No More Learning

A bowl on a white marble table stands,
Two goblets, and a ewer to wash my hands,
And hallowed cup of true Campanian clay
My pure libation to the gods to pay.
I then retire to rest, nor anxious fear
Before dread Marsyas early to appear.
I lie till ten; then take a walk, or choose
A book, perhaps, or trifle with the muse.
For cheerful exercise and manly toil
Anoint my body with the pliant oil--
Yet not with such as Natta's, when he vamps
His filthy limbs and robs the public lamps.
But when the sun pours down his fiercer fire,
And bids me from the toilsome sport retire,
I haste to bathe, and in a temperate mood
Regale my craving appetite with food
(Enough to nourish nature for a day);
Then trifle my domestic hours away.
Such is the life from bad ambition free;
Such comfort has one humble born like me:
With which I feel myself more truly blest,
Than if my sires the quaestor's power possessed.


FOOTNOTES:

[H] Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus), who was born near Venusia,
in Apulia, in 65 B. C. , and died in 8 B. C. , was a southern Italian.
When twenty, Horace was a student of philosophy at Athens. A period
of poverty-stricken Bohemianism followed his return to Rome, till
acquaintance with Virgil opened a path into the circle of Maecenas and
of the emperor. His literary career falls into three divisions--that
of his "Epodes" and "Satires," down to 30 B. C. ; that of his lyrics,
down to 23 B. C. , when the first three books of the "Odes" appeared;
and that of the reflective and literary "Epistles," which include
the famous "Art of Poetry," and, with sundry official odes, belong
to his later years. Horatian "satire," it should be observed, does
not imply ferocious personal onslaughts, but a miscellany containing
good-humoured ridicule of types, and lively sketches of character and
incident. So varied a performance as satirist, lyrist, moralist and
critic, coupled with his vivid interest in mankind, help to account for
the appeal which Horace has made to all epochs, countries, and ranks.
Of the translations of Horace here given, some are by Prof. Wight Duff,
and have been specially made for this selection, whilst a few are by
Milton, Dryden, Cowper, and Francis.




_Horace and the Bore_


SCENE. --_Rome, on the Sacred Way. The poet is walking down the street,
composing some trifle, in a brown study, when a person, known
to him only by name, rushes up and seises his hand_.

BORE (_effusively_): How d'ye do, my dear fellow?

HORACE (_politely_): Nicely at present. I'm at your service, sir.
(HORACE _walks on, and as the_ BORE _keeps following, tries to choke
him off_. ) You don't want anything, do you?

BORE: You must make my acquaintance, I'm a savant.

HORACE: Then I'll think the more of you. (HORACE, _anxious to get
away, walks fast one minute, halts the next, whispers something to his
attendant slave, and is bathed in perspiration all over. Then, quietly
to himself_) Lucky Bolanus, with your hot temper!

BORE (_whose chatter on things in general, and about the streets of
Rome in particular, has been received with dead silence_): You're
frightfully keen to be off. I've noticed it all along. But it's no
good. I'm going to stick to you right through. I'll escort you from
here to your destination.

HORACE (_deprecatingly_): No need for you to make such a detour.
(_Inventing fibs as he goes along_) There's someone I want to look
up--a person you don't know, on the other side of the river--yes, far
away--he's confined to bed--near Caesar's Park.

BORE: Oh, I've nothing to do, and I don't dislike exercise. I'll
follow you right there. (HORACE _is as crestfallen as a sulky donkey
when an extra heavy load is dumped upon its back. The_ BORE
_continues_) If I know myself, you'll not value Viscus more highly
as a friend, or Varius either; for who can write verses faster, and
more of them, than I can? Who's a greater master of deportment? As
for my singing, it's enough to make even Hermogenes jealous!

HORACE (_seizing the chance of interrupting_): Have you a mother--any
relatives to whom your health is of moment?

BORE: Not one left. I've laid them all to rest.

HORACE: Lucky people! Now I'm the sole survivor. Do for _me_! The
melancholy fate draws near which a fortune-telling Sabellian crone once
prophesied in my boyhood: "This lad neither dread poison nor hostile
sword shall take off, nor pleurisy, nor cough, nor crippling gout. A
chatterbox will one day be his death! "

BORE (_realising that, as it is the hour for opening the law course,
he must answer to his recognisances, or lose a suit to which he is a
party_): Oblige me with your assistance in court for a little.

