Page:Sebastian of Portugal.pdf/14



He lies not where his fathers sleep, But who hath a tomb more proud? For the boundless wilds his record keep, And a banner is his shroud!

Seb.—What strains are these, so mournful, yet so sweet, And wild as music of the winds?

Fran.—Alas! That monarchs might but look upon the hearts, Trampled beneath Ambition's chariot-wheels, When rushing to renown!—Full well I know That voice, once joyous as the gladdening sounds Borne upon spring's young breezes!—But its tones Now tell a common history. 'Tis the tale Of a bright spirit, shadow'd with despair, And wandering in its darkness. She that sings, Once, with the sunshine of her brow and eye, Made all things laugh around her, and call'd up Light to all hearts. But this was transient. Joy, And Hope, and Beauty, every flower wherewith Nature has gifted youth, with him she lov'd, As by one death-blight, perish'd; and her soul Is now a world of dreams.

Seb.—And who was he She lov’d so fatally?

Fran.—A noble youth, To whose high spirit life seem'd but the price Requir'd for glory. But his generous blood Won him no fame. He died at Alcazar.

Seb.—(covering his face.) Leave me, old man! for I can bear no more. Farewell—farewell!

Fran.—What have I said, that thus Thine aspect should be darken'd?

Seb.—Ask me not.

Fran.—Peace to thy spirit, stranger, and farewell![Exit.

Seb.—(alone.) All men upbraid me; E’en the few, that still Cling to the old allegiance of their hearts, Do breathe my name in sad half-mingled tones Of pity and reproach.—What! shall I bow My spirit unto fate, and own my woes The just and heaven-sent chastening of my guilt? What is my guilt?—Why, kings, with tenfold waste