TO A CHILD…

TO A CHILD

Dear child! how radiant on thy mother’s knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the brave bashaw With bearded lip and chin; And, leaning idly o’er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin.

With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune! Thousands of years in Indian seas That coral grew, by slow degrees, Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel’s sand! Those silver bells Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep sunken wells Of darksome mines, In some obscure and sunless place, Beneath huge Chimborazo’s base, Or Potosí’s o’erhanging pines!

And thus for thee, O little child, Through many a danger and escape, The tall ships passed the stormy cape; For thee in foreign lands remote, Beneath the burning, tropic clime, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid, The buried treasures of the miser, Time.

But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou hearest footsteps from afar! And, at the sound, Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand Some source of wonder and surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently, Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison walls to thee. No more thy mother’s smiles, No more the painted tiles, Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor That won thy little, beating heart before; Thou strugglest for the open door.

Through these once solitary halls Thy pattering footstep falls. The sound of thy merry voice Makes the old walls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, O’er the light of whose gladness No shadows of sadness From the sombre background of memory start.

Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, The Father of his Country, dwelt. And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt. Up and down these echoing stairs, Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounded his majestic tread; Yes, within this very room Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary both in heart and head.

But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Out, out! into the open air! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, As restless as the bee. Along the garden walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm!

What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, And voice more beautiful than a poet’s books, Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, Thou comest back to parley with repose! This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, With its o’erhanging golden canopy Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, And shining with the argent light of dews, Shall for a season be our place of rest. Beneath us, like an oriole’s pendent nest, From which the laughing birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. Dreamlike the waters of the river gleam; A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep.

O child! O new-born denizen Of life’s great city! on thy head The glory of the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison! Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future’s undiscovered land, I see its valves expand, As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, By some prophetic feeling taught, I launch the bold, adventurous thought, Freighted with hope and fear; As upon subterranean streams, In caverns unexplored and dark, Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, Laden with flickering fire, And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length they disappear, And in the distant dark expire.

By what astrology of fear or hope Dare I to cast thy horoscope! Like the new moon thy life appears; A little strip of silver light, And widening outward into night The shadowy disk of future years; And yet upon its outer rim, A luminous circle, faint and dim, And scarcely visible to us here, Rounds and completes the perfect sphere; A prophecy and intimation, A pale and feeble adumbration, Of the great world of light, that lies Behind all human destinies.

Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, Should be to wet the dusty soil With the hot tears and sweat of toil,— To struggle with imperious thought, Until the overburdened brain, Weary with labour, faint with pain, Like a jarred pendulum, retain Only its motion, not its power,— Remember, in that perilous hour, When most afflicted and oppressed, From labour there shall come forth rest.

And if a more auspicious fate On thy advancing steps await, Still let it ever be thy pride To linger by the labourer’s side; With words of sympathy or song To cheer the dreary march along Of the great army of the poor, O’er desert sand, o’er dangerous moor. Nor to thyself the task shall be Without reward; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern True beauty in utility; As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith’s door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire, And formed the seven-chorded lyre.

Enough! I will not play the Seer; I will no longer strive to ope The mystic volume, where appear The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. Thy destiny remains untold; For, like Acestes’ shaft of old, The swift thought kindles as it flies, And burns to ashes in the skies.

THE OCCULTATION OF ORION

I saw, as in a dream sublime, The balance in the hand of Time. O’er East and West its beam impended; And day, with all its hours of light, Was slowly sinking out of sight, While, opposite, the scale of night Silently with the stars ascended.

Like the astrologers of eld, In that bright vision I beheld Greater and deeper mysteries. I saw, with its celestial keys, Its chords of air, its frets of fire, The Samian’s great Æolian lyre, Rising through all its sevenfold bars, From earth unto the fixèd stars. And through the dewy atmosphere, Not only could I see, but hear, Its wondrous and harmonious strings, Its sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, From Dian’s circle light and near, Onward to vaster and wider rings, Where, chanting through his beard of snows, Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, And down the sunless realms of space Reverberates the thunder of his bass.

Beneath the sky’s triumphal arch This music sounded like a march, And with its chorus seemed to be Preluding some great tragedy. Sirius was rising in the east; And, slow ascending one by one, The kindling constellations shone. Begirt with many a blazing star, Stood the great giant Algebar, Orion, hunter of the beast! His sword hung gleaming by his side. And, on his arm, the lion’s hide Scattered across the midnight air The golden radiance of its hair.

The moon was pallid, but not faint, And beautiful as some fair saint, Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay. As if she heard the voice of God, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars, As on the glowing coals and bars That were to prove her strength, and try Her holiness and her purity.

Thus moving on, with silent pace, And triumph in her sweet, pale face, She reached the station of Orion. Aghast he stood in strange alarm! And suddenly from his outstretched arm Down fell the red skin of the lion Into the river at his feet. His mighty club no longer beat The forehead of the bull; but he Reeled as of yore beside the sea, When, blinded by Œnopion, He sought the blacksmith at his forge, And, climbing up the mountain gorge, Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.

Then, through the silence overhead, An angel with a trumpet said, “For evermore, for evermore, The reign of violence is o’er!” And like an instrument that flings Its music on another’s strings, The trumpet of the angel cast Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, And on from sphere to sphere the words Re-echoed down the burning chords,— “For evermore, for evermore, The reign of violence is o’er!”

RAIN IN SUMMER

How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighbouring school Come the boys, With more than their wonted noise And commotion; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets, Till the treacherous pool Engulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean.

In the country, on every side Where far and wide, Like a leopard’s tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale The clover-scented gale, And the vapours that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man’s spoken word.

Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures, and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these, The Poet sees! He can behold Aquarius old Walking the fenceless fields of air, And from each ample fold Of the clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain.

He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, Have not been wholly sung or said. For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water-drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers underground; And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colours seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime Of things, unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning for evermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

THE BRIDGE

I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o’er the city, Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The sea-weed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o’er me That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, oh, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O’er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river, On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odour of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then!

I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow.

And for ever and for ever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.

EXCELSIOR

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice, A banner, with the strange device, Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior!

“Try not the Pass!” the old man said; “Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!” And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior!

“O stay,” the maiden said, “and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!” A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior!

“Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!” This was the peasant’s last Good-night, A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and grey, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior!

TO THE DRIVING CLOUD

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas; Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city’s Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints?

How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies? How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains? Ah! ’tis in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division!

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses! There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk-horn, Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omawhaw Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet!

Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts? Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man? Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri’s Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the grey of the daybreak Marks not the buffalo’s track, nor the Mandan’s dexterous horse-race; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams!

CURFEW

I. Solemnly, mournfully, Dealing its dole, The Curfew Bell Is beginning to toll.

Cover the embers, And put out the light; Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night.

Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire, Sound fades into silence,— All footsteps retire.

No voice in the chambers, No sound in the hall! Sleep and oblivion Reign over all.

II. The book is completed, And closed, like the day; And the hand that has written it Lays it away.

Dim grow its fancies, Forgotten they lie; Like coals in the ashes, They darken and die.

Song sinks into silence, The story is told, The windows are darkened, The hearthstone is cold.

Darker and darker The black shadows fall; Sleep and oblivion Reign over all.

Songs.

TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK

Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows.

The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee.

There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely At the alehouse.

Soiled and dull thou art; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn.

Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As the leaves with the libations Of Olympus.

Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltic,—

When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns In the twilight.

Thou recallest bards, Who, in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages.

Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer.

Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings.

Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Yorick and his boon companions Sang these ditties.

Once Prince Frederick’s Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks;— Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus!

Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them.

Thou hast been their friend; They, alas, have left thee friendless; Yet at least by one warm fireside Art thou welcome.

And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy twittering songs shall nestle In my bosom,—

Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel.

THE ARROW AND THE SONG

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID

Vogelweid the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Würtzburg’s minster towers.

And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest: They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest;

Saying, “From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long.”

Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir.

Day by day, o’er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair, Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air.

On the tree whose heavy branches Overshadowed all the place, On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet’s sculptured face,

On the cross-bars of each window, On the lintel of each door, They renewed the War of Wartburg, Which the bard had fought before.

