Fitz-Ed. And heaven's my witness
fhat I have felt them to my inmost soul.
That I have ne'er forgot the ties that bind me
To my dear-my native land, nor yet—
Thine!-did I hear aright?—and thou art then-
Fitz-Ed. E'en like thyself, a Cambrian.
Cas. He avows it!
Hear him!--he heralds forth his own deep shame!
Pranked in the trappings of his guilt, he comes
To beard us with the boast-the very boast
Of his apostate baseness!
Fitz-Ed. Spare to chide
Till thou hast heard my story.-I have fought
Abroad beneath the banner, it is true,
Of English Edward: true, to him I owe
My name-my knighthood-all that I possess.
Since from my earliest years, while yet an infant,
Found after Deva's fight, I still have lived
Cas. That fight!—oh name it not! (Covering his face, ana then regarding Fitz-Edward with softened looks.)
Art thou a sufferer too from that same fight?
Yet do not tell me. Oh, thou hast recalled
Days of despair and images of horror!-
A murdered wife and son. No more-no more.
And thou wert ravished from thy parents, youth?
So ran thy tale.
Fitz-Ed. "Tis all I have to tell.
"Tis all I know, that in the sanctuary
Of a deserted convent, chance revealed me
Beside a dying mother.
Cas. Heavenly powers!
But this is strange-and stranger thoughts provokes.
A convent!-'Twas to such a place-The time too
Exactly suiting.-A deserted convent!—
The name;-the name?
Fitz-Ed. What can this mean?
Cas. (With impatient eagerness.) The name?
Fitz-Ed. I have been told-
Cas. Was it St. Cybi's?
Fitz-Ed. Ha!
You then have heard
Cas. It was! and I am wild
With hope new risen as from the vanquished tomb!
(Re-Enter Mador.)
Mad. My lord, the assembled bands—
Cas. I know.-Come hither,
Dost thou observe that youth ?-his shape-his mien—
Nay-look upon him: for by all my hopes
Here and hereafter, I do think that youth
To be the child of my Guideria,
My long-lost living son.
Mad. That Saxon knight,
Fitz-Ed. (Aside.) Amazement mocks my every sense
Why should he eye me with such altered looks?—
Haply he knew my parents.-Ha!-dread chief—
If aught, as thy demeanor doth denote,
Aught of my birth thou knowest, I do beseech thee
Declare it. Have I-oh! I fear to ask-
Have I a father?-thou art silent. Speak.
Restore to me a father;-or if fate
Hath envious snatched him from these filial arms,
Restore to me a name, and I will bless thee!
Cas. Yet, yet, my heart, thou art too small to hold
A tide of bliss so copious! One word more.-
Thou namedst an expiring mother.
By a chance arrow, as I since have heard,
While flying with myself, her infant charge,
From the victorious foe-to earth she fell :
And from her arms, that could no longer hold,
Unwilling gave me up-gave me to him
Who led that day the assailant host, and now
With sorrowing heart stood o'er her as she died.
Cas. Go on-she spoke to him.
Fitz-Ed. She fain had spoken,
But could not-could not thank him for his oath
That nought should harm me, but with trembling lips
Just breathed the name of Armyn, and expired.
Cas. The name of Armyn! I can doubt no longer
Off!-let me hold him to my bursting heart:
My own-my living son!
Art thou my father!-thou art-thy looks-
These clasping hands-all-all proclaim the truth.
Oh! let me kneel-
Cas. (Preventing him.) No-to my bosom ever. And am I still a father?
Spread wide my bliss-thou knowest to whom it will be
Most grateful. (Exit Mador.)
My bold Armyn, dost thou weep?
Fitz-Ed. A most degenerate softness that I blush at-But 'tis confessed-my heart is all too weak,
Unmoved to stem this sudden surge of joy.
Cas. Alas! my son,-now as I look upon thee,
Past times live o'er again. The veiling mist
That years have shed o'er my young manhood's morn
Doth break away, and all its hopes and joys
In shining prospect stand revealed before me.
I see thee still an infant, as when last
We parted; when from off my brow I put
Its dragon-crested terrors, and impressed
A father's hasty farewell on thy cheek.
Oh! then, amid her tears, thy mother smiled.
Let from my thought what followed.
My son, to pour into thy listening ear;
But moments now are precious.
And on the way I will discourse with thee.
