The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Vi Part 51

The brave Castilians me from place to place, Like shelterers of villainy did lead, And hid me from my uncle of Leon, Since death did threaten host as well as guest.

But everywhere they tracked me up and down.

Then Estevan Illan, a don who long Hath slept beneath the greensward of the grave, And this man here, Manrique Lara, led me To this, the stronghold of the enemy, And hid me in the tower of St. Roman, Which there you see high o'er Toledo's roofs.

There lay I still, but they began to strew The seed of rumor in the civic ear, And on Ascension Day, when all the folk Was gathered at the gate of yonder fane, They led me to the tower-balcony And showed me to the people, calling down, "Here in your midst, among you, is your King, The heir of ancient princes; of their rights And of your rights the willing guardian."

I was a child and wept then, as they said.

But still I hear it--ever that wild cry, A single word from thousand bearded throats, A thousand swords as in a single hand, The people's hand. But G.o.d the vict'ry gave, The Leonese did flee; and on and on, A standard rather than a warrior, I with my army compa.s.sed all the land, And won my vict'ries with my baby smile.

These taught and nurtured me with loving care, And mother's milk flowed from their wounds for me.

And so, while other princes call themselves The fathers of their people, I am son, For what I am, I owe their loyalty.

MANRIQUE. If all that now thou art, most n.o.ble Sire, Should really, as thou sayest, spring from thence, Then gladly we accept the thanks, rejoice If these our teachings and our nurture, thus Are mirrored in thy fame and in thy deeds, Then we and thou are equally in debt.

(_To the_ QUEEN.)

Pray gaze on him with these thy gracious eyes; Howe'er so many kings have ruled in Spain, Not one compares with him in n.o.bleness.

Old age, in truth, is all too wont to blame, And I am old and cavil much and oft; And when confuted in the council-hall I secret wrath have ofttimes nursed--not long, Forsooth--that royal word should weigh so much; And sought some evil witness 'gainst my King, And gladly had I harmed his good repute.

But always I returned in deepest shame-- The envy mine, and his the spotlessness.

KING. A teacher, Lara, and a flatt'rer, too?

But we will not dispute you this and that; If I'm not evil, better, then, for you, Although the man, I fear me, void of wrong, Were also void of excellence as well; For as the tree with sun-despising roots, Sucks up its murky nurture from the earth, So draws the trunk called wisdom, which indeed Belongs to heaven itself in towering branch, Its strength and being from the murky soil Of our mortality-allied to sin.

Was ever a just man who ne'er was hard?

And who is mild, is oft not strong enough.

The brave become too venturesome in war.

What we call virtue is but conquered sin, And where no struggle was, there is no power.

But as for me, no time was given to err, A child--the helm upon my puny head, A youth--with lance, high on my steed I sat, My eye turned ever to some threat'ning foe, Unmindful of the joys and sweets of life, And far and strange lay all that charms and lures.

That there are women, first I learned to know When in the church my wife was given me, She, truly faultless if a human is, And whom, I frankly say, I'd warmer love If sometimes need to pardon were, not praise.

(_To the_ QUEEN.)

Nay, nay, fear not, I said it but in jest!

The outcome we must all await-nor paint The devil on the wall, lest he appear.

But now, what little respite we may have, Let us not waste in idle argument.

The feuds within our land are stilled, although They say the Moor will soon renew the fight, And hopes from Africa his kinsman's aid, Ben Jussuf and his army, bred in strife.

And war renewed will bring distress anew.

Till then we'll open this our breast to peace, And take deep breath of unaccustomed joy.

Is there no news?--But did I then forget?

You do not look about you, Leonore, To see what we have done to please you here.

QUEEN. What ought I see?

KING. Alas, O Almirante!

We have not hit upon it, though we tried.

For days, for weeks, we dig and dig and dig, And hope that we could so transform this spot, This orange-bearing, shaded garden grove, To have it seem like such as England loves, The austere country of my austere wife.

And she but smiles and smiling says me nay!

Thus are they all, Britannia's children, all; If any custom is not quite their own, They stare, and smile, and will have none of it.

Th' intention, Leonore, was good, at least, So give these worthy men a word of thanks; G.o.d knows how long they may have toiled for us.

QUEEN. I thank you, n.o.ble sirs.

KING. To something else!

The day has started wrong. I hoped to show You houses, meadows, in the English taste, Through which we tried to make this garden please; We missed our aim. Dissemble not, O love!

'Tis so, and let us think of it no more.

To duty we devote what time remains, Ere Spanish wine spice high our Spanish fare.

What, from the boundary still no messenger?

Toledo did we choose, with wise intent, To be at hand for tidings of the foe.

And still there are none?

MANRIQUE. Sire--

KING. What is it, pray?

MANRIQUE. A messenger--

KING. Has come? What then?

MANRIQUE (_pointing to the Queen_).

Not now.

KING. My wife is used to council and to war, The Queen in everything shares with the King.

MANRIQUE. The messenger himself, perhaps, more than The message--

KING. Well, who is't?

MANRIQUE. It is my son.

KING. Ah, Garceran! Pray let him come.

(_To the_ QUEEN.)

Stay thou!

The youth, indeed, most grossly erred, when he Disguised, slipped in the kemenate to spy Upon the darling of his heart--Do not, O Dona Clara, bow your head in shame, The man is brave, although both young and rash, My comrade from my early boyhood days; And now implacability were worse Than frivolous condoning of the fault.

And penance, too, methinks, he's done enough For months an exile on our kingdom's bounds.

[_At a nod from the_ QUEEN, _one of the ladies of her suite withdraws._]

And yet she goes: O Modesty More chaste than chast.i.ty itself!

_Enter_ GARCERAN.

My friend, What of the border? Are they all out there So shy with maiden-modesty as you?

Then poorly guarded is our realm indeed!

GARCERAN. A doughty soldier, Sire, ne'er fears a foe, But n.o.ble women's righteous wrath is hard.

KING. 'Tis true of righteous wrath! And do not think That I with custom and propriety Am less severe and serious than my wife, Yet anger has its limits, like all else.

And so, once more, my Garceran, what cheer?

Gives you the foe concern in spite of peace?

GARCERAN. With b.l.o.o.d.y wounds, O Sire, as if in play, On this side of the boundary and that We fought, yet ever peace resembled war So to a hair, that perfidy alone Made all the difference. But now the foe A short time holdeth peace.