There is a presence, if the well-beloved Be torne from us by human violence, More intimate, pervading, and complete, Than when they lived and spoke like other men, And their pale images are our support When reason sinks, or threatens to desert us. I weep no more—pity and exultation Sway and console me: are they—no!—both dead?

p. 117

p. 118

Muza. Aye, and unsepulchred.

Jul. Nor wept nor seen By any kindred and far-following eye?

Muza. Their mother saw them, if not dead, expire.

p. 119Jul. O cruelty!—to them indeed the least! My children, ye are happy—ye have lived Of heart unconquered, honour unimpaired, And died, true Spaniards, loyal to the last.

p. 119

Muza. Away with him.

Jul. Slaves! not before I lift My voice to heaven and man: though enemies Surround me, and none else, yet other men And other times shall hear: the agony Of an opprest and of a bursting heart No violence can silence; at its voice The trumpet is o’erpowered, and glory mute, And peace and war hide all their charms alike. Surely the guests and ministers of heaven Scatter it forth thro’ all the elements, So suddenly, so widely, it extends, So fearfully men breathe it, shuddering To ask or fancy how it first arose.

Muza. Yes, they shall shudder—but will that, henceforth, p. 120Molest my privacy, or shake my power?

p. 120

Jul. Guilt hath pavilions, but no privacy. The very engine of his hatred checks The torturer in his transport of revenge, Which, while it swells his bosom, shakes his power And raises friends to his worst enemy.

Muza. Where now are thine? will they not curse the day That gave thee birth, and hiss thy funeral? Thou hast left none who could have pitied thee.

Jul. Many, nor those alone of tenderer mould, For me will weep—many alas thro’ me! Already I behold my funeral. The turbid cities wave and swell with it, And wrongs are lost in that day’s pageantry: Opprest and desolate, the countryman Receives it like a gift; he hastens home, Shews where the hoof of Moorish horse laid waste His narrow croft and winter garden-plot, Sweetens with fallen pride his children’s lore, p. 

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