THE WARNING. The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, BEWARE! The Israelite of old, who tore Expired, and thousands perished in the The lion in his path, when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, fall! There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength and bound in bonds of steel, Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, Till the vast Temple of our liberties A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. THE SPANISH STUDENT. DRAMATIS PERSONE. VICTORIAN HYPOLITO THE COUNT OF LARA DON CARLOS THE ARCHBISHOP OF TOLEDO. A CARDINAL. BELTRAN CRUZADO BARTOLOMÉ ROMAN. THE PADRE CURA OF GUADARRAMA. PEDRO CRESPO PANCHO. FRANCISCO CHISPA BALTASAR PRECIOSA ANGELICA MARTINA. DOLORES ACT I. Gypsies, Musicians, &c. SCENE I. The COUNT OF LARA's chambers. Night. The COUNT in his dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with DON CARLOS. Lara. You were not at the play tonight, Don Carlos; How happened it? The house was crowded; and the busy fans Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies Fluttered like butterflies among the There was the Countess of Medina Celi; Don C I had engagements else- Her Lindo Don Diego; Doña Sol, where. Pray who was there? Lara. Why, all the town and court. And Doña Serafina, and her cousins. and saying, "O, I am dead!" a lover in a closet, An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, A Doña Inez with a black mantilla, Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, Who looks intently where he knows she is not! Don C. Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night? Lara. And never better. Every footstep fell As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. I saw her in the Prado yesterday. Don C. She is a Gypsy girl. Lara. The easier. Don C. You forget And therefore won Nay, not to be won at all! The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes Is chastity. That is her only virtue. Dearer than life she holds it. I remember A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, Whose craft was to betray the young and fair; And yet this woman was above all bribes. And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty, The wild and wizard beauty of her race, Offered her gold to be what she made others, She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, And smote him in the face! Lara. And does that prove That Preciosa is above suspicion? Don C. It proves a nobleman may be repulsed When he thinks conquest easy. I believe and That woman, in her deepest degradation, That I shall be to-morrow; and there- | Now, look you, you are gentlemen who after Another, and another, and another, Chasing each other through her zodiac, As Taurus chases Aries. (Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.) Well, Francisco, What speed with Preciosa ? She is not to be purchased by your gold. Lara. Then I will try some other way to win her. Pray, dost thou know Victorian ? SCENE II.A street in Madrid. Enter CHISPA, followed by musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments. Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friarto his monastery. Now, here's my master, Victorian, yesterday a cowkeeper, and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all this serenading cease. Ay, marry marry! marry! Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daughter! And, of a truth, there is something more in matrimony than the wedding-ring. (To the musicians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray, walk this way; and don't hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend? First Mus. Gerónimo Gil, at your service. Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Gerónimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee? First Mus. Why so? Chispa. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that? First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe. Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked a maravedí for playing, and ten for leaving off? First Mus. No, your honor. Chispa. I am glad of it. What other instruments have we? Second and Third Musicians. We play the bandurria. Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And thou? Fourth Mus. The fife. Chispa. I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that soars up to my lady's window like the song of a swallow. And you others? Other Mus. We are the singers, please your honor. Chispa. You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in the cathedral of Córdova? Four men can make but little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me along the garden wall. That is the way my master climbs to the lady's window. It is by the Vicar's skirts that the Devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make no noise. [Exuent. Wind of the summer night! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light! My lady sleeps! Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch! while in slumbers light (Enter VICTORIAN by the balcony.) Vict. Poor little dove! Thou tremblest like a leaf! Prec. I am so frightened! 'Tis for thee I tremble! I hate to have thee climb that wall by night! Did no one see thee? Vict. I chide myself for letting thee come here And wish that they were blind. Vict. There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. Prec. And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books. Vict. Thou comest between me and those books too often! I see thy face in everything I see! The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks, The canticles are changed to sarabands, And with the learned doctors of the schools I see thee dance cachuchas. stopped, And Preciosa be once more a beggar. Vict. The sweetest beggar that e'er asked for alms; With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee I gave my heart away! When first we met? Prec. I thought I ne'er should see thy face again. Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. Vict. That was the first sound in the song of love! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone. Prec. That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warnings? Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. As drops of rain fall into some dark well, And from below comes a scarce audible sound, So fall our thoughts into the dark Here after, And their mysterious echo reaches us. I cannot reason; I can only feel! Dost thou remember Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I It was at Córdova, In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting. Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain. Prec. 'Twas Easter-Sunday. The fullblossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. The priests were singing, and the organ sounded, And then anon the great cathedral bell. It was the elevation of the Host. We both of us fell down upon our knees, Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. I never had been happy till that moment. And when thou wast gone I felt an aching here. I did not speak To any one that day. But from that day Bartolomé grew hateful unto me. think We cannot walk together in this world! The distance that divides us is too great! Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars; I must not hold thee back. Is her affections, not her intellect! What am I? Why, a pygmy among giants! But if thou lovest, - mark me! I say lovest, The greatest of thy sex excels thee not! The world of the affections is thy world, Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness |