TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

The original book had no Table of Contents. This [Table] was created by the transcriber.

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

More detail can be found at [the end of the book.]

NUMANTIA

BY THE SAME TRANSLATOR.

Uniform with this Volume.

JOURNEY TO PARNASSUS.

COMPOSED BY

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.

IN ENGLISH TERCETS,

WITH PREFACE AND ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES.

LONDON: KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO.

NUMANTIA

A TRAGEDY

BY

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH

WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES

BY
JAMES Y. GIBSON
TRANSLATOR OF THE "JOURNEY TO PARNASSUS"

LONDON

KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO

MDCCCLXXXV

"A death with honour is supremest bliss,

No fate can be more excellent than this."

Act ii. p.27.

To the Memory of

GENERAL GORDON,

THE HERO OF KHARTOUM, THE MODERN PALADIN, OUR CHRISTIAN
THEOGENES, WHOSE SUBLIME FAITH, FORTITUDE, AND SELF-SACRIFICE,
MATCHLESS IN THESE TIMES, HAVE MADE HIS NAME SACRED IN EVERY
HOUSEHOLD, THE TRANSLATOR HUMBLY DEDICATES THIS ENGLISH
VERSION OF ONE OF THE SADDEST TRAGEDIES EVER PENNED;
WHICH NEVERTHELESS IS INSTINCT WITH THAT TRAGIC
PAIN WHICH PURIFIES THE SOUL, AND INCITES TO
SUCH DEEDS OF SELF-DEVOTION AS DISTIN-
GUISHED THE HERO, WHOSE LOSS
BRITAIN MOURNS THIS DAY
WITH A PECULIAR SOR-
ROW, NOT UNMIXED
WITH SHAME.

CONTENTS

[INTRODUCTION.]

This is an attempt to render for the first time into readable English verse the one great drama of Cervantes. It was presented on the Madrid stage about the year 1586, during the reign of Philip II., and was received with great applause as a work of national interest. It remained, however, unprinted and was supposed to be lost. In 1784, it was published for the first time by Sancha of Madrid, in a volume which contained also Cervantes' Viaje del Parnaso, and his Trato de Argel. The Editors, with a carelessness characteristic of the times, do not tell us how it was recovered or where they got it. The literary world, however, received it gladly as a work of peculiar original power, in every way worthy of the name of Cervantes. Strange to say, a number of years afterwards, it sprang to life as an acting drama during the memorable siege of Saragossa by the French, where it had a besieged city for its stage, and patriots and heroes for its actors and audience. A work that has such a history, and has shown such persistent vitality, must have something in it worthy of the study of all lovers of the Drama, and no apology seems needful for presenting it now in an English version, which preserves the original metres, and pays due regard to accuracy and idiomatic expression.

Rightly to estimate such a production we must take into account the period during which it was written and the purpose for which it was invented. Cervantes was at this time about thirty-nine years of age. He returned from his captivity in Algiers in 1580. He was married in 1584, and with the gallantry peculiar to his nature he laid at the feet of his bride the first fruits of his genius, a pastoral romance known as La Galatea. The newly married pair, who lived at Esquivias, a few miles from Madrid, had the slenderest of fortunes, and as love would not fill the cupboard, Cervantes followed his natural inclination, went to Madrid, and took to writing for the stage. Though the pay was scanty it was better than could be got by writing sentimental romances. He remained at this occupation till he left for Seville in 1588, and wrote, as he tells us, between twenty and thirty plays.

At this period, throughout Europe generally, dramatic art, and tragic art especially, was still in its infancy, and its laws and principles were as yet undetermined. In Italy Tasso had produced his "Aminta" at Ferrara, and Guarini his "Pastor Fido" at Milan (1585), but Italian Tragedy had yet to await the advent of Maffei, Metastasio, and Alfieri in long after years. In France Corneille and Racine were as yet unborn. In England such authors as Marlowe, Greene, and Peele were beginning their careers, and Shakespeare, a youth of twenty-two (he was seventeen years the junior of Cervantes) was perchance only brooding over his "Venus and Adonis." In Spain such writers as Juan del Encina, Torres del Naharro, Gil de Vicente, and the authors of the famous Tragi-Comedy, Celestina, at the beginning and middle of the sixteenth century, had done good service to Spanish Literature, but had settled nothing as to the form which the Spanish drama should take. Cervantes himself looked upon Lope de Rueda as the true originator of a genuine national theatre. He died in 1565, and was buried between the choirs of the Cathedral of Cordova (that wonderful Moorish Mosque), an unexampled honour in those days. A man of the people himself (he was a gold-beater by trade) he became the idol of the people both as actor and author. His pasos (equivalent to the French proverbes), founded on national manners, and flavoured with true Spanish salt, were unrivalled, and wherever his booth-theatre was pitched, in town or country, he was received with acclamation. Cervantes, during his boyhood, was charmed with him, and the impressions he received were never effaced. But that homespun genius could teach him nothing in the highest walks of his art.

When Cervantes, then, began to write for the Tragic stage he had no models before him, and very little critical light to guide him. He was the first genius of commanding power in modern times, whether in Spain or elsewhere, who attempted to compose Tragedies, and he was more or less a law to himself. His Numantia, which German critics declare to be the first work of real tragic power that had appeared in Europe since the extinction of the Greek and Roman drama, has therefore a historical value apart altogether from its artistic merit. The genius of Cervantes was Epic rather than Dramatic, and it is interesting to observe that in this play, almost his first and certainly his greatest effort, he adopts the construction of the earlier Greek drama in its severest form, rejecting, however, the Chorus, which he replaces by allegorical figures serving a similar purpose. In the main he is a follower, consciously or unconsciously, of Aeschylus, in such plays as the Seven against Thebes, or The Persians. Aeschylus (according to Aristophanes) says of his Persians that it was the "taking of a theme for poetry of a glorious exploit (κοσμῆσαι ἔργον ἄριστον)." In like manner the Numantia of Cervantes is simply a glorious page in Spanish history converted into sounding verse.

