he no longer rules one rood of Spain,And not one Spaniard, not one enemy,The least relenting, flags upon his flight;Till we are equal in the eyes of men,The humblest and most wretched of our kind,No peace for me, no comfort, no—no child!
Opas. No pity for the thousands fatherless,The thousands childless like thyself, nay more,The thousands friendless, helpless, comfortless—Such thou wilt make them, little thinking so,Who now, perhaps, round their first winter fire,Banish, to talk of thee, the tales of old,Shedding true honest tears for thee unknown:Precious be these, and sacred in thy sight,Mingle them not with blood from hearts thus kind.If only warlike spirits were evokedBy the war-demon, I would not complain.Or dissolute and discontented men;But wherefor hurry down into the squareThe neighbourly, saluting, warm-clad race,Who would not injure us, and could not serve;Who, from their short and measured slumber risen,In the faint sunshine of their balconies,With a half-legend of a martyrdomAnd some weak wine and withered grapes before them,Note by their foot the wheel of melodyThat catches and rolls on the sabbath dance.To drag the steddy prop from failing age,Break the young stem that fondness twines around,Widen the solitude of lonely sighs,And scatter to the broad bleak wastes of dayThe ruins and the phantoms that replied,Ne’er be it thine.
Jul.Arise, and save me, Spain!
Muzaenters.
Muza. Infidel chief, thou tarriest here too long.And art, perhaps, repining at the daysOf nine continued victories, o’er menDear to thy soul, tho’ reprobate and base.Away!
[Muza retires.
Jul.I follow. Could my bitterest foesHear this! ye Spaniards, this! which I foreknewAnd yet encounter’d; could they see your JulianReceiving orders from and answeringThese desperate and heaven-abandoned slaves,They might perceive some few external pangs,Some glimpses of the hell wherein I move,Who never have been fathers.
Opas. These are theyTo whom brave Spaniards must refer their wrongs!
Jul.Muza, that cruel and suspicious chief,Distrusts his friends more than his enemies,Me more than either; fraud he loves and fears,And watches her still footfall day and night.
Opas. O Julian! such a refuge! such a race!
Jul.Calamities like mine alone implore.No virtues have redeemed them from their bonds;Wily ferocity, keen idleness,And the close cringes of ill-whispering want,Educate them to plunder and obey:Active to serve him best whom most they fear,They show no mercy to the merciful,And racks alone remind them of the name.
Opas. O everlasting curse for Spain and thee!
Jul.Spain should have vindicated then her wrongsIn mine, a Spaniard’s and a soldier’s wrongs.
Opas. Julian, are thine the only wrongs on earth?And shall each Spaniard rather vindicateThine than his own? is there no Judge of all?Shall mortal hand seize with impunityThe sword of vengeance, from the armoryOf the Most High? easy to wield, and starredWith glory it appears; but all the hostOf the archangels, should they strive at once,Would never close again its widening blade
Jul.He who provokes it hath so much to rue.Where’er he turn, whether to earth or heaven,He finds an enemy, or raises one.
Opas. I never yet have seen where long successHath followed him who warred upon his king.
Jul.Because the virtue that inflicts the strokeDies with him, and the rank ignoble headsOf plundering faction soon unite again,And, prince-protected, share the spoil, at rest.
Guard announces a Herald.Opasdeparts.
Guard. A messager of peace is at the gate,My lord, safe access, private audience,And free return, he claims.
Jul.Conduct him in.
[To Roderigo,who enters as Herald.
A messager of peace! audacious man!In what attire appearest thou? a herald’s?Under no garb can such a wretch be safe.
Rod.Thy violence and fancied wrongs I know,And what thy sacrilegious hands would do,O traitor and apostate!
Jul.What they wouldThey cannot: thee of kingdom and of life’Tis easy to despoil, thyself the traitor,Thyself the violator of allegiance.O would all-righteous Heaven they could restoreThe joy of innocence, the calm of age,The probity of manhood, pride of arms,And confidence of honour! the augustAnd holy laws, trampled beneath thy feet.And Spain! O parent, I have lost thee too!Yes, thou wilt curse me in thy latter days,Me, thine avenger. I have fought her foe,Roderigo, I have gloried in her sons,Sublime in hardihood and piety:Her strength was mine: I, sailing by her cliffs,By promontory after promontory,Opening like flags along some castle-towers,Have sworn before the cross upon our mastNe’er shall invader wave his standard there.
Rod.Yet there thou plantest it, false man, thyself.
Jul.Accursed he who makes me this reproach,And made it just! Had I been happy still,I had been blameless: I had died with gloryUpon the walls of Ceuta.
Rod.Which thy treasonSurrendered to the Infidel.
