A whisper of reproach! Behold my woe!-
Thou canst not scorn me now!

Gon. Hast thou heard all?

Elm. Thy daughter on my bosom laid her head, And pass'd away to rest! Behold her there, Even such as death hath made her !1

Gon. (bending over XIMENA's body.) Thou art gone A little while before me, O my child!

Why should the traveller weep to part with those,
That scarce an hour will reach their promised land,
Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away,
And spread his couch beside them?

Elm. Must it be

Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair Had its bright place amongst us! Is this all Left for the years to come? We will not stay! Earth's chain each hour grows weaker.

Gon. (still gazingupon XIMENA.) And thou'rt laid To slumber in the shadow, blessed child! Of a yet stainless altar, and beside A sainted warrior's tomb! Oh, fitting place For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul Back unto him that gave it! And thy cheek Yet smiles in its bright paleness!

Elm. Hadst thou seen

The look with which she pass'd!

Gon. (still bending over her.) Why, 'tis almost Like joy to view thy beautiful repose! The faded image of that perfect calm Floats, e'en as long-forgotten music, back Into my weary heart! No dark wild spot On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands [seen That quench'd young life by violence! We've Too much of horror, in one crowded hour, To weep for aught so gently gather'd hence! -Oh! man leaves other traces!

Elm. (suddenly starting.) It returns

On my bewilder'd soul? Went ye not forth
Unto the rescue? And thou'rt here alone!

-Where are my sons?

Gon. (solemnly.) We were too late!

Elm. Too late!

Hast thou naught else to tell me?

Gon. I brought back

From that last field the banner of my sires,

And my own death-wound.

Elm. Thine!

Gon. Another hour

Shall hush its throbs for ever. I go hence,
And with me
Elm.

No! Man could not lift his hands

1 "La voilà, telle que la mort nous l'a faite !"-BOSSUET, Oraisons Funebres.

Where hast thou left thy sons?

Gon. I have no sons.

Elm. What hast thou said?

Gon. That now there lives not one

To wear the glory of mine ancient house,
When I am gone to rest.

Elm. (throwing herself on the ground, and speaking in a low hurried voice.)

In one brief hour, all gone!—and such a death!
I see their blood gush forth!-their graceful heads!
-Take the dark vision from me, O my God!
And such a death for them! I was not there!
They were but mine in beauty and in joy,
Not in that mortal anguish! All, all gone!--
Why should I struggle more?-What is this
Power,

Against whose might, on all sides pressing us,
We strive with fierce impatience, which but lays
Our own frail spirits prostrate?

(After a long pause.) Now I know Thy hand, my God!--and they are soonest crush'd That most withstand it! I resist no more.

[She rises.

A light, a light springs up from grief and death, Which with its solemn radiance doth reveal Why we have thus been tried!

Gon. Then I may still

Fix my last look on thee, in holy love,
Parting, but yet with hope!

Elm. (falling at his feet.) Canst thou forgive?
Oh, I have driven the arrow to thy heart,
That should have buried it within mine own,
And borne the pang in silence! I have cast
Thy life's fair honour, in my wild despair,
As an unvalued gem upon the waves,
Whence thou hast snatch'd it back, to bear from
All stainless, on thy breast. Well hast thou done-
But I canst thou forgive?

Gon. Within this hour

[earth,

In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield Thy spirit unto God!

Gon. Thou art! thou art!

Oh! a life's love, a heart's long faithfulness,
Even in the presence of eternal things,
Wearing their chasten'd beauty all undimm'd,
Assert their lofty claims; and these are not
For one dark hour to cancel! We are here,
Before that altar which received the vows
Of our unbroken youth; and meet it is
For such a witness, in the sight of heaven,
And in the face of death, whose shadowy arm
Comes dim between us, to record th' exchange
Of our tried hearts' forgiveness. Who are they,
That in one path have journey'd, needing not
Forgiveness at its close?

A CITIZEN enters hastily.

Cit. The Moors! the Moors !

Gon. How is the city storm'd?

O righteous heaven! for this I look'd not yet! Hath all been done in vain? Why, then, 'tis time For prayer, and then to rest!

Cit. The sun shall set,

And not a Christian voice be left for prayer, To-night, within Valencia. Round our walls The Paynim host is gathering for th' assault, And we have none to guard them.