Viewed then as a drama, according to modern ideas, it is manifestly defective. It has neither plot, passion, nor intrigue, and its subject is eminently non-dramatic. The general use, too, of the Ottava rima, with its ceaseless recurring rhymes, is more suited to epic description than to dramatic action. But viewed as an attempt to give form and body on the stage to a great national event, with the intent of inspiring patriotic feelings, its success is undoubted. Though the first act, which presents the motive of the play, drags somewhat, the interest deepens with every scene, and the tremendous catastrophe, with all its attendant accessories of mingled horror, despair, and indomitable resolve, is depicted with a skill, pathos, and concentrated power hitherto unattained. In such a pictorial representation even the despised Octave, supple, sonorous, and monotonous, seems not out of keeping. Each speech is uttered as it were to the beat of the drum, or to the prolonged wailings of the Dead March. When more vigorous description is required Cervantes uses the Terza rima with great effect; and in almost the only bit of action represented (the scaling of the wall by Caius Marius) he employs blank verse with much fitness. If Cervantes had only invented for Spain a dramatic blank verse as fine and effective as that of Shakespeare for England, and had produced therein a series of plays showing such original power as the Numantia, then would the Spanish drama, perhaps, under his guidance have taken a different direction, and reached a higher grade of excellence than it ever attained. But this was not to be. The genius of the Spanish language was against the first effort, and the prevailing taste of the people was equally against the other. The great merit of Cervantes is not that he founded or perfected a national dramatic school. This was reserved for Lope de Vega, who submitted his genius to the taste of the people, and for Calderon de la Barca, who refined and exalted it to the utmost pitch of which it was capable. But this merit he may certainly claim, that he was the first to give a certain form and fulness to what before his time was formless and void. His Numantia, if not a perfect drama and a model for imitation, has an unwonted elevation and grandeur. It is free from that turgid declamation, triviality of incident, and presentation of horrors for horrors' sake, which were the curse of the contemporary tragic plays. For simplicity, directness, and truthfulness of delineation his drama was unique in its own age, and may, in regard to those peculiar qualities, prove of some service even in ours.

Those of our readers who desire to pursue the subject further would do well to consult the higher dramatic critics. Hallam, in his succinct "History of the Literature of the Middle Ages," devotes three pages to the analysis and elucidation of this remarkable drama, and his judgment both of its excellences and faults is at once shrewd, candid, and appreciative. Ticknor, while slightly protesting against the unmeasured praise bestowed upon it by the Germans, acknowledges its unique historical value, and praises especially its lighter portions, condemned by many as an excrescence, for their exquisite simplicity and truthfulness. Amongst the Germans, Bouterwek and Augustus W. Schlegel are especially enthusiastic in their eulogies. We extract from the latter's "History of Dramatic Literature" (Black's translation) the following passage, as just as it is elegantly expressed: "The Destruction of Numantia has altogether the elevation of the tragical cothurnus; and, from its unconscious and unlaboured approximation to antique grandeur and purity, forms a remarkable phenomenon in the history of modern poetry.... There is, if I may so speak, a sort of Spartan pathos in the piece; every single and personal consideration is swallowed up in the feeling of patriotism, and by allusions to the warlike fame of his nation in modern times he has contrived to connect the ancient history with the interests of his own day.... When we consider the energetical pathos in this drama we are constrained to consider it as merely accidental that Cervantes did not devote himself to this species of writing, and find room in it for the complete development of his inventive mind."

Sismondi and such acute critics as Schack and Lemcke corroborate Schlegel's judgment in almost every respect. Among French writers such authorities as M. Royer, who has written an admirable prose translation of the Numantia, and M. Emile Chasles, whose Life of Cervantes is the most graphic of all biographies, have given very valuable and laudatory criticism. The list of critics' names might easily be extended, but enough has already been given to justify the importance we have attached to this unique work of Cervantes.

This is not the place to allude to any other of Cervantes' dramatic works, or to estimate their value. We hope yet to have an opportunity of doing so when we present a translation of his selected Comedies and Interludes for the approval of English Cervantistas. Meanwhile we prefer that this translation of his Numantia should go forth alone. It was produced at first in stirring times when the Spanish power, that had hitherto held mastery in the world, was showing symptoms of declining vigour. This English translation comes forth in equally stirring times, when the power that supplanted the Spanish domination, and has so long ruled the seas, is called on to make a mighty effort to show that she can do so yet, despite of Teuton, Gaul, or Russ. The enemies of Old England are busily predicting for her a fate like that which overwhelmed Carthage or Numantia. We fear no such fate if England to herself be true. Still the call to patriotism is never out of place, and perhaps the British people who have taken Cervantes to their hearts as the genial, mirth-provoking humourist, may be disposed to show him like regard in his character of poet, soldier, and patriot. It is true the scene he presents, and the heroism he immortalizes are peculiarly Spanish; but Cervantes, though a Spaniard to the backbone, had thoughts that interest humanity, and the patriotic chord which he strikes in this drama may perchance find an echo even in our colder northern bosoms.

At all events Cervantes was no dilettante soldier. If he talks of the horrors and glories of war and siege he talks of things he knew and had felt. In his early manhood he was one of those high-spirited youths (Mozos de gran brio), of good birth and breeding, who crowded the ranks of the Spanish army in Italy, to do service to their country and gain honour thereby. He had fought and bled at Lepanto, in the affair at Navarino, at the storming of Tunis and La Goleta. He was simply a private soldier and did his duty bravely as hundreds of his comrades did. Strange to say, it was only during his five years' captivity in Algiers that he was enabled to display his higher military qualities and especially his faculty of command. Amongst the 25,000 Spaniards in that den of horrors he at once took the foremost place. He was the leader in every daring plan of escape, and only failed at last through treachery. He was the originator of that desperate scheme for the seizure of Algiers by the uprising of the Christians, which was nipped in the bud by the faint-heartedness of Philip II., who feared to risk his fleet in such a glorious enterprise. But successful or not he was idolized by his comrades, and feared by his enslavers, who nevertheless would not touch his life, such was the charm his heroic spirit exercised. But his bearing as a man was more heroic still than his daring as a soldier. The written testimony of his comrades, still preserved, tells us how gentle he was in manners, how brave in heart; how generous to his needier brethren even out of his poverty; how tender to the captive children and how mindful of their welfare; how proud of his honour as a Spaniard, and steadfast in his faith as a Christian, while hundreds surrendered both in the sheer agony of despair. Cervantes escaped, as by a miracle, from a life-long slavery in Constantinople; but only to wage a life-long battle with adverse fate, and at length to die with a smile on his lips.