HORACE: Deuce take me if I've strength to hang about so long, or know
any law. Besides, I'm hurrying, you know where.

BORE: I'm in a fix what to do--whether to give you up or my case.

HORACE: Me, please.

BORE: Shan't! (_Starts ahead of_ HORACE, _who, beaten at every point,
has to follow. The other opens conversation again_. ) On what footing do
you and Maecenas stand?

HORACE (_haughtily_): He has a select circle, and thoroughly sound
judgment.

BORE (_unimpressed_): Ah! No one ever made a smarter use of his
chances. You'd have a powerful supporter, a capable understudy, if
you'd agree to introduce your humble servant. Deuce take me if you
wouldn't clear everybody out of your way.

HORACE (_disgusted_): We don't live on the terms _you_ fancy. No
establishment is more honest than his, or more foreign to such
intrigues. It does me no harm, I tell you, because this one has more
money or learning than I. Everybody has his own place.

BORE: A tall story--hardly believable.

HORACE: A fact, nevertheless.

BORE: You fire my anxiety all the more to be one of his intimate
friends.

HORACE (_sarcastically_): You've only got to wish. Such are _your_
qualities, you'll carry him by storm.

BORE (_on whom the irony is lost_): I'll not fail myself. I'll bribe
his slaves. If I find the door shut in my face I'll not give up. I'll
watch for lucky moments. I'll meet him at street corners. I'll see him
home. Life grants man nothing without hard work.

[_Enter_ FUSCUS, _a friend of_ HORACE. _Knowing the_
BORE'S _ways, he reads the situation_. HORACE
_furtively tugs at_ FUSCUS'S _gown, pinches him,
nods and winks to_ FUSCUS _to rescue him_. FUSCUS
_smiles, and with a mischievous fondness for a joke,
pretends he does not understand_.

HORACE (_angry with_ Fuscus): Of course, you _did_ say you wanted to
talk over something with me in private.

FUSCUS: Ah, yes, I remember; but I'll tell you at a more convenient
season. (_Inventing an excuse with mock solemnity_. ) To-day is the
"Thirtieth Sabbath. " You wouldn't affront the circumcised Jews, would
you?

HORACE: I have no scruples.

FUSCUS: But _I_ have. I'm a slightly weaker brother--one, of many.
Pardon, I'll talk about it another time.

[_Exit, leaving_ HORACE _like a victim under the knife_.

HORACE (_to himself_): To think this day should have dawned so
black for me!

[_Suddenly enter the_ PLAINTIFF _in the suit against the_
BORE.

PLAINTIFF (_loudly to the_ BORE): Where are you off to, you
scoundrel? (_To_ HORACE) May I call you as a witness to his contempt
of court?

[HORACE _lets his ear be touched, according to legal form.
The_ BORE _is hauled away to court, he and the_ PLAINTIFF
_bawling at each other. The arrest attracts a large
crowd_.

HORACE (_quietly disappearing_): What an escape! Thank Apollo!




_The Art of Poetry_


UNITY AND SIMPLICITY ARE REQUISITE

Suppose a painter to a human head
Should join a horse's neck, and wildly spread
The various plumage of the feather'd kind
O'er limbs of different beasts, absurdly joined.
Or if he gave to view of beauteous maid
Above the waist with every charm arrayed,
But ending, fish-like, in a mermaid tail,
Could you to laugh at such a picture fail?
Such is the book that, like a sick man's dreams,
Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes.
"Painters and poets our indulgence claim,
Their daring equal, and their art the same. "
I own the indulgence, such I give and take;
But not through nature's sacred rules to break.
Your opening promises some grand design,
And purple patches with broad lustre shine
Sewed on the poem; here in laboured strain
A sacred grove, or fair Diana's fane
Rises to view; there through delightful meads
A murmuring stream its winding water leads.
Why will you thus a mighty vase intend,
If in a worthless bowl your labours end?
Then learn this wandering humour to control,
And keep one equal tenour through the whole.


THE FALSEHOOD OF EXTREMES IN STYLE

But oft our greatest errors take their rise
From our best views. I strive to be concise,
And prove obscure. My strength, or passion, flees,
When I would write with elegance and ease.
Aiming at greatness, some to fustian soar:
Some, bent on safety, creep along the shore.
Thus injudicious, while one fault we shun,
Into its opposite extreme we run.