There they sang their merry carols, Sang their lauds on every side; And the name their voices uttered Was the name of Vogelweid.

Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, “Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our fasting brotherhood.”

Then in vain o’er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bell rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests.

Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir.

Time has long effaced the inscriptions On the cloister’s funeral stones, And tradition only tells us Where repose the poet’s bones.

But around the vast cathedral, By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweid.

[18] Walter von der Vogelweid, or Bird-Meadow, was one of the principal Minnesingers of the thirteenth century. He triumphed over Heinrich von Ofterdingen in that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, known in literary history as the “War of Wartburg.”

THE DAY IS DONE

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life’s endless toil and endeavour; And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labour, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

SEA-WEED

When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with sea-weed from the rocks:

From Bermuda’s reefs; from edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador;

From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas;—

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again.

So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet’s soul, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song:

From the far-off isles enchanted, Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth;

From the strong Will and the Endeavour That for ever Wrestle with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate;—

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart.

DRINKING SONG

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER.

Come, old friend! sit down and listen! From the pitcher placed between us, How the waters laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus!

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, Led by his inebriate Satyrs; On his breast his head is sunken, Vacantly he leers and chatters.

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; Ivy crowns that brow supernal As the forehead of Apollo, And possessing youth eternal.

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante’s Vineyards, sing delirious verses.

Thus he won, through all the nations, Bloodless victories, and the farmer Bore, as trophies and oblations, Vines for banners, ploughs for armour.

Judged by no o’er-zealous rigour, Much this mystic throng expresses: Bacchus was the type of vigour, And Silenus of excesses.

These are ancient ethnic revels, Of a faith long since forsaken; Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, Frighten mortals wine-o’ertaken.

Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers; Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,— Not in flasks, and casks and cellars.

Claudius, though he sang of flagons And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, From that fiery blood of dragons Never would his own replenish.

Even Redi, though he chanted Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, Never drank the wine he vaunted In his dithyrambic sallies.

Then with water fill the pitcher Wreathed about with classic fables; Ne’er Falernian threw a richer Light upon Lucullus’ tables.

Come, old friend, sit down and listen! As it passes thus between us, How its wavelets laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus!

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS

[L’éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux: “Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!”—JACQUES BRIDAINE.]

Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw, And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all, “For ever—never! Never—for ever!”

Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass,— “For ever—never! Never—for ever!”

By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say at each chamber-door,— “For ever—never! Never—for ever!”

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe,— “For ever—never! Never—for ever!”

In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased,— “For ever—never! Never—for ever!”

There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours! O golden prime, And affluence of love and time! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— “For ever—never! Never—for ever!”

From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night: There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in his shroud of snow; And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair,— “For ever—never! Never—for ever!”

All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, “Ah! when shall they all meet again?” As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply,— “For ever—never! Never—for ever!”

Never here, for ever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death and time shall disappear,— For ever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly,— “For ever—never! Never—for ever!”

AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY

The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red.

The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o’er the plain;

While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train.

The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell;

Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell.

The Spanish Student

1843.

Dramatis Personæ

VICTORIAN } Students of Alcalá. HYPOLITO }

THE COUNT OF LARA } Gentlemen of Madrid. DON CARLOS }

THE ARCHBISHOP OF TOLEDO. A CARDINAL. BELTRAN CRUZADO Count of the Gipsies. BARTOLOMÉ ROMAN A young Gipsy. THE PADRE CURA OF GUADARRAMA. PEDRO CRESPO Alcalde. PANCHO Alguacil. FRANCISCO Lara’s Servant. CHISPA Victorian’s Servant. BALTASAR Innkeeper. PRECIOSA A Gipsy Girl. ANGELICA A poor Girl. MARTINA The Padre Cura’s Niece. DOLORES Preciosa’s Maid.

Gipsies, Musicians, etc.

Act I

SCENE I.—The COUNT OF LARA’S Chambers. Night. The COUNT in his dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with DON CARLOS.

Lara. You were not at the play to night, Don Carlos; How happened it?

Carlos. I had engagements elsewhere. Pray who was there?

Lara. Why, all the town and court. The house was crowded; and the busy fans Among the gaily dressed and perfumed ladies Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. There was the Countess of Medina Celi; The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, Her Lindo Don Diego; Doña Sol, And Doña Serafina, and her cousins.

Carlos. What was the play?

Lara. It was a dull affair; One of those comedies in which you see, As Lope says, the history of the world Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judgment. There were three duels fought in the first act, Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, “O, I am dead!” a lover in a closet, An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, A Doña Inez with a black mantilla, Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, Who looks intently where he knows she is not!

Carlos. Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night?

Lara. And never better. Every footstep fell As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. I think the girl extremely beautiful.

Carlos. Almost beyond the privilege of woman! I saw her in the Prado yesterday. Her step was royal—queen-like—and her face As beautiful as a saint’s in Paradise.

Lara. May not a saint fall from her Paradise, And be no more a saint?

Carlos. Why do you ask?

Lara. Because I have heard it said this angel fell, And, though she is a virgin outwardly, Within she is a sinner; like those panels Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary On the outside, and on the inside Venus!

Carlos. You do her wrong; indeed, you do her wrong! She is as virtuous as she is fair.

Lara. How credulous you are! Why, look you, friend, There’s not a virtuous woman in Madrid, In this whole city! And would you persuade me That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself Nightly, half-naked, on the stage, for money, And with voluptuous motions fires the blood Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held A model for her virtue.

Carlos. You forget She is a Gipsy girl.

Lara. And therefore won The easier.

Carlos. Nay, not to be won at all! The only virtue that a Gipsy prizes Is chastity. This is her only virtue. Dearer than life she holds it. I remember A Gipsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, Whose craft was to betray the young and fair; And yet this woman was above all bribes. And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty, The wild and wizard beauty of her race, Offered her gold to be what she made others, She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, And smote him in the face!

Lara. And does that prove That Preciosa is above suspicion?

Carlos. It proves a nobleman may be repulsed When he thinks conquest easy. I believe That woman, in her deepest degradation, Holds something sacred, something undefiled, Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature, And, like the diamond in the dark, retains Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light!

Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold.

Carlos [rising]. I do not think so.

Lara. I am sure of it. But why this haste? Stay yet a little longer, And fight the battles of your Dulcinea.

Carlos. ’Tis late. I must begone, for if I stay You will not be persuaded.

Lara. Yes; persuade me.

Carlos. No one so deaf as he who will not hear!

Lara. No one so blind as he who will not see!

Carlos. And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams, And greater faith in woman. [Exit.

Lara. Greater faith! I have the greatest faith; for I believe Victorian is her lover. I believe That I shall be to-morrow; and thereafter Another, and another, and another, Chasing each other through her zodiac, As Taurus chases Aries.

[Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.]

Well, Francisco, What speed with Preciosa?

Fran. None, my lord. She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you She is not to be purchased by your gold.

Lara. Then I will try some other way to win her. Pray, dost thou know Victorian?

Fran. Yes, my lord, I saw him at the jeweller’s to-day.

Lara. What was he doing there?

Fran. I saw him buy A golden ring that had a ruby in it.

Lara. Was there another like it?

Fran. One so like it I could not choose between them.

Lara. It is well. To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—A street in Madrid. Enter CHISPA, followed by musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments.

Chis. Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here’s my master, Victorian, yesterday a cowkeeper, and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all this serenading cease. Ay, marry! marry! marry! Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daughter! And, of a truth, there is something more in matrimony than the wedding-ring. [To the musicians.] And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray, walk this way; and don’t hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend?

First Mus. Gerónimo Gil, at your service.

Chis. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Gerónimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee?

First Mus. Why so?

Chis. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that?

First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe.

Chis. Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving off?

First Mus. No, your honour.

Chis. I am glad of it. What other instruments have we?

Second and Third Mus. We play the bandurria.

Chis. A pleasing instrument. Art thou?

Fourth Mus. The fife.

Chis. I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that soars up to my lady’s window like the song of a swallow. And you others?

Other Mus. We are the singers, please your honour.