In the Dedication we have ventured to link the name of Gordon with that of Cervantes, and in so doing we feel we do no dishonour to the name of either. Though differing in language and creed, and separated by well-nigh three centuries, they are, nevertheless, kindred souls. In both the Quixotic spirit, in its noblest sense, is clearly displayed. Cervantes was the inventor of Quixotism because it lay deep in his nature. This Quixotism, what is it but the sublime of imprudence? To do what the enthusiasm of the soul prompts and compels; to do it with single-hearted unselfishness; without regard to the adequacy or inadequacy of means; without regard even to eventual success or non-success; but with simple regard to the inspired voice of duty within, come what may: that is Quixotism in supreme degree. Of this sublime imprudence Cervantes and Gordon were equally guilty in their day, and both reaped the reward of it, especially from their country's rulers. It was their joint fate during life to be an enigma to most, a wonder to many, and in death or after death to be beloved by all. It is not for us to say more of the noble man whose name is now a household word amongst us. It is to be hoped when his Diaries are brought to light, and the true story of his sufferings and death is known, that one of our gifted poets may do for the Hero of Khartoum what Cervantes has done for the heroes of Numantia, with a higher harp if not with loftier patriotism. Meanwhile we may be permitted to pay, with all humility, this little tribute to his memory.

In conclusion, we have cordially to thank Don Pascual de Gayangos for the interest he has shown in this venture, and for the pains he has taken to elucidate the errors and imperfections of the original text. We have also to thank our dear Amanuensis, whose delicate taste, and skill in languages ancient and modern, have added materially to any worth this little work may have.

J. Y. G.

Swaynesthorpe,
Long Ditton,
April, 1885.

[PERSONS REPRESENTED.]

ROMANS.

Scipio, the Roman General.
Quintus Fabius, his Brother.
Jugurtha, a Roman Officer.
Caius Marius, a Roman Soldier.
Roman Soldiers.

NUMANTINES.

Numantine wives, priests with their attendants, two ambassadors, soldiers, children, &c.

ALLEGORICAL PERSONAGES.

Spain, with mural crown.
Douro, with its tributaries.
War.
Sickness.
Hunger.
Fame.

The Scene is laid alternately in the Roman Camp and within the walls of Numantia.

NUMANTIA.

[ACT I.]

[Scene I.]

Enter Scipio[1] and Jugurtha.[2]

Scipio.

This hard and heavy task, the brunt of which
The Roman Senate gave me to sustain,

Hath brought me stress and toil to such a pitch

As quite unhinges my o'erburdened brain.

A war so long,—in strange events so rich,—

Wherein so many Romans have been slain,

Who dares presume to bring it to a close?

Who would not tremble to renew its woes?

Jugurtha.

Who, Scipio? Who can boast the great success,

The untold valour, which in thee abound?

The two combined are equal to the stress,

Thine arms with glorious triumph shall be crowned.

Scipio.

The strength, inspired by prudent manliness,

Will bring the loftiest summits to the ground;

While brutal force, moved by a hand insane,

Will change to rugged heaps the smoothest plain.

'Tis needful, then, and firstly, to repress

The flagrant madness of our soldiery,

Who, mindful not of glory and noblesse,

In gross consuming lust do sunken lie.

My sole desire is this, I wish no less,

To raise our men from their debauchery;

For if the friend will first amendment show,

More quickly then will I subdue the foe.

Marius!

Enter Caius Marius.[3]

My Lord?

Scipio.

Let notice quick be sent,

To all our warriors let the mandate run,

That without sloth or hindrance to prevent,

They all appear within this place as one;

For I would make to them, with grave intent,

A brief harangue.

Caius Marius.

At once it shall be done.

Scipio.

Go quickly, for 'tis well that all be told

Our novel plans, although the means be old.

[Exit Caius Marius.

Jugurtha.

Be sure, my Lord, there is no soldier here

Who fears not, loves thee not beyond compare;

And since thy valour, in its proud career,

Extends from Southern seas to Northern Bear,

Each man with daring heart, devoid of fear,

Soon as he hears the martial trumpet blare,

Will, in thy service, rush to deeds of glory,

Outstripping far the fabled deeds of story.

Scipio.

Our first concern must be this rampant vice,

Which like a canker spreads, to curb and tame;

For should it run unfettered, in a trice

We bid farewell to good repute and fame.

This damage must be cured at any price;

For should we fail to quench its blazing flame,

Such vice alone would kindle fiercer war

Than all the foemen of this land by far.

[Behind, they publish the edict, having first beat the drum to assemble.

Order of our General:

Let the soldiers quartered here

Presently in arms appear

In the chief square, one and all.

And if any man resist

This our summons and decree,

Let his name, as penalty,

Be at once struck off the list.

Jugurtha.

No doubt, my Lord, but it is wise and sane

To curb thine army with an iron bit,

And hold the soldier back with tightened rein

When he would plunge into the loathsome pit.

Our army's force would be a thing in vain

If right and virtue do not go with it;

Although it march along in proud array,

With thousand squadrons, and with banners gay.

[At this point there enter as many soldiers as may be, and Caius Marius, armed in antique fashion, without arquebuses, and Scipio, ascending a small eminence on the stage, glances round at the soldiers and says:

Scipio.

By that proud gesture, by the lusty swell

Of these rich trappings, with their martial sheen,

My friends, for Romans I do know you well—

Romans in build and gallant port, I mean;

But by the tale these soft white fingers tell,

And that rich bloom which on your cheeks is seen,

Ye seem to have been reared at British fires,

And drawn your parentage from Flemish sires.