Jul.’Tis hardAnd base to live beneath a conqueror;Yet, amidst all this grief and infamy,’Tis something to have rushed upon the ranksIn their advance; ’twere something to have stoodDefeat, discomfiture; and, when aroundNo beacon blazes, no far axle groansThro’ the wide plain, no sound of sustenanceOr succour sooths the still-believing ear,To fight upon the last dismantled tower,And yield to valour, if we yield at all.But rather should my neck lie trampled downBy every Saracen and Moor on earth,Than my own country see her laws o’erturn’dBy those who should protect them: Sir, no princeShall ruin Spain; and, least of all, her own.Is any just or glorious act in view,Your oaths forbid it: is your avarice,Or, if there be such, any viler passionTo have its giddy range, and to be gorged,It rises over all your sacraments,A hooded mystery, holier than they all.
Rod.Hear me, Don Julian; I have heard thy wrathWho am thy king, nor heard man’s wrath before.
Jul.Thou shalt hear mine, for thou art not my king.
Rod.Knowest thou not the alter’d face of war?Xeres is ours; from every region roundTrue loyal Spaniards throng into our camp:Nay, thy own friends and thy own family,From the remotest provinces, advanceTo crush rebellion: Sisabert is come,Disclaiming thee and thine; the Asturian hillsOpposed to him their icy chains in vain;But never wilt thou see him, never more,Unless in adverse war, and deadly hate.
Jul.So lost to me! So generous, so deceived!I grieve to hear it.
Rod.Come, I offer grace,Honour, dominion: send away these slaves,Or leave them to our sword, and all beyondThe distant Ebro to the towns of FranceShall bless thy name, and bend before thy throne.I will myself accompany thee, I,The king, will hail thee brother.
Jul.Ne’er shalt thouHenceforth be king: the nation, in thy name,May issue edicts, champions may commandThe vassal multitudes of marshall’d war,And the fierce charger shrink before the shouts,Lower’d as if earth had open’d at his feet,While thy mail’d semblance rises tow’rd the ranks,But God alone sees thee.
Rod.What hopest thou?To conquer Spain, and rule a ravaged land?To compass me around, to murder me?
Jul.No, Don Roderigo: swear thou, in the fightThat thou wilt meet me, hand to hand, alone,That, if I ever save thee from a foe—
Rod.I swear what honour asks—First, to CovillaDo thou present my crown and dignity.
Jul.Darest thou offer any price for shame?
Rod.Love and repentance.
Jul.Egilona lives:And were she buried with her ancestors,Covilla should not be the gaze of men,Should not, despoil’d of honour, rule the free.
Rod.Stern man! her virtues well deserve the throne.
Jul.And Egilona—what hath she deserved,The good, the lovely?
Rod.But the realm in vainHoped a succession.
Jul.Thou hast torn awayThe roots of royalty.
Rod.For her, for thee.
Jul.Blind insolence! base insincerity!Power and renown no mortal ever sharedWho could retain, or grasp them, to himself:And, for Covilla? patience! peace! for her?She call upon her God, and outrage himAt his own altar! she repeat the vowsShe violates in repeating! who abhorsThee and thy crimes, and wants no crown of thine.Force may compell the abhorrent soul, or wantLash and pursue it to the public ways;Virtue looks back and weeps, and may returnTo these, but never near the abandon’d oneWho drags religion to adultery’s feet,And rears the altar higher for her sake.
Rod.Have then the Saracens possest thee quite,And wilt thou never yield me thy consent?
Jul.Never.
Rod.So deep in guilt, in treachery!Forced to acknowledge it! forced to avowThe traitor!
Jul.Not to thee, who reignest not,But to a country ever dear to me,And dearer now than ever: what we loveIs loveliest in departure! One I thought,As every father thinks, the best of all,Graceful, and mild, and sensible, and chaste:Now all these qualities of form and soulFade from before me, nor on any oneCan I repose, or be consoled by any.And yet in this torne heart I love her moreThan I could love her when I dwelt on each,Or clasped them all united, and thanked God,Without a wish beyond.—Away, thou fiend!O ignominy, last and worst of all!I weep before thee—like a child—like mine—And tell my woes, fount of them all! to thee!
Abdalazisenters.
Abd.Julian, to thee, the terror of the faithless,I bring my father’s order, to prepareFor the bright day that crowns thy brave exploits:Our enemy is at the very gate!And art thou here, with women in thy train,Crouching to gain admittance to their lord,And mourning the unkindness of delay!
[Julian,much agitated,goes towards the door,and returns.
Jul.I am prepared: Prince, judge not hastily.
Abd.Whether I should not promise all they ask,I too could hesitate, tho’ earlier taughtThe duty to obey, and should rejoiceTo shelter in the universal stormA frame so delicate, so full of fears,So little used to outrage and to arms,As one of these; so humble, so uncheer’dAt the gay pomp that smooths the track of war:When she beheld me from afar dismount,And heard my trumpet, she alone drew back,And, as tho’ doubtful of the help she seeks,Shudder’d to see the jewels on my brow,And turn’d her eyes away, and wept aloud.The other stood, awhile, and then advanced:I would have spoken; but she waved her handAnd said, “Proceed,protect us,and avenge,And be thou worthier of the crown thou wearest.”Hopeful and happy is indeed our cause,When the most timid of the lovely hailStranger and foe—
[Roderigo,unnoticed by Abdalazis.
