Scene, The Promontory of Leucadia.
THIS is the spot : . . 'tis here tradition says
That hopeless Love from this high towering rock
Leaps headlong to oblivion or to Death.
Oh, 'tis a giddy height! my dizzy head
Swims at the precipice!.. 'tis death to fall!
Lie still, thou coward heart! this is no time To shake with thy strong throbs the frame convulsed. To die, -to be at rest, oh, pleasant thought! Perchance to leap and live; the soul all still, And the wild tempest of the passions husht In one deep calm: the heart, no more diseased By the quick ague fits of hope and fear, Quietly cold!
Presiding Powers, look down! In vain to you I pour'd my earnest prayers, In vain I sung your praises: chiefly thou, Venus ungrateful Goddess, whom my lyre Hymn'd with such full devotion. Lesbian groves, Witness how often, at the languid hour Of summer twilight, to the melting song Ye gave your choral echoes! Grecian maids, Who hear with downcast look and flushing cheek, That lay of love, bear witness! and ye youths, Who hang enraptured on the impassion'd strain, Gazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart Sinks in the deep delirium! And ye, too, Ages unborn! bear witness ye, how hard Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain! Ungrateful Goddess! I have hung my lute In yonder holy pile; my hand no more Shall wake the melodies that fail'd to move Obdurate Phaon!.. yet when rumour tells How from Leucadia Sappho cast herself, A self-devoted victim, . . he may melt Too late in pity, obstinate to love.
Oh! haunt his midnight dreams, black Nemesis !
Whom, self-conceiving in the inmost depths
Of Chaos, blackest Night long-labouring bore,
When the stern Destinies, her elder brood,
And shapeless Death, from that more monstrous birth
Leapt shuddering: Haunt his slumbers, Nemesis !
Scorch with the fires of Phlegethon his heart,
Till helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandon'd wretch,
He too shall seek beneath the unfathom'd deep
To hide him from thy fury.
1 Ου τινι κοιμηθείσα θεα τεκι ΝΥΞ ερεβεννη.
Scene, The Temple of Meritli.
SUBJECTS! friends! children! I may call you children,
For I have ever borne a father's love
Towards you; it is thirteen years since first
You saw me in the robes of royalty,..
Since here the multitudes of Mexico
Hail'd me their King. Ithank you, friends, that now,
In equal numbers and with equal love,
You come to grace my death.
For thirteen years
What I have been, ye know: that with all care,
That with all justness and all gentleness,
Seeking your weal, I govern'd. Is there one
Whom I have injured? one whose just redress
I have denied, or baffled by delay ?
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Not by my sins have I drawn down upon me
The wrath of Heaven.
The wrath is heavy on me!
Heavy! a burthen more than I can bear!
I have endured contempt, insult, and wrongs
From that Acolhuan tyrant. Should I seek
Revenge? alas, my people, we are few, . .
Feeble our growing state; it hath not yet
Rooted itself to bear the hurricane;
It is the lion-cub that tempts not yet
The tyger's full-aged fury. Mexicans,
He sent to bid me wear a woman's robe; ..
When was the day that ever I look'd back
In battle? Mexicans, the wife I loved,
To faith and friendship trusted, in despite
Of me, of heaven, he seiz'd, and spurn'd her back
Polluted!... Coward villain! and he lurks
Behind his armies and his multitudes,
And mocks my idle wrath!.. It is not fit. .
It is not possible that I should live!..
Live! and deserve to be the finger-mark
Of slave-contempt!... His blood I cannot reach,
But in my own all stains may be effaced;
It shall blot out the marks of infamy,
And when the warriors of the days to come
Tell of Ximalpoca, it shall be said
He died the brave man's death!
Unworthy, do I seek his altar thus,
A voluntary victim. And perchance
The sacrifice of life may profit ye,
My people, though all living efforts fail'd
By fortune, not by fault.
Cease your lament !