CHOICE OF THEME

Examine well, ye writers, weigh with care,
What suits your genius, what your strength can bear;
For when a well-proportioned theme you choose,
Nor words, nor method shall their aid refuse.


WORDS OLD AND NEW

The author of a promised work must be
Subtle and careful in word-harmony.
To choose and to reject. You merit praise
If by deft linking of known words a phrase
Strikes one as new. Should unfamiliar theme
Need fresh-invented terms, proper will seem
Diction unknown of old. This licence used
With fair discretion never is refused.
As when the forest, with the bending year,
First sheds the leaves, which earliest appear,
So an old race of words maturely dies,
And some, new born, in youth and vigour rise.

Many shall rise which now forgotten lie;
Others, in present credit, soon shall die,
If custom will, whose arbitrary sway
Words and the forms of language must obey.


WORDS MUST SUIT CHARACTER

'Tis not enough, ye writers, that ye charm
With pretty elegance; a play should warm
With soft concernment--should possess the soul,
And, as it wills, the listeners control.
With those who laugh, our social joy appears;
With those who mourn, we sympathise in tears;
If you would have me weep, begin the strain,
Then I shall feel your sorrow, feel your pain;
But if your heroes act not what they say,
I sleep or laugh the lifeless scene away.


ON LITERARY BORROWING

If you would make a common theme your own,
Dwell not on incidents already known;
Nor word for word translate with painful care,
Nor be confined in such a narrow sphere.


ON BEGINNING A HEROIC POEM

Begin your work with modest grace and plain,
Not in the cyclic bard's bombastic strain:
"I chant the glorious war and Priam's fate----"
How will the boaster keep this ranting rate?
The mountains laboured with prodigious throes,
And lo! a mouse ridiculous arose.
Far better Homer, who tries naught in vain,
Opens his poem in a humbler strain:
"Muse, tell the many who after Troy subdued,
Manners and towns of various nations viewed. "
Right to the great event he speeds his course,
And bears his readers, with impetuous force,
Into the midst of things, while every line
Opens by just degrees his whole design.


ACTION AND NARRATION IN PLAYS

The business of the drama must appear
In action or description. What we hear,
With slower passion to the heart proceeds
Than when an audience views the very deeds.
But let not such upon the stage be brought
Which better should behind the scenes be wrought;
Nor force the unwilling audience to behold
What may with vivid elegance be told.
Let not Medea with unnatural rage
Murder her little children on the stage.


GOOD SENSE A WELL-SPRING OF POETRY

Good sense, the fountain of the muse's art,
Let the strong page of Socrates impart;
For if the mind with clear conceptions glow,
The willing words in just expressions flow.
The poet who with nice discernment knows
What to his country and his friends he owes;
How various nature warms the human breast,
To love the parent, brother, friend, or guest;
What the high duties of our judges are,
Of senator or general sent to war;
He surely knows, with nice self-judging art,
The strokes peculiar to each different part.
Keep nature's great original in view,
And thence the living images pursue.
For when the sentiments and manners please,
And all the characters are wrought with ease,
Your play, though weak in beauty, force, and art,
More strongly shall delight, and warm the heart,
Than where a lifeless pomp of verse appears,
And with sonorous trifles charms our ears.


PERFECTION CANNOT BE EXPECTED

Where beauties in a poem faults outshine,
I am not angry if a casual line
(That with some trivial blot unequal flows)
A careless hand or human frailty shows.
Then shall I angrily see no excuse
If honest Homer slumber o'er his muse?
Yet surely sometimes an indulgent sleep
O'er works of length allowably may creep!


A HIGH STANDARD MUST BE EXACTED

In certain subjects, Piso, be assured,
Tame mediocrity may be endured.
But god, and man, and booksellers deny
A poet's right to mediocrity!


ARE POETS BORN OR MADE?

'Tis long disputed whether poems claim
From art or nature their best right to fame;
But art, if un-enriched by nature's vein,
And a rude genius of uncultured strain,
Are useless both: they must be fast combined
And mutual succour in each other find.




