SCENE IX.

       Table of Contents

      DON CARLOS, MARQUIS POSA.

       CARLOS.

       I understood thy hint, and thank thee for it.

       A stranger's presence can alone excuse

       This forced and measured tone. Are we not brothers?

       In future, let this puppet-play of rank

       Be banished from our friendship. Think that we

       Had met at some gay masking festival,

       Thou in the habit of a slave, and I

       Robed, for a jest, in the imperial purple.

       Throughout the revel we respect the cheat,

       And play our parts with sportive earnestness,

       Tripping it gayly with the merry throng;

       But should thy Carlos beckon through his mask,

       Thou'dst press his hand in silence as he passed,

       And we should be as one.

       MARQUIS.

       The dream's divine!

       But are you sure that it will last forever?

       Is Carlos, then, so certain of himself

       As to despise the charms of boundless sway?

       A day will come—an all-important day—

       When this heroic mind—I warn you now—

       Will sink o'erwhelmed by too severe a test.

       Don Philip dies; and Carlos mounts the throne,

       The mightiest throne in Christendom. How vast

       The gulf that yawns betwixt mankind and him—

       A god to-day, who yesterday was man!

       Steeled to all human weakness—to the voice

       Of heavenly duty deaf. Humanity—

       To-day a word of import in his ear—

       Barters itself, and grovels 'mid the throng

       Of gaping parasites; his sympathy

       For human woe is turned to cold neglect,

       His virtue sunk in loose voluptuous joys.

       Peru supplies him riches for his folly,

       His court engenders devils for his vices.

       Lulled in this heaven the work of crafty slaves,

       He sleeps a charmed sleep; and while his dream

       Endures his godhead lasts. And woe to him

       Who'd break in pity this lethargic trance!

       What could Roderigo do? Friendship is true,

       And bold as true. But her bright flashing beams

       Were much too fierce for sickly majesty:

       You would not brook a subject's stern appeal,

       Nor I a monarch's pride!

       CARLOS.

       Tearful and true,

       Thy portraiture of monarchs. Yes—thou'rt right,

       But 'tis their lusts that thus corrupt their hearts,

       And hurry them to vice. I still am pure.

       A youth scarce numbering three-and-twenty years.

       What thousands waste in riotous delights,

       Without remorse—the mind's more precious part—

       The bloom and strength of manhood—I have kept,

       Hoarding their treasures for the future king.

       What could unseat my Posa from my heart,

       If woman fail to do it?

       MARQUIS.

       I, myself!

       Say, could I love you, Carlos, warm as now,

       If I must fear you?

       CARLOS.

       That will never be.

       What need hast thou of me? What cause hast thou

       To stoop thy knee, a suppliant at the throne?

       Does gold allure thee? Thou'rt a richer subject

       Than I shall be a king! Dost covet honors?

       E'en in thy youth, fame's brimming chalice stood

       Full in thy grasp—thou flung'st the toy away.

       Which of us, then, must be the other's debtor,

       And which the creditor? Thou standest mute.

       Dost tremble for the trial? Art thou, then,

       Uncertain of thyself?

       MARQUIS.

       Carlos, I yield!

       Here is my hand.

       CARLOS.

       Is it mine own?

       MARQUIS.

       Forever—

       In the most pregnant meaning of the word!

       CARLOS.

       And wilt thou prove hereafter to the king

       As true and warm as to the prince to-day?

       MARQUIS.

       I swear!

       CARLOS.

       And when round my unguarded heart