SCENES FROM CALDERON's NINA DE GOMEZ ARIAS. 531 



A gem of glory in their Queen's tiar. 



Thy snowy-mountain zone, 



With cloud-capp'd heads surrounds thy royal throne. 



Queen of all realms ! how empty seem our words 



To paint the conquest of our warriors' swords ! 



Now thy Sierras rude 



Alone remain unconquered, unsubdued. 



Far off, remote, and inaccessible, 



The swart Moor holds his rocky citadel ; 



And scorns, with impious word, 



Fernando's laws, my royal king and lord : 



Therefore thy Vega's plain 



Once more beholds me with this warlike train : 



Thy plain where bright streams flow, 



And limpid Darro, o'er his sands of gold, 



Rolls his pure streams of waters uncontrolled. 



D. DIEGO. Now let the trumpets blow ! 

 And with their silver sound 

 Waken dull Echo in her cave profound ! 

 Let each harmonious voice 

 Proclaim our jubilee. Rejoice ! rejoice ! 

 Till the sweet songs of birds with envy fail : 

 Live, live our royal Queen ! all hail ! 



ALL. All hail ! 



Flourish of trumpets, Shout. Enter DON Luis, and throws himself at the 



QUEEN'S feet. 



D. Luis. Long live the Queen, and may her countless years 

 Outstrip all memory, I say ! For ever 

 Sacred must be her valour and compassion 

 To one who needs them both ! O, pardon then, 

 Great Queen ! a wretched, miserable man, 

 Who at thy feet now throws himself for mercy. 



QUEEN. Stand up ! stand up ! From wretched woe indeed, 

 Such bitter tears such sorrows must proceed ; 

 Speak what demand you ? 



DON Luis. Justice, mighty Queen ! 



QUEEN. Cheer up then, for no step I onward go 

 Ere I have heard the grievance of your case. 



DON Luis. O, royal Queen, a daughter had I once 

 Well may I say I had, for if alive 

 Or dead is now alike : to me she's lost ! 

 I reared her youth ! But this is to begin 

 Far from the source from noble blood I spring, 

 Albeit unworthy 'tis to name that now ! 

 Pious, and fair, and good, I trained her youth, 

 Till virtue, faith, obedience, modesty, 

 Whate'er I garnered to my heart, were all 

 By the black arts of a magician lost ; 

 Lost and seduced from her poor father's arms. 

 And yet, O madam, wherefore tell in words, 

 What truer, better, can my tears relate ! 

 Then let me pass, how I beheld her shame 

 Heard her false name within a neighbour's house 

 And let me come unto the vilest wrong, 

 That e'er the blackest heart of man conceived. 

 A Moor, who to the Alpujarra's mountains 



