Close by the wall the grave Salustian held

’Mongst noblest citizens his fair abode;

And while its dirge the cannon hourly knelled,

And red-limbed Slaughter through the city strode,

And Havoc on the thunder-tempest rode,

One only care Salustian’s bosom knew,

One sole solicitude his mind could load—

To shield his lovely daughters from the view

Of demons shaped like men who Ismail’s scenes renew!

Fair as the Morn and blooming as the rose,

Graceful as lily waves its slender stem,

Sweet as the breeze that o’er the violet blows,

Pure as the light of Sheba’s diadem!

Soft was her eye, yet sparkled as a gem,

Large, black, and lustrous. Gentle, loved by all—

The poor devoted kist her garment’s hem;

The rich admired, nor Envy’s shafts could fall

On one so angel-good, of form majestical.

As shines the Moon so Isidora shone

’Mid circling maze of many a bright compeer;

Or like the Star that heralds in the dawn,

Dimming the lustre of each splendour near.

Her glance could like Heaven’s dewiest sunbeam cheer,

Her smile was music and her step a song,

Her voice as Ariel’s flute was soft and clear.

A glory streamed around her, giant-strong,

As robed in Beauty’s pride she queenly walked along.

A sister by her side as graceful grew

In opening Woman’s sweetness. Isabel

Seemed as a rosebud gathering ere it blew

All forms of Beauty that divinely fell

From full-blown flower that on the spray so well

Beside her bloomed. ’Neath Isidora’s pure

Example as a mother’s she doth dwell.

Her step was faËry light, her laugh would lure

The coldest heart, her eye more dark with glances Moor.

And Isidora loved a noble youth,

Worthy of her—I ween that few be they;

And honour, valour, virtue, manhood, truth,

Combined in Carlos—noble every way.

No step more free than his—none sang the lay

Of Vascongada bold with richer voice.

His, his the sword that, flashing midst the fray,

Had Blanca saved, whose foster-sister’s choice

Gladdened her sire and made the general heart rejoice.

Oh Love, oh wedded Love, of life the balm,

Deep-anchored safety, haven sure of bliss.

No passion-storms disturb thy blessed calm,

No perfect joy hath Earth to show but this!

Thine for true hearts the chaste yet rapturous kiss,

Thine deathless sympathy through Life’s brief span,

Through cloud and sunshine—thine, when serpents hiss,

The dove’s pure breast. Self mars e’en Friendship’s plan;

And thou the sole true friend and confident of Man!

Yet long in secret nourished was the flame,

Ere either had declared it—ere ’twas known,

Save by themselves, to aught that bore their name.

The rapturous joy more rapture gave alone.

From eye to eye had Love in glances flown,

In whispered cadence dew delicious shed.

A stolen pressure of the hand, a tone

Unheard save by one ear, a language dead

To all save lovers—strains like this their passion fed:—

Yet sighs one more for Isidora’s charms;

Love’s treasure seldom without Envy shines.

And even when Carlos clasps her in his arms

In visioned bliss, another secret pines.

Fate scowling terrible his bulwark mines,

And comes the blow from evilest-omened hand.

Nor Carlos nor his rival yet divines

Their mutual secret. Blindfold thus they stand,

Till Hate in anguished hour whirls high his flaming brand.

’Twas starry midnight lone, when Carlos soft

’Neath Isidora’s open lattice stole,

And gently touching his guitar, as oft,

In strains melodious poured his melting soul.

Even when his deepest cadenced transports roll,

An iron hand his shoulder seized—another

Held high the gleaming dagger, to its goal

Next instant plunged it. Blood the voice doth smother

Of Carlos—he looks up—and sees, oh God, a brother!

’Twas Jealousy—the scourge of Southern breasts—

Made an unconscious Cain—for deep and true

Fraternal love their bosoms both invests,

And maniac-like the assassin instant grew,

And tore his hair—and raved—then gibbering flew,

Like Clytemnestra’s son by Furies driven.