My friends, this wide-spread languor and decay,

Which for yourselves hath borne such bitter fruit,

Nerves up your fallen foes to sterner fray,

And brings to nought your valour and repute.

This city's walls, that stand as firm to-day

As battled rock, are witnesses to boot

How all your native strength hath turned to shame,

And bears no stamp of Roman but the name.

Seems it, my sons, a manly thing to own,

That when the Roman name towers far and wide,

Within the land of Spain yourselves alone

Should humble it and level down its pride?

What feebleness is this, so strangely grown?

What feebleness? If I may now decide,

It is a feebleness loose living breeds—

The mortal enemy of manly deeds.

Soft Venus ne'er with savage Mars did start

A paction firm and stable at the core:

She follows pleasures; he pursues the art

That leads to hardships, and to fields of gore.

So let the Cyprian goddess now depart,

And let her son frequent this camp no more;

For he whose life in revelling is spent

Is badly lodged within a martial tent.

Think ye, the battering-ram with iron head

Will of itself break down the battled wall?

Or crowds of armèd men and armour dread

Suffice alone the foemen to appal?

If dauntless strength be not with prudence wed,

Which plans with wisdom and provides for all,

But little fruit will mighty squadrons yield,

Or heaps of warlike stores upon the field.

Let but the smallest army join as one

In bonds of martial law, as strict as pure,

Then will ye see it, radiant as the sun,

March where it will to victory secure.

But let an army manly courses shun,

Were it a world itself in miniature,

Soon will its mighty bulk be seen to reel

Before the iron hand, and breast of steel.

Ye well may be ashamed, ye men of might,

To see how these few Spaniards, sore distressed,

With haughty spirit, and to our despite,

Defend with vigour their Numantian nest.

Full sixteen years[4] and more have taken flight,

And still they struggle on, and well may jest

At having conquered with ferocious hands,

And kept at bay, our countless Roman bands.

Self-conquered are ye; for beneath the sway

Of base lascivious vice ye lose renown,

And while with love and wine ye sport and play,

Ye scarce have strength to take your armour down.

Blush then with all your might, as well ye may,

To see how this poor little Spanish town

Bids bold defiance to the Roman host,

And smites the hardest when beleaguered most.

At every hazard let our camp be freed,

And cleanly purged of that vile harlot race,

Which are the root and cause, in very deed,

Why ye have sunk into this foul disgrace.

One drinking-cup, no more, is all ye need;

And let your lecherous couches now give place

To those wherein of yore ye slept so sound—

The homely brushwood strewn upon the ground.

Why should a soldier reek of odours sweet,

When scent of pitch and resin is the best?

Or why have kitchen-things to cook his meat,

To give withal his squeamish stomach zest?

The warrior, who descends to such a treat,

Will hardly bear his buckler on the breast;

For me all sweets and dainties I disdain,

While in Numantia lives one son of Spain.

Let not, my men, this stern and just decree

Of mine appear to you as harshly meant;

For in the end its profit ye will see

When ye have followed it with good intent.

'Tis passing hard to do, I well agree,

To give your habits now another bent;

But if ye change them not, then look for war

More terrible than this affront by far.

From downy couches and from wine and play

Laborious Mars is ever wont to fly;

He seeks some other tools, some other way,

Some other arms to raise his standard high.

Not luck nor hazard here have any sway,

Each man is master of his destiny;

'Tis sloth alone that evil fortune breeds,

But patient toil to rule and empire leads.

Though this I say, so sure am I withal

That now at last ye'll act as Romans do,

That I do hold as nought the armèd wall

Of these rude Spaniards, a rebellious crew.

By this right hand I swear before you all,

That if your hands be to your spirits true,

Then mine with recompense will open wide,

And this my tongue shall tell your deeds with pride.

[The soldiers glance at one another, and make signs to one of them, Caius Marius, who replies for all, and thus says:

Caius Marius.

If thou hast marked, and with attentive eye,

Illustrious Commander of this force,

The upturned faces of the standers-by,

While listening to thy brief and grave discourse,

From some must thou have seen the colour fly,

In others deepen, stung with quick remorse;

Plain proof that fear and shame have both combined

To trouble and perplex each soldier's mind.

Shame—to behold the abject, low estate

On which with self-abasement they must look,

Without one plea defensive to abate

The wholesome rigour of thy stern rebuke;

Fear—at the dire results of crimes so great;

And that vile sloth, whose sight they cannot brook,

Affects them so, that they would rather die

Than wallow longer in its misery.

But place and time remaineth to them still

To make some slight atonement for this wrong;

And this is reason why such flagrant ill

Doth twine around them with a bond less strong.

So from to-day, with prompt and ready will,

The very meanest of our warlike throng

Will place without reserve, as is most meet,

Their goods and life and honour at thy feet.

Receive with right good-will, O master mine,

This fitting gift their better minds supply,

And think them Romans of the ancient line,

In whom the manly spirit cannot die.

My comrades, raise your right hands as a sign

That ye approve this pledge as well as I.

Soldiers.

What thou hast said for us we all declare,

And swear to keep our promise.

All.

Yes, we swear.

Scipio.

In such a pledge new confidence I find

This war with greater vigour to pursue,

While glowing ardour burns in every mind

To change the old life and begin the new.

Let not your promise whistle down the wind,

But let your lances prove it to be true,

For mine with truth and clearness shall be shown,

To match the worth and value of your own.

Soldier.

Two Numantines accredited are here,

With solemn message, Scipio, to thee.

Scipio.

What keeps them back? Why do they not appear?

Soldier.

They wait behind for thy permission free.

Scipio.

Be they ambassadors, their right is clear.

Soldier.

I judge them so.

Scipio.

Then let them come to me;

'Tis always good the enemy to know,

Whether a true heart or a false he show.

For Falsehood never cometh in such wise

Enwrapped in Truth, that we may not descry

Some little cranny in the close disguise,

Through which to gaze upon the secret lie.