Chis. You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in the cathedral of Córdova? Four men can make but little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me along the garden wall. That is the way my master climbs to the lady’s window. It is by the Vicar’s skirts that the devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make no noise. [Exeunt.

Act I, Scene III — PRECIOSA’S Chamber. She stands at the open window.

Pre. How slowly through the lilac-scented air Descends the tranquil moon! Like thistle-down The vapoury clouds float in the peaceful sky; And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade The nightingales breathe out their souls in song. And hark! what songs of love, what soul-like sounds, Answer them from below!

SERENADE.

Stars of the summer night! Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night! Far down yon western steeps, Sink, sink in silver light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch! while in slumbers light She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

[Enter VICTORIAN by the balcony.]

Vict. Poor little dove! Thou tremblest like a leaf!

Pre. I am so frightened! ’Tis for thee I tremble! I hate to have thee climb that wall by night! Did no one see thee?

Vict. None, my love, but thou.

Pre. ’Tis very dangerous; and when thou art gone, I chide myself for letting thee come here Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been? Since yesterday I have no news from thee.

Vict. Since yesterday I’ve been in Alcalá. Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa, When that dull distance shall no more divide us, And I no more shall scale thy wall by night To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now.

Pre. An honest thief to steal but what thou givest.

Vict. And we shall sit together unmolested, And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, As singing birds from one bough to another.

Pre. That were a life indeed to make time envious! I knew that thou wouldst visit me to-night. I saw thee at the play.

Vict. Sweet child of air! Never did I behold thee so attired

And garmented in beauty as to-night! What hast thou done to make thee look so fair?

Pre. Am not I always fair?

Vict. Ay, and so fair That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee, And wish that they were blind.

Pre. I heed them not; When thou art present, I see none but thee!

Vict. There’s nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.

Pre. And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books.

Vict. Thou comest between me and those books too often! I see thy face in everything I see! The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks, The canticles are changed to sarabands. And with the learned doctors of the schools I see thee dance cachuchas.

Pre. In good sooth, I dance with learned doctors of the schools To-morrow morning.

Vict. And with whom, I pray?

Pre. A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace The Archbishop of Toledo.

Vict. What mad jest Is this?

Pre. It is no jest; indeed it is not.

Vict. Prithee, explain thyself.

Pre. Why, simply thus. Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain To put a stop to dances on the stage.

Vict. I have heard it whispered.

Pre. Now the Cardinal Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold With his own eyes these dances; and the Archbishop Has sent for me——

Vict. That thou mayst dance before them! Now viva la cachucha! It will breathe The fire of youth into these grey old men! ’Twill be thy proudest conquest!

Pre. Saving one. And yet I fear these dances will be stopped, And Preciosa be once more a beggar.

Vict. The sweetest beggar that e’er asked for alms; With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee I gave my heart away!

Pre. Dost thou remember When first we met?

Vict. It was at Córdova, In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain.

Pre. ’Twas Easter-Sunday. The full blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. The priests were singing, and the organ sounded, And then anon the great cathedral bell. It was the elevation of the Host. We both of us fell down upon our knees, Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. I never had been happy till that moment.

Vict. Thou blessed angel!

Pre. And when thou wast gone I felt an aching here. I did not speak To any one that day. But from that day Bartolomé grew hateful unto me.

Vict. Remember him no more. Let not his shadow Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa! I loved thee even then, though I was silent!

Pre. I thought I ne’er should see thy face again. Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it.

Vict. That was the first sound in the song of love! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone.

Pre. That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warnings?

Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. As drops of rain fall into some dark well, And from below comes a scarce audible sound, So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, And their mysterious echo reaches us.

Pre. I have felt it so, but found no words to say it! I cannot reason; I can only feel! But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings. Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I think We cannot walk together in this world! The distance that divides us is too great! Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars; I must not hold thee back.

Vict. Thou little sceptic! Dost thou still doubt? What I most prize in woman Is her affections, not her intellect! The intellect is finite; but the affections Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. Compare me with the great men of the earth; What am I? Why, a pigmy among giants! But if thou lovest,—mark me! I say lovest, The greatest of thy sex excels thee not! The world of the affections is thy world, Not that of man’s ambition. In that stillness Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, Feeding its flame. The element of fire Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature, But burns as brightly in a Gipsy camp As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced?

Pre. Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven; But not that I am worthy of that heaven. How shall I more deserve it?

Vict. Loving more.

Pre. I cannot love thee more; my heart is full.

Vict. Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, As in the summer time the thirsty sands Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares, And still do thirst for more.

A Watchman [in the street]. Ave Maria Purissima! ’Tis midnight and serene!

Vict. Hear’st thou that cry?

Pre. It is a hateful sound, To scare thee from me!

Vict. As the hunter’s horn Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds The moor-fowl from his mate.

Pre. Pray, do not go!

Vict. I must away to Alcalá to-night. Think of me when I am away.

Pre. Fear not! I have no thoughts that do not think of thee.

Vict. [giving her a ring]. And to remind thee of my love, take this; A serpent, emblem of Eternity; A ruby,—say, a drop of my heart’s blood.

Pre. It is an ancient saying, that the ruby Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow, Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas! It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin.

Vict. What convent of barefooted Carmelites Taught thee so much theology?

Pre. [laying her hand upon his mouth]. Hush! Hush! Good night! and may all holy angels guard thee!

Vict. Good night! good night! Thou art my guardian angel! I have no other saint than thou to pray to!

[He descends by the balcony.]

Pre. Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe?

Vict. [from the garden]. Safe as my love for thee! But art thou safe? Others can climb a balcony by moonlight As well as I. Pray shut thy window close; I am jealous of the perfumed air of night That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips.

Pre. [throwing down her handkerchief]. Thou silly child; take this to bind thine eyes. It is my benison!

Vict. And brings to me Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind Wafts to the outbound mariner the breath Of the belovèd land he leaves behind.

Pre. Make not thy voyage long.

Vict. To-morrow night Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star To guide me to an anchorage. Good night! My beauteous star! My star of love, good night!

Pre. Good night!

Watchman [at a distance]. Ave Maria Purissima!

Act I, Scene IV — An inn on the road to Alcalá. BALTASAR asleep on a bench. Enter CHISPA

Chis. And here we are, half-way to Alcalá, between cocks and midnight. Body of me! what an inn this is! The lights out, and the landlord asleep. Holá! ancient Baltasar!

Balt. [waking]. Here I am.

Chis. Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcalde in a town without inhabitants. Bring a light, and let me have supper.

Balt. Where is your master?

Chis. Do not trouble yourself about him. We have stopped a moment to breathe our horses; and, if he chooses to walk up and down in the open air, looking into the sky as one who hears it rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, you know. But be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every man stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet. What have we here?

Balt. [setting a light on the table]. Stewed rabbit.

Chis. [eating]. Conscience of Portalegre! Stewed kitten, you mean!

Balt. And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a roasted pear in it.

Chis. [drinking]. Ancient Baltasar, amigo! You know how to cry wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing but Vino Tinto of La Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin.

Balt. I swear to you by Saint Simon and Judas, it is all as I say.

Chis. And I swear to you by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, that it is no such thing. Moreover, your supper is like the hidalgo’s dinner, very little meat, and a great deal of table-cloth.

Balt. Ha! ha! ha!

Chis. And more noise than nuts.

Balt. Ha! ha! ha! You must have your joke, Master Chispa. But shall I not ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes?

Chis. No; you might as well say, “Don’t-you-want-some?” to a dead man.

Balt. Why does he go so often to Madrid?

Chis. For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is in love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar?

Balt. I was never out of it, good Chispa. It has been the torment of my life.

Chis. What! are you on fire, too, old haystack? Why, we shall never be able to put you out.

Vict. [without]. Chispa!

Chis. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crowing.

Vict. Ea! Chispa! Chispa!

Chis. Ea! Señor. Come with me, ancient Baltasar, and bring water for the horses. I will pay for the supper, to-morrow.

[Exeunt.

Act I, Scene V — VICTORIAN’S Chambers at Alcalá. HYPOLITO asleep in an arm-chair. He awakes slowly.

