LITMIR.BIZ

                      Tearful and true,

         Thy portraiture of monarchs. Yes – thou'rt right,

         But 'tis their lusts that thus corrupt their hearts,

         And hurry them to vice. I still am pure.

         A youth scarce numbering three-and-twenty years.

         What thousands waste in riotous delights,

         Without remorse – the mind's more precious part —

         The bloom and strength of manhood – I have kept,

         Hoarding their treasures for the future king.

         What could unseat my Posa from my heart,

         If woman fail to do it?

                      I, myself!

         Say, could I love you, Carlos, warm as now,

         If I must fear you?

                    That will never be.

         What need hast thou of me? What cause hast thou

         To stoop thy knee, a suppliant at the throne?

         Does gold allure thee? Thou'rt a richer subject

         Than I shall be a king! Dost covet honors?

         E'en in thy youth, fame's brimming chalice stood

         Full in thy grasp – thou flung'st the toy away.

         Which of us, then, must be the other's debtor,

         And which the creditor? Thou standest mute.

         Dost tremble for the trial? Art thou, then,

         Uncertain of thyself?

                     Carlos, I yield!

         Here is my hand.

                  Is it mine own?

                           Forever —

         In the most pregnant meaning of the word!

         And wilt thou prove hereafter to the king

         As true and warm as to the prince to-day?

         I swear!

              And when round my unguarded heart

         The serpent flattery winds its subtle coil,

         Should e'er these eyes of mine forget the tears

         They once were wont to shed; or should these ears

         Be closed to mercy's plea, – say, wilt thou, then,

         The fearless guardian of my virtue, throw

         Thine iron grasp upon me, and call up

         My genius by its mighty name?

                         I will.

         And now one other favor let me beg.

         Do call me thou! Long have I envied this

         Dear privilege of friendship to thine equals.

         The brother's thou beguiles my ear, my heart,

         With sweet suggestions of equality.

         Nay, no reply: – I guess what thou wouldst say —

         To thee this seems a trifle – but to me,

         A monarch's son, 'tis much. Say, wilt thou be

         A brother to me?

                  Yes; thy brother, yes!

         Now to the king – my fears are at an end.

         Thus, arm-in-arm with thee, I dare defy

         The universal world into the lists.

         The kingdom takes precedence – willingly

         Doth Carlos to the minister give place —

         He speaks for Spain; I am but of the household.

         The duke remains – the Infanta may proceed.

         Then must I put it to your honor, sir,

         To yield my father for a while to me.

         A son, you know, may to a father's ear

         Unbosom much, in fulness of his heart,

         That not befits a stranger's ear. The king

         Shall not be taken from you, sir – I seek

         The father only for one little hour.

         Here stands his friend.

                      And have I e'er deserved

         To think the duke should be a friend of mine?

         Or tried to make him one? I scarce can love

         Those sons who choose more wisely than their fathers.

         And can Duke Alva's knightly spirit brook

         To look on such a scene? Now, as I live,

         I would not play the busy meddler's part,

         Who thrusts himself, unasked, 'twixt sire and son,

         And there intrudes without a blush, condemned

         By his own conscious insignificance,

         No, not, by heaven, to win a diadem!

         Retire, my lord!

                  No, to the cabinet,

         Until I call you.