And if your ill-doom'd King deserved your love,
Say of him to your children, he was one
Who bravely bore misfortune; who, when life
Became dishonour, shook his body off,
And join'd the spirits of the heroes dead.
Yes! not in Miclanteuctli's dark abode
With cowards shall your King receive his doom:
Not in the icy caverns of the North
Suffer through endless ages. He shall join
The Spirits of the brave. with them at morn
Shall issue from the eastern gate of Heaven,
And follow through his fields of light the Sun;
With them shall raise the song and weave the dance;
Sport in the stream of splendour; company
Down to the western palace of his rest
The Prince of Glory; and with equal eye
Endure his center'd radiance. Not of you
Forgetful, O my people, even then;
But often in the amber cloud of noon
Diffused, will I o'erspread your summer fields,
And on the freshen'd maize and brightening meads
Shower plenty.
Spirits of my valiant Sires,
I come! Mexitli, never at thy shrine
Flow'd braver blood; never a nobler heart
Steam'd up to thee its life! Priests of the God,
Perform your office!
Fergusius 3. periit veneno ab uxore dato. Alii scribunt cum uxor sæpe exprobrasset ei matrimonii contemptum et pellicum greges, neque quicquam profecisset, tandem noctu dormientem ab ea strangulatum. Quæstione de morte ejus habitâ, cum amicorum plurimi insimularentur, nec quisquam ne in gravissimis quidem tormentis quicquam fateretur, mulier, alioqui ferox, tot innoxiorum capitum miserta, in medium processit, ac e superiore loco cædem a se factum confessa, ne ad ludibrium superesset, pectus cultro transfodit: quod ejus factum varie pro cujusque ingenio est acceptum, ac perinde sermonibus celebratum. -Buchanan.
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Shame on ye, Scotchmen, that a woman's hand Was left to do this deed! Shame on ye, Thanes, Who with slave-patience have so long endured The wrongs, and insolence of tyranny ! Cowardly race!.. that not a husband's sword Smote that adulterous King! that not a wife Revenged her own pollution; in his blood Wash'd herself pure, and for the sin compell'd Atoned by righteous murder!.. O my God! Of what beast-matter hast thou moulded them To bear with wrongs like these? There was a time When if the Bard had feign'd you such a tale, Your eyes had throbb'd with anger, and your hand, In honest instinct would have graspt the sword. O miserable men, who have disgraced Your fathers, whom your sons must blush to name !
Ay,.. ye can threaten me! ye can be brave In anger to a woman! one whose virtue Upbraids your coward vice; whose name will live Honour'd and praised in song, when not a hand Shall root from your forgotten monuments The cankering moss. Fools! fools! to think that death Is not a thing familiar to my mind;
As if I knew not what must consummate
My glory! as if aught that earth can give
Could tempt me to endure the load of life!...
Scotchmen! ye saw when Fergus to the altar
Led me, his maiden Queen. Ye blest me then,..
I heard you bless me,.. and I thought that Heaven
Had heard you also, and that I was blest;
For I loved Fergus. Bear me witness, God!
With what a heart and soul sincerity
My lips pronounced the unrecallable vow
That made me his, him mine; bear witness, Thou! Before whose throne I this day must appear
Stain'd with his blood and mine! My heart was his... I saw the coward ruffian, heard him urge His in the strength of all its first affections.
In all obedience, in all love, I kept
Holy my marriage-vow. Behold me, Thanes !
Time hath not changed the face on which his eye
So often dwelt, when with assiduous care
He sought my love, with seeming truth, for one,
Sincere herself, impossible to doubt.
Time hath not changed that face!.. I speak not now
With pride of beauties that will feed the worm
To-morrow; but with honest pride I say,
That if the truest and the purest love
Deserved requital, such was ever mine.
How often reeking from the adulterous bed
Have I received him! and with no complaint.
Neglect and insult, cruelty and scorn,
Long, long did I endure, and long curb down
The indignant nature.
Tell your countrymen,
Scotchmen, what I have spoken! Say to them
Ye saw the Queen of Scotland lift the dagger
Red from her husband's heart; that in her own
She plunged it.