Hyp. I must have been asleep! ay, sound asleep! And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep! Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled Out of Oblivion’s well, a healing draught! The candles have burned low; it must be late. Where can Victorian be? Like Fray Carillo,[19] The only place in which one cannot find him Is his own cell. Here’s his guitar, that seldom Feels the caresses of its master’s hand. Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument! And make dull midnight merry with a song.

[He plays and sings.]

Padre Francisco! Padre Francisco! What do you want of Padre Francisco? Here is a pretty young maiden Who wants to confess her sins. Open the door and let her come in, I will shrive her from every sin.

[Enter VICTORIAN.]

[19] The allusion is to a Spanish epigram. See Appendix.

Vict. Padre Hypolito! Padre Hypolito!

Hyp. What do you want of Padre Hypolito?

Vict. Come, shrive me straight; for, if love be a sin, I am the greatest sinner that doth live. I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, A maiden wooed and won.

Hyp. The same old tale Of the old woman in the chimney corner, Who, while the pot boils, says, “Come here, my child; I’ll tell thee a story of my wedding-day.”

Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full That I must speak.

Hyp. Alas! that heart of thine Is like a scene in the old play; the curtain Rises to solemn music, and lo! enter The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne!

Vict. Nay, like the Sibyl’s volumes, thou shouldst say; Those that remained, after the six were burned, Being held more precious than the nine together. But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember The gipsy girl we saw at Córdova Dance the Romalis in the market-place?

Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa?

Vict. Ay, the same. Thou knowest how her image haunted me Long after we returned to Alcalá. She’s in Madrid.

Hyp. I know it.

Vict. And I am in love.

Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be In Alcalá.

Vict. O pardon me, my friend, If I so long have kept this secret from thee; But silence is the charm that guards such treasures, And, if a word be spoken ere the time, They sink again, they were not meant for us.

Hyp. Alas! alas! I see thou art in love. Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak. It serves for food and raiment. Give a Spaniard His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa,— Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover, How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coy? Write her a song, beginning with an Ave; Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary,

_Ave! cujus calcem clare, Nec centenni commendare Sciret Seraph studio._

Vict. Pray, do not jest! This is no time for it. I am in earnest!

Hyp. Seriously enamoured? What, ho! The Primus of great Alcalá Enamoured of a Gipsy! Tell me frankly, How meanest thou?

Vict. I mean it honestly.

Hyp. Surely thou wilt not marry her!

Vict. Why not?

Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bartolomé, If I remember rightly, a young Gipsy Who danced with her at Córdova.

Vict. They quarrelled, And so the matter ended.

Hyp. But in truth Thou wilt not marry her?

Vict. In truth I will. The angels sang in heaven when she was born! She is a precious jewel I have found Among the filth and rubbish of the world. I’ll stoop for it; but when I wear it here, Set on my forehead like the morning star, The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.

Hyp. If thou wear’st nothing else upon thy forehead, ’Twill be indeed a wonder.

Vict. Out upon thee, With thy unseasonable jests! Pray, tell me, Is there no virtue in the world?

Hyp. Not much. What, think’st thou, is she doing at this moment; Now, while we speak of her?

Vict. She lies asleep, And, from her parted lips, her gentle breath Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. Her tender limbs are still, and, on her breast, The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, Like a light barge safe moored.

Hyp. Which means, in prose, She’s sleeping with her mouth a little open!

Vict. O, would I had the old magician’s glass To see her as she lies in childlike sleep!

Hyp. And wouldst thou venture?

Vict. Ay, indeed I would!

Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou e’er reflected How much lies hidden in that one word, now?

Vict. Yes, all the awful mystery of Life! I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, That could we, by some spell of magic, change The world and its inhabitants to stone, In the same attitudes they now are in, What fearful glances downward might we cast Into the hollow chasms of human life! What groups should we behold about the death-bed, Putting to shame the group of Niobe! What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells! What stony tears in those congealèd eyes! What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks! What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows! What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling! What lovers with their marble lips together!

Hyp. Ay, there it is! and, if I were in love, That is the very point I most should dread. This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, Might tell a tale were better left untold. For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin, The Lady Violante, bathed in tears Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, Having won that golden fleece, a woman’s love, Desertest for this Glaucè.

Vict. Hold thy peace! She cares not for me. She may wed another, Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields.

Hyp. [rising]. And so, good night! Good morning, I should say.

[Clock strikes three.]

Hark! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time Knocks at the golden portals of the day! And so, once more, good night! We’ll speak more largely Of Preciosa when we meet again. Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, In all her loveliness. Good night! [Exit.

Vict. Good night! But not to bed; for I must read awhile.

[Throws himself into the arm-chair which HYPOLITO has left, and lays a large book open upon his knees.]

Must read, or sit in reverie and watch The changing colour of the waves that break Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind! Visions of Fame! that once did visit me, Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye? O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone, Juices of those immortal plants that bloom Upon Olympus, making us immortal? Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, And make the mind prolific in its fancies? I have the wish, but want the will, to act! Souls of great men departed! Ye whose words Have come to light from the swift river of Time, Like Roman swords found in the Tagus’ bed, Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore? From the barred visor of Antiquity Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, As from a mirror! All the means of action— The shapeless masses—the materials— Lie everywhere about us. What we need Is the celestial fire to change the flint Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius! The rude peasant sits At evening in his smoky cot, and draws With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. The son of genius comes, footsore with travel, And begs a shelter from the inclement night. He takes the charcoal from the peasant’s hand, And, by the magic of his touch at once Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, It gleams a diamond! Even thus transformed, Rude popular traditions and old tales Shine as immortal poems, at the touch Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard, Who had but a night’s lodgings for his pains. But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, As from some woodland fount a spirit rises And sinks again into its silent deeps, Ere the enamoured knight can touch her robe! ’Tis this ideal that the soul of man, Like the enamoured knight beside the fountain, Waits for upon the margin of Life’s stream; Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how many Must wait in vain! The stream flows evermore, But from its silent deeps no spirit rises! Yet I, born under a propitious star, Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel, Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel The pressure of her head! God’s benison Rest ever on it! Close those beauteous eyes, Sweet Sleep! and all the flowers that bloom at night With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name!

[Gradually sinks asleep.]

Act II, Scene I — PRECIOSA’S Chamber. Morning. PRECIOSA and ANGELICA

Pre. Why will you go so soon? Stay yet awhile. The poor too often turn away unheard From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in Heaven. Pray, tell me more Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. What is your landlord’s name?

Ang. The Count of Lara.

Pre. The Count of Lara? O, beware that man! Mistrust his pity,—hold no parley with him! And rather die an outcast in the streets Than touch his gold.

Ang. You know him, then!

Pre. As much As any woman may, and yet be pure. As you would keep your name without a blemish, Beware of him!

Ang. Alas! what can I do? I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness, Come from whence it may, is welcome to the poor.

Pre. Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair Should have no friends but those of her own sex. What is your name?

Ang. Angelica.

Pre. That name Was given you, that you might be an angel To her who bore you! When your infant smile Made her home Paradise, you were her angel. O, be an angel still! She needs that smile. So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. No one can harm you! I am a poor girl, Whom chance has taken from the public streets. I have no other shield than mine own virtue, That is the charm which has protected me! Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it Here on my heart! It is my guardian angel.

Ang. [rising]. I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady.

Pre. Thank me by following it.

Ang. Indeed I will.

Pre. Pray, do not go. I have much more to say.

Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her.

Pre. Some other time, then, when we meet again. You must not go away with words alone.

[Gives her a purse.]

Take this. Would it were more.

Ang. I thank you, lady.

Pre. No thanks. To-morrow come to me again. I dance to-night,—perhaps for the last time. But what I gain, I promise shall be yours, If that can save you from the Count of Lara.

Ang. O, my dear lady! how shall I be grateful For so much kindness?

Pre. I deserve no thanks. Thank Heaven, not me.

Ang. Both Heaven and you.

Pre. Farewell. Remember that you come again to-morrow.

Ang. I will. And may the blessed Virgin guard you, And all good angels. [Exit.

Pre. May they guard thee, too, And all the poor; for they have need of angels. Now bring me, dear Dolores, my Basquiña, My richest maja dress,—my dancing dress, And my most precious jewels! Make me look Fairer than night e’er saw me! I’ve a prize To win this day, worthy of Preciosa!

[Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.

Cruz. Ave Maria!

Pre. O God! my evil genius! What seekest thou here to-day?

Cruz. Thyself,—my child.

Pre. What is thy will with me?

Cruz. Gold! gold!

Pre. I gave thee yesterday; I have no more.

Cruz. The gold of the Busné,[20]—give me his gold!

Pre. I gave the last in charity to-day.

Cruz. That is a foolish lie.

Pre. It is the truth.

Cruz. Curses upon thee! Thou art not my child! Hast thou given gold away, and not to me! Not to thy father? To whom then?

[20] Busné is the name given by the Gipsies to all who are not of their race.

Pre. To one Who needs it more.

Cruz. No one can need it more.

Pre. Thou art not poor.

Cruz. What, I, who lurk about In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes; I, who am housed worse than the galley slave; I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound; I, who am clothed in rags,—Beltran Cruzado,— Not poor!

Pre. Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands. Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst thou more?

Cruz. The gold of the Busné! give me his gold!

Pre. Beltran Cruzado! hear me once for all. I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, I gave it to thee freely, at all times, Never denied thee; never had a wish But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace! Be merciful, be patient, and, ere long, Thou shalt have more.

Cruz. And if I have it not, Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers, Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food, And live in idleness; but go with me, Dance the Romalis in the public streets, And wander wild again o’er field and fell; For here we stay not long.

Pre. What! march again?

Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town! I cannot breathe shut up within its gates! Air,—I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, The feeling of the breeze upon my face, The feeling of the turf beneath my feet, And no walls but the far-off mountain-tops. Then I am free and strong,—once more myself, Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Calés![21]

Pre. God speed thee on thy march!—I cannot go.

Cruz. Remember who I am, and who thou art. Be silent and obey! Yet one thing more. Bartolomé Román——

[21] The Gipsies call themselves Calés. See Burrow’s valuable and extremely interesting work, The Zincali; or, An Account of the Gipsies in Spain.

Pre. [with emotion]. O, I beseech thee! If my obedience and blameless life, If my humility and meek submission In all things hitherto, can move in thee One feeling of compassion; if thou art Indeed my father, and canst trace in me One look of her who bore me, or one tone That doth remind thee of her, let it plead In my behalf, who am a feeble girl, Too feeble to resist, and do not force me To wed that man! I am afraid of him! I do not love him! On my knees I beg thee To use no violence, nor do in haste What cannot be undone!

Cruz. O child, child, child! Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. I will not leave thee here in the great city To be a grandee’s mistress. Make thee ready To go with us; and until then remember A watchful eye is on thee. [Exit.

Pre. Woe is me! I have a strange misgiving in my heart! But that one deed of charity I will do, Befall what may; they cannot take that from me. [Exit.

Act II, Scene II — A room in the Archbishop’s palace. The ARCHBISHOP and a CARDINAL seated.

Arch. Knowing how near it touched the public morals, And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten By such excesses, we have sent to Rome, Beseeching that his Holiness would aid In curing the gross surfeit of the time, By seasonable stop put here in Spain To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage. All this you know.

Card. Know and approve.

Arch. And further, That, by a mandate from his Holiness, The first have been suppressed.

Card. I trust for ever; It was a cruel sport.

Arch. A barbarous pastime, Disgraceful to the land that calls itself Most Catholic and Christian.

Card. Yet the people Murmur at this; and, if the public dances Should be condemned upon too slight occasion, Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure. As Panem et Circenses was the cry Among the Roman populace of old, So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. Hence I would act advisedly herein; And therefore have induced your grace to see These national dances, ere we interdict them.

[Enter a Servant.]

Ser. The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians Your grace was pleased to order, wait without.

Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold In what angelic yet voluptuous shape The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony.

[Enter PRECIOSA, with a mantle thrown over her head. She advances slowly, in a modest, half-timid attitude.]

Card. [aside]. O, what a fair and ministering angel Was lost to Heaven when this sweet woman fell!

Pre. [kneeling before the Archbishop]. I have obeyed the order of your grace. If I intrude upon your better hours, I proffer this excuse, and here beseech Your holy benediction.

Arch. May God bless thee, And lead thee to a better life. Arise.

Card. [aside]. Her acts are modest, and her words discreet! I did not look for this! Come hither, child. Is thy name Preciosa?

Pre. Thus I am called.

Card. That is a Gipsy name. Who is thy father?

Pre. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Calés.

Arch. I have a dim remembrance of that man. He was a bold and reckless character, A sun-burnt Ishmael!

Card. Dost thou remember Thy earlier days?

Pre. Yes; by the Darro’s side My childhood passed. I can remember still The river, and the mountains capped with snow: The villages, where, yet a little child, I told the traveller’s fortune in the street; The smuggler’s horse, the brigand, and the shepherd, The march across the moor; the halt at noon; The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted The forest where we slept; and, farther back, As in a dream or in some former life, Gardens and palace walls.

Arch. ’Tis the Alhambra, Under whose towers the Gipsy camp was pitched. But the time wears; and we would see the dance.

Pre. Your grace shall be obeyed.

[She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachuca is played, and the dance begins. The ARCHBISHOP and the CARDINAL look on with gravity and an occasional frown; then make signs to each other; and, as the dance continues, become more and more pleased and excited; and at length rise from their seats, throw their caps in the air, and applaud vehemently as the scene closes.]

SCENE III.—The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the gate of Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. A fountain. Evening. DON CARLOS and HYPOLITO meeting.

Carlos. Holá! Good evening, Don Hypolito.

Hyp. And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos. Some lucky star has led my steps this way. I was in search of you.

Carlos. Command me always.

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo’s Dreams, The miser who, upon the Day of Judgment, Asks if his money-bags would rise?

Carlos. I do; But what of that?

Hyp. I am that wretched man.

Carlos. You mean to tell me yours have risen empty?

Hyp. And amen! said my Cid Campeador.[22]

Carlos. Pray, how much need you?

[22] A line from the ancient Poema del Cid.

Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces, Which, with due interest——

Carlos [giving his purse]. What, am I a Jew, To put my moneys out at usury? Here is my purse.

Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse, Made by the hand of some fair Madrilena; Perhaps a keepsake?

Carlos. No, ’tis at your service.

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom, And with thy golden mouth remind me often, I am the debtor of my friend.

Carlos. But tell me, Come you to-day from Alcalá?

Hyp. This moment.

Carlos. And pray, how fares the brave Victorian?

Hyp. Indifferent well; that is to say, not well. A damsel has ensnared him with the glances Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. He is in love.

Carlos. And is it faring ill To be in love?

Hyp. In his case very ill.

Carlos. Why so?

Hyp. For many reasons. First and foremost, Because he is in love with an ideal; A creature of his own imagination; A child of air; an echo of his heart; And, like a lily on a river floating, She floats upon the river of his thoughts![23]

Carlos. A common thing with poets. But who is This floating lily? For, in fine, some woman, Some living woman—not a mere ideal— Must wear the outward semblance of his thought. Who is it? Tell me.

Hyp. Well, it is a woman! But, look you, from the coffer of his heart He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her, As pious priests adorn some favourite saint With gems and gold, until at length she gleams One blaze of glory. Without these, you know, And the priest’s benediction, ’tis a doll.

Carlos. Well, well! who is this doll?

Hyp. Why, who do you think?

Carlos. His cousin Violante.

Hyp. Guess again. To ease his labouring heart, in the last storm He threw her overboard, with all her ingots.

[23] The expression is from Dante. See Appendix.

Carlos. I cannot guess; so tell me who it is.

Hyp. Not I.

Carlos. Why not?

Hyp. [mysteriously]. Why? Because Mari Franca Was married four leagues out of Salamanca![24]

Carlos. Jesting aside, who is it?

Hyp. Preciosa.

Carlos. Impossible! The Count of Lara tells me She is not virtuous.

Hyp. Did I say she was? The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife Whose name was Messalina, as I think; Valeria Messalina was her name. But hist! I see him yonder through the trees, Walking as in a dream.

Carlos. He comes this way.

Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise man, That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden.

