_Jul._ All who are seen to-day On prancing steeds richly caparisoned In loyal acclamation round Roderigo; Their sons beside them, loving one another Unfeignedly, through joy, while they themselves In mutual homage mutual scorn suppress. Their very walls and roofs are welcoming The king’s approach, their storied tapestry Swells its rich arch for him triumphantly At every clarion blowing from below.
_Cov._ Such wicked men will never leave his side.
_Jul._ For they are insects which see nought beyond Where they now crawl; whose changes are complete, Unless of habitation.
_Cov._ Whither go Creatures unfit for better, or for worse?
_Jul._ Some to the grave—where peace be with them! some Across the Pyrenean mountains far, Into the plains of France; suspicion there Will hang on every step from rich and poor, Grey quickly-glancing eyes will wrinkle round, And courtesy will watch them day and night. Shameless they are, yet will they blush, amid A nation that ne’er blushes: some will drag The captive’s chain, repair the shattered bark, Or heave it from a quicksand to the shore, Among the marbles of the Libyan coast; Teach patience to the lion in his cage, And, by the order of a higher slave, Hold to the elephant their scanty fare, To please the children while the parent sleeps.
_Cov._ Spaniards? must they, dear father, lead such lives?
_Jul._ All are not Spaniards who draw breath in Spain; Those are, who live for her, who die for her, Who love her glory and lament her fall. Oh, may I too—
_Cov._ But peacefully, and late, Live and die here!
_Jul._ I have, alas! myself Laid waste the hopes where my fond fancy strayed, And view their ruins with unaltered eyes.
_Cov._ My mother will at last return to thee. Might I once more, but—could I now behold her, Tell her—ah me! what was my rash desire? No, never tell her these inhuman things, For they would waste her tender heart away As they waste mine; or tell when I have died, Only to show her that her every care Could not have saved, could not have comforted. That she herself, clasping me once again To her sad breast, had said, Covilla! go, Go, hide them in the bosom of thy God! Sweet mother, that far-distant voice I hear, And passing out of youth and out of life, I would not turn at last, and disobey.