To listen to the foe is always wise,

We profit more than we can lose thereby;

In things of war experience shows, in sooth,

That what I say is well-established truth.

Enter the Numantine Ambassadors, First and Second.

First Ambassador.

If, good my lord, thou grant us without fear

To speak the message we have brought this day,

Where now we stand, or to thy private ear,

We shall deliver all we come to say.

Scipio.

Speak freely, then, I grant you audience here.

First Ambassador.

With this permission, in such courteous way

Conceded to us by thy regal grace,

I shall proceed to state our urgent case.

Numantia, to whom my birth I owe,

Hath sent me, noble general, to thee,

As to the bravest Roman Scipio

The night e'er covered, or the day can see;

And begs of thee the friendly hand to show,

In token that thou graciously agree

To cease the struggle that hath raged so long,

And caused to thee and her such cruel wrong.

She says, that from the Roman Senate's law,

And rule, she never would have turned aside,

Had not some brutal Consuls, with their raw

And ruthless hands, done outrage to her pride.

With fiercer statutes than the world e'er saw,

With greedy lust, extending far and wide,

They placed upon our necks such grievous yoke,

As might the meekest citizens provoke.

Throughout the time, with such a lengthened bound,

Wherein both sides have made such cruel sport,

No brave commander have we ever found

Whose kindness or whose favour we could court.

But now, at length, that Fate hath brought it round

To guide our vessel to so good a port,

We joyfully haul in our warlike sails,

Prepared for any treaty—that avails.

Nor think, my lord, that it is fear alone

Which makes us sue for peace at such an hour;

By proofs unnumbered it is widely known

That still Numantia wields an arm of power.

It is thy worth and valour lure us on,

And give assurance that our luck will tower

Far higher than our highest hopes extend,

To have thee for our master and our friend.

On such an errand have we come to-day.

My lord, make answer as it pleaseth thee.

Scipio.

Since but a late repentance ye display,

Your friendship is of small account to me.

Give, give anew the sturdy right arm play,

For what mine own is worth I fain would see;

Since in its might hath fortune deigned to place

My added glory, and your fell disgrace.

To sue for peace will hardly recompense

The shameless doings of so many years.

Let war and rapine come; and in defence

Bring out anew your files of valiant spears

Second Ambassador.

Take heed, my lord; for this false confidence

Brings in its train a thousand cheats and fears;

And this bold arrogance which thou dost show

But nerves our arms to strike a harder blow.

Our plea for peace, on which thou now hast frowned,

Although we urged it with the best intent,

Will make our righteous cause be wide renowned,

And Heaven itself will give its blest assent.

Mark, ere thou treadest on Numantian ground,

Oft wilt thou prove, and to thy heart's content,

What bolts of wrath the insulted foe can send,

Who wished to be thy vassal, and good friend.

Scipio.

Hast thou aught more to say?

First Ambassador.

No, we have more

To do, since thou, my lord, will have it so.

Thou hast refused the just peace we implore,

And hast belied thy better self, I know;

Soon wilt thou see the power we have in store,

When thou hast showed us all thou hast to show,

For prating peace away is easier far

Than breaking through the serried ranks of war.

Scipio.

Thou speakest truth; and now to make it plain

That I can treat in peace, in war command,

Your proffered friendship I do now disdain;

I here remain the sworn foe of your land,

And so with this ye may return again.

Second Ambassador.

Meanst thou, my lord, on this resolve to stand?

Scipio.

Yes, I do mean it.

Second Ambassador.

Then, To arms! I say,

And no Numantian voice will answer, Nay!

[Exeunt the Ambassadors; and Quintus Fabius, brother of Scipio, says:

Quintus Fabius.

Methinks our indolence, which now is past,

Hath made you bold within our midst to brawl;

But now the wished-for time hath come at last,

When ye will see our glory, and your fall.

Scipio.

Vain boasting, Fabius, is beneath the caste

Of valiant men, with honour at their call;

So calm thy threats, to good persuasion yield,

And keep thy courage for the battle-field.

Though, sooth, I do not mean that this proud foe

Should meet us hand to hand in very deed.

Some other way to conquest will I go,

Which promises to bring me better speed.

I mean to curb their pride, their wits o'erthrow,

And on itself to let their fury feed;

For with a deep wide ditch I'll gird them round,

And hunger fierce will bear them to the ground.

No longer shall this soil be coloured red

With Roman blood. Sufficient for the State

Is what these Spaniards have already shed

In this long brutal war, and obstinate.

Now bare your arms for other work instead,—

This hard-bound earth to break and excavate;

They serve us better, foul with dust and mud,

Than when bedabbled with the foeman's blood.

Let no one in the ranks this duty shun,

But join in strife his neighbour to surpass.

Let officer and private work as one,

Without distinction, or respect of class.

Myself will seize the spade, and when begun

Will break the ground as deftly as the mass.

Do all as I, and let what will befall,

This scheme of mine will satisfy you all.

Quintus Fabius.

O valiant sir, my brother and my lord,

In this we recognize thy prudent care,

For it were folly, by the wise ignored,

And rash display of valour, past compare,

To face in arms the fury and the sword

Of these wild rebels, frantic with despair;

To shut them in will yield us better fruit,

And wither all their courage at the root.

'Tis easy to surround the city quite,

Save where the river shows an open line.

Scipio.

Now let us go, and straightway bring to light

This little-used and novel plan of mine;

Then to the Roman Senate in its might,

(If Heaven's smiles but on our project shine,)

Will complete Spain be subject, far and wide,

By simple conquest of this people's pride.

[Scene II.]

Enters a damsel, crowned with a mural crown, bearing heraldic castles in her hand, signifying Spain, and says:

Spain.

Thou Heaven, the lofty, vast, serenely grand,

Who, with thy fructifying powers, hast crowned

With wealth the chiefest part of this my land,

And made it great above the realms around,

Let my sad dole excite thy pity bland;

And since thou giv'st the wretched calm profound,

To me be gracious in my throes of pain,

For I am she, the lonely, luckless Spain.