Gon. Then my place

Is here no longer. I had hoped to die
E'en by the altar and the sepulchre

Of my brave sires; but this was not to be!
Give me my sword again, and lead me hence
Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour,
And it hath still high duties. Now, my wife!
Thou mother of my children--of the dead-
Whom I name unto thee in steadfast hope-
Farewell!

Elm. No, not farewell! My soul hath risen
To mate itself with thine; and by thy side,
Amidst the hurling lances, I will stand,

As one on whom a brave man's love hath been Wasted not utterly.

Gon. I thank thee, heaven!

That I have tasted of the awful joy

Which thou hast given, to temper hours like this With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends

In these dread visitings!

(To ELMINA.) We will not part, But with the spirit's parting.

Elm. One farewell

To her, that, mantled with sad loveliness,
Doth slumber at our feet! My blessed child!
Oh! in thy heart's affliction thou wert strong,

And holy courage did pervade thy woe,

As light the troubled waters! Be at peace!
Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul
Of all that were around thee! And thy life
E'en then was struck and withering at the core !
Farewell thy parting look hath on me fallen,
E'en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now
More like what thou hast been. My soul is hush'd;
For a still sense of purer worlds hath sunk
And settled on its depths with that last smile
Which from thine eye shone forth. Thou hast
not lived

In vain! My child, farewell!

Gon. Surely for thee

SCENE IX.-The walls of the city. HERNANDEZ-A few citizens gathered round him.

Her. Why, men have cast the treasures, which their lives

Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre;
Ay, at their household hearths have lit the brand,
Even from that shrine of quiet love to bear
The flame which gave their temples and their
homes

In ashes to the winds! They have done this,
Making a blasted void where once the sun
Look'd upon lovely dwellings; and from carth
Razing all record that on such a spot
Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept,
And frail humanity knelt before her God:
They have done this, in their free nobleness,
Rather than see the spoiler's tread pollute
Their holy places. Praise, high praise be theirs,
Who have left man such lessons! And these things,
Made your own hills their witnesses! The sky,
Whose arch bends o'er you, and the seas, wherein
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw
The altar, and the birthplace, and the tomb,
And all memorials of man's heart and faith,
Thus proudly honour'd! Be ye not outdone
By the departed! Though the godless foe
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch
The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong¦
A few bright torches and brief moments yet
Shall baffle his flush'd hope; and we may die,
Laughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me!

And thou, Valencia ! triumph in thy fateThe ruin, not the yoke; and make thy towers A beacon unto Spain !

Cits. We'll follow thee!

Alas! for our fair city, and the homes
Wherein we rear'd our children! But away!
The Moor shall plant no Crescent o'er our fanes !
Voice. (from a tower on the walls.) Succours!-
Castile! Castile !

Cits. (rushing to the spot.) It is even so !
Now blessing be to heaven, for we are saved!
Castile Castile !

Voice. (from the tower.) Line after line of spears, Lance after lance, upon th' horizon's verge, Like festal lights from cities bursting up, Doth skirt the plain. In faith, a noble host! Another voice. The Moor hath turn'd him from our walls, to front

Th' advancing might of Spain !

Cits. (shouting.) Castile! Castile!

GONZALEZ enters, supported by ELMINA and
a citizen.

Thou wouldst not utterly, my God! forsake
Thy servant in his need! My blood and tears
Have not sunk vainly to th' attesting earth.
Praise to Thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived
To see this hour!

Elm. And I, too, bless thy name,
Though thou hast proved me unto agony!

O God!-thou God of chastening!

Voice. (from the tower.) They move on!

I see the royal banner in the air,
With its emblazon'd towers!

Gon. Go, bring ye forth

The banner of the Cid, and plant it here,
To stream above me, for an answering sign
That the good Cross doth hold its lofty place
Within Valencia still! What see you now?

Her. I see a kingdom's might upon its path,
Moving, in terrible magnificence,
Unto revenge and victory! With the flash
Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks,
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep,
And with the waving of ten thousand plumes,
Like a land's harvest in the autumn wind,

And with fierce light, which is not of the sun, But flung from sheets of steel-it comes, it comes, The vengeance of our God!

Gon. I hear it now,

The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes,
Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths.

Her. Ay, earth knows well the omen of that sound;

And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre's,
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond
Unto the step of death!