Rod.And shrink, but to advance.
Abd.Thou tremblest! whence, O Julian! whence this change?Thou lovest still thy country.
Jul.Abdalazis!All men with human feelings love their country.Not the high-born or wealthy man alone,Who looks upon his children, each one ledBy its gay hand-maid, from the high alcove,And hears them once aday; not only heWho hath forgotten, when his guest inquiresThe name of some far village all his own;Whose rivers bound the province, and whose hillsTouch the last cloud upon the level sky:No; better men still better love their country.’Tis the old mansion of their earliest friends,The chapel of their first and best devotions;When violence, or perfidy, invades,Or when unworthy lords hold wassail there,And wiser heads are drooping round its moats,At last they fix their steddy and stiff eyeThere, there alone—stand while the trumpet blows,And view the hostile flames above its towersSpire, with a bitter and severe delight.
[Abdalazis,taking his hand.
Abd.Thou feelest what thou speakest, and thy SpainWill ne’er be shelter’d from her fate by theeWe, whom the Prophet sends o’er many landsLove none above another; Heaven assignsTheir fields and harvests to our valiant swords,And ’tis enough—we love while we enjoy.Whence is the man in that fantastic guise?Suppliant? or herald?—he who stalks about,And once was even seated while we spoke,For never came he with us o’er the sea.
Jul.He comes as herald.
Rod.Thou shalt know full soon,Insulting Moor.
[Julian intercedes.
Abd.He cannot bear the griefHis country suffers; I will pardon him.He lost his courage first, and then his mind;His courage rushes back, his mind still wanders.The guest of heaven was piteous to these men,And princes stoop to feed them in their courts.
Muzaenters withEgilona.
Roderigo is going out when Muza enters—starts back on seeing Egilona.
[Muza, sternly,to Egilona,who follows.
Muza. Enter, since ’tis the custom in this land.
[Egilona,passing Muza disdainfully,points to Abdalazis, and says to Julian—
Egil.Is this our future monarch, or art thou?
Jul.’Tis Abdalazis, son of Muza, princeCommanding Africa, from AbylaTo where Tunisian pilots bend the eyeO’er ruin’d temples in the glassy wave.Till quiet times and ancient laws return,He comes to govern here.
Rod.To-morrow’s dawnProves that.
Muza. What art thou?
[Roderigo,drawing his sword.
Rod.King.
Abd.Amazement!
Muza. Treason!
Egil.O horror!
Muza. Seize him.
Egil.Spare him! fly to me!
Jul.Urge me not to protect a guest, a herald—The blasts of war roar over him unfelt.
Egil.Ah fly, unhappy!
Rod.Fly! no, Egilona—Dost thou forgive me? dost thou love me? still?
Egil.I hate, abominate, abhor thee—go,Or my own vengeance—
[Roderigo points with his own to the drawn swords of Muza and Abdalazis,who look with malice towards Julian,takes his hand,and seems inviting to attack them.Julian casts his hand away.
Rod.Julian!—
Jul.Hence, or die.
Camp ofJulian.
JulianandCovilla.
Jul.Obdurate! I am not as I appear.Weep, my beloved child, Covilla weepInto my bosom; every drop be mineOf this most bitter soul-empoisoning cup:Into no other bosom than thy father’sCanst thou, or wouldst thou, pour it.
Cov.Cease, my lord,My father, angel of my youth, when allWas innocence and peace—
Jul.Arise, my love,Look up to heaven—where else are souls like thine!Mingle in sweet communion with its children,Trust in its providence, its retribution,And I will cease to mourn; for, O my child,These tears corrode, but thine assuage the heart.
Cov.And never shall I see my mother too,My own, my blessed mother!
Jul.Thou shalt seeHer and thy brothers.
Cov.No! I cannot lookOn them, I cannot meet their lovely eyes,I cannot lift mine up from under theirs.We all were children when they went away,They now have fought hard battles, and are men,And camps and kings they know, and woes and crimes.Sir, will they never venture from the wallsInto the plain? Remember, they are young,Hardy and emulous and hazardous,And who is left to guard them in the town?
Jul.Peace is throughout the land: the various tribesOf that vast region, sink at once to rest,Like one wide wood when every wind lies hush’d.
Cov.And war, in all its fury, roams o’er Spain!
Jul.Alas! and will for ages: crimes are looseAt which ensanguined War stands shuddering;And calls for vengeance from the powers above,Impatient of inflicting it himself.Nature, in these new horrors, is aghastAt her own progeny, and knows them not.I am the minister of wrath; the handsThat tremble at me, shall applaud me too,And seal their condemnation.
Cov.O kind father,Pursue the guilty, but remember Spain.