Thy fate is glorious; thou shalt uplift
To its proud state and ancient sovereignty
The trampled standard of thy country's fame!-
From the mid-eyry of her hundred hills,
Shouting triumphant o'er her tyrant foes,
Thy mother-land shall vaunt of thee for ever!
Thy hand. Caswallon welcomes his brave son
To the last sole retreat of Cambrian freedom.
BOURBON-GONZALES.-Kemble.
A priest what means this most unwelcome visit?
Gonzales. Who questions thus a son of the holy church? Look on these walls, whose stern, time-stained brows
Frown like relentless justice on their inmates!
Listen! that voice is echo's dull reply
Unto the rattling of your chains, my lord :
What should a priest do here?
Bour. Ay, what, indeed!
Unless you come to soften down these stones
With your discourse, and teach the tedious echo
A newer lesson: trust me, that is all
Your presence, father, will accomplish here.
Gon. Oh! sinful man! and is thy heart so hard,
That I might easier move thy prison stones!
Know, then, my mission-death is near at hand!
Bour. Go to go to! I have fought battles, father,
Where death and I have met in full close contact,
And parted, knowing we should meet again;
Go prate to others about skulls and graves;
Thou never didst in heat of combat stand,
Or know what good acquaintance, soldiers have
With the pale scarecrow-death!
Gon. (Aside.) Ah! thinkest thou so?
Hear me, thou hard of heart!
They who go forth to battles, are led on
With sprightly trumpets and shrill clamorous clarions
The drum doth roll its double notes along.
Echoing the horses' tramp; and the sweet fife
Runs through the yielding air in dulcet measure,
That makes the heart leap in its case of steel!
Thou shalt be knelled unto thy death by bells,
Ponderous and iron-tongued, whose sullen toll
Shall cleave thy aching brain, and on thy soul
Fall with a leaden weight: the muffled drum
Shall mutter round thy path like distant thunder;
Instead of the war-cry, the wild battle-roar,—
That swells upon the tide of victory,
And seems unto the conqueror's eager ear,
Triumphant harmony of glorious discords,
There shall be voices cry foul shame on thee!
And the infuriate populace shall clamor
To heaven for lightnings on thy rebel head!
Bour. Monks love not bells, which call them up to praye in the dead noon of night, when they would snore, Rather than watch: but, father, I care not,
E'en if the ugliest sound I e'er did hear
Thy raven voice-croak curses o'er my grave.
Gon. What! death and shame! alike you heed them rot! Then, mercy! use thy soft, persuasive arts,
And melt this stubborn spirit! Be it known
To you, my lord, the queen hath sent me hither.
Bour. Then get thee hence again, foul, pandering prest!
By heaven! I knew that cowl did cover o'er
Some filthy secret, that the day dared not
To pry into-out, thou unholy thing!
Gon. Hold, madman!
If for thy fame, if for thy warm heart's blood
Thou wilt not hear me, listen in the name of France, thy country!
Bour. I have no country,-
I am a traitor, cast from out the arms
Of my ungrateful country! I disown it!
Withered be all its glories, and its pride!
May it become the slave of foreign power!
May foreign princes grind its thankless children,
And make all those who are such fools, as yet
To spill their blood for it, or for its cause,
Dig it like dogs! and when they die, like dogs,
Rot on its surface, and make fat the soil,
Whose produce shall be seized by foreign hands!
Gon. You beat the air with idle words; no man
Doth know how deep his country's love lies grained
In his heart's core, until the hour of trial!
Fierce though you hurl your curse upon the land,
Whose monarchs cast ye from its bosom, yet
Let but one blast of war come echoing
From where the Ebro and the Duero roll,—
Let but the Pyrenees, reflect the gleam
Of twenty of Spain's lances, and your sword.
Shall leap from out its scabbard to your hand!
Bour. Ay, priest, it shall! eternal heaven, it shall
And its far flash, shall lighten o'er the land,
The leading star of Spain's victorious host,
But flaming like some dire portentous comet,
in the eyes of France, and her proud governors!
Be merciful, my fate, nor cut me off
Ere I have wreaked my fell desire, and made
Infamy glorious, and dishonor fame!
but, if my wayward destiny hath willed
'That I should here be butchered shamefully,
By the immortal soul that is man's portion,
His hope and his inheritance, I swear,
That on the day that Spain o'erflows its bounds,
And rolls the tide of war upon these plains,
My spirit on the battle's edge shall ride;
And louder than death's music and the roar
of combat, shall my voice be heard to shout,
On-on-to victory and carnage!
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