Part 59 (1/2)

[HERNANI, Act I., March, 1830.]

What business brings you here, young cavaliers?

Men like the Cid, the knights of bygone years, Rode out the battle of the weak to wage, Protecting beauty and revering age.

Their armor sat on them, strong men as true, Much lighter than your velvet rests on you.

Not in a lady's room by stealth they knelt; In church, by day, they spoke the love they felt.

They kept their houses' honor bright from rust, They told no secret, and betrayed no trust; And if a wife they wanted, bold and gay, With lance, or axe, or falchion, and by day, Bravely they won and wore her. As for those Who slip through streets when honest men repose, With eyes turned to the ground, and in night's shade The rights of trusting husbands to invade; I say the Cid would force such knaves as these To beg the city's pardon on their knees; And with the flat of his all-conquering blade Their rank usurped and 'scutcheon would degrade.

Thus would the men of former times, I say, Treat the degenerate minions of to-day.

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE.)

THE OLD AND THE YOUNG BRIDEGROOM.

_(”L'homme auquel on vous destina.”)_

[HERNANI, Act I.]

Listen. The man for whom your youth is destined, Your uncle, Ruy de Silva, is the Duke Of Pastrana, Count of Castile and Aragon.

For lack of youth, he brings you, dearest girl, Treasures of gold, jewels, and precious gems, With which your brow might outs.h.i.+ne royalty; And for rank, pride, splendor, and opulence, Might many a queen be envious of his d.u.c.h.ess!

Here is one picture. I am poor; my youth I pa.s.sed i' the woods, a barefoot fugitive.

My s.h.i.+eld, perchance, may bear some n.o.ble blazons Spotted with blood, defaced though not dishonored.

Perchance I, too, have rights, now veiled in darkness,-- Rights, which the heavy drapery of the scaffold Now hides beneath its black and ample folds; Rights which, if my intent deceive me not, My sword shall one day rescue. To be brief:-- I have received from churlish Fortune nothing But air, light, water,--Nature's general boon.

Choose, then, between us two, for you must choose;-- Say, will you wed the duke, or follow me?

DONNA SOL. I'll follow you.

HERN. What, 'mongst my rude companions, Whose names are registered in the hangman's book?

Whose hearts are ever eager as their swords, Edged by a personal impulse of revenge?

Will you become the queen, dear, of my band?

Will you become a hunted outlaw's bride?

When all Spain else pursued and banished me,-- In her proud forests and air-piercing mountains, And rocks the lordly eagle only knew, Old Catalonia took me to her bosom.

Among her mountaineers, free, poor, and brave, I ripened into manhood, and, to-morrow, One blast upon my horn, among her hills, Would draw three thousand of her sons around me.

You shudder,--think upon it. Will you tread The sh.o.r.es, woods, mountains, with me, among men Like the dark spirits of your haunted dreams,-- Suspect all eyes, all voices, every footstep,-- Sleep on the gra.s.s, drink of the torrent, hear By night the sharp hiss of the musket-ball Whistling too near your ear,--a fugitive Proscribed, and doomed mayhap to follow me In the path leading to my father's scaffold?

DONNA SOL. I'll follow you.

HERN. This duke is rich, great, prosperous, No blot attaches to his ancient name.