Let it suffice thee that, beneath thy care,

My powerful limbs in fiercest fires were tossed,

And through my heart thou to the sun laidst bare

The dark benighted kingdom of the lost.

My wealth 'midst thousand tyrants thou didst share;

Phœnicians, Greeks as well, in countless host

Did part my realms; for thou didst will it so,

Or else my wickedness deserved the blow.

Is't possible that I should always be

Of nations strange the meek and lowly slave,

Nor ever have one glimpse of Liberty,

Nor ever see my native banners wave?

And yet, perchance, it is a just decree,

That I should sink beneath a fate so grave,

Since my most valiant men and sons of fame

Are foes at heart, and brothers but in name.

For public ends they never will unite,

These brilliant spirits—a divided host;

Nay, rather will they stand apart, or fight,

When strength and unity are needed most;

And thus by fatal discords they invite

The wild barbarian hosts, at fearful cost,

Who sack their treasures with a greedy glee,

And shower their cruelties on them and me.

It is Numantia, and only she,

Who with her blood her life will dearly sell;

Who with her sword unsheathed, and flashing free,

Defends the Liberty she loves so well.

But now her race is over, woe is me!

The hour, the fated hour is on the knell,

When she must part with life, but not with fame,

Like Phœnix rising fresh from out the flame.

Those Romans there, a countless timid band,

Who in a thousand ways their conquests seek,

Decline to measure swords, and hand to hand,

With these brave Numantines, so few and weak.

O might their plans be buried in the sand,

And all their fancies turn to crazy freak,

And this Numantia, this little spot,

Regain once more its free and happy lot!

But now, alas! the foe hath girt it round,

Not with confronting arms, foreboding ill

To its weak walls, but with a wit profound

And ready hands hath laboured with such skill,

That with a trench deep-hollowed in the ground

The town is circled, over plain and hill—

And only on the side where runs the river

Is there defence against this strange endeavour.

So these poor Numantines are close confined

And rooted to the spot, as if by charms;

No man can leave, no man may entrance find;

They have no fear of stormings or alarms;

But as they gaze around, before, behind,

And see no labour for their powerful arms,

With fearful accents, and ferocious breath,

They cry aloud for war, or else for death!

And since the side the spacious Douro scours,

Laving the city in its onward way,

Is that alone which, in their evil hours,

May lend the prisoned Numantines some stay,

Before their grand machines or massive towers

Be founded in its stream, I fain would pray

The bounteous river, radiant with renown,

To aid and succour my beleaguered town.

Thou gentle Douro,[5] whose meand'ring stream

Doth lave my breast, and give it life untold,

As thou wouldst see thy rolling waters gleam,

Like pleasant Tagus, bright with sands of gold;

As thou wouldst have the nymphs, a merry team,

Light-footed bound from meads and groves of old,

To pay their homage to thy waters clear,

And lend thee bounteously their favours dear;

Then lend, I pray, to these my piteous cries

Attentive ear, and come to ease my woes.

Let nothing hinder thee in any wise,

Although thou leav'st awhile thy sweet repose;

For thou and all thy waters must arise

To give me vengeance on these Roman foes;

Else all is over, 'tis a hopeless case,

To save from ruin this Numantian race.

Enter the river Douro, with several boys attired as rivers like himself, these being the tributary streams which flow into the Douro.

Douro.

O Spain, my mother dear, thy piercing cries

Have struck upon mine ears for many an hour,

And if I did not haste me to arise,

It was that succour lay beyond my power.

That fatal day, that day of miseries,

Which seals Numantia's doom, begins to lower;

The stars have willed it so, and well I fear

No means remain to change a fate so drear.

Minuesa, Tera, Orvion as well,

Whose floods increase the volume of mine own,

Have caused my bosom so to rise and swell

That all its ancient banks are overflown.

But my swift current will not break their spell,

As if I were a brook, their pride has grown

To do what thou, O Spain, didst never dream,

To plant their dams and towers athwart my stream.

But since the course of stern, relentless Fate,

Brings round the final fall, without avail,

Of this thy well-beloved Numantian state,

And closes up its sad and wondrous tale,

One comfort still its sorrows may abate,

That never shall Oblivion's sombre veil

Obscure the bright sun of its splendid deeds,

Admired by all, while age to age succeeds.

But though this day the cruel Romans wave

Their banners o'er thy wide and fertile land,—

Here beat thee down, there treat thee as a slave,

With pride ambitious, and a haughty hand,—

The time will come (if I the knowledge grave

Which Heaven to Proteus taught do understand)

When these said Romans shall receive their fall

From those whom presently they hold in thrall.

I see them come, the peoples from afar,

Who on thy gentle breast will seek to dwell,

When, to thy heart's content, they have made war

Against the Romans, and have curbed them well.

Goths shall they be; who, bright with glory's star,

Leaving their fame through all the world to swell,

Will in thy bosom seek repose from strife,

And give their sturdy powers a higher life.

In coming years will Attila, that man

Of wrath, avenge thy wrongs with bloody hands;

Will place the hordes of Rome beneath the ban,

And make them subject to his stern commands;

And, forcing way into the Vatican,[6]

Thy gallant sons, with sons of other lands,

Will cause the Pilot of the sacred bark

Take speedy flight, and steer into the dark.

The time will also come, when one may stand

And see the Spaniard brandishing his knife

Above the Roman neck, and stay his hand

At bidding of his chief, from taking life.

The great Albano[7] he, who gives command

To draw the Spanish army from the strife,

In numbers weak, and yet in courage strong,

A match in valour for a mightier throng.

And when the rightful Lord of heaven and earth

Is recognized as such on every hand,

He, who shall then be stablished and set forth

As God's viceregent over every land,

Will on thy kings bestow a style of worth

As fitting to their zeal as it is grand;

They all shall bear of Catholic the name,

In true succession to the Goths of fame.

But he, whose hand of vigour best shall bind

In one thine honour, and thy realm's content,

And make the Spanish name, too long confined,

Hold place supreme by general assent,

A king shall be, whose sound and thoughtful mind

On grand affairs is well and wisely bent;

His name through all the world he rules shall run,

The second Philip,[8] second yet to none.