Jul.Child, thou wert in thy nursery short time since,And latterly hast past the vacant hourWhere the familiar voice of historyIs hardly known, however nigh, attunedIn softer accents to the sickened ear;But thou hast heard, for nurses tell these tales,Whether I drew my sword for WitizaAbandoned by the people he betrayed,Tho’ brother to the woman who of allWas ever dearest to this broken heart,Till thou, my daughter, wert a prey to grief,And a brave country brooked the wrongs I bore.For I had seen Rusilla guide the stepsOf her Theodofred, when burning brassPlunged its fierce fang into the founts of light,And Witiza’s the guilt! when, bent with age,He knew the voice again, and told the name,Of those whose proffer’d fortunes had been laidBefore his throne, while happiness was there,And strain’d the sightless nerve tow’rds where they stoodAt the forced memory of the very oathsHe heard renewed from each—but heard afar,For they were loud, and him the throng spurn’d off.
Cov.Who were all these?
Jul.All who are seen to-day.On prancing steeds richly caparisonedIn loyal acclamation round Roderigo;Their sons beside them, loving one anotherUnfeignedly, thro’ joy, while they themselvesIn mutual homage mutual scorn suppress.Their very walls and roofs are welcomingThe King’s approach, their storied tapestrySwells its rich arch for him triumphantlyAt every clarion blowing from below.
Cov.Such wicked men will never leave his side.
Jul.For they are insects which see nought beyondWhere they now crawl; whose changes are complete,Unless of habitation.
Cov.Whither goCreatures, unfit for better, or for worse?
Jul.Some to the grave—where peace be with them—someAcross the Pyrenean mountains far,Into the plains of France; suspicion thereWill hang on every step from rich and poor,Grey quickly-glancing eyes will wrinkle roundAnd courtesy will watch them, day and night.Shameless they are, yet will they blush, amidstA nation that ne’er blushes: some will dragThe captive’s chain, repair the shattered bark,Or heave it, from a quicksand, to the shore,Among the marbles on the Lybian coast;Teach patience to the lion in his cage,And, by the order of a higher slave,Hold to the elephant their scanty fareTo please the children while the parent sleeps.
Cov.Spaniards? must they, dear father, lead such lives?
Jul.All are not Spaniards who draw breath in Spain,Those are, who live for her, who die for her,Who love her glory and lament her fall.O may I too—
Cov.—But peacefully, and late,Live and die here!
Jul.I have, alas! myselfLaid waste the hopes where my fond fancy strayed,And view their ruins with unaltered eyes.
Cov.My mother will at last return to thee.Might I, once more, but—could I now! behold her.Tell her—ah me! what was my rash desire?No, never tell her these inhuman things,For they would waste her tender heart awayAs they waste mine; or tell where I have died,Only to show her that her every careCould not have saved, could not have comforted;That she herself, clasping me once againTo her sad breast, had said, Covilla! go,Go, hide them in the bosom of thy God.Sweet mother! that far-distant voice I hear,And, passing out of youth and out of life,I would not turn at last, and disobey.
Sisabertenters.
Sis.Uncle, and is it true, say, can it be,That thou art leader of these faithless Moors?That thou impeachest thy own daughter’s fameThro’ the whole land, to seize upon the throneBy the permission of these recreant slaves?What shall I call thee? art thou, speak Count Julian,A father, or a soldier, or a man?
Jul.All—or this day had never seen me here.
Sis.O falsehood! worse than woman’s!
Cov.Once, my cousin,Far gentler words were uttered from your lips;If you loved me, you loved my father first,More justly and more steddily, ere loveWas passion and illusion and deceit.
Sis.I boast not that I never was deceived,Covilla, which beyond all boasts were base,Nor that I never loved; let this be thine.Illusions! just to stop us, not delay,Amuse, not occupy!—too true! when loveScatters its brilliant foam, and passes onTo some fresh object in its natural course,Widely and openly and wanderingly,’Tis better! narrow it, and it pours its gloomIn one fierce cataract that stuns the soul.Ye hate the wretch ye make so, while ye chooseWhoever knows you best and shuns you most.
Cov.Shun me then: be beloved, more and more.Honour the hand that showed you honour first,Love—O my father! speak, proceed, persuade,Thy voice alone can utter it—another.
Sis.Ah lost Covilla! can a thirst of powerAlter thy heart, thus, to abandon mine,And change my very nature at one blow.
Cov.I told you, dearest Sisabert, ’twas vainTo urge me more, to question, or confute.
Sis.I know it—for another wears the crownOf Witiza my father; who succeedsTo king Roderigo will succeed to me.Yet thy cold perfidy still calls me dear,And o’er my aching temples breathes one galeOf days departed to return no more.
Jul.Young man, avenge our cause.
Sis.What cause avenge?
Cov.If I was ever dear to you, hear me.Not vengeance; Heaven will give that signal soon.O Sisabert, the pangs I have enduredOn your long absence—
Sis.Will be now consoled.Thy father comes to mount my father’s throne;But though I would not an usurper king,I prize his valour and defend his crown:No stranger, and no traitor, rules o’er me,Or unchastized inveigles humbled Spain.Covilla, gavest thou no promises?Nor thou, Don Julian? Seek not to reply—Too well I know, too justly I despise,Thy false excuse, thy coward effrontery;Yes, when thou gavest them across the sea,An enemy wert thou to Mahomet,And no appellant to his faith or leagues.
