Scene IX — The walls of the city.
Hernandez—A few citizens gathered round him.
Her. Why, men have cast the treasures, which their lives
Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre;
Ay, at their household hearths have lit the brand,
Even from that shrine of quiet love to bear
The flame which gave their temples and their homes
In ashes to the winds! They have done this,
Making a blasted void where once the sun
Look’d upon lovely dwellings; and from earth
Razing all record that on such a spot
Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept,
And frail humanity knelt before her God:
They have done this, in their free nobleness,
Rather than see the spoiler’s tread pollute
Their holy places. Praise, high praise be theirs,
Who have left man such lessons! And these things,
Made your own hills their witnesses! The sky,
Whose arch bends o’er you, and the seas, wherein
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw
The altar, and the birthplace, and the tomb,
And all memorials of man’s heart and faith,
Thus proudly honour’d! Be ye not outdone
By the departed! Though the godless foe
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch
The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong!
A few bright torches and brief moments yet
Shall baffle his flush’d hope; and we may die,
Laughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me!
And thou, Valencia! triumph in thy fate—
The ruin, not the yoke; and make thy towers
A beacon unto Spain!
Cits. We’ll follow thee!
Alas! for our fair city, and the homes
Wherein we rear’d our children! But away!
The Moor shall plant no Crescent o’er our fanes!
Voice. (from a tower on the walls.) Succours!—Castile! Castile!
Cits. (rushing to the spot.) It is even so!
Now blessing be to heaven, for we are saved!
Castile! Castile!
Voice. (from the tower.) Line after line of spears,
Lance after lance, upon th’ horizon’s verge,
Like festal lights from cities bursting up,
Doth skirt the plain. In faith, a noble host!
Another voice. The Moor hath turn’d him from our walls, to front
Th’ advancing might of Spain!
Cits. (shouting.) Castile! Castile!
Gonzalez enters, supported by Elmina and a citizen.
Gon. What shouts of joy are these?
Her. Hail! chieftain, hail!
Thus, even in death, ’tis given thee to receive
The conqueror’s crown! Behold our God hath heard,
And arm’d himself with vengeance! Lo! they come!
The lances of Castile!
Gon. I knew, I knew,
Thou wouldst not utterly, my God! forsake
Thy servant in his need! My blood and tears
Have not sunk vainly to th’ attesting earth.
Praise to Thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived
To see this hour!
Elm. And I, too, bless thy name,
Though thou hast proved me unto agony!
O God!—thou God of chastening!
Voice. (from the tower.) They move on!
I see the royal banner in the air,
With its emblazon’d towers!
Gon. Go, bring ye forth
The banner of the Cid, and plant it here,
To stream above me, for an answering sign
That the good Cross doth hold its lofty place
Within Valencia still! What see you now?
Her. I see a kingdom’s might upon its path,
Moving, in terrible magnificence,
Unto revenge and victory! With the flash
Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks,
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep,
And with the waving of ten thousand plumes,
Like a land’s harvest in the autumn wind,
And with fierce light, which is not of the sun,
But flung from sheets of steel—it comes, it comes,
The vengeance of our God!
Gon. I hear it now,
The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes,
Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths.
Her. Ay, earth knows well the omen of that sound;
And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre’s,
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond
Unto the step of death!
Gon. Hark! how the wind
Swells proudly with the battle-march of Spain?
Now the heart feels its power! A little while
Grant me to Eve, my God! What pause is this?
Her. A deep and dreadful one! The serried files
Level their spears for combat; now the hosts
Look on each other in their brooding wrath,
Silent, and face to face.
Voices heard without, chanting.
Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit! rest thee now!
E’en while with ours thy footsteps trode
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!
They that have seen thy look in death
No more may fear to die.
Elm. (to Gonzalez.) It is the death-hymn o’er thy daughter’s bier!
But I am calm; and e’en like gentle winds,
That music, through the stillness of my heart,
Sends mournful peace.
Gon. Oh! well those solemn tones
Accord with such an hour, for all her life
Breathed of a hero’s soul!
[A sound of trumpets and shouting from the plain.]
Her. Now, now they close! Hark! what a dull dead sound
Is in the Moorish war-shout! I have known
Such tones prophetic oft. The shock is given—
Lo! they have placed their shields before their hearts,
And lower’d their lances with the streamers on,
And on their steeds bent forward! God for Spain!
The first bright sparks of battle have been struck
From spear to spear, across the gleaming field!—
There is no sight on which the blue sky looks
To match with this! ’Tis not the gallant crests,
Nor banners with their glorious blazonry;
The very nature and high soul of man
Doth now reveal itself!
Gon. Oh, raise me up,
That I may look upon the noble scene!—
It will not be!—That this dull mist would pass
A moment from my sight! Whence rose that shout,
As in fierce triumph?
Her. (clasping his hands.) Must I look on this?
The banner sinks—’tis taken!
Gon. Whose?
Her. Castile’s!
Gon. O God of Battles!
Elm. Calm thy noble heart;
Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed.
Nay, rest thee on my bosom.
Her. Cheer thee yet!
Our knights have spurr’d to rescue. There is now
A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things,
Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness
Wherewith they moved before! I see tall plumes
All wildly tossing o’er the battle’s tide,
Sway’d by the wrathful motion, and the press
Of desperate men, as cedar boughs by storms.
Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood,
Many a false corslet broken, many a shield
Pierced through! Now, shout for Santiago, shout!
Lo! javelins with a moment’s brightness cleave
The thickening dust, and barded steeds go down
With their helm’d riders! Who, but One, can tell
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush
And trampling-on of furious multitudes?
Gon. Thou’rt silent!—See’st thou more? My
soul grows dark.
Her. And dark and troubled, as an angry sea,
Dashing some gallant armament in scorn
Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze!
I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross’d,
And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms
To lighten with the stroke! But round the spot
Where, like a storm-fell’d mast, our standard sank,
The heart of battle burns.
Gon. Where is that spot?
Her. It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms,
That lift their green heads o’er the tumult still,
In calm and stately grace.
Gon. There didst thou say?
Then God is with us, and we must prevail!
For on that spot they died: my children’s blood
Calls on th’ avenger thence!
Elm. They perish’d there!
—And the bright locks that waved so joyously
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled
Even on that place of death! O Merciful!
Hush the dark thought within me!
Her. (with sudden exultation.) Who is he,
On the white steed, and with the castled helm,
And the gold-broider’d mantle, which doth float
E’en like a sunny cloud above the fight;
And the pale cross, which from his breastplate gleams
With star-like radiance?
Gon. (eagerly.) Didst thou say the cross?
Her. On his mail’d bosom shines a broad white cross,
And his long plumage through the dark’ning air
Streams like a snow-wreath.
Gon. That should be—
Her. The king!
Was it not told to us how he sent, of late,
To the Cid’s tomb, e’en for the silver cross,
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind
O’er his brave heart in fight?[284]
Gon. (springing up joyfully.) My king! my king!
Now all good saints for Spain! My noble king!
And thou art there! That I might look once more
Upon thy face! But yet I thank thee, heaven!
That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands
Thus to receive his city!
[He sinks back into Elmina’s arms.
Her. He hath clear’d
A pathway midst the combat, and the light
Follows his charge through yon close living mass,
E’en as a gleam on some proud vessel’s wake
Along the stormy waters! ’Tis redeem’d—
The castled banner; it is flung once more,
In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds!
There seems a wavering through the Paynim hosts—
Castile doth press them sore—now, now rejoice!
Gon. What hast thou seen?
Her. Abdullah falls! He falls!
The man of blood!—the spoiler!—he hath sunk
In our king’s path! Well hath that royal sword
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez!
They give way,
The Crescent’s van is broken! On the hills,
And the dark pine-woods, may the infidel
Call vainly, in his agony of fear,
To cover him from vengeance! Lo! they fly!
They of the forest and the wilderness
Are scatter’d, e’en as leaves upon the wind!
Woe to the sons of Afric! Let the plains,
And the vine mountains, and Hesperian seas,
Take their dead unto them!—that blood shall wash
Our soil from stains of bondage.
Gon. (attempting to raise himself.) Set me free!
Come with me forth, for I must greet my king,
After his battle-field!
Her. Oh, blest in death!
Chosen of heaven, farewell! Look on the Cross,
And part from earth in peace!
Gon. Now, charge once more!
God is with Spain, and Santiago’s sword
Is reddening all the air! Shout forth “Castile!”
The day is ours! I go; but fear ye not!
For Afric’s lance is broken, and my sons
Have won their first good field!
[He dies.
Elm. Look on me yet!
Speak one farewell, my husband!—must thy voice
Enter my soul no more! Thine eye is fix’d—
Now is my life uprooted—and ’tis well.
[A sound of triumphant music is heard, and many Castilian Knights and Soldiers enter.]
A Cit. Hush your triumphal sounds, although ye come
E’en as deliverers! But the noble dead,
And those that mourn them, claim from human hearts
Deep silent reverence.
Elm. (rising proudly.) No, swell forth, Castile!
Thy trumpet music, till the seas and heavens,
And the deep hills, give every stormy note
Echoes to ring through Spain! How, know ye not
That all array’d for triumph, crown’d and robed
With the strong spirit which hath saved the land,
E’en now a conqueror to his rest is gone?
Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind
Swell on with victory’s shout!—He will not hear—
Hath earth a sound more sad?
Her. Lift ye the dead,
And bear him with the banner of his race
Waving above him proudly, as it waved
O’er the Cid’s battles, to the tomb wherein
His warrior sires are gather’d.
[They raise the body.
Elm. Ay, ’tis thus
Thou shouldst be honour’d! And I follow thee,
With an unfaltering and a lofty step,
To that last home of glory. She that wears
In her deep heart the memory of thy love,
Shall thence draw strength for all things; till the God
Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth,
Looking upon her still and chasten’d soul,
Call it once more to thine!
(To the Castilians.) Awake, I say!
Tambour and trumpet, wake! And let the land
Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal.
—So should a hero pass to his repose.
[Exeunt omnes.
[284] This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alfonso, the last of that name. He sent to the Cid’s tomb for the cross which that warrior was accustomed to wear upon his breast when he went to battle, and had it made into one for himself, “because of the faith which he had, that through it he should obtain the victory.”—Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid.