LITMIR.BIZ

         Our pleasant sojourn in Aranjuez

         Is over now, and yet your highness quits

         These joyous scenes no happier than before.

         Our visit hath been fruitless. Oh, my prince,

         Break this mysterious and gloomy silence!

         Open your heart to your own father's heart!

         A monarch never can too dearly buy

         The peace of his own son – his only son.

         Is there one dearest wish that bounteous Heaven

         Hath e'er withheld from her most favored child?

         I stood beside, when in Toledo's walls

         The lofty Charles received his vassals' homage,

         When conquered princes thronged to kiss his hand,

         And there at once six mighty kingdoms fell

         In fealty at his feet: I stood and marked

         The young, proud blood mount to his glowing cheek,

         I saw his bosom swell with high resolves,

         His eye, all radiant with triumphant pride,

         Flash through the assembled throng; and that same eye

         Confessed, "Now am I wholly satisfied!"

         This silent sorrow, which for eight long moons

         Hath hung its shadows, prince, upon your brow —

         The mystery of the court, the nation's grief —

         Hath cost your father many a sleepless night,

         And many a tear of anguish to your mother.

         My mother! Grant, O heaven, I may forget

         How she became my mother!

                       Gracious prince!

         Alas! alas! a fruitful source of woe

         Have mothers been to me. My youngest act,

         When first these eyes beheld the light of day,

         Destroyed a mother.

                    Is it possible

         That this reproach disturbs your conscience, prince?

         And my new mother! Hath she not already

         Cost me my father's heart? Scarce loved at best.

         My claim to some small favor lay in this —

         I was his only child! 'Tis over! She

         Hath blest him with a daughter – and who knows

         What slumbering ills the future hath in store?

         You jest, my prince. All Spain adores its queen.

         Shall it be thought that you, of all the world,

         Alone should view her with the eyes of hate —

         Gaze on her charms, and yet be coldly wise?

         How, prince? The loveliest lady of her time,

         A queen withal, and once your own betrothed?

         No, no, impossible – it cannot be!

         Where all men love, you surely cannot hate.

         Carlos could never so belie himself.

         I prithee, prince, take heed she do not learn

         That she hath lost her son's regard. The news

         Would pain her deeply.

         CARLOS.            Ay, sir! think you so?

         Your highness doubtless will remember how,

         At the late tournament in Saragossa,

         A lance's splinter struck our gracious sire.

         The queen, attended by her ladies, sat

         High in the centre gallery of the palace,

         And looked upon the fight. A cry arose,

         "The king! he bleeds!" Soon through the general din,

         A rising murmur strikes upon her ear.

         "The prince – the prince!" she cries, and forward rushed,

         As though to leap down from the balcony,

         When a voice answered, "No, the king himself!"

         "Then send for his physicians!" she replied,

         And straight regained her former self-composure.

         But you seem wrapped in thought?

         CARLOS.              In wonder, sir,

         That the king's merry confessor should own

         So rare a skill in the romancer's art.

         Yet have I heard it said that those

         Who watch men's looks and carry tales about,

         Have done more mischief in this world of ours

         Than the assassin's knife, or poisoned bowl.

         Your labor, Sir, hath been but ill-bestowed;

         Would you win thanks,

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