LITMIR.BIZ

         How!

         CARLOS.   Even so! Hath he not promised you

         The earliest purple in the gift of Spain?

         You mock me, prince!

         CARLOS.        Nay! Heaven forefend, that I

         Should mock that awful man whose fateful lips

         Can doom my father or to heaven or hell!

         I dare not, prince, presume to penetrate

         The sacred mystery of your secret grief,

         Yet I implore your highness to remember

         That, for a conscience ill at ease, the church

         Hath opened an asylum, of which kings

         Hold not the key – where even crimes are purged

         Beneath the holy sacramental seal.

         You know my meaning, prince – I've said enough.

         No! be it, never said, I tempted so

         The keeper of that seal.

                      Prince, this mistrust —

         You wrong the most devoted of your servants.

         Then give me up at once without a thought

         Thou art a holy man – the world knows that —

         But, to speak plain, too zealous far for me.

         The road to Peter's chair is long and rough,

         And too much knowledge might encumber you.

         Go, tell this to the king, who sent thee hither!

         Who sent me hither?

         CARLOS.           Ay! Those were my words.

         Too well-too well, I know, that I'm betrayed,

         Slandered on every hand – that at this court

         A hundred eyes are hired to watch my steps.

         I know, that royal Philip to his slaves

         Hath sold his only son, and every wretch,

         Who takes account of each half-uttered word,

         Receives such princely guerdon as was ne'er

         Bestowed on deeds of honor, Oh, I know

         But hush! – no more of that! My heart will else

         O'erflow and I've already said too much.

         The king is minded, ere the set of sun,

         To reach Madrid: I see the court is mustering.

         Have I permission, prince?

         CARLOS.              I'll follow straight.

         O wretched Philip! wretched as thy son!

         Soon shall thy bosom bleed at every pore,

         Torn by suspicion's poisonous serpent fang.

         Thy fell sagacity full soon shall pierce

         The fatal secret it is bent to know,

         And thou wilt madden, when it breaks upon thee!

         Lo! Who comes here? 'Tis he! O ye kind heavens,

         My Roderigo!

         MARQUIS.       Carlos!

         CARLOS.            Can it be?

         And is it truly thou? O yes, it is!

         I press thee to my bosom, and I feel

         Thy throbbing heart beat wildly 'gainst mine own.

         And now all's well again. In this embrace

         My sick, sad heart is comforted. I hang

         Upon my Roderigo's neck!

         MARQUIS.             Thy heart!

         Thy sick sad heart! And what is well again

         What needeth to be well? Thy words amaze me.

         What brings thee back so suddenly from Brussels?

         Whom must I thank for this most glad surprise?

         And dare I ask? Whom should I thank but thee,

         Thou gracious and all bounteous Providence?

         Forgive me, heaven! if joy hath crazed my brain.

         Thou knewest no angel watched at Carlos' side,

         And sent me this! And yet I ask who sent him.

         Pardon, dear prince, if I can only meet

         With wonder these tumultuous ecstacies.

         Not thus I looked to find Don Philip's son.

         A hectic red burns on your pallid cheek,

         And your lips quiver with a feverish heat.

         What must I think, dear prince? No more I see

         The youth of lion heart, to whom I come

         The envoy of a brave and suffering people.

         For now I stand not here as Roderigo —

         Not as the playmate of the stripling Carlos —

         But, as the deputy of all mankind,

         I clasp thee thus: – 'tis Flanders that clings here

         Around thy neck, appealing with my tears

         To thee for succor in her bitter need.

         This land is lost, this land so dear to thee,

         If Alva, bigotry's relentless tool,

         Advance on Brussels with his Spanish laws.

         This noble country's last faint hope depends

         On thee, loved scion of imperial Charles!

         And, should thy noble heart forget to beat

         In human nature's cause, Flanders is lost!

         Then it is lost.

                  What do I hear? Alas!

Скачать книгу