What we are losing, ever seems to us the most precious: Gonzalvo was quitting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to his eyes than all else which the World contained. Read them, Don Lorenzo; They will give you some idea of the feelings of a banished Man!'
Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and retired from the chamber. The Youth examined the contents, and found them to be as follows.
THE EXILE
Farewell, Oh! native Spain! Farewell for ever!
These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more;A mournful presage tells my heart, that never Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore.
Hushed are the winds; While soft the Vessel sailing With gentle motion plows the unruffled Main, I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing, And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.
I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear Heaven Still do the Spires, so well beloved, appear;From yonder craggy point the gale of Even Still wafts my native accents to mine ear:
Propped on some moss-crowned Rock, and gaily singing, There in the Sun his nets the Fisher dries;Oft have I heard the plaintive Ballad, bringing Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.
Ah! Happy Swain! He waits the accustomed hour, When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower, And shares the feast his native fields supply:
Friendship and Love, his Cottage Guests, receive him With honest welcome and with smile sincere;No threatening woes of present joys bereave him, No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.
Ah! Happy Swain! Such bliss to me denying, Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;Me, who from home and Spain an Exile flying, Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.
No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty Sung by some Mountain-Girl, who tends her Goats, Some Village-Swain imploring amorous pity, Or Shepherd chaunting wild his rustic notes:
No more my arms a Parent's fond embraces, No more my heart domestic calm, must know;Far from these joys, with sighs which Memory traces, To sultry skies, and distant climes I go.
Where Indian Suns engender new diseases, Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases, The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day:
But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver, To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever, And brain delirious with the day-star's rage,Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever With many a bitter sigh, Dear Land, from Thee;To feel this heart must doat on thee for ever, And feel, that all thy joys are torn from me!
Ah me! How oft will Fancy's spells in slumber Recall my native Country to my mind!
How oft regret will bid me sadly number Each lost delight and dear Friend left behind!
Wild Murcia's Vales, and loved romantic bowers, The River on whose banks a Child I played, My Castle's antient Halls, its frowning Towers, Each much-regretted wood, and well-known Glade,Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre, Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know, Full oft shall Memory trace, my soul's Tormentor, And turn each pleasure past to present woe.
But Lo! The Sun beneath the waves retires;Night speeds apace her empire to restore:
Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires, Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.
Oh! breathe not, Winds! Still be the Water's motion!
Sleep, sleep, my Bark, in silence on the Main!
So when to-morrow's light shall gild the Ocean, Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.
Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning, Fresh blows the Gale, and high the Billows swell:
Far shall we be before the break of Morning;Oh! then for ever, native Spain, farewell!
Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira returned to him: The giving a free course to her tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual composure.
'I have nothing more to say, my Lord,' said She; 'You have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown myself in full confidence upon your honour: I am certain that you will not prove my opinion of you to have been too favourable.'
'But one question more, Segnora, and I leave you. Should the Duke of Medina approve my love, would my addresses be unacceptable to yourself and the fair Antonia?'
'I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo: There being little probability of such an union taking place, I fear that it is desired but too ardently by my Daughter. You have made an impression upon her young heart, which gives me the most serious alarm: To prevent that impression from growing stronger, I am obliged to decline your acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I should rejoice at establishing my Child so advantageously.
Conscious that my constitution, impaired by grief and illness, forbids me to expect a long continuance in this world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her under the protection of a perfect Stranger. The Marquis de las Cisternas is totally unknown to me:
He will marry; His Lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of displeasure, and deprive her of her only Friend. Should the Duke, your Uncle, give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining mine, and my Daughter's: But without his, hope not for ours. At all events, what ever steps you may take, what ever may be the Duke's decision, till you know it let me beg your forbearing to strengthen by your presence Antonia's prepossession. If the sanction of your Relations authorises your addressing her as your Wife, my Doors fly open to you: If that sanction is refused, be satisfied to possess my esteem and gratitude, but remember, that we must meet no more.'