Gon. Hark! how the wind

Swells proudly with the battle-march of Spain? Now the heart feels its power! A little while Grant me to live, my God! What pause is this? Her. A deep and dreadful one! The serried files Level their spears for combat; now the hosts Look on each other in their brooding wrath, Silent, and face to face.

Voices heard without, chanting. Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit! rest thee now! E'en while with ours thy footsteps trode His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!

Soul, to its place on high!

They that have seen thy look in death No more may fear to die.

Nor banners with their glorious blazonry;
The very nature and high soul of man
Doth now reveal itself!

Gon. Oh, raise me up,

That I may look upon the noble scene!

It will not be !-That this dull mist would pass A moment from my sight! Whence rose that shout, As in fierce triumph?

Her. (clasping his hands.) Must I look on this? The banner sinks-'tis taken!

Gon. Whose?

Her. Castile's!

Gon. O God of Battles!

Elm. Calm thy noble heart;

Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. Nay, rest thee on my bosom.

Her. Cheer thee yet!

Our knights have spurr'd to rescue.

There is now

A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things,
Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness
Wherewith they moved before! I see tall plumes
All wildly tossing o'er the battle's tide,
Sway'd by the wrathful motion, and the press
Of desperate men, as cedar boughs by storms.
Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood,
Many a false corslet broken, many a shield
Pierced through! Now, shout for Santiago, shout!
Lo javelins with a moment's brightness cleave
The thickening dust, and barded steeds go down
With their helm'd riders! Who, but One, can tell
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush
And trampling-on of furious multitudes ?

Gon. Thou'rt silent!-See'st thou more? My
soul grows dark.

Her. And dark and troubled, as an angry sea, Dashing some gallant armament in scorn Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze! I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross'd, And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms To lighten with the stroke! But round the spot Where, like a storm-fell'd mast, our standard sank, "The heart of battle burns.

Gon. Where is that spot?

Her. It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms, That lift their green heads o'er the tumult still, In calm and stately grace.

Gon. There didst thou say?

Then God is with us, and we must prevail ! For on that spot they died: my children's blood · Calls on th' avenger thence!

1 This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alfonso, the last of that name. He sent to the Cid's tomb for the cross which that warrior was accustomed to wear upon his breast

Elm. They perish'd there!

-And the bright locks that waved so joyously To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled Even on that place of death! O Merciful! Hush the dark thought within me !

Her. (with sudden exultation.) Who is he, On the white steed, and with the castled helm, And the gold-broider'd mantle, which doth float E'en like a sunny cloud above the fight; [gleams And the pale cross, which from his breast-plate With star-like radiance?

Gon. (eagerly.) Didst thou say the cross?

Her. On his mail'd bosom shines a broad white

cross,

And his long plumage through the dark'ning air Streams like a snow-wreath.

Gon. That should be

Her. The king!

Was it not told to us how he sent, of late,
To the Cid's tomb, e'en for the silver cross,
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind
O'er his brave heart in fight?1

Gon. (springing up joyfully.) My king! my king! Now all good saints for Spain! My noble king! And thou art there! That I might look once more Upon thy face! But yet I thank thee, heaven! That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands Thus to receive his city!

[He sinks back into ELMINA's arms. Her. He hath clear'd A pathway midst the combat, and the light Follows his charge through yon close living mass, E'en as a gleam on some proud vessel's wake Along the stormy waters! "Tis redeem'dThe castled banner; it is flung once more, In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds! There seems a wavering through thePaynim hosts→ Castile doth press them sore-now, now rejoice! Gon. What hast thou seen?

Her. Abdullah falls! He falls! The man of blood !-the spoiler !—he hath sunk In our king's path! Well hath that royal sword Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez !

They give way,

The Crescent's van is broken! On the hills,
And the dark pine-woods, may the infidel
Call vainly, in his agony of fear,

To cover him from vengeance! Lo! they fly!
They of the forest and the wilderness
Are scatter'd, e'en as leaves upon the wind!

when he went to battle, and had it made into one for himself, "because of the faith which he had, that through it he should obtain the victory."-SOUTHEY'S Chronicle of the Cid.

Woe to the sons of Afric! Let the plains,
And the vine mountains, and Hesperian seas,
Take their dead unto them!-that blood shall wash
Our soil from stains of bondage.

