_Jul._ For that wish— Vain as it is, ’tis virtuous—oh, for that, However wrong thy censure and thy praise, Kind Abdalazis, mayst thou never feel The rancour that consumes thy father’s breast, Nor want the pity thou hast sought for me.
_Abd._ O father, heed him not: those evil words Leave neither blight nor blemish—let him go.
_Muza_. A boy, a very boy, art thou indeed! One who in early day would sally out To chase the lion, and would call it sport, But, when more wary steps had closed him round, Slink from the circle, drop the toils, and blanch Like a lithe plant from under snow in spring.
_Abd._ He who ne’er shrank from danger might shrink now, And ignominy would not follow here.
_Muza_. Peace, Abdalazis! how is this? he bears Nothing that warrants him invulnerable: Shall I then shrink to smite him? shall my fears Be greatest at the blow that ends them all? Fears? no! ’tis justice—fair, immutable, Whose measured step, at times, advancing nigh, Appalls the majesty of kings themselves. Oh, were he dead! though then revenge were o’er.
_Jul._ Adieu, Earth, and the humblest of all earthly hopes, To hear of comfort, though to find it vain. Thou murderer of the helpless! shame of man! Shame of thy own base nature! ’tis an act He who could perpetrate could not avow, Stained, as he boasts to be, with innocent blood, Deaf to reproach, and blind to retribution.
_Off._ Julian, be just; ’twill make thee less unhappy. Grief was her end: she held her younger boy And wept upon his cheek; his naked breast By recent death now hardening and inert, Slipped from her knee; again with frantic grasp She caught it, and it weighed her to the ground: There lay the dead.
_Jul._ Receive them to thy peace, eternal God! O soother of my hours, while I beheld The light of day, and thine! adieu, adieu! And, my Covilla! dost thou yet survive? Yes, my lost child, thou livest yet—in shame! Oh, agony past utterance! past thought! That throwest death, as some light idle thing, With all its terrors, into dust and air, I will endure thee; I, whom heaven ordained Thus to have served beneath my enemies, Their conqueror, thus to have revisited My native land with vengeance and with woe. Henceforward shall she recognise her sons, Impatient of oppression or disgrace, And rescue them, or perish; let her hold This compact, written with her blood, and mine. Now follow me—but tremble—years shall roll, And wars rage on, and Spain at last be free.