_Odes_


A DEDICATION

Maecenas, sprung from regal line,
Bulwark and dearest glory mine!
Some love to stir Olympic dust
With glowing chariot-wheels which just
Avoid the goal, and win a prize
Fit for the rulers of the skies.
One joys in triple civic fame
Conferred by fickle Rome's acclaim;
Another likes from Libya's plain
To store his private barns with grain;
A third who, with unceasing toil,
Hoes cheerful the paternal soil,
No promised wealth of Attalus
Shall tempt to venture timorous
Sailing in Cyprian bark to brave
The terrors of Myrtoan wave.
Others in tented fields rejoice,
Trumpets and answering clarion-voice.
Be mine the ivy, fair reward,
Which blissful crowns the immortal bard;
Be mine amid the breezy grove,
In sacred solitude to rove--
To see the nymphs and satyrs bound,
Light dancing in the mazy round,
While all the tuneful muses join
Their various harmony divine.
Count me but in the lyric choir--
My crest shall to the stars aspire.


TO PYRRHA

What slender youth bedewed with liquid odours
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,
Pyrrha? For whom bind'st thou
In wreaths thy golden hair,
Plain in thy neatness? Oh, how oft shall he
On faith and changed gods complain, and seas
Rough with black winds, and storms
Unwonted shall admire!
Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,
Who always vacant, always amiable
Hopes thee, of flattering gales
Unmindful. Hapless they
To whom thou untried seem'st fair. Me, in my vowed
Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern god of sea.


WINTER CHEER

Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow
The groves beneath their fleecy burthen bow,
The streams congealed, forget to flow?
Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile
Of fuel on the hearth;
Broach the best cask and make old winter smile
With seasonable mirth.

This be our part--let Heaven dispose the rest;
If Jove commands, the winds shall sleep
That now wage war upon the foamy deep,
And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may:
When to-morrow's passed away,
We at least shall have to say,
We have lived another day;
Your auburn locks will soon be silvered o'er,
Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.


"GATHER YE ROSEBUDS WHILE YE MAY"

Secure those golden early joys,
That youth unsoured with sorrow bears,
Ere withering time the taste destroys
With sickness and unwieldy years.
For active sports, for pleasing rest,
This is the time to be possessed;
The best is but in season best.

The appointed tryst of promised bliss,
The pleasing whisper in the dark,
The half-unwilling willing kiss,
The laugh that guides thee to the mark,
When the kind nymph would coyness feign,
And hides but to be found again--
These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain.


GOD AND EMPEROR

Saturnian Jove, parent and guardian god
Of human kind, to thee the Fates award
The care of Caesar's reign; to thine alone
Inferior, let his empire rise.
Whether the Parthian's formidable power
Or Indians or the Seres of the East,
With humbled pride beneath his triumph fall,
Wide o'er a willing world shall he
Contented rule, and to thy throne shall bend
Submissive. Thou in thy tremendous car
Shalt shake Olympus' head, and at our groves
Polluted hurl thy dreadful bolts.


THE STRENGTH OF INNOCENCE

The man of life, unstained and free from craft,
Ne'er needs, my Fuscus, Moorish darts to throw;
He needs no quiver filled with venomed shaft,
Nor e'er a bow.

Whether he fare thro' Afric's boiling shoals,
Or o'er the Caucasus inhospitable,
Or where the great Hydaspes river rolls,
Renowned in fable.

Once in a Sabine forest as I strayed
Beyond my boundary, by fancy charmed,
Singing my Lalage, a wolf, afraid,
Shunned me unarmed.

The broad oak-woods of hardy Daunia,
Rear no such monster mid their fiercest scions,
Nor Juba's arid Mauretania,
The nurse of lions.

Set me where, in the heart of frozen plains,
No tree is freshened by a summer wind,
A quarter of the globe enthralled by rains,
And Jove unkind;

Or set me 'neath the chariot of the Sun,
Where, overnear his fires, no homes may be;
I'll love, for her sweet smile and voice, but one--
My Lalage.


TRANQUILLITY

Should fortune frown, live thou serene;
Nor let thy spirit rise too high,
Though kinder grown she change the scene;
Bethink thee, Delius, thou must die.

Whether thy slow days mournful pass,
Or swiftly joyous fleet away,
While thou reclining on the grass
Dost bless with wine the festal day.