Long Carlos crimson lay and dead to view;

With morning’s breath a glimpse of life was given,

And faint his cry was raised for bounteous aid to Heaven.

What cry too faint to reach the ear of love?

Through Isidora’s casement pierced his moan,

When Morn’s first beam Pyrene rose above,

And roused her faithful heart with plaintive tone.

Another cry—to the casement she hath flown.

Oh, sight of agony—her lover lies

Blood-boltered at her feet! With groan on groan

His breast Apollo-like doth heave and rise,

And ghastly pale his cheek, and glaring white his eyes.

With one wild shriek of agony she fell

Upon the floor the casement-ledge beside;

And swooned so deep, that but for Isabel

Close within earshot, aidless she had died.

But reached that voice, so piteously it cried,

Salustian’s inmost soul, and called him forth

With Aya, handmaids, servitors, who tried

Full many a remedy in vain:—“Wo worth

“The day that gave, my child, this frantic terror birth!”

She oped her eyes, and shuddered slightly—gave

A feeble cry—and uttered Carlos’ name;

Then toward the window glanced, as if to crave

Assistance—sad yet sweet her breathing came—

Then sobs and tears—then sparkling dewy flame,

Her eyes such passion showed as angels feel.

“Carlos—the window!” she doth now exclaim.

Both eye and tongue love’s mystery reveal—

And Carlos soon they find—through her, too, past the steel!

Long Carlos fluttering lay ’twixt life and death,

But what could Isidora’s balm exclude,

Her dewy fingers’ pressure, violet breath,

Her tender care, and sweet solicitude?

And day by day his growing cure she viewed

Spring ’neath her hand like rarest, frailest flower,

Till the fresh hues of health again exude

Through every pore, and young love’s blooming dower

Glows o’er his rounded cheek, like rose for Beauty’s bower.

And where is he—the Fratricide? Within

A gloomy convent cloistered, gowned, and shorn,

He strives to curb his passion, shrive his sin—

Against all world-communion deeply sworn.

Yet Isidora’s image oft is borne

Through twilight of the cell before his eye,

Maddening his heart untamed, despairing, lorn;

And though the day of Carlos’ bridal’s nigh,

In hopeless passion’s thrall that monk will changeless die.

Now, had they not been brothers of the womb!—

I saw two emmets fight with dire intent,

As nought could slake their vengeance but the tomb—

As each the other’s head had joyous rent,

And gnawed like Ugolino. Why thus bent

On slaughter? For a grain of chaff the strife;

I thought of human blood inglorious spent

In private feud for straws with quarrel rife,

And deadly weapons aimed at God’s best gift of life!

But, hark! the din of slaughter; hark! the scream

Of virgin innocence and matron shame.

Of Spain’s defenders see the bayonets gleam,

And lust and plunder the defender’s aim!

Yet haply share not all nor most the blame.

A band of ruffians, vilest scum of War,

By deeds inglorious, crimes without a name,

Sully the brightest rays of Victory’s star,

And send their crimes to blaze with Valour’s fame afar.

Frantic with fear for her—his only fear,

Rushed Carlos quick to Isidora’s side;

And when the plunderers villain-eyed drew near,

Barred all Salustian’s house, the horde defied,

And with good rifle to their threats replied.

Long was the contest, oft their firelocks flashed,

But Carlos gaily cheered his destined bride;

And, foiled, the band for rapine further dashed,

But swearing dire revenge, their teeth like tigers gnashed.

“Away, away, my life, my love, my joy!

“Querida, thou must find secure retreat.

“My peace ’twill, by my father’s dust, destroy,

“If e’er thy charms these rabid dogs should meet.

“Por DÍos, with steel I will the monsters greet!”

With many a gentle word and heavenly smile

Replied his Isidora, angel-sweet.

Now fell the night, and blazed full many a pile,

And Charles for his adored a shelter sought the while.

To Santiago’s shrine Don Carlos bore

Salustian and his daughters pale with dread.

A mighty crowd hath filled with life the floor,

And loveliest of them all the maid he led.

Ah, lily cheeks and lips that Beauty fled

At peril’s aspect, colourless were there,

And vows were made at many an altar red

With blood from wounded victims of despair,

And through the Temple rose a wailing voice of prayer.

Sudden was heard the appalling cry of—“Fire!”

One moment mortal terror hushed each heart;

The next, outburst a shriek of anguish dire,

For flashed the Demon red o’er every part.

The crackling flames across each window dart,

And cast a lurid glare o’er faces pale

With dread, or screaming till their eyeballs start

Wild, frantic, terrible. The bravest quail,

For, ah, so dense the crowd no means of ’scape avail.

“Fire” “Fire!”—the cry of agony again

More shrill ascended—“ay!” and “u!” the scream;

And women clapt their hands, and hoarsely men

Implored, and piercing shrieks of children stream

Far o’er the tumult to the topmost beam

Of that tall Gothic pile. As in some vast

Disastrous shipwreck, howling winds do seem

With roaring waves to struggle fierce and fast,

And cries of drowning men are mingled with the blast.

Then rushed the crowd, by instinct furious borne

Of life preserving, like the Ocean surge

Towards the great entrance. Trodden down and torn

Was every weaker form, and frantic urge

The merciless hale who fly that fiery scourge;

And heaving to and fro they cried to Heaven,

Still vainly seeking instant to emerge,

Till barriers of the sanctuary were riven,

And to the altar-front the trembling priests were driven.

Now onward rolls the mass, till near the door

More fiercely violent grows the maddened throng

With sight of safety. Hundreds strew the floor

Crushed, bruised, and trampled. O’er the weak the strong

Unpitying stride, and dying shrieks the wrong

With vain reproof attest of selfish man.

But Carlos bore like Hercules along

His Isidor with strength that all outran;

Grasped Isabel his waist—the outer wall they scan.

“Now had I known,” the grave Salustian cried,

“That thus the stranger would have Spain defended,

I sooner, by my fathers’ bones, had died,

Than Leon’s fate with Albion thus have blended.

For vain the seas of treasure, blood expended,

If fire and sword our homes and hearths assail.

The standard joint I raised, yet now would rend it.

While England’s lions roar, Castile may wail

Her lions mute; ’tis shrieks are borne upon the gale!”

It was a blessed thought—so Carlos deemed;

A chamber high in the Cathedral tower

His love might harbour while ferocious gleamed

The eye of Rapine. Rude for lady’s bower

Was this abode, where oft huge bells of power

Swung loud, but who may choose in scenes like these?

Cloak and sombrero thrown o’er Beauty’s flower

Disguised the form which, ah! too well could please,

And Carlos guided well their path through danger’s seas.

At deepest night the blaze of burning streets

With horrid gleam doth light like Hell the town;

The lurid glare its fit reflection meets,

Where many a stream of blood runs crimson down!

Ferocious yell and savage war-whoop crown

The pile of dire disaster. Anguished screams

Of terror shrill the roaring noises drown.

Shrieks turn to groaning where the bayonet gleams,

And murdered Sleep wakes wild from sanguinary dreams.

The tower is reached—quivers with rage suppressed

Don Carlos’ lip—Salustian’s cheek is pale,

And pants fair Isidora’s fluttering breast,

Like linnet o’er whose nest kites sharp-beaked sail.

Well might that night of horrors make thee quail,

Daughter of Vascongada! Rent the air,

Till morning dawned nor ceased ev’n then, the wail

Of hopeless Anguish where the voice of Prayer

Was choked, and shriek on shriek gave utterance to Despair.

“Here sit, my children,” grave Salustian said,

“While Spain’s disasters from their primal source

I briefly trace, and ’midst these horrors dread

Relief pursue by patriot discourse;

For at each shriek my voice doth lose its force,

And highest deeds recounting may sustain

The fainting spirit. Ah! my throat is hoarse,

And parched my lips with heat—to speak yet fain—

Would I had never lived to see this day for Spain!

“Five years have past—thou dost remember well,

’Twas when thou first didst braid thy raven hair,

My Isidor, as now doth Isabel—

Five wretched years—and both have grown so fair!

