Sol. Valencia's lord Sends messengers, my chief. Abd. Conduct them hither.

[The soldier goes out and re-enters with ELMINA, disguised, and an attendant. Car. (springing forward to the attendant.) Oh! take me hence, Diego! take me hence With thee, that I may see my mother's face

At morning when I wake. Here dark-brow'd men Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us. Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind, And well I know thou lov'st me, my Diego!

Abd. Peace, boy !-What tidings, Christian, from thy lord?

Is he grown humbler?-doth he set the lives
Of these fair nurslings at a city's worth?
Alph. (rushing forward impatiently.) Say not he
doth-Yet wherefore art thou here?

If it be so, I could weep burning tears
For very shame! If this can be, return!
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils,
I will but ask a war-horse and a sword,
And that beside him in the mountain-chase,
And in his halls, and at his stately feasts,
My place shall be no more! But no!--I wrong,
I wrong my father! Moor, believe it not :
He is a champion of the Cross and Spain,
Sprung from the Cid !—and I, too, I can die
As a warrior's high-born child!

Elm. Alas, alas !

And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy? What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst

cast

Its flower away, in very scorn of heart,

Ere yet the blight be come?

Alph. That voice doth sound

Abd. Stranger, who art thou ?-this is mockery! speak!

Elm. (throwing off a mantle and helmet, and embracing her sons.)

My boys! whom I have rear'd through many hours
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts
Untold and unimagined; let me die
With you, now I have held you to my heart,
And seen once more the faces, in whose light

My soul hath lived for years!

Car. Sweet mother! now Thou shalt not leave us more.

Abd. Enough of this!

Woman! what seek'st thou here? How hast thou dared

To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts?

Elm. Think'st thou there dwells no courage but in breasts

Bid thee do this, fond Christian? Hast thou not The means to save them?

Elm. I have prayers, and tears,

And agonies!-and he, my God-the God
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour
To bow the crested head-hath made these things
Most powerful in a world where all must learn
That one deep language, by the storm call'd forth
From the bruised reeds of earth! For thee, per-
chance,

Affliction's chastening lesson hath not yet
Been laid upon thy heart; and thou may'st love
To see the creatures, by its might brought low,
Humbled before thee.

[She throws herself at his feet. Conqueror, I can kneel!

I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself
E'en to thy feet! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves,
If this will swell thy triumph, to behold
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased!
Do this, but spare my sons!

[not kneel

Alph. (attempting to raise her.) Thou shouldst Unto this infidel! Rise, rise, my mother! This sight doth shame our house!

Abd. Thou daring boy!

They that in arms have taught thy father's land How chains are worn, shall school that haughty mien

Unto another language.

Elm. Peace, my son!

Have pity on my heart! Oh, pardon, chief!
He is of noble blood. Hear, hear me yet!
Are there no lives through which the shafts of
heaven
[earth,
May reach your soul? He that loves aught on
Dares far too much, if he be merciless!
Is it for those, whose frail mortality
Must one day strive alone with God and death,
To shut their souls against th' appealing voice

Of nature, in her anguish? Warrior, man,
To you, too, ay, and haply with your hosts,
By thousands and ten thousands marshall'd round,
And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke
Which the lance wards not! Where shall your
high heart

Find refuge then, if in the day of might
Woe hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet,
And you have pitied not?

Abd. These are vain words.

Elm. Have you no children?-fear ye not to bring The lightning on their heads? In your own land Doth no fond mother, from the tents beneath Your native palms, look o'er the deserts out, To greet your homeward step? You have not yet Forgot so utterly her patient love

[eye

For is not woman's in all climes the same?
That
you should scorn my prayer! Oh heaven! his
Doth wear no mercy!

Abd. Then it mocks you not.

I have swept o'er the mountains of your land,
Leaving my traces, as the visitings

Of storms upon them! Shall I now be stay'd?
Know, unto me it were as light a thing,
In this my course, to quench your children's lives,
As, journeying through a forest, to break off
The young wild branches that obstruct the way
With their green sprays and leaves.

Elm. Are there such hearts
Amongst thy works, O God?

Abd. Kneel not to me.

Kneel to your lord! on his resolves doth hang
His children's doom. He may be lightly won
By a few bursts of passionate tears and words.
Elm. (rising indignantly.) Speak not of noble
men! He bears a soul
Stronger than love or death.