Where poplar white and giant pine
Ward off the inhospitable beam;
Where their luxuriant branches twine,
Where bickers down its course the stream,

Here bid them perfumes bring, and wine,
And the fair rose's short-lived flower,
While youth and fortune and the twine
Spun by the Sisters, grant an hour.

We all must tread the path of Fate,
And ever shakes the fateful urn,
Whose lot embarks us, soon or late,
On Charon's boat--beyond return.


TO A FAIR DECEIVER

Did any punishment attend
Thy former perjuries,
I should believe a second time,
Thy charming flatteries:
Did but one wrinkle mark thy face
Or hadst thou lost one single grace.

No sooner hast thou, with false vows,
Provoked the powers above,
But thou art fairer than before,
And we are more in love.
Thus Heaven and Earth seem to declare
They pardon falsehood in the fair.

The nymphs, and cruel Cupid too,
Sharpening his pointed dart
On an old home besmeared with blood,
Forbear thy perjured heart.
Fresh youth grows up to wear thy chains,
And the old slave no freedom gains.


THE GOLDEN MEAN

The man who follows Wisdom's voice,
And makes the Golden Mean his choice,
Nor plunged in squalid gloomy cells
Midst hoary desolation dwells;
Nor to allure the envious eye
Rears a proud palace to the sky;
The man whose steadfast soul can bear
Fortune indulgent or severe,
Hopes when she frowns, and when she smiles
With cautious fear eludes her wiles.


TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA

Bandusia's Well, that crystal dost outshine,
Worthy art thou of festal wine and wreath!
An offered kid to-morrow shall be thine,
Whose swelling brows his earliest horns unsheath.
And mark him for the feats of love and strife.
In vain: for this same youngling from the fold
Of playful goats shall with his crimson life
Incarnadine thy waters fresh and cold.
The blazing Dog-star's unrelenting hour
Can touch thee not: to roaming herd or bulls
O'erwrought by plough, thou giv'st a shady bower,
Thou shalt be one of Earth's renowned pools!
For I shall sing thy grotto ilex-crowned,
Whence fall thy waters of the babbling sound.


TO THE GOD FAUNUS

O Faun-god, wooer of each nymph that flees,
Come, cross my land! Across those sunny leas,
Tread thou benign, and all my flock's increase
Bless ere thou go.

In each full year a tender kid be slain,
If Venus' mate, the bowl, be charged amain
With wine, and incense thick the altar stain
Of long ago.

The herds disport upon the grassy ground,
When in thy name December's Nones come round;
Idling on meads the thorpe, with steers unbound,
Its joys doth show.
Amid emboldened lambs the wolf roams free;
The forest sheds its leafage wild for thee;
And thrice the delver stamps his foot in glee
On earth, his foe.


AN ENVOI

Now have I reared memorial to last
More durable than brass, and to o'ertop
The pile of royal pyramids. No waste
Of rain or ravening Boreas hath power
To ruin it, nor lapse of time to come
In the innumerable round of years.
I shall not wholly die; great part of me
Shall 'scape the Funeral Goddess. Evermore
Fresh shall my honours grow, while pontiffs still
Do climb the Capitol with silent maid.
It shall be told where brawls the Aufidus
In fury, and where Daunus poor in streams
Once reigned o'er rural tribes, it shall be told
That Horace rose from lowliness to fame
And first adapted to Italian strains
The AEolian lay. Assume the eminence,
My own Melpomene, which merit won,
And deign to wreath my hair in Delphic bays.




VICTOR HUGO[I]




Hernani


_Persons in the Drama_

HERNANI A MOUNTAINEER
CHARLES V. OF SPAIN A PAGE
DON RICARDO SOLDIERS
DON RUY GOMEZ CONSPIRATORS
DONA SOL RETAINERS

Date of action, 1519.


ACT I

SCENE--KING CHARLES _and some of his noblemen are creeping into the
courtyard of the palace of_ DON RUY GOMEZ DE SILVA _at Saragossa.
It is midnight, and the palace is dark, save for a dim light
coming from a balcony window_.

THE KING: Here will I wait till Dona Sol comes down.
Guard every entrance. And if Hernani
Attempts to fight you need not kill the man.
Brigand although he is, he shall go free,
If I can win his lady.

DON RICARDO: Shoot the hawk
If you would keep the dove. The mountaineer
Is a most desperate outlaw.