[Enter VICTORIAN in front.]

Vict. Where’er thy step has passed is holy ground! These groves are sacred! I behold thee walking Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked At evening, and I feel thy presence now; Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee, And is for ever hallowed.

Hyp. Mark him well! See how he strides away with lordly air, Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander Who comes to sup with Juan in the play.

Carlos. What ho! Victorian!

Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us?

Vict. Holá! amigos! Faith, I did not see you. How fares Don Carlos?

Carlos. At your service ever.

Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana That you both wot of?

Carlos. Ay, soft, emerald eyes! She has gone back to Cadiz.

Hyp. Ay de mí!

Vict. You are much to blame for letting her go back. A pretty girl; and in her tender eyes Just that soft shade of green[25] we sometimes see In evening skies.

Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes, Are thine green?

Vict. Not a whit. Why so?

[24] A common Spanish proverb, used to turn aside a question one does not wish to answer.

[25] See Appendix.

Hyp. I think The slightest shade of green would be becoming, For thou art jealous.

Vict. No, I am not jealous.

Hyp. Thou shouldst be.

Vict. Why?

Hyp. Because thou art in love, And they who are in love are always jealous. Therefore thou shouldst be.

Vict. Marry, is that all? Farewell; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos. Thou sayest I should be jealous?

Hyp. Ay, in truth I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard. I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara Lays siege to the same citadel.

Vict. Indeed! Then he will have his labour for his pains.

Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me He boasts of his success.

Vict. How’s this, Don Carlos?

Carlos. Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. He spoke but lightly of the lady’s virtue, As a gay man might speak.

Vict. Death and damnation! I’ll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, And throw it to my dog! But no, no, no! This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. Trifle with me no more. For otherwise We are no longer friends. And so, farewell! [Exit.

Hyp. Now what a coil is here! The Avenging Child Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death,[26] And the great Moor Calaynos, when he rode To Paris for the ears of Oliver, Were nothing to him! O hot-headed youth! But come; we will not follow. Let us join The crowd that pours into the Prado. There We shall find merrier company; I see The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, And fifty fans, that beckon me already. [Exeunt.

[26] See the ancient Ballads of El Infante Venjador and Calaynos.

SCENE IV.—PRECIOSA’S Chamber. She is sitting, with a book in her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage. The COUNT OF LARA enters behind unperceived.

Pre. [reads].

All are sleeping, weary heart! Thou, thou only sleepless art!

Heigho! I wish Victorian were here. I know not what it is makes me so restless!

[The bird sings.]

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest. Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, I have a gentle gaoler. Lack-a-day!

All are sleeping, weary heart! Thou, thou only sleepless art! All this throbbing, all this aching, Evermore shall keep thee waking, For a heart in sorrow breaking Thinketh ever of its smart.

Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root And grow in silence, and in silence perish. Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? Or who takes note of every flower that dies? Heigho! I wish Victorian would come. Dolores!

[Turns to lay down her book, and perceives the COUNT.]

Ha!

Lara. Señora, pardon me!

Pre. How’s this? Dolores!

Lara. Pardon me——

Pre. Dolores!

Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting. If I have been too bold——

Pre. [turning her back upon him]. You are too bold! Retire! retire, and leave me!

Lara. My dear lady, First hear me! I beseech you, let me speak. ’Tis for your good I come.

Pre. [turning toward him with indignation]. Begone! Begone! You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds Would make the statues of your ancestors Blush on their tombs! Is it Castilian honour, Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong? O shame! shame! shame! that you, a nobleman, Should be so little noble in your thoughts As to send jewels here to win my love, And think to buy my honour with your gold! I have no words to tell you how I scorn you! Begone! The sight of you is hateful to me! Begone, I say!

Lara. Be calm; I will not harm you.

Pre. Because you dare not.

Lara. I dare anything! Therefore beware! You are deceived in me. In this false world, we do not always know Who are our friends and who our enemies. We all have enemies, and all need friends. Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court Have foes who seek to wrong you.

Pre. If to this I owe the honour of the present visit, You might have spared the coming. Having spoken, Once more I beg you, leave me to myself.

Lara. I thought it but a friendly part to tell you What strange reports are current here in town. For my own self, I do not credit them; But there are many who, not knowing you, Will lend a readier ear.

Pre. There was no need That you should take upon yourself the duty Of telling me these tales.

Lara. Malicious tongues Are ever busy with your name.

Pre. Alas! I’ve no protectors. I am a poor girl, Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. I give no cause for these reports. I live Retired, and visited by none.

Lara. By none? O, then, indeed, you are much wronged!

Pre. How mean you?

Lara. Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul By the report of idle tales.

Pre. Speak out! What are these idle tales? You need not spare me.

Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me; This window, as I think, looks towards the street, And this into the Prado, does it not? In yon high house, beyond the garden wall,— You see the roof there just above the trees,— There lives a friend, who told me yesterday, That on a certain night,—be not offended If I too plainly speak,—he saw a man Climb to your chamber window. You are silent! I would not blame you, being young and fair——

[_He tries to embrace her. She starts back, and draws a dagger from her bosom._]

Pre. Beware! beware! I am a Gipsy girl! Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer And I will strike!

Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger. Fear not.

Pre. I do not fear. I have a heart In whose strength I can trust.

Lara. Listen to me. I come here as your friend,—I am your friend,— And by a single word can put a stop To all those idle tales, and make your name Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees, Fair Preciosa! on my knees I swear I love you even to madness, and that love Has driven me to break the rules of custom, And force myself unasked into your presence.

[VICTORIAN enters behind.]

Pre. Rise, Count of Lara! This is not the place For such as you are. It becomes you not To kneel before me. I am strangely moved To see one of your rank thus low and humbled; For your sake I will put aside all anger, All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak In gentleness, as most becomes a woman, And as my heart now prompts me. I no more Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me. But if, without offending modesty And that reserve which is a woman’s glory, I may speak freely, I will teach my heart To love you.

Lara. O sweet angel!

Pre. Ay, in truth, Far better than you love yourself or me.

Lara. Give me some sign of this,—the slightest token. Let me but kiss your hand!

Pre. Nay, come no nearer. The words I utter are its sign and token. Misunderstand me not! Be not deceived! The love wherewith I love you is not such As you would offer me. For you come here To take from me the only thing I have, My honour. You are wealthy, you have friends And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes That fill your heart with happiness; but I Am poor and friendless, having but one treasure, And you would take that from me, and for what? To flatter your own vanity, and make me What you would most despise. O sir, such love, That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love, Indeed it cannot. But my love for you Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. It is a holier feeling. It rebukes Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires, And bids you look into your heart and see How you do wrong that better nature in you, And grieve your soul with sin.

Lara. I swear to you, I would not harm you; I would only love you. I would not take your honour, but restore it, And in return I ask but some slight mark Of your affection. If indeed you love me, As you confess you do, O let me thus With this embrace——

Vict. [rushing forward]. Hold! hold! This is too much. What means this outrage?

Lara. First, what right have you To question thus a nobleman of Spain?

Vict. I too am noble, and you are no more! Out of my sight!

Lara. Are you the master here?

Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong of others Gives me the right!

Pre. [to LARA]. Go! I beseech you, go!

Vict. I shall have business with you, Count, anon!

Lara. You cannot come too soon! [Exit.

Pre. Victorian! O we have been betrayed!

Vict. Ha! ha! betrayed! ’Tis I have been betrayed, not we!—not we!

Pre. Dost thou imagine——

Vict. I imagine nothing; I see how ’tis thou wilest the time away When I am gone!

Pre. O speak not in that tone! It wounds me deeply.

Vict. ’Twas not meant to flatter.

Pre. Too well thou knowest the presence of that man Is hateful to me!

Vict. Yet I saw thee stand And listen to him, when he told his love.

Pre. I did not heed his words.

Vict. Indeed thou didst, And answeredst them with love.

Pre. Hadst thou heard all——

Vict. I heard enough.

Pre. Be not angry so with me.

Vict. I am not angry; I am very calm.

Pre. If thou wilt let me speak——

Vict. Nay, say no more. I know too much already. Thou art false! I do not like these Gipsy marriages! Where is the ring I gave thee?

