The Complete Poems. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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       Cruz. That is a foolish lie.

       Prec. It is the truth.

       Cruz. Curses upon thee! Thou art not my child!

      Hast thou given gold away, and not to me?

      Not to thy father? To whom, then?

       Prec. To one

      Who needs it more.

       Cruz. No one can need it more.

       Prec. Thou art not poor.

       Cruz. What, I, who lurk about

      In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes

      I, who am housed worse than the galley slave;

      I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound;

      I, who am clothed in rags—Beltran Cruzado—

      Not poor!

       Prec. Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands.

      Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst thou more?

       Cruz. The gold of the Busne! give me his gold!

       Prec. Beltran Cruzado! hear me once for all.

      I speak the truth. So long as I had gold,

      I gave it to thee freely, at all times,

      Never denied thee; never had a wish

      But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace!

      Be merciful, be patient, and ere long

      Thou shalt have more.

       Cruz. And if I have it not,

      Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers,

      Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food,

      And live in idleness; but go with me,

      Dance the Romalis in the public streets,

      And wander wild again o'er field and fell;

      For here we stay not long.

       Prec. What! march again?

       Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town!

      I cannot breathe shut up within its gates

      Air—I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky,

      The feeling of the breeze upon my face,

      The feeling of the turf beneath my feet,

      And no walls but the far-off mountain-tops.

      Then I am free and strong—once more myself,

      Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales!

       Prec. God speed thee on thy march!—I cannot go.

       Cruz. Remember who I am, and who thou art

      Be silent and obey! Yet one thing more.

      Bartolome Roman—

       Prec. (with emotion). O, I beseech thee

      If my obedience and blameless life,

      If my humility and meek submission

      In all things hitherto, can move in thee

      One feeling of compassion; if thou art

      Indeed my father, and canst trace in me

      One look of her who bore me, or one tone

      That doth remind thee of her, let it plead

      In my behalf, who am a feeble girl,

      Too feeble to resist, and do not force me

      To wed that man! I am afraid of him!

      I do not love him! On my knees I beg thee

      To use no violence, nor do in haste

      What cannot be undone!

       Cruz. O child, child, child!

      Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird

      Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it.

      I will not leave thee here in the great city

      To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready

      To go with us; and until then remember

      A watchful eye is on thee. [Exit.

       Prec. Woe is me!

      I have a strange misgiving in my heart!

      But that one deed of charity I'll do,

      Befall what may; they cannot take that from me.

      SCENE II—A room in the ARCHBISHOP'S Palace. The ARCHBISHOP

      and a CARDINAL seated.

       Arch. Knowing how near it touched the public morals,

      And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten

      By such excesses, we have sent to Rome,

      Beseeching that his Holiness would aid

      In curing the gross surfeit of the time,

      By seasonable stop put here in Spain

      To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage.

      All this you know.

       Card. Know and approve.

       Arch. And further,

      That, by a mandate from his Holiness,

      The first have been suppressed.

       Card. I trust forever.

      It was a cruel sport.

       Arch. A barbarous pastime,

      Disgraceful to the land that calls itself

      Most Catholic and Christian.

       Card. Yet the people

      Murmur at this; and, if the public dances

      Should be condemned upon too slight occasion,

      Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure.

      As Panem et Circenses was the cry

      Among the СКАЧАТЬ