THE KING: Let him live.
If I were not so passionately in love
With Dona Sol I would help Hernani
To rescue her from her old guardian.
To think that Don Ruy Gomez should have kept
So beautiful a girl a prisoner,
And tried to marry her! Had Hernani
Eloped with her before I fell in love
I would have praised his courage.

[_The balcony window opens, and as the noblemen retire_,
DONA SOL _comes down_.

DONA SOL: Hernani!

THE KING (_holding her_): Sweet Dona Sol.

DONA SOL: Oh, where is Hernani?

THE KING: I am the king, King Charles. I worship you,
And I will make you happy.

DONA SOL: Hernani!
Help! Help me, Hernani! [_She tries to escape_.

THE KING: I am your king!
I love you, Dona Sol. Come, you shall be
A duchess.

DONA SOL: No.

THE KING: Princess.

DONA SOL: No.

THE KING: Queen of Spain!
Yes; I will marry you if you will come.

DONA SOL: I cannot; I love Hernani.

THE KING: That brigand is not worthy of you. A throne
Is waiting. If you will not come with me,
My men must carry you away by force.

[_While he is talking_ HERNANI _appears_.

HERNANI: King Charles, you are a coward and a cur!

DONA SOL (_clasping him_): Save me!

HERNANI: I will, my love.

THE KING: Where are my men?

HERNANI: In my hands. I have sixty followers
Waiting out there. And now a word with you.
Your father killed my father; you have stolen
My lands and titles from me; and I vowed
To kill you.

THE KING: Titles? Lands? Who are you, then?

HERNANI: But meeting Dona Sol, I lost all thought
Of vengeance. Now I come to rescue her,
And find you in my path again--a wretch
Using his strength against a helpless girl.
Quick! Draw your sword, and prove you are a man!

THE KING: I am your king. I shall not fight with you.
Strike if you want to murder me.

HERNANI: You think
I hold with the divinity of kings?
Now, will you fight?

[_Striking him with the flat of his sword_.

THE KING: I will not. Murder me,
You bandit, as you murder every man
That you desire to rob! Cross swords with you?
A common thief? No; get to your trade.
Creep round; assassinate me from behind!

[KING CHARLES _fixes his fierce, hawk-like eyes on the
young brigand. _ HERNANI _recoils, lowers his sword;
then, moved beyond himself by the strength of character
displayed by_ THE KING, _he breaks his blade on the
pavement. _

HERNANI: Be off, then.

THE KING: Very well, sir. I shall set
A price upon your head, and hound you down.

HERNANI: I cannot kill you now, with Dona Sol
Looking at us. But I will keep my vow
When next we meet.

THE KING: Never shall you obtain
Mercy, respite, or pardon at my hands.

[_He departs. _

DONA SOL: Now let us fly.

HERNANI: No; I must go alone.
It means death! Did you see King Charles's face?
It means death. Oh, my love, my sweet, true love!
You would have shared with me the wild, rough life
I lead up in the mountains: the green couch
Beneath the trees, the water from the brook.
But now I shall be hunted down and killed.
You must not come. Good-bye.

DONA SOL: Oh, Hernani!
Will you leave me like this?

HERNANI: No, I will stay!
Fold your arms closely round me, love, and rest
Your dear head on my shoulder. Let us talk
In whispers, as we used to, when I came
At night beneath your window. Do you still
Remember our first meeting?

[_There is a clash of bells. _

DONA SOL: Hernani,
It is the tocsin!

HERNANI: No; our wedding-bells.

[_Shouts are heard. Lights appear in all the windows.
The noise of the bells grows louder. A mountaineer
runs in, with his sword drawn. _

THE MOUNTAINEER: The streets are filled with soldiers.

DONA SOL: Save yourself!
Here is a side gate.

THE CROWD (_out in the street_): Bring the brigand out!

HERNANI: One kiss, then, and farewell.

DONA SOL (_embracing him_): It is our first.

HERNANI: And it may be our last. Farewell, my love!


ACT II

SCENE--DON RUY GOMEZ, _an old, grey-haired, but superb-looking man, is
standing in the hall of his castle in the Aragon mountains. _

DON RUY GOMEZ: Only an hour, and then she is my wife!
I have been jealous and unjust, and used
Some violence. But now she is my bride
She shall know how a man can love.