Since first this Meteor who the earth doth scare

With blood-red beams—this dire NapolÉon—

O’er Spain began to cast his lurid glare,

Covet her lovely sky and radiant sun,

And try how much could first by treacherous fraud be won.

“Dire was the ruin by Corruption’s hand

Shed on our ancient monarchy. Her men

Were noble still and worthy of the land,

Whose blood hath poured in every mountain-glen

From Calpe to Asturia’s rudest den,

’Gainst warlike Moor contending. But her Kings

Unworthy most beneath dominion’s ken

To hold so proud a people—timorous things—

Crawled ’neath a favourite’s sway, or crouched ’neath churchmen’s wings.

“Corruption fills the Court—the GrandÉ taints—

The Judge perverts to more pervert the law,

Gives Demon-forms of hate the guise of Saints,

And Freedom flings to Persecution’s maw.

The Holy Office Hell delighted saw!

Divine Religion! man’s best, purest gift,

Thou only gem that shines without a flaw!

Star, from whose ray withdrawn we chartless drift,

A Gorgon thou wast made, a Moloch spear didst lift!

“And Man was told to love where forced to hate,

And saw his fairest fields partitioned forth

To Nobles—so miscalled—by robbery great,

Whose phantom title was ancestral worth,

Their own sole merit accident of birth!

Heart-bitterness and worming discontent

Made all the land—the loveliest upon earth—

In sullen, fierce indifference bide till rent

The Thunder-clouds, supine—and some on Vengeance bent.

“And patience, Heaven! while I pronounce the name

Of him, the fellest monster of them all—

Godoy who sold Iberia first to shame,

And through her cold lips forced the cup of gall,

Parted to France the Indian dower whose thrall

Columbus won—even basely dared profane

His monarch’s bed; and shadowing thus our fall,

NapolÉon gave a path to Lusitain

O’er our dishonoured soil—those footsteps conquered Spain!

“And secret treaties had the recreant drawn

With Hell’s diplomacy our soil to carve;

And Europe was to have seen ere Aries’ dawn

The traitor’s self the sovereign of Algarve.

Thus rulers traffic while the people starve!

Perchance Gaul’s tyrant mocked him with the lure—

A double traitor—base design to serve.

Howe’er be this, his legions we endure

Marched to the sister-land that erst expelled the Moor.

“Trembled blue Tagus when his waters saw

A conqueror come unwounded to his shore;

His curling wave, receding, he doth draw

In violent scorn to where Almada o’er

The Serra lords Lisboa’s towers before.

Her soil that spurned the Invader quakes again,

And gapes athirst for foreign tyrants’ gore.

Indignant Tagus lashes it—in vain—

Sinks o’er his golden sands, and sighing wears the chain.

“Where were thy men—where, Lusitain, were they?

Entranced, appalled—with none to lead or guide.

Thy coward Princes fled like hinds away—

Thy caitiff Nobles crost the Ocean-tide.

No sword in the Invader’s blood was dyed!

Thy Chiefs and Patriarchs basely kist the rod;

Thy sacred banner of Saint George the pride,

Torn from his castled height o’erspread the sod,

And Priests profane declared thy conquerors sent by God!

“Spain next a victim! Foulest treachery seized

Her fortress-castles—to the frontier drew

Her Princes whose domestic feuds it pleased

The Invader to foment, as Hell might do!

His legions marched—for patriots then were few—

To ManzanarÉs’ banks; our aged King

The Usurper made pronounce his last adieu,

And caged his Heir—a poor and mindless thing—

But Spain her talons ground, and imped her soaring wing!

“Oh, many a murder marked that foreign sway,

And many a shriek appalling rent the air.”—

He ceased an instant—thus while he did say,

Their ears were smote by cries of deep despair.

Rushed Carlos to the door, but held him there

Salustian, Isidora, Isabel.

He shook with passion, till his mistress fair

With gentlest pressure strove his rage to quell;

Then snatched a ghittern—thus he struck the tuneful shell:—