Hernando enters. Tarik continues.

Here comes Hernando from that prince himself—

Muza. Who scorns, himself, to come.

Her. The queen detains him.

Abd. How! Egilona?

Muza. ’Twas my will.

Tarik. At last
He must be happy; for delicious calm
Follows the fierce enjoyment of revenge.

Her. That calm was never his, no other will be!
Thou knowest not, and mayst thou never know,
How bitter is the tear that firy shame
Scourges and tortures from the soldier’s eye.
Whichever of these bad reports be true,
He hides it from all hearts, to wring his own,
And drags the heavy secret to the grave.
Not victory, that o’ershadows him, sees he!
No airy and light passion stirs abroad
To ruffle or to soothe him; all are quelled
Beneath a mightier, sterner, stress of mind:
Wakeful he sits, and lonely, and unmoved,
Beyond the arrows, views, or shouts of men;
As oftentimes an eagle, when the sun
Throws o’er the varying earth his early ray,
Stands solitary, stands immovable
Upon some highest cliff, and rolls his eye,
Clear, constant, unobservant, unabased,
In the cold light, above the dews of morn.
He now assumes that quietness of soul
Which never but in danger have I seen
On his staid breast.

Tarik. Danger is past, he conquers;
No enemy is left him to subdue.

Her. He sank not, while there was, into himself.
Now plainly see I, from his alter’d tone,
He cannot live much longer—thanks to God!

Tarik. What! wishest thou thy once kind master dead?
Was he not kind to thee, ungrateful slave!

Her. The gentlest, as the bravest, of mankind.
Therefor shall memory dwell more tranquilly
With Julian, once at rest, than friendship could,
Knowing him yearn for death with speechless love.
For his own sake I could endure his loss,
Pray for it, and thank God; yet mourn I must
Him above all! so great, so bountiful,
So blessed once! bitterly must I mourn.
’Tis not my solace that ’tis his desire;
Of all that pass us in life’s drear descent
We grieve the most for those that wished to die.
A father to us all, he merited
Unhappy man! all a good father’s joy
In his own house, where seldom he hath been,
But, ever mindful of its dear delights
He formed one family around him, ever.

Tarik. Yes, we have seen and known him—let his fame
Refresh his friends, but let it stream afar,
Nor in the twilight of home-scenes be lost.
He chose the best, and cherished them; he left
To self-reproof the mutinies of vice—
Avarice, that imps ambition’s tone and mien,
Envy, sick nursling of the court; and pride
That cannot bear his semblance nor himself;
And malice, with blear visage half-descried
Amid the shadows of her hiding-place.

Her. What could I not endure, O gallant man,
To hear him spoken of, as thou hast spoken!
Oh! I would almost be a slave to him
Who calls me one.

Muza. What! art thou not? begone.

Tarik. Reply not, brave Hernando, but retire.
All can revile, few only can reward.
Behold the meed our mighty chief bestows!
Accept it, for thy services, and mine.
More, my bold Spaniard, hath obedience won
Than anger, even in the ranks of war.

Her. The soldier, not the Spaniard, shall obey.

[Muza, to Tarik.

Muza. Into our very council bringest thou
Children of reprobation and perdition?
Darkness thy deeds and emptiness thy speech,
Such images thou raisest as buffoons
Carry in merriment on festivals,
Nor worthiness nor wisdom would display
To public notice their deformities,
Nor cherish them nor fear them; why shouldst thou?

Tarik. I fear not them nor thee.