[_A_ PAGE _enters. _

PAGE: My lord,
There is a pilgrim at the gate, who craves
For shelter.

DON RUY GOMEZ: Let him in. On this glad day
Give friend or stranger welcome. Is there news
Of Hernani?

PAGE: King Charles has routed him
And killed him, so they say.

DON RUY GOMEZ: Thank Heaven for that!
My cup of happiness is full. Run, boy!
Bid Dona Sol put on her wedding-gown,
And as you go admit my pilgrim guest.

[_The_ PAGE _retires. _

Would I could let the whole world see my joy!

[HERNANI _enters, disguised as a pilgrim. _

HERNANI: To you, my lord, all peace and happiness!

DON RUY GOMEZ: And peace and happiness to you, my guest!
Where are you bound for?

HERNANI: For Our Lady's shrine.

[DONA SOL _enters, arrayed in a wedding-dress. _

DON RUY GOMEZ: Here is the lady at whose shrine I pray.
My dearest bride! Where is your coronet?
You have forgotten it, and all the gems
I gave you as a wedding gift.

HERNANI (_in a wild, loud voice_): What man
Wishes to gain ten thousand golden crowns?
This is the price set upon Hernani.

[_Everyone is amazed. Tearing off his pilgrim robe, he
shows himself in the dress of a mountaineer. _

I am Hernani.

DONA SOL: Ah! he is not dead!

HERNANI: Ten thousand crowns for me!

DON RUY GOMEZ: The sum is great.
I am not sure of all my men.

HERNANI: Which one
Will sell me to King Charles? Will you? Will you?

[_The retainers move away from him. _ DONA SOL _makes
an imploring gesture; she is speechless with fear. _

DON RUY GOMEZ: My friend, you are my guest, and I will slay
The man that dare lay hands on you. I come
Of noble race. And were you Hernani
Or Satan, I would keep the sacred law
Of hospitality. My honour is
A thing I prize above all else on earth,
And King Charles shall not stain it while I live!
Come, men, and arm, and close the castle gate.

[_He goes out, followed by all his retainers. _ DONA SOL
_remains, her face white with anguish. _ HERNANI
_glares at her_.

HERNANI: So he has bought you, this old wealthy man!
Bought you outright!
Oh, God, how false and vain
All women are!

DONA SOL: When I refused the throne
Offered me by King Charles, was I then false?
Is this an ornament vain women wear
Upon their wedding day?

[_She takes a dagger from her bosom. _

Oh, Hernani,
They told me you were killed! I have been dressed
For marriage, but against the bridal night
I kept this dagger.

HERNANI: Slay me with it, love!
I am unworthy of you! Blind and mad
Was I to doubt the sweetest, bravest soul
That ever walked in beauty on this earth.

DONA SOL (_clasping him in her arms_): My hero and my lover,
and my lord,
Love me, and love me always!

HERNANI: Unto death.

[_As he embraces her,_ DON RUY GOMEZ _enters. _

DON RUY GOMEZ: Judas!

HERNANI: Yes. Draw your sword and take my life.
But spare your bride, for she is innocent.
I came to carry her away, but she
Refused to follow me.

DONA SOL: It is not true.
I love him. Slay us both, or pardon us!

DON RUY GOMEZ: You love him, Dona Sol? Then he must die.

[_There is a sound of trumpets outside. A_ PAGE _enters. _

THE PAGE: His Majesty King Charles is at the gate,
With all his army.

DON RUY GOMEZ: Open to the king!

DONA SOL: Nothing can save him now!

[DON RUY GOMEZ _presses a spring in the wall, and a
door opens into a hiding-place. _

DON RUY GOMEZ (_to_ HERNANI): Here you are safe.

HERNANI: Surrender me! I am a prisoner now,
And not a guest.

[_He enters the hiding-place. _ DON RUY GOMEZ _closes it. _

THE PAGE: His Majesty, the King!

[KING CHARLES _enters, followed by his soldiers. _ DONA
SOL _covers herself hastily in her bridal veil. _

THE KING (_to the soldiers_): Seize all the keys, and guard the gates!
(_To_ DON RUY GOMEZ) My lord,
I hear that you are sheltering my foe,
The brigand Hernani.

DON RUY GOMEZ: Sire, that is true.