[Stubs herself.
Tell them also, that she felt
No guilty fear in death.
His wicked suit, and bid me tamely yield,..
Yield to dishonour. When he proffer'd death,..
Oh, I had leapt to meet the merciful sword!
But that with most accursed vows he vow'd,
That he would lay a dead slave by my side,
Murdering my spotless honour... Collatine,
From what an anguish have I rescued thee!
And thou, my father, wretched as thou art,
Thou miserable, childless, poor old man
Think, father, what that agony had been!
Now thou may'st sorrow for me, thou may'st bless
The memory of thy poor, polluted child.
Look if it have not kindled Brutus' eye: Mysterious man! at last I know thee now, I see thy dawning glories!.. to the grave Not unrevenged Lucretia shall descend; Not always shall her wretched country wear The Tarquin's yoke! Ye will deliver Rome, And I have comfort in this dreadful hour.
Thinkest thou, my husband, that I dreaded death? O Collatine! the weapon that had gored My bosom had been ease, been happiness,.. Elysium, to the hell of his hot grasp. Judge if Lucretia could have fear'd to die!
Scene, The House of Collatine.
WELCOME, my father! good Valerius,
Welcome! and thou too, Brutus ! ye were both
My wedding guests, and fitly ye are come.
My husband.. Collatine.. alas! no more
Lucretia's husband, for thou shalt not clasp
Pollution to thy bosom,... hear me on!
For I must tell thee all.
I sat at eve
Spinning amid my maidens as I wont,
When from the camp at Ardea Sextus came.
Curb down thy swelling feelings, Collatine!
I little liked the man! yet, for he came
From Ardea, for he brought me news of thee,
I gladly gave him welcome; gladly listen'd,..
Thou canst not tell how gladly,.. to his tales
Of battles, and the long and perilous siege;
And when I laid me down at night to sleep,
'Twas with a lighten'd heart,.. I knew thee safe,
My visions were of thee.
Nay, hear me out!
And be thou wise in vengeance, so thy wife
Not vainly shall have suffer'd. I have wrought
My soul up to the business of this hour,
That it may stir your noble spirits, and prompt
Such glorious deeds that ages yet unborn
Shall bless my fate. At midnight I awoke,
The Tarquin was beside me! O my husband,
Where wert thou then! gone was my rebel strength,..
All power of utterance gone! astonish'd, stunn'd,
This monodrama was written several years before the author had any intention of treating at greater length the portion of Spanish history to which it relates. It is founded upon the following passage in the Historia Verdadera del Rey Don Rodrigo, which Miguel de Luna translated from the Arabic.
"Aviendose despedido en la ciudad de Cordoba el Conde Don Julian de aquellos Generales, recogió toda su gente, deudos y criados; y porque sus tierras estavan tan perdidas y maltratadas, se fue á un lugar pequeño, que está fabricado en la ribera del mar Mediterraneo, en la provincia que llaman Vandalucia, á la qual nombraron los Christianos en su lengua Villaviciosa. Y aviendo llegado á ella, dió orden de embiar por su muger, y hija, que estavan detenidas en aquellas partes de Africa, en una ciudad que está en la ribera del mar, la qual se llama Tanjer, para | desde alli aguardar el sucesso de la conquista de España en que avia de parar: las quales llegadas en aquella villa, el Conde D. Julian las recibió con mucho contento, porque | tenia bien sentida su larga ausencia. Y aviendo descansado, desde allí el Conde dava orden con mucha diligencia para poblar y restaurar sus tierras, para ir á vivir á ellas. Su hija estava muy triste y afligida; y por mucho que su padre y madre la regalavan, nunca la podian contentar, ni alegrar. Imaginava la grande perdida de España, y la grande destruicion de los Christianos, con tantas muertes, y cautiverios, robadas sus haziendas, y que ella huviesse sido causa principal, cabeza, y ocasion de aquella perdicion; y sobre todo ello le crecian mas sus pesadumbres en verse deshonrada, y sin esperanza de tener estado, segum ella deseava. Con esta imaginacion, engañada del demonio,
Why didst thou bring me here
To set my foot, reluctant as I was,
On this most injured and unhappy land?