Beneath his fortunate imperial hand

Three kingdoms once divided under stress

Again beneath one single crown shall stand,

For common welfare, and thy happiness.

The Lusitanian banner, famed and grand,

Which once was severed from the flowing dress

Of fair Castile, will now be knit anew,

And in its ancient place have honour due.

What fear and envy, O beloved Spain,

Shall bear to thee the nations strange and brave;

Whose blood shall serve thy flashing sword to stain,

O'er whom thy banners shall triumphant wave!

Let hopes like these assuage the bitter pain,

Which wrings thy heart in this sad hour and grave,

For what the cruel Fates have willed must be,

Numantia must abide the stern decree.

Spain.

Thy words, O famous Douro, have in part

Relieved the poignant anguish of my wrong;

There is no guile in thy prophetic heart,

And so my confidence in thee is strong.

Douro.

O Spain, thou mayst believe what I impart,

Although these happy days may tarry long.

My nymphs await me now, and so, farewell!

Spain.

May heaven thy limpid waters bless and swell!

[ACT II.]

[Scene I.]

Interlocutors.

Theogenes and Corabino, with four other Numantines, Governors of Numantia, Marquino, a wizard, and a Corpse which will appear in due time. They are seated in council, and the four nameless Numantines are distinguished by First, Second, Third, and Fourth.

Theogenes.

Ye valiant men, it seems to me this day
That every adverse fate and direful sign

Conspire to crush us with their baleful sway,

And cause our force and fury to decline.

The Romans shut us in, do what we may,

With cruel craft our strength to undermine.

No vengeance comes to us by death in fight,

Nor, save with wings, can we escape by flight,

Not these alone would crush us to the ground,

Who oft have suffered at our hands defeat;

For Spaniards too, with them in paction bound,

Would cut our throats with treachery complete.

May Heaven such knavish villany confound!

May lightning flashes wound their nimble feet,

Who rush to give their friends a deadly blow,

And lend their succour to our wily foe!

See if ye cannot now devise some plan

To mend our fortunes, and our city save;

For this laborious siege, of lengthened span,

Prepares for us a sure and certain grave.

Across that fearful ditch no single man

May seek the fortune that awaits the brave;

Though valiant arms, at times, in close array

Will sweep a thousand obstacles away.

Corabino.

I would that mighty Jove, in sovereign grace,

Might grant our gallant youth this very day

To meet the Roman army face to face,

Where'er their arms might have the freest play.

Not death itself, in such a happy case,

Would keep their Spanish fortitude at bay;

They'd hew a pathway, beat the foemen down,

And succour bring to our Numantian town.

But since we find ourselves in this sad state,

Like women harboured and by force confined,

Then let us do our utmost in the strait,

And show a daring and determined mind;

Let us invite our foes to test their fate

By single combat; haply we shall find

That, worn out by this siege and lengthened fray,

They fain would end it in this simple way.

But if this remedy should not succeed,

And this our just demand should baffled be,

One other plan may bring us better speed,

Though more laborious, as it seems to me:

That ditch and battled trench, which now impede

Our passage to the foeman's camp ye see,

By sudden night assault let us break through,

And march for succour to good friends and true.

First Numantine.

Be it by ditch or death, we must, 'tis plain,

Free passage force, if we would still survive;

For death is most insufferable pain,

If it should come when life is most alive.

Death is the certain cure for woes that drain

The strength of life, and on it grow and thrive;

For death with honour is supremest bliss;

No fate can be more excellent than this.

Second Numantine.

Can higher honour crown our latest years,

If so our souls must from our bodies part,

Than thus to rush upon the Roman spears,

And dying, strike our foemen at the heart?

Let him who will display the coward's fears,

And stay within the city all apart;

For me, at least, my life I'd rather yield,

Within the ditch, or on the open field.

Third Numantine.

This cruel hunger, fearsome and malign,

Which tracks our path, and goads us bitterly,

Constrains me to consent to your design,

However rash and hair-brained it may be.

By death in fight this insult we decline;

Who would not die of hunger come with me,

To force the trenches, and with one accord

Cut out a path to safety with the sword.

Fourth Numantine.

It seemeth good to me, before we dare

The desperate act which promises relief,

That we should summon from the rampart there

Our haughty foe, and ask of him in brief:

That he will grant an open field and fair

To one Numantian, and one Roman chief,

And that the death of either in the fight

Shall end our quarrel and decide the right.

These Romans are a people of such pride

That they will sanction what we now propose;

And if by this our challenge they abide,

Then sure am I our griefs will have a close;

For here sits Corabino at our side,

Upon whose mighty valour I repose,

That he alone, in open fight with three,

Will from the Romans snatch the victory.

'Tis also fitting that Marquino here,

Whose fame as sage diviner is so great,

Should note what sign or planet in the sphere

Forbodeth death to us, or glorious fate;

And find some means perchance to make it clear,

If we shall issue from our present strait,

When once this doubtful cruel siege has passed,

The victors or the vanquished at the last.

Be it as well our first and chief concern

To make to Jove a solemn sacrifice;

It well may be that thereby we shall earn

A boon still higher than the proffered price.

If by such aid supernal we shall learn

To staunch the wounds of our deep-rooted vice,

Then haply may our rugged fates relent,

And change to brighter fortune and content.

There never lacketh opportunity to die,

The desperate may have it when inclined;

The fitting time and place are always nigh

To show in dying the determined mind.

But lest the passing hours in vain should fly,

Say if ye now approve what I've designed,

And if ye do not, then devise some plan

Will better suit, and pleasure every man.

Marquino.

There is good reason in thy sage advice;

Its weighty counsel is approved by me;

Prepare the offering and the sacrifice,

And let the challenge quick delivered be.

As for myself, I'll hasten in a trice

To show my science in supreme degree;

For one I'll drag from out the heart of Hell

Our future, be it good or bad, to tell.

Theogenes.

