Part 12 (1/2)
ABD. How? Egilona?
MUZA. 'Twas my will.
TAR. At last He must be happy; for delicious calm Follows the fierce enjoyment of revenge.
Her. That calm was never his, no other will be!
Thou knowest not, and mayst thou never know, How bitter is the tear that fiery shame Scourges and tortures from the soldier's eye.
Whichever of these bad reports be true, He hides it from all hearts, to wring his own, And drags the heavy secret to the grave.
Not victory, that o'ershadows him, sees he!
No airy and light pa.s.sion stirs abroad To ruffle or to soothe him; all are quelled Beneath a mightier, sterner stress of mind: Wakeful he sits, and lonely and unmoved, Beyond the arrows, views, or shouts of men; As oftentimes an eagle, when the sun Throws o'er the varying earth his early ray, Stands solitary, stands immovable Upon some highest cliff, and rolls his eye, Clear, constant, un.o.bservant, unabased, In the cold light, above the dews of morn.
He now a.s.sumes that quietness of soul Which never but in danger have I seen On his staid breast.
TAR. Danger is past, he conquers; No enemy is left him to subdue.
HER. He sank not, while there was, into himself.
Now plainly see I from his altered tone, He cannot live much longer--thanks to G.o.d!
TAR. What! wishest thou thy once kind master dead?
Was he not kind to thee, ungrateful slave!
HER. The gentlest, as the bravest, of mankind.
Therefore shall memory dwell more tranquilly With Julian, once at rest, than friends.h.i.+p could, Knowing him yearn for death with speechless love.
For his own sake I could endure his loss, Pray for it, and thank G.o.d; yet mourn I must Him above all! so great, so bountiful, So blessed once! bitterly must I mourn.
'Tis not my solace that 'tis his desire; Of all that pa.s.s us in life's drear descent We grieve the most for those that wished to die.
A father to us all, he merited, Unhappy man! all a good father's joy In his own house, where seldom he hath been, But, ever mindful of its dear delights, He formed one family around him, ever.
TAR. Yes, we have seen and known him--let his fame Refresh his friends, but let it stream afar, Nor in the twilight of home scenes be lost.
He chose the best, and cherished them; he left To self-reproof the mutinies of vice; Avarice, that dwarfs ambition's tone and mien; Envy, sick nursling of the court; and pride That cannot bear his semblance nor himself; And malice, with blear visage half-descried Amid the shadows of her hiding-place.
HER. What could I not endure, O gallant man, To hear him spoken of as thou hast spoken!
Oh! I would almost be a slave to him Who calls me one.
MUZA. What? art thou not? begone.
TAR. Reply not, brave Hernando, but retire.
All can revile, few only can reward.
Behold the meed our mighty chief bestows!
Accept it, for thy services, and mine.
More, my bold Spaniard, hath obedience won Than anger, even in the ranks of war.
HER. The soldier, not the Spaniard, shall obey.
[Goes.
MUZA to TAR. Into our very council bringest thou Children of reprobation and perdition?
Darkness thy deeds and emptiness thy speech, Such images thou raisest as buffoons Carry in merriment on festivals; Nor worthiness nor wisdom would display To public notice their deformities, Nor cherish them nor fear them; why shouldst thou?