Yonder in Afric.. on a foreign shore,
I might have linger'd out my wretched life...
I might have found some distant lurking place,
Where my accursed tale was never known;
Where Gothic speech would never reach my ear, -
Where among savages I might have fled
The leprous curse of infamy! But here--
In Spain,-in my own country;-night and morn
Where all good people curse me in their prayers;
Where every Moorish accent that I hear
Doth tell me of my country's overthrow,
Doth stab me like a dagger to the soul;
Here-here-in desolated Spain, whose fields
Yet reek to Heaven with blood, whose slaughter'd
determinó entresi de morir desesperada; y un dia se subió Could pluck me back?
á una torre, cerrando la puerta della por dedentro, porque
no fuesse estorvada de aquel hecho que queria hazer; y
dixo á una ama suya, que le llamasse á su padre y madre,
que les queria dezir un poco. Y siendo venidos, desde lo
alto de aquella torre les hizo un razonamiento muy las-
timoso, diziendoles al fin dél, que muger tan desdichada
como ella era, y tan desventurada, no merecia vivir en el
mundo con tanta deshonra, mayormente aviendo sido causa
de tanto mal y destruicion. Y luego les dixo, Padres, en
memoria de mi desdicha, de aqui adelante no se llame esta
ciudad, Villaviciosa, sino Malaca; Oy se acaba en ella la
mas mala muger que huvo en el mundo. Y acabadas estas
palabras, sin mas oir á sus padres, ni á nadie de los que
estavan presentes, por muchos ruegos que la hizieron, y
amonestaciones que no se echasse abaxo, se dexó caer en
el suelo; y llevada medio muerta, vivió como tres dias, y
luego murió. Fue causa este desastre y desesperacion de
mucho escandalo, y notable memoria, entre los Moros y
Christianos y desde alle adelante se llamo aquella ciudad
Malaga corruptamente por los Christianos; y de los Arabes
fue llamada Malaca, en memoria de aquellas palabras que
dixo quando se echó de la torre, no se llame Villaviciosa,
sino Malaca, porque ca, en lenguaje Español quiere dezir
porque; y porque dixo, ca, oy se acaba en ella la mas mala
muger que huvo en el mundo, se compuso este nombre de
"— Cap. xviii. pp. 81. 83.
Mala Bleda, who has incorporated Miguel de Luna's story in his Cronica de los Moros de España, pp. 193, 194., has the following curious passage concerning La Caba. "Fue la hermosura desta dama no menos dañosa á España, que la de Elena á Troya. Llamaronla los Moros por mal nombre La Cava; y nota el Padre Fray Estevan de Salazar, Cartuxo, en los discursos doctissimos sobre el Credo, que esto no fue sin mysterio: porque el nombre de nuestra primera madre en el Hebreo no se pronuncia Eva, sino Cavab: de suerte que tuvieron un mesmo nombre dos mugeres que fueron ruyna de los hombres, la una en todo el mundo, y la otra en España."- Bleda, p. 146. Morales supposes that the Gate at Malaga derived its name not from the death of La Caba, but from her having passed through it on her way to Africa.
"En Malaga he visto la puerta en el muro, que llaman de La Cava, y dicen le quedó aquel nombre, habiendo salido esta vez por ella embarcarse. Y la gran desventura que luego sucedió, dexó tristemente notable aquel lugar."-Morales, 1. xii. cap. lxvii. § 4.
The very different view which I have taken of this subject when treating it upon a great scale, renders it proper to substitute for Julian in this earlier production the name of Illan, for which the Cronica de España affords authority, and to call his daughter as she is named in that spirited Ode by P. Luis de Leon, of which a good translation may be found in Russell's poems.
