[then turning his eyes languidly to Alvar She hath avenged the blood of Isidore ! I stood in silence like a slave before her That I might taste the wormwood and the gall, And satiate this self-accusing heart With bitterer agonies than death can give. Forgive me, Alvar !

Oh !---couldst thou forget me! [Dies.

[Alvar and Teresa bend over the

body of Ordonio. Alh. (to the Moors.) I thank thee, Heaven !

thou hast ordained it wisely, That still extremes bring their own cure. That

In misery, which makes the oppressed man
Regardless of his own life, makes him too
Lord of the oppressor’s---

---Knew I a hundred men
Despairing, but not palsied by despair,
This arm should shake the kingdoms of the world;
The deep foundations of iniquity [them;
Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath
The strong holds of the cruel men should fall,
Their temples and their mountainous towers

should fall;
Till desolation seemed a beautiful thing,
And all that were and had the spirit of life,
Sang a new song to her who had


forth, Conquering and still to conquer ! [Alhadra hurries off with the Moors ; the stage

fills with armed peasants, and servants,

Zulimez and Valdez at their head.

Valdez rushes into Alvar's arms. Alv. Turn not thy face that way, my father! Oh hide it from his eye! Oh let thy joy [hide, Flow in unmingled stream through thy first blessing

[both kneel to Valdez. Val. My Son! My Alvar! bless, Oh bless

him, heaven!
Ter. Me too, my Father?
Bless, Oh, bless


children !

[both rise. Alv. Delights so full, if unalloyed with grief, Were ominous. In these strange dread events Just Heaven instructs us with an awful voice, That Conscience rules us e'en against our choice. Our inward monitress to guide or warn, If listened to; but if repelled with scorn, At length as dire Remorse, she reappears, Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears ! Still bids, Remember! and still cries, Too late! And while she scares us, goads us to our fate.


The following Scene, as unfit for the stage, was taken from the tragedy, in the year 1797, and published in the Lyrical Ballads.

Enter Teresa and Selma. Ter. 'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly, As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

Sel. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be
That joined your names with nine! O my sweet Lady,
As often as I think of those dear umes,
When you two little ones would stand, at eve,
On each side of my chair, and make me learn
All you had learnt in the day ; and how to talk
In gentle phrase ; then bid me sing to you-
'Tis more like heaven to come, than what bas been !

Ter. But that entrance, Selma ?

Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale !
Ter. No one.

My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Sesina-angels rest his soul ;
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
With lusty arm.

You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel ?
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost.
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
A pretty boy, but most unteachable-
·And never learn'd a prayer, nor told a bead,
But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,

And whistled, as he were a bird himself.
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,
A grey-haired man, he loved this little boy :
The boy loved him, and, when the friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.
So he became a rare and learned youth :
But 0! poor wretch! he read, and read, and read,
Till his brain turned ; and ere his twentieth year
He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
And though he prayed, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him.
And once, as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together chained in deep discourse,
The earth heaved under them with such a groan,
That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen
Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened ;
A fever seized him, and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk
Which brought this judgment : so the youth was seized,
And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobbed like a child--it almost broke his heart :
And once as he was working near this dungeon,
He heard a voice distinctly ; 'twas the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate ; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance 1 described,
And the young man escaped.


'Tis a sweet tale :
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.
And what became of him ?

He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers who made discovery
Of golden lands. Sesina’s younger brother
Went likewise, and when be returned to Spain,
He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,
And all alone set sail by silent moonlight
Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed,
He lived and died among the savage men.

Note to the words “ You are a painter,” p. 184, Scene II. Act II.

The following lines I have preserved in this place, not so much as explanatory of the picture of the assassination, as to gratify my own feelings, the passage being no mere fancy portrait; but a slight, yet not unfaithful, profile of the late Sir George Beaumont. Zul. (speaking of Alvar in the third person.) Such was the

noble Spaniard's own relation. He told me, too, how in his early youth, And his first travels, 'twas his choice or chance To make long sojourn in sea-wedded Venice; There won the love of that divine old man, Courted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian! Who, like a second and more lovely Nature, By the sweet mystery of lines and colours Changed the blank canvass to a magic mirror, That made the absent present; and to shadows Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, thought and


« 前へ次へ »