Alph. (with exultation.) I knew 'twas thus !
He could not fail!

Elm. There is no mercy, none,

On this cold earth! To strive with such a world,
Hearts should be void of love! We will go hence,
My children! we are summon'd. Lay your heads,
In their young radiant beauty, once again
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells
Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round,
Will yet have pity, and before His face
We three will stand together! Moslem! now
Let the stroke fall at once!

Abd. "Tis thine own will.
These might e'en yet be spared.

Elm. Thou wilt not spare !

And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew, And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear

Thou Christian mother! on thy sons to pass
The sentence-life or death! The price is set
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands.
Alph. Mother! thou tremblest!

Abd. Hath thy heart resolved?

Elm. (covering her face with her hands.)

My boy's proud eye is on me, and the things
Which rush in stormy darkness through my soul
Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer here.
Abd. Come forth. We'll commune elsewhere.
Car. (to his mother.) Wilt thou go?
Oh let me follow thee!

Elm. Mine own fair child!

[mine

Now that thine eyes have pour'd once more on
The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice
Hath sent its gentle music through my soul,
And I have felt the twining of thine arms-
How shall I leave thee?

Abd. Leave him, as 'twere but
For a brief slumber, to behold his face
At morning, with the sun's.

Alph. Thou hast no look
For me, my mother!

Elm. Oh that I should live

To say, I dare not look on thee! Farewell,
My first-born, fare thee well!

Of summer, whispering through young flowers and
Now speaks too deep a language! and of all
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies,
The breathing soul is sadness! I have felt
That summons through my spirit, after which
The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds
Seem fraught with secret warnings. There is cause
That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes
Where Death is busy, taming warrior-hearts,
And pouring winter through the fiery blood,
And fettering the strong arm! For now no sigh
In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven,
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf,
But of his angel's silent coming bears
Some token to my soul. But naught of this
Unto my mother! These are awful hours!
And on their heavy steps afflictions crowd
With such dark pressure, there is left no room
For one grief more.

Ther. Sweet lady, talk not thus !
Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light,
There's more of life in its clear tremulous ray
Than I have mark'd of late. Nay, go not yet;

Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring
From the transparent waters, dashing round
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness,
O'er the pale glistening marble. "Twill call up
Faint bloom, if but a moment's, to your check.
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing
The melody you love.

THERESA sings.

Why is the Spanish maiden's grave So far from her own bright land? The sunny flowers that o'er it wave Were sown by no kindred hand.

"Tis not the orange-bough that sends Its breath on the sultry air, 'Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends To the breeze of evening there!

But the rose of Sharon's eastern bloom
By the silent dwelling fades,
And none but strangers pass the tomb
Which the palm of Judah shades.

The lowly Cross, with flowers o'ergrown,
Marks well that place of rest;
But who hath graved, on its mossy stone,
A sword, a helm, a crest?

These are the trophies of a chief,
A lord of the axe and spear!
-Some blossom pluck'd, some faded leaf,
Should grace a maiden's bier!

Scorn not her tomb-deny not her
The honours of the brave!
O'er that forsaken sepulchre
Banner and plume might wave.

She bound the steel, in battle tried,
Her fearless heart above,

And stood with brave men side by side,
In the strength and faith of love!

That strength prevail'd-that faith was bless'd!
True was the javelin thrown,
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast-
She met it with her own!

And nobly won, where heroes fell

In arms for the holy shrine,

A death which saved what she loved so well, And a grave in Palestine.

Then let the rose of Sharon spread

Its breast to the glowing air, And the palm of Judah lift its head, Green and immortal there!

And let yon gray stone, undefaced,
With its trophy mark the scene,
Telling the pilgrim of the waste

Where Love and Death have been.

Xim. Those notes were wont to make my heart beat quick,

As at a voice of victory; but to-day
The spirit of the song is changed, and seems
All mournful. Oh! that, ere my early grave
Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal
Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth
Beneath my father's banner! In that sound
Were life to you, sweet brothers!-But for me-
Come on our tasks await us. They who know
Their hours are number'd out, have little time
To give the vague and slumberous languor way,
Which doth steal o'er them in the breath of flowers,
And whisper of soft winds.

[ELMINA enters hurriedly. Elm. The air will calm my spirit, ere yet I meet His eye, which must be met.-Thou here, Ximena! [She starts back on seeing XIMENA.