Jul.’Tis well: a soldier hears, throughout, in silence.I urge no answer: to those words, I fear,Thy heart with sharp compunction will reply.
[Sisabert,to Covilla.
Sis.Then I demand of thee, before thou reign,Answer me, while I fought against the FrankWho dared to sue thee? blazon’d in the court,Trailed not thro’ darkness, were our nuptial bands;No: Egilona join’d our hands herself,The peers applauded, and the king approved.
Jul.Hast thou yet seen that king since thy return?
Cov.Father! O father!
Sis.I will not imploreOf him or thee what I have lost for ever,These were not, when we parted, thy alarms;Far other, and far worthier of thy heartWere they! which Sisabert could banish then!Fear me not, now, Covilla! thou hast changed,I am changed too—I lived but where thou livedst,My very life was portioned off from thine.Upon the surface of thy happinessDay after day, I gazed, I doated—thereWas all I had, was all I coveted,So pure, serene, and boundless, it appear’d:Yet, for we told each other every thought,Thou knowest well, if thou rememberest,At times I fear’d; as tho’ some demon sentSuspicion without form into the world,To whisper unimaginable things;Then thy fond arguing banished all but hope,Each wish, and every feeling, was with thine,Till I partook thy nature, and becameCredulous, and incredulous, like thee.We, who have met so alter’d, meet no more.
[Takes her hand.
Mountains and seas! ye are not separation—Death! thou dividest, but unitest too,In everlasting peace and faith sincere.Confiding love! where is thy resting-place!Where is thy truth, Covilla! where?[32]—go, go,I should adore thee and believe thee still.
[Sisabert goes.
Cov.O Heaven! support me, or desert me quite,And leave me lifeless this too trying hour!He thinks me faithless.
Jul.He must think thee so.
Cov.O tell him, tell him all, when I am dead—He will die, too, and we shall meet again.He will know all when these sad eyes are closed.Ah cannot he before! must I appearThe vilest!—O just Heaven! can it be thus?I am—all earth resounds it—lost, despised,Anguish and shame unutterable seize me.’Tis palpable—no phantom, no delusion,No dream that wakens with overwhelming horror;Spaniard and Moor fight on this ground alone,And tear the arrow from my bleeding breastTo pierce my father’s, for alike they fear.
Jul.Invulnerable now, and unassail’dAre we, alone perhaps of human kind,Nor life allures us more, nor death alarms.
Cov.Fallen, unpitied, unbelieved, unheard!I should have died long earlier: gracious God!Desert me to my sufferings, but sustainMy faith in, thee! O hide me from the world,And from thyself, my father, from thy fondness,That opened in this wilderness of woeA source of tears that else had burst my heart,Setting me free for ever—then perhapsA cruel war had not divided Spain,Had not o’erturned her cities and her altars,Had not endanger’d thee! O haste afarEre the last dreadful conflict that decidesWhether we live beneath a foreign sway—
Jul.Or under him whose tyranny brought downThe curse upon his people. O child! child!Urge me no further, talk not of the war,Remember not our country.
Cov.Not remember!What have the wretched else for consolation,What else have they who pining feed their woe?Can I, or should I, drive from memoryAll that was dear and sacred, all the joysOf innocence and peace; when no debateWas in the convent, but what hymn, whose voice,To whom among the blessed it arose,Swelling so sweet; when rang the vesper-bellAnd every finger ceased from the guitar,And every tongue was silent through our land;When, from remotest earth, friends met againHung on each other’s neck, and but embraced,So sacred, still, and peaceful, was the hour.Now, in what climate of the wasted world,Not unmolested long by the profane,Can I pour forth in secrecy to GodMy prayers and my repentance? where besideIs the last solace of the parting soul?Friends, brethren, parents—dear indeed, too dear,Are they, but somewhat still the heart requiresThat it may leave them lighter, and more blest.
Jul.Wide are the regions of our far-famed land:Thou shalt arrive at her remotest bounds,See her best people, choose some holiest house—Whether where Castro[35]from surrounding vinesHears the hoarse ocean roar among his caves,And, thro’ the fissure in the green church-yard,The wind wail loud the calmest summer day;Or where Santona leans against the hill,Hidden from sea and land by groves and bowers.
Cov.O! for one moment, in those pleasant scenesThou placest me, and lighter air I breathe;Why could I not have rested, and heard on!Thy voice dissolves the vision quite away,Outcast from virtue, and from nature too!