FATHER! Count Illan! here- what here I say,-
Aloft.. look up!... ay, father, here I stand,
Safe of my purpose now! The way is barr`d;
Thou need'st not hasten hither!-Ho! Count Illan,
I tell thee I have barr'd the battlements!
I tell thee that no human power can curb
A desperate will. The poison and the knife..
These thou couldst wrest from me; but here I stand
Beyond thy thrall; free mistress of myself.
Though thou hadst wings thou could'st not overtake
My purpose. I command my destiny.
Would I stand dallying on Death's threshold here,
If it were possible that hand of man
Lie rotting in the open light of day,
My victims; -- said I mine? Nay-nay, Count Illan,
They are thy victims at the throne of God
Their spirits call for vengeance on thy head;
Their blood is on thy soul, -even I, myself,
I am thy victim too, - - and this death more
Must yet be placed in Hell to thy account.
O my dear Country! O my mother Spain !
My cradle and my grave! - for thou art dear,
And nurst to thy undoing as I was,
Still, still I am thy child-and love thee still;
I shall be written in thy chronicles
The veryest wretch that ever yet betray'd
Her native land! From sire to son my name
Will be transmitted down for infamy!
Never again will mother call her child
La Caba, -
-an Iscariot curse will lie
Upon the name, and children in their songs
Will teach the rocks and hills to echo with it
Strumpet and traitoress!
This is thy work, father!
Nay, tell me not my shame is wash'd away-
That all this ruin and this misery
Is vengeance for my wrongs. I ask'd not this, -
I call'd for open, manly, Gothic vengeance.
Thou wert a vassal, and thy villain lord
Most falsely and most foully broke his faith;
Thou wert a father, and the lustful king
By force abused thy child; -Thou hadst a sword,
Shame on thee to call in the scymetar
To do thy work! Thou wert a Gotha Christian-
Son of an old and honourable house,-
It was my boast, my proudest happiness,
To think I was the daughter of Count Illan.
Fool that I am to call this African
By that good name! Oh do not spread thy hands
To me!—and put not on that father's look!
Moor! turbaned misbeliever! renegade !
Circumcised traitor! Thou Count Illan, Thou !—
Thou my dear father? --cover me, O Earth!
Hell hide me from the knowledge!
THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.
SHE held a Cup and Ball of ivory white,
Less white the ivory than her snowy hand!
Enrapt, I watch'd her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in innocent delight,
Her taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball,
Now tost it, following still with EAGLE sight,
Now on the pointed end infix'd its fall.
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd,
Methought the BALL she play'd with was my HEART;
(Alas! that sport like that should be her pride!)
And the keen point which stedfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was CUPID's dart;
Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn
Who on that dart IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?
THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S PARLOUR.
I WOULD I were that portly Gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,
Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise,
On him converge the SUN-BEAMS of her eyes,
And he unblamed may gaze upon MY FAIR,
And oft MY FAIR his favour'd form surveys.
O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze;
I envy him and jealous fear alarms,
Lest the STRONG glance of those divinest charms
WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,
When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that portly Gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane.
TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA'S FORTRAIT.
RASH Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY
In all its noontide glory? or pourtray
The DIAMOND, that athwart the taper'd hall
Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light?
Even if thine art could boast such magic might,
Yet if it strove to paint my Angel's EYE,
Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call
Heaven's vengeance on thy sin: Must thou be told
The CRIME it is to paint DIVINITY?
Rash Painter should the world her charms behold,
Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be,
They to their old idolatry would fall,
And bend before her form the pagan knee,
Fairer than VENUS, DAUGHTER OF THE sea.
HE PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS
LOVE FOR DELIA.
SOME have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.
Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, I view her every where;
Her ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see,
My Goddess- Maid, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR,
For LOVE annihilates the world to me!
And when the weary SOL around his bed
Closes the SABLE CURTAINS of the night,
SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight
SHE shines confest.
When every
sound is dead,
The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to roll
The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.
Far, far from her my Body drags its chain,
But sure with Delia I exist a SOUL!
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