Xim. Alas! my mother! in that hurrying step And troubled glance I read

Elm. (wildly.) Thou read'st it not! Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye The things lay glaring, which within our hearts We treasure up for God's? Thou read'st it not! I say, thou canst not! There's not one on earth Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves have made

And kept dark places in the very breast Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour When the graves open!

Xim. Mother! what is this!

Alas! your eye is wandering, and your cheek Flush'd, as with fever! To your woes the night Hath brought no rest.

Elm. Rest!-who should rest?-not he That holds one earthly blessing to his heart Nearer than life! No! if this world have aught Of bright or precious, let not him, who calls Such things his own, take rest!-Dark spirits keep watch;

And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame, Were as heaven's air, the vital element [souls Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their

marks for hunan scorn! Will they bear on

With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all Its glorious drapery? Who shall tell us this? -Will he so bear it?

Xim. Mother! let us kneel

And blend our hearts in prayer! What else is left
To mortals when the dark hour's might is on them?
-Leave us, Theresa.--Grief like this doth find
Its balm in solitude.
[Exit THERESA.

My mother! peace

Is heaven's benignant answer to the cry
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me?
Elm. Away! 'tis but for souls unstain'd, to wear
Heaven's tranquil image on their depths.-The

stream

Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm, Reflects but clouds and lightnings!-Didst thou

speak

Of peace? 'tis fled from earth! But there is joy!
Wild, troubled joy! And who shall know, my child,
It is not happiness? Why, our own hearts
Will keep the secret close! Joy, joy! if but
To leave this desolate city, with its dull
Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again
Th' untainted mountain-air!-But hush! the trees,
The flowers, the waters, must hear naught of this!
They are full of voices, and will whisper things—
-We'll speak of it no more.

Xim. O pitying heaven!

This grief doth shake her reason!

Elm. (starting.) Hark! a step! "Tis-'tis thy father's! Come away-not now— He must not see us now!

Xim. Why should this be?

[GONZALEZ enters, and detains ELMINA. Gon. Elmina, dost thou shun me? Have we not E'en from the hopeful and the sunny time When youth was as a glory round our brows, Held on through life together? And is this, When eve is gathering round us, with the gloom Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps Upon the darkening wild?

Elm. (coldly.) There needs not this. Why shouldst thou think I shunn'd thee

Gon. Should the love

That shone o'er many years, th' unfading love, Whose only change hath been from gladdening

smiles

To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength, Thus lightly be forgotten?

Elm. Speak'st thou thus?

-I have knelt before thee with that very plea,
When it avail'd me not! But there are things
Whose very breathings from the soul erase
All record of past love, save the chill sense,

Thou wouldst not fail me! Not in vain my soul, Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up Unshaken trust.

Elm. (wildly.) Away!-thou know'st me not! Man dares too far-his rashness would invest This our mortality with an attribute

Too high and awful, boasting that he knows
One human heart!

Gon. These are wild words, but yet

I will not doubt thee! Hast thou not been found
Noble in all things, pouring thy soul's light
Undimm'd o'er every trial? And, as our fates,
So must our names be, undivided!-Thine,
I' th' record of a warrior's life, shall find
Its place of stainless honour. By his side-
Elm. May this be borne! How much of agony
Hath the heart room for? Speak to me in wrath
-I can endure it! But no gentle words! [slay,
No words of love! no praise! Thy sword might
And be more merciful!

Gon. Wherefore art thou thus?

Elmina, my beloved!

Elm. No more of love!

-Have I not said there's that within my heart,
Whereon it falls as living fire would fall
Upon an unclosed wound?

Gon. Nay, lift thine eyes, That I may read their meaning! Elm. Never more With a free soul. Take thou no heed!

[naught!

What have I said?-'twas

The words of wretchedness

Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the speech Of troubled dreams?

Gon. I have seen thee in the hour

Of thy deep spirit's joy, and when the breath
Of grief hung chilling round thee; in all change,
Bright health and drooping sickness; hope and fear;
Youth and decline; but never yet, Elinina,
Ne'er hath thine eye till now shrunk back, perturb'd
With shame or dread, from mine!

Elm. Thy glance doth search
A wounded heart too deeply.

Gon. Hast thou there

Aught to conceal?

Elm. Who hath not?

Gon. Till this hour