Scene II
Two Numantines.
First.
Dear brother, let our spirits through our eyes
Pour forth their wailings changed to bitter tears;
Let Death approach, and bear away as prize
Our hapless life of misery and fears.
Second.
A little space will end our griefs and sighs,
For Death stands ready armed, and now appears
To bear on speedy wings as welcome spoil
Whatever dwells upon Numantian soil.
I see most truly what the tokens are
That our dear land must sink in awful gloom;
Nor need these Roman ministers of war
Decree our ruin and adjudge our doom:
Our own, who reckon it more fearful far
That we should drag out life within a tomb,
Have given sentence that we end our days,
A stern decree, but worthy of all praise.
They now have raised within the public square
A monstrous, greedy, all-consuming fire,
Whose flames, replenished by our riches rare,
Assail the very heavens in their ire.
To this, with quickened speed, pricked on by care,
Or else, with timid feet, which sufferings tire,
Come all, as to a holy sacrifice,
And feed its flames with all the wealth they prize.
The pearl of beauty from the rosy East,
The gold into a thousand vessels made,
The diamond and ruby bright, increased
With stores of purple fine and rich brocade,
Are hurled into the blazing fire, to feast
Its fierce luxurious flames, with grand parade;
Spoils these, which might have served the Roman bands
To fill their bosoms, and enrich their hands.
[Here enter certain people laden with robes, who go in by one door, and out by the other.
Turn thee to see a sight of misery!
See, how our swarming folk of every name
With quickened steps and eager faces fly
To feed the fury of the maddened flame!
And not with faggots green, or fodder dry,
Or any worthless fuel like the same,
But with their garnered wealth, and luckless treasure,
Which in its burning gives them greater pleasure.
First.
If such a deed as this would end our woe,
We well might see and bear it patiently,
But ah! it is decreed, as well I know,
O cruel sentence, that we all must die;
Before the barbarous rigour of the foe
Upon our necks with cruel grip shall lie,
Ourselves our executioners must be,
And not these Romans steeped in perfidy.
Think, every woman, child, and old man here,
By stern decree to death must straightway go,
Since in the end the pangs of hunger drear
Will take their lives, and with a fiercer blow.
But, brother, mark the woman drawing near,
Who, once upon a time, as thou dost know,
Was loved by me, and with a love as great
As is the sorrow which is now her fate.
[A woman enters with a child in her arms, and leading another by the hand, who carries robes to be burned.
Mother.
O this life, so hard and dread,
Agony intense and drear!
Son.
Mother, is there no one here,
Who for this will give us bread?
Mother.
Neither bread, nor other thing
Fit for thee to eat, my son!
Son.
Then, indeed, am I undone,
Hunger kills me with its sting;
Give me bread, one little jot,
Mother, I will ask no more!
Mother.
Son, thy words do pain me sore!
Son.
Mother, then thou wishest not?
Mother.
Yes, I wish; but know not where
Bread to get, though oft I try it.
Son.
Mother, thou may’st surely buy it,
If not, let me buy it there.
Yet to quit me of my dread,
If on any one I fall,
I will give him clothes and all
For one little bit of bread.
Mother (to her Infant).
Suckest thou, thou hapless brood?
Feel’st not, that to my unrest
Thou from out my withered breast
Draw’st not milk, but simple blood?
Take the flesh, and bit by bit
May it give thee much content,
For my feeble arms and spent
Thee to carry are not fit!
O ye children of my heart,
Can I give ye life afresh,
If scarce with my very flesh
I can nourishment impart?
Hunger, with thy biting breath,
How thou cuttest short my life?
O thou hard and cruel strife,
Sent alone to cause me death!
Son.
Mother mine, I cannot stay,
Back and homeward let us go;
Hunger only seems to grow,
As we journey on the way.
Mother.
Here, my son, the house must be,
Whence we presently shall throw
Down into the fiery glow
All the load that presses thee!
[Exeunt.