The Siege of Numantia Page #15

The Siege of Numantia is a tragedy by Miguel de Cervantes set at the siege of Numantia. The play is divided into four acts. The dialogue is sometimes in tercets and sometimes in redondillas, but for the most part in octaves.

• History

								

      How my desires, in good or evil fate,
      Go hand in hand with thine in equal share,
      Then wilt thou feel, no fears however great,
      Not Death itself, nor other power malign,
      Can keep me from thy fortunes separate.
      With thee have I to go, with thee in fine
      Return, unless the will of Heaven ordain
      That I must lose my life in shielding thine.

MORANDRO.

      Remain, my friend, for pity's sake, remain!
      For should I finish now my hapless life
      In this emprise of peril and of pain,
      Thou may'st, at ending of the fatal strife,
      Console my weeping mother, sore distressed,
      And her, so much beloved--my promised wife.

LEONCIO.

      It is, my friend, a very sorry jest,
      To think that I, if haply thou be slain,
      Would have such calm and quiet in my breast,
      As to console, in this their urgent pain,
      Thy grieving mother, and thy tearful bride.
      Thy death and mine are linked, and it is plain
      That I must follow thee, whate'er betide;
      Morandro, friend, it is, it must be so,
      No word of thine will keep me from thy side.

MORANDRO.

      If go thou must, let us together go,
      And in the silence of the gloomy night
      Make sudden fierce assault upon the foe.
      Bear nothing with thee but thine armour light,
      For lucky chance and daring will combined
      Will serve us more than hardest mail in fight.
      Bear also this fix'd purpose in thy mind,
      To seize and carry off with daring hand
      Whatever good provision thou canst find.

LEONCIO.

      Then let us go; I am at thy command.

            [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Two Numantines.

First.

      Dear brother, let our spirits through our eyes
      Pour forth their wailings changed to bitter tears;
      Let Death approach, and bear away as prize
      Our hapless life of misery and fears.

Second.

      A little space will end our griefs and sighs,
      For Death stands ready armed, and now appears
      To bear on speedy wings as welcome spoil
      Whatever dwells upon Numantian soil.
      I see most truly what the tokens are
      That our dear land must sink in awful gloom;
      Nor need these Roman ministers of war
      Decree our ruin and adjudge our doom:
      Our own, who reckon it more fearful far
      That we should drag out life within a tomb,
      Have given sentence that we end our days,
      A stern decree, but worthy of all praise.
      They now have raised within the public square
      A monstrous, greedy, all-consuming fire,
      Whose flames, replenished by our riches rare,
      Assail the very heavens in their ire.
      To this, with quickened speed, pricked on by care,
      Or else, with timid feet, which sufferings tire,
      Come all, as to a holy sacrifice,
      And feed its flames with all the wealth they prize.
      The pearl of beauty from the rosy East,
      The gold into a thousand vessels made,
      The diamond and ruby bright, increased
      With stores of purple fine and rich brocade,
      Are hurled into the blazing fire, to feast
      Its fierce luxurious flames, with grand parade;
      Spoils these, which might have served the Roman bands
      To fill their bosoms, and enrich their hands.

            [Here enter certain people laden with robes, who go in
                by one door, and out by the other.

      Turn thee to see a sight of misery!
      See, how our swarming folk of every name
      With quickened steps and eager faces fly
      To feed the fury of the maddened flame!
      And not with faggots green, or fodder dry,
      Or any worthless fuel like the same,
      But with their garnered wealth, and luckless treasure,
      Which in its burning gives them greater pleasure.

First.

      If such a deed as this would end our woe,
      We well might see and bear it patiently,
      But ah! it is decreed, as well I know,
      O cruel sentence, that we all must die;
      Before the barbarous rigour of the foe
      Upon our necks with cruel grip shall lie,
      Ourselves our executioners must be,
      And not these Romans steeped in perfidy.
      Think, every woman, child, and old man here,
      By stern decree to death must straightway go,
      Since in the end the pangs of hunger drear
      Will take their lives, and with a fiercer blow.
      But, brother, mark the woman drawing near,
      Who, once upon a time, as thou dost know,
      Was loved by me, and with a love as great
      As is the sorrow which is now her fate.

            [A woman enters with a child in her arms, and leading
                another by the hand, who carries robes to be
                burned.

Mother.

      O this life, so hard and dread,
      Agony intense and drear!

Son.

      Mother, is there no one here,
      Who for this will give us bread?

Mother.

      Neither bread, nor other thing
      Fit for thee to eat, my son!

Son.

      Then, indeed, am I undone,
      Hunger kills me with its sting;
      Give me bread, one little jot,
      Mother, I will ask no more!

Mother.

      Son, thy words do pain me sore!

Son.

      Mother, then thou wishest not?

Mother.

      Yes, I wish; but know not where
      Bread to get, though oft I try it.

Son.

      Mother, thou may'st surely buy it,
      If not, let me buy it there.
      Yet to quit me of my dread,
      If on any one I fall,
      I will give him clothes and all
      For one little bit of bread.

Mother (to her Infant).

      Suckest thou, thou hapless brood?
      Feel'st not, that to my unrest
      Thou from out my withered breast
      Draw'st not milk, but simple blood?
      Take the flesh, and bit by bit
      May it give thee much content,
      For my feeble arms and spent
      Thee to carry are not fit!
      O ye children of my heart,
      Can I give ye life afresh,
      If scarce with my very flesh
      I can nourishment impart?
      Hunger, with thy biting breath,
      How thou cuttest short my life?
      O thou hard and cruel strife,
      Sent alone to cause me death!

Son.

      Mother mine, I cannot stay,
      Back and homeward let us go;
      Hunger only seems to grow,
      As we journey on the way.

Mother.

      Here, my son, the house must be,
      Whence we presently shall throw
      Down into the fiery glow
      All the load that presses thee!

            [Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

    They sound to arms with great vehemence, and at the alarm
    there enter on the stage SCIPIO, JUGURTHA, and CAIUS MARIUS.

SCIPIO.

      What meaneth this? Who sounds the call to arm
      At such a time, my captains? Have ye found
      Some maddened straggling men, who to their harm
      Would seek a sepulchre within this ground?
      Or hath some mutiny the war alarm
      Provoked with such an urgent, deafening sound?
      For this proud foe I hold so firmly now
								Rate this book:3.0 / 1 vote