He lies not where his fathers sleep,
But who hath a tomb more proud?
For the boundless wilds his record keep,
And a banner is his shroud!
Seb.—What strains are these, so mournful, yet so sweet,
And wild as music of the winds?
Fran.—Alas!
That monarchs might but look upon the hearts,
Trampled beneath Ambition's chariot-wheels,
When rushing to renown!—Full well I know
That voice, once joyous as the gladdening sounds
Borne upon spring's young breezes!—But its tones
Now tell a common history. 'Tis the tale
Of a bright spirit, shadow'd with despair,
And wandering in its darkness. She that sings,
Once, with the sunshine of her brow and eye,
Made all things laugh around her, and call'd up
Light to all hearts. But this was transient. Joy,
And Hope, and Beauty, every flower wherewith
Nature has gifted youth, with him she lov'd,
As by one death-blight, perish'd; and her soul
Is now a world of dreams.
Seb.—And who was he
She lov’d so fatally?
Fran.—A noble youth,
To whose high spirit life seem'd but the price
Requir'd for glory. But his generous blood
Won him no fame. He died at Alcazar.
Seb.—(covering his face.) Leave me, old man! for I can bear no more.
Farewell—farewell!
Fran.—What have I said, that thus
Thine aspect should be darken'd?
Seb.—Ask me not.
Fran.—Peace to thy spirit, stranger, and farewell