THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA.

A DRAMATIC POEM.

Judicio ha dado esta no vista hazanna,
Del valor que en los siglos venideros
Tendran los Hijos de la fuerte Espanna,
Hijos de tal padres herederos.

Hallo sola en Numancia todo quanto
Debe con justo titulo cantarse,

Y lo que puede dar materia al canto.

Numancia de Cervantes.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE history of Spain records two instances of the severe and selfdevoting heroism, which forms the subject of the following dramatic poem. The first of these occurced at the siege of Tarifa, which was defended, in 1294, for Sancho, King of Castile, during the rebellion of his brother, Don Juan, by Guzman, surnamed the Good.* The second is related of Alonzo Lopez de Texeda, who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, maintained the city of Zamora for the children of Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of Trastamara.†

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished both these memorable sieges, it appeared to the author of the following pages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger color of nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in which she has feebly attempted "to describe high passions and high actions," by connecting a religious feeling with the patriotism and high-minded loyalty which had thus been proved "faithful unto death," and by surrounding her ideal dramatis persone with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this reason, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed upon Valencia del Cid as the scene to give them

"A local habitation and a name."

Her Daughter.

An Attendant.

Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, &c.

*See Quintana's Vidas de Espanoles Célèbres, p. 53.
† See the Preface to Southey's Chronicle of the Cid.

SCENE I.

Room in a Palace of Valencia.-XIMENA Singing to a Lute

BALLAD.

"THOU hast not been with a festal throng

At the pouring of the wine;

Men bear not from the hall of song

A mien so dark as thine!

There's blood upon thy shield,
There's dust upon thy plume,

Thou hast brought from some disastrous field
That brow of wrath and gloom!"

"And is there blood upon my shield?
Maiden, it well may be!

We have sent the streams, from our battle-field,
All darken'd to the sea!

We have given the founts a stain,
'Midst their woods of ancient pine;
And the ground is wet-but not with rain,
Deep dyed--but not with wine!

"The ground it wet-but not with rain-
We have been in war array,

And the noblest blood of Christian Spain
Hath bathed her soil to-day.

1 have seen the strong man die,
And the stripling meet his fate,
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by,
In the Roncesvalles' Strait.

"In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait
There are helms and lances left;
And they that moved at morn elate
On a bed of heath are left!

There's many a fair young face
Which the war-steed hath gone o'er;
At many a board there is kept a place
For those that come no more!"

"Alas! for love, for woman's breast,
If woe like this must be!

Hath thou seen a youth with an eagle crest,
And a white plume waving free?

With his proud quick-flashing eye,
And his mien of knightly state?

Doth he come from where the swords flash'd high
In the Roncesvalles' Strait ?"

"In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait
I saw, and mark'd him well;

For nobly on his steed he sate,

When the pride of manhood fell!

But it is not youth which turns
From the field of spears again;
For the boy's high heart too wildly burns,
Till it rests admidst the slain!"

"Thou canst not say that he lies low,
The lovely and the brave?

Oh! none could look on his joyous brow,
And think upon the grave!

Dark, dark perchance the day,
Hath been with valor's fate ;

But he is on his homeward way,

From the Roncesvalles' Strait!"

"There is dust upon his joyous brow,
And o'er his graceful head;

And the war-horse will not wake him now
Though it browse his greensward bed!
I have seen the stripling die,
And the strong man meet his fate,
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by,
In the Roncesvalles' Strait!'

[ELMINA enters.

Elm. Your songs are not as those of other days, Mine own Ximena! Where is now the young And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke Joy's echo from all hearts?

Xim.

My mother, this
Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds;
And these are not the halls wherein my voice
First pour'd those gladd'ning strains.

Elm.

Alas! thy heart

(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure
Free-wand'ring breezes of the joyous hills,

Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and heath,
Bound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent streams

Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been
Within these walls, thus suddenly begirt,

Thou shouldst have track'd ere now, with step as light
Their wild-wood paths.

Xim.

I would not but have shared

These hours of woe and peril, though the deep

And solemn feelings wak'ning at their voice,

Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves,

And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush
All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild
O' th' summer-forest, filling earth and heaven
With its own awful music. And 'tis well!
Should not a hero's child be train'd to hear
The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look

In the fix'd face of death without dismay?

Elm. Woe! woe! that aught so gentle and so young Should thus be call'd to stand i' the tempest's path, And bear the token and the hue of death

On a bright soul so soon! I had not shrunk

From mine own lot; but thou, my child, shouldst move, As a light breeze of heaven, through summer-bowers, And not o'er foaming billows. We are fall'n

On dark and evil days!

Xim.
Ay, days, that wake
All to their tasks!-Youth may not loiter now
In the green walks of spring; and womanhood
Is summon'd unto conflicts, heretofore

The lot of warrior-souls. Strength is born
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts:
Not amidst joy.

Elm.

Hast thou some secret woe

That thus thou speak'st?

Xim.

Unknown to thee?

Elm.

What sorrow should be mine,

Alas! the baleful air

Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks
Through the devoted city, like a blight

Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall'n,

And wrought an early withering!-Thou hast cross'd
The paths of death, and minister'd to those

O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye

Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still,

Deep, solemn radiance, and thy brow hath caught

A wild and high expression, which at times
Fades into desolate calmness, most unlike

What youth's bright mien should wear. My gentle child!
I look on thee in fear!

Xim.

Thou hast no cause

To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel,
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step
Of armed men, break on our morning dreams!
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave
Are falling round us, and we deem it much
To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour,
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease
Had chill'd their fiery blood;-it is no time
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours,
We trode the woodland mazes, when young leaves
Were whisp'ring in the gale.-My father comes-
Oh! speak of me no more. I would not shade
His princely aspect with a thought less high
Than his proud duties claim.

Elm.

[GONZALEZ enters.

My noble lord! Welcome from this day's toil!-It is the hour

Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose
Unto all weary men! and wilt not thou

Free thy mail'd bosom from the corslet's weight,
To rest at fall of eve?

Gon.
There may be rest
For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath
His vine and olive he may sit at eve,

Watching his children's sport: but unto him

Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain-height, When Heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms -Who speaks of rest?

My father, shall I fill

Xim.
The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute
Whose sounds thou lovest?

Gon.

If there be strains of power

To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn
May cast off nature's feebleness, and hold

Its proud career unshackled, dashing down

Tears and fond thoughts to earth; give voice to those!
I have need of such, Ximena !-we must hear
No melting music now!

Xim.
I know all high
Heroic ditties of the elder-time,

Sung by the mountain-Christians,' in the holds
Of th' everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear
The print of Freedom's step; and all wild strains
Wherein the dark serranos* teach the rocks,
And the pine forests, deeply to resound

The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear
The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid?

Gon. Ay, speak of him; for in that name is power,
Such as might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him!
We are his children! They that can look back
I' th' annals of their house on such a name,
How should they take dishonor by the hand,
And o'er the threshold of their father's halls
First lead her as a guest ?

Elm.

How my heart sinks!

Gon.

Oh, why is this?

It must not fail thee yet, Daughter of heroes!-thine inheritance

Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst number
In thy long line of glorious ancestry

Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made
The ground it bathed e'en as an altar, whence
High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not,
'Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross,
With its victorious inspiration girt

As with a conqueror's robe, till th' infidel

Serranos, mountaineers.