Jul.Nature and virtue!—they shall perish first.God destined them for thee, and thee for them,Inseparably and eternally!The wisest and the best will prize thee most,And solitudes and cities will contendWhich shall receive thee kindliest; sigh not so—Violence and fraud will never penetrateWhere piety and poverty retire,Intractable to them, and valueless,And look’d at idly, like the face of heaven,If strength be wanted for security,Mountains the guard, forbidding all approachWith iron-pointed and uplifted gates,Thou wilt be welcome too in Aguilar—[36]Impenetrable, marble-turreted,Surveying from aloft the limpid ford,The massy fane, the sylvan avenue—Whose hospitality I proved myself,A willing leader in no impious warWhen fame and freedom urged me—or mayst dwellIn Reÿnosas dry and thriftless dale,Unharvested beneath October moons,Amongst those frank and cordial villagers.They never saw us, and, poor simple souls!So little know they whom they call the great—Would pity one another less than usIn injury, disaster, or distress.
Cov.But they would ask each other whence our grief,That they might pity?
Jul.Rest then just beyond,In the secluded scenes where Ebro springsAnd drives not from his fount the fallen leaf,So motionless and tranquil its repose.
Cov.Thither let us depart, and speedily.
Jul.I cannot go: I live not in the landI have reduced beneath such wretchedness:And who could leave the brave, whose lives and fortunesHang on his sword?
Cov.Me canst thou leave, my father?Ah. yes, for it is past; too well thou seestMy life and fortunes rest not upon thee.Long, happily,—could it be gloriously!—Still mayst thou live, and save thy country still!
Jul.Unconquerable land! unrivalled race!Whose bravery, too enduring, rues alikeThe power and weakness of accursed kings—How cruelly hast thou neglected me!Forcing me from thee, never to return,Nor in thy pangs and struggles to partake!I hear a voice—’tis Egilona—come,Recall thy courage, dear unhappy girl,Let us away.
Egilonaenters.
Egil.Remain, I order thee.Attend, and do thy duty; I am queen,Unbent to degradation.
Cov.I attendEver most humbly and most gratefullyMy too kind sovran, cousin now no more;Could I perform but half the servicesI owe her, I were happy, for a time,Or dared I show her half my love, ’twere bliss.
Egil.Oh! I sink under gentleness like thineThy sight is death to me; and yet ’tis dear.The gaudy trappings of assumptive stateDrop, at the voice of nature, to the earth,Before thy feet—I cannot force myselfTo hate thee, to renounce thee; yet—Covilla!Yet—O distracting thought! ’tis hard to see,Hard to converse, with, to admire, to love,As from my soul I do, and must do, thee—One who hath robbed me of all pride and joy,All dignity, all fondness.—I adored
[After a pause.
Roderigo—he was brave, and in discourseMost voluble; the masses of his mind
[She walks about,and speaks by fits and abstractedly.
Were vast, but varied; now absorbed in gloom,Majestic, not austere; now their extentOpening, and waving in bright levity—
Jul.Depart, my daughter—’twere as well to bearHis presence as his praise[40]—go; she will dreamThis phantasm out, nor notice thee depart.
[She departs.
Egil.What pliancy! what tenderness! what life!O for the smiles of those who smile so seldom,The love of those who know no other love!Such he was, Egilona, who was thine.
Jul.While he was worthy of the realm and thee.
Egil.Can it be true, then, Julian, that thy aimIs sovranty? not virtue, nor revenge?
Jul.I swear to heaven, nor I, nor child of mine,Ever shall mount to this polluted throne.
Egil.Then am I still a queen. The savage MoorWho could not conquer Ceuta from thy sword,In his own country, not with every wileOf his whole race, not with his myriad crestsOf cavalry, seen from the Calpian heightsLike locusts on the parched and gleamy coast,Will never conquer Spain.
Jul.Spain then was conquer’dWhen fell her laws before the traitor king.
Officer announcesOpas.
O queen, the metropolitan attendsOn matters of high import to the state,And wishes to confer in privacy.
[Egilona,to Julian.
Egil.Adieu then; and whate’er betide the country,Sustain at least the honours of our house.
[Julian goes before Opas enters.
Opas. I cannot but commend, O Egilona,Such resignation and such dignity.Indeed he is unworthy; yet a queenRather to look for peace, and live remoteFrom cities, and from courts, and from her lord,I hardly could expect, in one so young,So early, widely, wondrously, admired.
Egil.I am resolved: religious men, good Opas,In this resemble the vain libertine;They find in woman no consistency,No virtue but devotion, such as comesTo infancy or age, or fear or love,Seeking a place of rest, and finding none,Until it soar to heaven.
Opas. A spring of mindThat rises when all pressure is removed,Firmness in pious and in chaste resolves,But weakness in much fondness; these, O queen,I did expect, I own.
Egil.The better partBe mine; the worst hath been; and is no more.
Opas. But if Roderigo have at length prevailedThat Egilona willingly resignsAll claim to royalty, and casts away—Indifferent or estranged—the marriage bondHis perjury tore asunder, still the churchHardly can sanction his new nuptial rites.
Egil.What art thou saying? what new nuptial rites?
Opas. Thou knowest not?