Pre. In my casket.

Vict. There let it rest! I would not have thee wear it; I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted.

Pre. I call the Heavens to witness——

Vict. Nay, nay, nay! Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips! They are forsworn!

Pre. Victorian! dear Victorian!

Vict. I gave up all for thee; myself, my fame, My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul! And thou hast been my ruin! Now, go on! Laugh at my folly with thy paramour, And, sitting on the Count of Lara’s knee, Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was!

[He casts her from him and rushes out.]

Pre. And this from thee!

[Scene closes.]

Act II, Scene V — The COUNT OF LARA’S rooms. Enter the COUNT

Lara. There’s nothing in this world so sweet as love, And next to love the sweetest thing is hate! I’ve learned to hate, and therefore am revenged. A silly girl to play the prude with me! The fire that I have kindled——

[Enter FRANCISCO.]

Well, Francisco, What tidings from Don Juan?

Fran. Good, my lord. He will be present.

Lara. And the Duke of Lermos?

Fran. Was not at home.

Lara. How with the rest?

Fran. I’ve found The men you wanted. They will be all there, And at the given signal raise a whirlwind Of such discordant noises, that the dance Must cease for lack of music.

Lara. Bravely done. Ah! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa, What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close Thine eyes this night! Give me my cloak and sword. [Exeunt.

Act II, Scene VI — A retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO

Vict. O shame! O shame! Why do I walk abroad By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me, And voices, and familiar sights and sounds, Cry, “Hide thyself!” O what a thin partition Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness! Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are windows, Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face Expresses some suspicion of my shame, And in derision seems to smile at me!

Hyp. Did I not caution thee? Did I not tell thee I was but half-persuaded of her virtue?

Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong, We may be over-hasty in condemning! The Count of Lara is a cursed villain.

Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, loving him.

Vict. She does not love him! ’Tis for gold! for gold!

Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the public streets He shows a golden ring the Gipsy gave him, A serpent with a ruby in its mouth.

Vict. She had that ring from me! God! she is false! But I will be revenged! The hour is passed. Where stays the coward?

Hyp. Nay, he is no coward; A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. I’ve seen him play with swords; it is his pastime. And therefore be not over-confident, He’ll task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes.

[Enter LARA, followed by FRANCISCO.]

Lara. Good evening, gentlemen.

Hyp. Good evening, Count.

Lara. I trust I have not kept you long in waiting.

Vict. Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared?

Lara. I am.

Hyp. It grieves me much to see this quarrel Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way Left open to accord this difference, But you must make one with your swords?

Vict. No! none! I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, Stand not between me and my foe. Too long Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of steel End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir Count!

[They fight. VICTORIAN disarms the COUNT.]

Your life is mine; and what shall now withhold me From sending your vile soul to its account?

Lara. Strike! strike!

Vict. You are disarmed. I will not kill you. I will not murder you. Take up your sword.

[FRANCISCO hands the COUNT _his sword, and_ HYPOLITO interposes.]

Hyp. Enough! Let it end here! The Count of Lara Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian A generous one, as ever. Now be friends. Put up your swords; for, to speak frankly to you, Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing To move you to extremes.

Lara. I am content. I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this.

Vict. Nay, something more than that.

Lara. I understand you. Therein I did not mean to cross your path. To me the door stood open, as to others. But, had I known the girl belonged to you, Never would I have sought to win her from you. The truth stands now revealed; she has been false To both of us.

Vict. Ay, false as hell itself!

Lara. In truth I did not seek her; she sought me; And told me how to win her, telling me The hours when she was oftenest left alone.

Vict. Say, can you prove this to me? O, pluck out These awful doubts, that goad me into madness! Let me know all! all! all!

Lara. You shall know all. Here is my page, who was the messenger Between us. Question him. Was it not so, Francisco?

Fran. Ay, my lord.

Lara. If further proof Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me.

Vict. Pray let me see that ring! It is the same.

[Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upon it.]

Thus may she perish who once wore that ring! Thus do I spurn her from me; do thus trample Her memory in the dust! O Count of Lara, We both have been abused, been much abused! I thank you for your courtesy and frankness. Though, like the surgeon’s hand, yours gave me pain, Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you. I now can see the folly I have done, Though ’tis, alas! too late. So fare you well! To-night I leave this hateful town for ever. Regard me as your friend. Once more, farewell!

Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count.

[Exeunt VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO

Lara. Farewell! farewell! Thus have I cleared the field of my worst foe! I have none else to fear; the fight is done, The citadel is stormed, the victory won!

[Exit with FRANCISCO.

Act II, Scene VII — A lane in the suburbs. Night. Enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOMÉ

Cruz. And so, Bartolomé, the expedition failed. But where wast thou for the most part?

Bart. In the Guadarrama mountains, near San Ildefonso.

Cruz. And thou bringest nothing back with thee? Didst thou rob no one?

Bart. There was no one to rob, save a party of students from Segovia, who looked as if they would rob us; and a jolly little friar, who had nothing in his pockets but a missal and a loaf of bread.

Cruz. Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid?

Bart. First tell me what keeps thee here?

Cruz. Preciosa.

Bart. And she brings me back. Hast thou forgotten thy promise?

Cruz. The two years are not passed yet. Wait patiently. The girl shall be thine.

Bart. I hear she has a Busné lover.

Cruz. That is nothing.

Bart. I do not like it. I hate him,—the son of a Busné harlot. He goes in and out, and speaks with her alone, and I must stand aside and wait his pleasure.

Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy revenge. When the time comes, thou shalt waylay him.

Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house.

Cruz. Come this way. But thou wilt not find her. She dances at the play to-night.

Bart. No matter. Show me the house. [Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.—The Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha. Sound of castanets behind the scenes. The curtain rises, and discovers PRECIOSA in the attitude of commencing the dance. The cachucha. Tumult; hisses; cries of “Brava!” and “Afuera!” She falters and pauses. The music stops. General confusion. PRECIOSA faints.

Act II, Scene IX — The COUNT OF LARA’S chambers. LARA and his friends at supper

Lara. So, Caballeros, once more many thanks! You have stood by me bravely in this matter. Pray fill your glasses.

Juan. Did you mark, Don Luis, How pale she looked, when first the noise began, And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated! Her nostrils spread! her lips apart! her bosom Tumultuous as the sea!

Luis. I pitied her.

Lara. Her pride is humbled; and this very night I mean to visit her.

Juan. Will you serenade her?

Lara. No music! no more music!

Luis. Why not music? It softens many hearts.

Lara. Not in the humour She now is in. Music would madden her.

Juan. Try golden cymbals.

Luis. Yes, try Don Dinero; A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero.

Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid. But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. A bumper and away; for the night wears. A health to Preciosa!

[They rise and drink.]

All. Preciosa!

Lara. [holding up his glass]. Thou bright and flaming minister of Love! Thou wonderful magician! who hast stolen My secret from me, and ’mid sighs of passion Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue, Her precious name! O never more henceforth Shall mortal lips press thine; and never more A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. Go! keep my secret.

[Drinks and dashes the goblet down.]

Juan. Ite! missa est!

[Scene closes.]

Act II, Scene X — Street and garden wall. Night. Enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOMÉ

Cruz. This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, is her house. The window in which thou seest the light is her window. But we will not go in now.

Bart. Why not?

Cruz. Because she is not at home.

Bart. No matter; we can wait. But how is this? The gate is bolted. [Sound of guitars and voices in a neighbouring street.] Hark! There comes her lover with his infernal serenade! Hark!

SONG.

Good night! Good night, beloved! I come to watch o’er thee! To be near thee,—to be near thee, Alone is peace for me.

Thine eyes are stars of morning. Thy lips are crimson flowers! Good night! Good night, beloved, While I count the weary hours.

Cruz. They are not coming this way.

Bart. Wait, they begin again.

SONG [coming nearer].

Ah! thou moon that shinest Argent-clear above! All night long enlighten My sweet lady love! Moon that shinest, All night long enlighten!

Bart. Woe be to him if he comes this way!

Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing down the street.

SONG [dying away].