Gon. (attempting to raise himself.) Set me free! Come with me forth, for I must greet my king, After his battle-field !

Her. Oh, blest in death!

Chosen of heaven, farewell! Look on the Cross, And part from earth in peace!

Gon. Now, charge once more!

God is with Spain, and Santiago's sword

[CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA." "Of "The Siege of Valencia' we say little, for we by no means consider it as the happiest of Mrs Hemans's efforts. Not that it does not contain, nay, abound with fine passages; but the whole wants vigour, coherence, and compression. The story is meagre, and the dialogue too diffuse."-The REV. DR MOREHEAD in Constable's Magazine for September 1823.

"The Tales and Historic Scenes,' The Sceptic,' 'The Welsh Melodies,' 'The Siege of Valencia,' and 'The Vespers of Palermo," says Delta, "may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career, and are characterised by beauties of a high and peculiar stamp. With reference to the two latter, it must be owned, that if the genius of Mrs Hemans was not essentially dramatic, yet that both abound with high and magnificent bursts of poetry. It was not easy to adapt her fine taste and uniformly high-toned sentiment to the varied aspects of life and character necessary to the success of scenic exhibition; and she must have been aware of the difficulties that surrounded her in that path. If these cannot, therefore, be considered as successful tragedies, they hold their places as dramatic poems of rich and rare poetic beauty. Indeed, it would be difficult, from the whole range of Mrs Hemans's writings, to select any thing more exquisitely conceived, more skilfully managed, or more energetically written, than the Monk's tale in 'The Siege of Valencia.' The description of his son, in which he dwells with parental enthusiasm on his boyish beauty and accomplishments-of his horror at that son's renunciation of the Christian faith, and leaguing with the infidel-and of the twilight encounter, in which he took the life of his own giving-are all worked out in the loftiest spirit of poetry."-Biographical Memoir, p. 16-17.

Elm. (rising proudly.) No, swell forth, Castile Thy trumpet music, till the seas and heavens, And the deep hills, give every stormy note Echoes to ring through Spain! How, know ye not That all array'd for triumph, crown'd and robed With the strong spirit which hath saved the land, E'en now a conqueror to his rest is gone? Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind Swell on with victory's shout!-He will not hearHath earth a sound more sad?

Her. Lift ye the dead,

And bear him with the banner of his race
Waving above him proudly, as it waved
O'er the Cid's battles, to the tomb wherein
His warrior sires are gather'd. [They raise the body.
Elm. Ay, 'tis thus

Thou shouldst be honour'd! And I follow thee,
With an unfaltering and a lofty step,
To that last home of glory. She that wears
In her deep heart the memory of thy love, [God
Shall thence draw strength for all things; till the
Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth,
Looking upon her still and chasten'd soul,
Call it once more to thine!
(To the Castilians.)
Tambour and trumpet, wake!
Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal.
-So should a hero pass to his repose.

Awake, I say!

And let the land

[Exeunt omncs.

"The Siege of Valencia,' 'The Last Constantine,' and other poems, were published in the course of the year 1823. This volume was marked by more distinct evidences of originality than any of Mrs Hemans's previous works. None of her after poems contain finer bursts of strong, fervid, indignant poetry than "The Siege of Valencia ;' its story-a thrilling conflict between maternal love and the inflexible spirit of chivalrous honour-afforded to her an admirable opportunity of giving utterance to the two master interests of her mind. It is a tale that will bear a second reading-though, it must be confessed that, as in the case of 'The Vespers of Palermo,' somewhat of a monotony of colouring is thrown over its scenes by the unchanged employment of a lofty and enriched phraseology, which would have gained in emphasis by its being more sparingly used. Ximena, too, all glowing and heroic as she is, stirring up the sinking hearts of the besieged citizens with her battle-song of the Cid, and dying as it were of that strain of triumph-is too spiritual, too saintly, wholly to carry away the sympathies. Our imagination is kindled by her splendid, high-toned devotion-our tears are called forth by the grief of her mother, the stately Elmina, broken down, but not degraded, by the agony of maternal affection, to connive at a treachery she is too noble wholly to carry through. The scenes with her husband are admirable; some of her speeches absolutely startle us with their passion and intensity -the following, for instance :-

Love! love! there are soft smiles and gentle words,'" etc. -CHORLEY'S Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 110-12. "The Siege of Valencia is a dramatic poem, but not