Egil.Am I a wife; a queen?Abandon it! my claim to royalty!Whose hand was on my head when I aroseQueen of this land? whose benediction sealedMy marriage-vow? who broke it? was it I?And wouldst thou, virtuous Opas, wouldst thou dimThe glorious light of thy declining days?Wouldst thou administer the sacred vows,And sanction them, and bless them, for another,And bid her live in peace while I am living?Go then—I execrate and banish himFor ever from my sight: we were not bornFor happiness together—none on earthWere ever so dissimilar as we.He is not worth a tear, a wish, a thought—Never was I deceived in him—I foundNo tenderness, no fondness, from the first:A love of power, a love of perfidy,Such is the love that is returned for mine.Ungrateful man! ’twas not the pageantryOf regal state, the clarions, nor the guard,Nor loyal valour, nor submissive beauty,Silence at my approach, awe at my voice,Happiness at my smile, that led my youthTowards Roderigo! I had lived obscure,In humbleness, in poverty, in want,Blest, O supremely blest! with him alone;And he abandons me, rejects me, scorns me,Insensible! inhuman! for another!Thou shalt repent thy wretched choice, false man!Crimes such as thine call loudly for perdition;Heaven will inflict it, and not I—but INeither will fall alone nor live despised.
[Sound of trumpet.
Opas. Peace, Egilona, he arrives; composeThy turbid thoughts, meet him with dignity.
Egil.He! in the camp of Julian! trust me, sir,He comes not hither, dares no longer useThe signs of state, and flies from every foe.
[Egilona retires some distance.
MuzaandAbdalazis.
[Muza to Abdalazis.
Muza. I saw him but an instant, and disguised,Yet this is not the traitor; on his browObserve the calm of wisdom and of years.
Opas. Whom seekest thou?
Muza. Him who was king, I seek.He came arrayed as herald to this tent.
Abd.Thy daughter! was she nigh? perhaps for herWas this disguise.
Muza. Here, Abdalazis, kingsDisguise from other causes; they obtainBeauty by violence, and power by fraud.Treason was his intent: we must admitWhoever come; our numbers are too smallFor question or selection, and the bloodOf Spaniards shall win Spain for us, today.
Abd.The wicked cannot move from underneathThy ruling eye.
Muza. Right!—Julian and RoderigoAre leagued against us, on these terms alone,That Julian’s daughter weds the christian king.
[Egilona,turning round,and rushing forward.
Egil.’Tis true—and I proclaim—
Abd.Heaven and earth!Was it not thou, most lovely, most high-souled,Who wishedst us success, and me a crown?
[Opas,in astonishment,goes abruptly.
Egil.I give it—I am Egilona, queenOf that detested man.
Abd.I touch the handThat chains down fortune to the throne of fate;And will avenge thee; for ’twas thy command,’Tis Heaven’s—My father! what retards our bliss?Why art thou silent?
Muza. Inexperienced yearsRather would rest on the soft lap, I see,Of pleasure, after the fierce gusts of war.O destiny! that callest me alone,Hapless, to keep the toilsome watch of state;Painful to age, unnatural to youth,Adverse to all society of friends,Equality, and liberty, and ease,The welcome cheer of the unbidden feast,The gay reply, light, sudden, like the leapOf the young forester’s unbended bow;But, above all, to tenderness at home,And sweet security of kind concernEven from those who seem most truly ours.Who would resign all this, to be approach’d,Like a sick infant by a canting nurse,To spread his arms in darkness, and to findOne universal hollowness around.Forego, a little while, that bane of peace.Love may be cherished.
Abd.’Tis enough: I askNo other boon.
Muza. Not victory?
Abd.Farewell,O queen! I will deserve thee; why do tearsSilently drop, and slowly, down thy veil?I shall return to worship thee, and soon;Why this affliction? O, that I aloneCould raise or could repress it!
Egil.We depart,Nor interrupt your counsels, nor impede;O may they prosper, whatsoe’er they be,And perfidy soon meet its just reward!The infirm and peaceful Opas—whither gone?
Muza. Stay, daughter; not for counsel are we met,But to secure our arms from treachery,O’erthrow and stifle base conspiracies,Involve in his own toils our false allie—
Egil.Author of every woe I have endur’d!Ah sacrilegious man! he vowed to heavenNone of his blood should ever mount the throne.
Muza. Herein his vow indeed is ratified;Yet faithful ears have heard this offer made,And weighty was the conference that ensuedAnd long—not dubious—for what mortal e’erRefus’d alliance with illustrious power?Tho’ some have given its enjoyments up,Tired and enfeebled by satiety.His friends and partisans, ’twas his pretence,Should pass uninterrupted; hence his campIs open, every day, to enemies.You look around, O queen, as tho’ you fear’dTheir entrance—Julian I pursue no more;You conquer him—return we; I bequeathRuin, extermination, not reproach.How we may best attain your peace and willWe must consider in some other place,Not, lady, in the midst of snares and wilesHow to supplant your charms and seize your crown.
[He takes her hand.
I rescue it, fear not: yes, we retire.
[She is reluctant to go with him.
Whatever is your wish becomes my own,Nor is there in this land but who obeys.