The nuns in the cloister Sang to each other; For so many sisters Is there not one brother! Ay, for the partridge, mother! The cat has run away with the partridge! Puss! puss! puss!

Bart. Follow that! Follow that! Come with me. Puss! puss!

[Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the COUNT OF LARA and gentlemen, with FRANCISCO.]

Lara. The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco, And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, and over. Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale Yon balcony. How now? Her light still burns. Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco.

[Exeunt. Re-enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOMÉ.]

Bart. They went in at the gate. Hark! I hear them in the garden. [Tries the gate.] Bolted again! Vive Christo! Follow me over the wall. [They climb the wall.]

SCENE XI.—PRECIOSA’S Bed-chamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in an arm-chair, in an undress. DOLORES watching her.

Dol. She sleeps at last!

[Opens the window and listens.]

All silent in the street, And in the garden. Hark!

Pre. [in her sleep]. I must go hence! Give me my cloak!

Dol. He comes! I hear his footsteps!

Pre. Go tell them that I cannot dance to-night; I am too ill! Look at me! See the fever That burns upon my cheek! I must go hence, I am too weak to dance.

[Signal from the garden.]

Dol. [from the window]. Who’s there?

Voice [from below]. A friend.

Dol. I will undo the door. Wait till I come.

Pre. I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me! Shame! shame! to treat a feeble woman thus! Be you but kind, I will do all things for you. I’m ready now,—give me my castanets. Where is Victorian? Oh, those hateful lamps! They glare upon me like an evil eye.[27] I cannot stay. Hark! how they mock at me! They hiss at me like serpents! Save me! save me!

[She wakes.]

How late is it, Dolores?

Dol. It is midnight.

Pre. We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me.

[She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices.]

Voice. Muera!

Another Voice. O villains! villains!

Lara. So! have at you!

Voice. Take that!

Lara. O, I am wounded!

Dol. [shutting the window]. Jesu Maria!

[27] See Appendix.Return to passage

Act III

SCENE I.—A cross-road through a wood. In the background a distant village spire. VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO, as travelling students, with guitars, sitting under the trees. HYPOLITO plays and sings.

SONG.

Ah, Love! Perjured, false, treacherous Love! Enemy Of all that mankind may not rue! Most untrue To him who keeps most faith with thee. Woe is me! The falcon has the eyes of the dove. Ah! Love! Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Vict. Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, Is ever weaving into life’s dull warp Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian; Hanging our gloomy prison-house about With tapestries, that make its walls dilate In never-ending vistas of delight.

Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures, Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall.

SONG [continued]. Thy deceits Give us clearly to comprehend, Whither tend All thy pleasures, all thy sweets! They are cheats, Thorns below and flowers above. Ah, Love! Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Vict. A very pretty song. I thank thee for it.

Hyp. It suits thy case.

Vict. Indeed, I think it does. What wise man wrote it?

Hyp. Lopez Maldonado.

Vict. In truth, a pretty song.

Hyp. With much truth in it. I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnest Try to forget this lady of thy love.

Vict. I will forget her! All dear recollections Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds! I will forget her! But perhaps hereafter, When she shall learn how heartless is the world, A voice within her will repeat my name, And she will say, “He was indeed my friend!” O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar, That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet, The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, And a swift death, might make me deaf for ever To the upbraidings of this foolish heart!

Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more: To conquer love, one need but will to conquer.

Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain I throw into Oblivion’s sea the sword That pierces me; for, like Excalibar, With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. There rises from below a hand that grasps it, And waves it in the air; and wailing voices Are heard along the shore.

Hyp. And yet at last Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, To make them jog on merrily with life’s burden, Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels, Thou art too young, too full of lusty health To talk of dying.

Vict. Yet I fain would die! To go through life, unloving and unloved; To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse, And struggle after something we have not And cannot have; the effort to be strong; And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile, While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks; All this the dead feel not,—the dead alone! Would I were with them!

Hyp. We shall all be soon.

Vict. It cannot be too soon; for I am weary Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers; Where whispers overheard betray false hearts; And through the mazes of the crowd we chase Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us A mockery and a jest; maddened,—confused,— Not knowing friend from foe.

Hyp. Why seek to know? Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth! Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, Nor strive to look beneath it.

Vict. I confess, That were the wiser part. But hope no longer Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, And sinks again into the weltering sea, Helpless and hopeless!

Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish. The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star!

[Sound of a village-bell in the distance.]

Vict. Ave Maria! I hear the sacristan Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry! A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide Over the red roofs of the cottages, And bids the labouring hind a-field, the shepherd Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin!

Hyp. Amen! amen! Not half a league from hence The village lies.

Vict. This path will lead us to it, Over the wheat fields, where the shadows sail Across the running sea, now green, now blue, And, like an idle mariner on the main, Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in their hands, as if in prayer. In front, a group of Gipsies. The bell rings a merrier peal. A Gipsy dance. Enter PANCHO, followed by PEDRO CRESPO.

Pan. Make room, ye vagabonds and Gipsy thieves! Make room for the Alcalde and for me!

Cres. Keep silence all! I have an edict here From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, Which I shall publish in the market-place. Open your ears and listen!

[Enter the PADRE CURA _at the door of his cottage_.]

Padre Cura, Good day! and, pray you, hear this edict read.

Padre. Good day, and God be with you. Pray, what is it?

Cres. An act of banishment against the Gipsies!

[Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.]

Pan. Silence!

Cres. [reads]. “I hereby order and command That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers, Known by the name of Gipsies, shall henceforth Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds And beggars; and if, after seventy days, Any be found within our kingdom’s bounds, They shall receive a hundred lashes each; The second time, shall have their ears cut off; The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them, Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King.” Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized! You hear the law! Obey and disappear!

Pan. And if in seventy days you are not gone, Dead or alive I make you all my slaves.

[_The Gipsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear and discontent._ PANCHO follows.]

Padre. A righteous law! A very righteous law! Pray you, sit down.

Cres. I thank you heartily.

[They seat themselves on a bench at the PADRE CURA’S door. Sound of guitars heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue which follows.]

A very righteous judgment, as you say. Now tell me, Padre Cura,—you know all things,— How came these Gipsies into Spain?

Padre. Why, look you; They came with Hercules from Palestine, And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde, As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor Is not a Christian, so ’tis with the Gipsies. They never marry, never go to mass, Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, Nor see the inside of a church,—nor—nor——

Cres. Good reasons, good, substantial reasons, all! No matter for the other ninety-five. They should be burnt, I see it plain enough,— They should be burnt.

[Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO playing.]

Padre. And pray, whom have we here?

Cres. More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants!

Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen! Is this Guadarrama?

Padre. Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you.

Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village; And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, You must be he.

Padre. I am. Pray, what’s your pleasure?

Hyp. We are poor students, travelling in vacation. You know this mark?

[Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.]

Padre [joyfully]. Ay, know it, and have worn it.

Cres. [aside]. Soup-eaters! by the mass! The worst of vagrants! And there’s no law against them. Sir, your servant. [Exit.

Padre. Your servant, Pedro Crespo.

Hyp. Padre Cura, From the first moment I beheld your face, I said within myself, “This is the man!” There is a certain something in your looks, A certain scholar-like and studious something,— You understand,—which cannot be mistaken; Which marks you as a very learned man, In fine, as one of us.

Vict. [aside]. What impudence!

Hyp. As we approached, I said to my companion, “That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!” Meaning your Grace. “The other man,” said I, “Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, Must be the sacristan.”

Padre. Ah! said you so? Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde!

Hyp. Indeed! you much astonish me! His air Was not so full of dignity and grace As an alcalde’s should be.

Padre. That is true. He is out of humour with some vagrant Gipsies, Who have their camp here in the neighbourhood. There is nothing so undignified as anger.

Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, If, from his well-known hospitality, We crave a lodging for the night.

Padre. I pray you! You do me honour! I am but too happy To have such guests beneath my humble roof. It is not often that I have occasion To speak with scholars; and _Emollit mores, Nec sinit esse feros_, Cicero says.

Hyp. ’Tis Ovid, is it not?

Padre. No, Cicero.

Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar. Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid! But hang me if it is not! (aside).

Padre. Pass this way. He was a very great man, was Cicero! Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony. [Exeunt.