I herewith offer me, if so indeed

Ye can but trust my valour and my might,

To sally forth, if it be so decreed,

And be your champion in the single fight.

Corabino.

Thy valour rare deserves a better meed;

We well may trust—it is thy patent right—

Affairs by far more difficult and grave

To him who is the bravest of the brave.

And since the chiefest place is at thy call,

Due to thy worth, by general assent,

I, who esteem myself the least of all,

Will act as herald of this tournament.

First Numantine.

Then I, with all the people, great and small,

Will do what gives to Jove the most content;

For prayers and sacrifice have mighty sway,

When purged and contrite hearts prepare the way.

Second Numantine.

Now let us go, with ready wills and free,

To do as we have sworn, whate'er befall,

Before pale hunger's gnawing misery

Hath brought us to the last extreme of all.

Third Numantine.

If Heaven already hath pronounced decree

That we are doomed in dire distress to fall,

May Heaven revoke it now, and aid us soon,

If our contrition meriteth the boon.

[Scene II.]

Enter first two Numantine soldiers, Morandro and Leoncio.

Leoncio.

Where, Morandro, dost thou go?

What strange errand hast thou got?

Morandro.

If myself do know it not

Just as little wilt thou know.

Leoncio.

Would that amorous whim of thine

I could pluck from out thy pate!

Morandro.

Nay, my reason hath more weight

Since I felt this flame of mine.

Leoncio.

'Tis a fact, undoubted lore,

That the love-devoted swain

Hath, by reason of his pain,

Weightier reason than before.

Morandro.

What thou speakest thus to me,

Is it wit, or malice, friend?

Leoncio.

Thou my wit mayst apprehend,

I, thy pure simplicity.

Morandro.

Am I simple, loving well?

Leoncio.

Yes, if love will not allow

For the whom, and when, and how;

Ask thy reason, it will tell.

Morandro.

Who can bounds assign to love?

Leoncio.

Reason's self will show them thee.

Morandro.

Reasonable will they be,

But of slender value prove.

Leoncio.

What of reason is there, pray,

In the amorous endeavour?

Morandro.

Love 'gainst reason goeth never,

Though it go some other way.

Leoncio.

Is it not beyond all reason,

Gallant soldier as thou art,

Thus to show a lover's heart,

In this sad and straitened season?

At a time when thou art bound

Round the god of war to rally,

Is it meet with love to dally,

Scatt'ring thousand sweets around?

See thy country in a stir,

Enemies before, behind,

And wilt thou, with troubled mind,

Turn to love, and not to her?

Morandro.

Thus to hear thee idly speak,

Makes my blood with fury dance.

When did love, by any chance,

Make the manly bosom weak?

Do I leave my post to fly

To my lady's side instead,

Or lie sleeping on my bed,

When my captain watches by?

Hast thou seen me fail to move

At the urgent call of duty,

Lured away by wanton beauty,

Or still less by honest love?

If with truth thou canst not tell

Any point wherein I fail,

Wherefore thus against me rail,

Just because I love so well?

If I shun the circles bright,

Brooding o'er my sad condition,

Put thyself in my position,

Thou wilt see that I have right.

Know'st thou not how many years

I was mad for Lyra's sake,

Till at length the clouds did break,

Scatt'ring all my doubts and fears?

For her father gave consent

That we twain should wedded be;

And my Lyra's love for me,

Mine for her, gave full content.

But, alas! thou art aware

How this brutal, cruel war

Came our happiness to mar,

Sunk my glory to despair.

For our marriage may not be

Till the din of war hath ceased;

'Tis no time to wed and feast

Till this land of ours be free.

Think what slender hope is here

That my bliss will ever be,

When our chance of victory

Rests upon the foeman's spear!

Here we are with ruin near us,

Fosse and trench around us lying,

All our men with hunger dying,

And no thought of war to cheer us!

Is it strange, that when I know

All my hopes are but as wind,

I should go with saddened mind,

Just as now thou seest me go?

Leoncio.

O Morandro, calm thy breast;

Let me see thine ancient glance;

For by hidden ways, perchance,

Help will reach us—and the best.

Sovereign Jove will doubtless show

To our brave Numantian folk

How to burst this Roman yoke

By some sharp and sudden blow.

Then in calm and sweet repose

Wilt thou seek thy wedded wife,

And in love's endearing strife

Soon forget thy present woes.

For this day, by sage advice,

Will Numantia, all astir,

Unto Jove, the Thunderer,

Make a solemn sacrifice.

See what crowds of people hie

With the victim and the fire!

Mighty Jove, all-powerful sire,

Look upon our misery!

[There enter two Numantines, clad as ancient priests, leading in between them, fastened by the horns, a big lamb, crowned with olive or ivy and other flowers; also a page with a silver salver and a towel on his shoulder; another with a silver goblet filled with water; another with one filled with wine; another with a silver dish and a little incense; another with fire and wood; another who arranges a table with a coverlet, on which all the aforesaid articles are placed. There enter on the scene all those who have already appeared in the comedy in the dress of Numantines, the priests coming after; and one of them, letting go the lamb, thus says:

First Priest.

Most certain signs, foreboding woes unchecked,

Have shown their evil forms across my way,

And my hoar hairs are standing all erect.

Second Priest.

If my divinings lead me not astray,

No good will issue from this enterprise.

Alas, Numantia! Ah, luckless day!

First Priest.

Let us, despite these mournful auguries,

Perform our office with becoming speed.

Second Priest.

Bring hither, friends, this table, and likewise

The incense, wine, and water which we need

Arrange thereon. Now stand ye all apart;

Repent ye of your every evil deed;

The first and best oblation on your part

Is that which heaven regards with chiefest grace,

A chastened spirit and a guileless heart.

First Priest.

The fire upon the ground ye must not place.

There comes a brazier to receive it now,

For so our rites demand in such a case.

Second Priest.

Make clean your hands and necks, and keep your vow.

First Priest.

Bring water here! Is not the fire alight?

One.

No man can kindle it, my lords, I trow.

Second Priest.

O Jove! Will adverse Fate, to our despite,