[Sternly—he leads her away.
Palace inXeres.
RoderigoandOpas.
Rod.Impossible! she could not thus resignMe, for a miscreant of Barbary,A mere adventurer—but that citron faceShall bleach and shrivel the whole winter long;There, on yon cork-tree by the sallyport.She shall return.
Opas. To fondness and to faith?Dost thou retain them, if she could return?
Rod.Retain them? she has forfeited by thisAll right to fondness, all to royalty.
Opas. Consider, and speak calmly: she deservesSome pity, some reproof.
Rod.To speak then calmly,Since thine eyes open and can see her guilt——Infamous and atrocious! let her go—Chains—
Opas. What! in Muza’s camp?
Rod.My scorn supreme!
Opas. Say, pity.
Rod.Aye, aye, pity—that suits best,I loved her, buthadloved her; three whole yearsOf pleasure, and of varied pleasure too,Had worne the soft impression half away.What I once felt, I would recall; the faintResponsive voice grew fainter each reply:Imagination sunk amid the scenesIt labour’d to create; the vivid joyOf fleeting youth I followed, and posest.’Tis the first moment of the tenderest hour,’Tis the first mien on entering new delights,We give our peace, our power, our souls, for these.
Opas. Thou hast; and what remains?
Rod.Myself—Roderigo—Whom hatred cannot reach, nor love cast down.
Opas. Nor gratitude nor pity nor remorseCall back, nor vows nor earth nor heaven controul.But art thou free and happy? art thou safe?By shrewd contempt the humblest may chastizeWhom scarlet and its ermine cannot scare,And the sword skulks for everywhere in vain.Thee the poor victim of thy outrages,Woman, with all her weakness, may despise.
Rod.But first let quiet age have intervened.
Opas. Ne’er will the peace or apathy of ageBe thine, or twilight steal upon thy day.The violent choose, but cannot change, their end—Violence, by man or nature, must be theirs;Thine it must be, and who to pity thee?
Rod.Behold my solace! none. I want no pity.
Opas. Proclaim we those the happiest of mankindWho never knew a want? O what a curseTo thee this utter ignorance of thine!Julian, whom all the good commiserate,Sees thee below him far in happiness:A state indeed: of no quick restlesness,No glancing agitation—one vast swellOf melancholy, deep, impassable,Interminable, where his spirit aloneBroods and o’ershadows all, bears him from earthAnd purifies his chasten’d soul for heaven.Both heaven and earth shall from thy grasp recede.Whether on death or life thou arguest,Untutor’d savage or corrupted heathenAvows no sentiment so vile as thine.
Rod.Nor feels?
Opas. O human nature! I have heardThe secrets of the soul, and pitied thee.Bad and accursed things have men confestBefore me, but have left them unarrayed,Naked, and shivering with deformity.The troubled dreams and deafening gush of youthFling o’er the fancy, struggling to be free,Discordant and impracticable things:If the good shudder at their past escapes,Shall not the wicked shudder at their crimes?They shall—and I denounce upon thy headGod’s vengeance—thou shalt rule this land no more.
Rod.What! my own kindred leave me, and renounce me!
Opas. Kindred? and is there any in our worldSo near us, as those sources of all joy,Those on whose bosom every gale of lifeBlows softly, who reflect our imagesIn loveliness through sorrows and through age,And bear them onward far beyond the grave.
Rod.Methinks, most reverend Opas, not inaptAre these fair views; arise they from Seville?
Opas. He, who can scoff at them, may scoff at me.Such are we, that the giver of all goodShall, in the heart he purifies, posessThe latest love—the earliest, no, not there!I’ve known the firm and faithful; even from theseLife’s eddying spring shed the first bloom on earth.I pity them, but ask their pity too.I love the happiness of men, and praiseAnd sanctify the blessings I renounce.
Rod.Yet would thy baleful influence undermineThe heaven-appointed throne.
Opas. —the throne of guiltObdurate, without plea, without remorse.
Rod.What power hast thou? perhaps thou soon wilt wantA place of refuge.
Opas. Rather say, perhapsMy place of refuge will receive me soon:Could I extend it even to thy crimes,It should be open; but the wrath of heavenTurns them against thee, and subverts thy sway;It leaves thee not, what wickedness and woeOft in their drear communion taste together,Hope and repentance.
Rod.But it leaves me arms,Vigour of soul and body, and a raceSubject by law, and dutiful by choice,Whose hand is never to be holden fastWithin the closing cleft of knarled creeds;No easy prey for these vile mitred Moors.I, who received thy homage, may retortThy threats, vain prelate, and abase thy pride.
Opas. Low must be those whom mortal can sink lower,Nor high are they whom human power may raise.
Rod.Judge now: for, hear the signal.
Opas. And deridesThy buoyant heart the dubious gulphs of war?Trumpets may sound, and not to victory.
Rod.The traitor and his daughter feel my power.
Opas. Just God! avert it.
Rod.Seize this rebel priest.I will alone subdue my enemies.