Which speaks of other days!—Yet to mine eye
Thine aspect is unknown. Say, wert thou one
Of his devoted host?
Seb.—Oh! ask no more.
I saw the ancient banners of the land
Borne down at Alcazar!
Fran.—But didst thou see
Our monarch fall?
Seb.—Francesco, he hath liv'd
Through years of suffering since that fatal day.
Fran.—Oh God! my noble prince!—how might he bear
Scorn, and disgrace, and long captivity?
And, if he live, with what upbraiding thoughts
Must his high soul be wrung!
Seb.—No more—no more!
Farewell!—Yet say, where goest thou?
Fran.—I am one
To whom all earth is but a solitude,
And whose communion is with rocks and waves,
And the free mountains, and th' eternal stars.
I stand alone, and 'twas my thought to bear
The cross in patient and devoted faith,
Through the dark forests and primeval wilds
Of the great western world.
Seb.—If thou canst find,
In all thy father's land, a shelter still,
Oh! leave it not! for brighter days e'en yet
May dawn upon our mountains.
Fran.—Little knows
The stranger, gazing on our sunny heavens,
How man's desponding heart may sink and die,
Beneath the glorious light wherein our vines
Are purpling to luxuriance!—'Tis not now
The time for hope, but patience. Yet if still
Sebastian lives, I will not bid farewell
Unto his ruin'd land.
(Voice heard singing.)
They rais'd no trophy o'er his grave,
They sung no dirge of woe,
And what is left to tell the brave,
That a warrior sleeps below?
A shatter'd lance, a broken shield,
A helm with its white crest torn,
And a blood-stain'd turf on the battle field,
Where the chief to his rest was borne!
