Chapter 6

_Camp of_ JULIAN.

JULIAN _and_ COVILLA.

_Jul._ Obdurate! I am not as I appear. Weep, my beloved child, Covilla weep Into my bosom; every drop be mine Of this most bitter soul-empoisoning cup: Into no other bosom than thy father’s Canst thou, or wouldst thou, pour it.

_Cov._ Cease, my lord, My father, angel of my youth, when all Was 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 see Her and thy brothers.

_Cov._ No! I cannot look On 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 walls Into 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 tribes Of 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 loose At which ensanguined War stands shuddering; And calls for vengeance from the powers above, Impatient of inflicting it himself. Nature, in these new horrors, is aghast At her own progeny, and knows them not. I am the minister of wrath; the hands That 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 hour Where the familiar voice of history Is hardly known, however nigh, attuned In softer accents to the sickened ear; But thou hast heard, for nurses tell these tales, Whether I drew my sword for Witiza Abandoned by the people he betrayed, Tho’ brother to the woman who of all Was 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 steps Of her Theodofred, when burning brass Plunged 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 laid Before his throne, while happiness was there, And strain’d the sightless nerve tow’rds where they stood At the forced memory of the very oaths He 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 caparisoned In loyal acclamation round Roderigo; Their sons beside them, loving one another Unfeignedly, thro’ joy, while they themselves In mutual homage mutual scorn suppress. Their very walls and roofs are welcoming The King’s approach, their storied tapestry Swells its rich arch for him triumphantly At every clarion blowing from below.

_Cov._ Such wicked men will never leave his side.

_Jul._ For they are insects which see nought beyond Where they now crawl; whose changes are complete, Unless of habitation.

_Cov._ Whither go Creatures, unfit for better, or for worse?

_Jul._ Some to the grave—where peace be with them—some Across the Pyrenean mountains far, Into the plains of France; suspicion there Will hang on every step from rich and poor, Grey quickly-glancing eyes will wrinkle round And courtesy will watch them, day and night. Shameless they are, yet will they blush, amidst A nation that ne’er blushes: some will drag The 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 fare To 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! myself Laid 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 away As they waste mine; or tell where I have died, Only to show her that her every care Could not have saved, could not have comforted; That she herself, clasping me once again To 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.