Carlos, thou art a novice in these arts —

         Forbear, I like them not —

                       And is it so?

         I hear your courtiers in those words, my father!

         All is not well, by heaven, all is not true,

         That a priest says, and a priest's creatures plot.

         I am not wicked, father; ardent blood

         Is all my failing; – all my crime is youth; —

         Wicked I am not – no, in truth, not wicked; —

         Though many an impulse wild assails my heart,

         Yet is it still untainted.

                       Ay, 'tis pure —

         I know it – like thy prayers —

                         Now, then, or never!

         We are, for once, alone – the barrier

         Of courtly form, that severed sire and son

         Has fallen! Now a golden ray of hope

         Illumes my soul – a sweet presentment

         Pervades my heart – and heaven itself inclines,

         With choirs of joyous angels, to the earth,

         And full of soft emotion, the thrice blest

         Looks down upon this great, this glorious scene!

         Pardon, my father!

            [He falls on his knees before him.

                   Rise, and leave me.

                              Father!

         This trifling grows too bold.

                         A son's devotion

         Too bold! Alas!

                  And, to crown all, in tears!

         Degraded boy! Away, and quit my sight!

         Now, then, or never! – pardon, O my father!

         Away, and leave my sight! Return to me

         Disgraced, defeated, from the battle-field,

         Thy sire shall meet thee with extended arms:

         But thus in tears, I spurn thee from my feet.

         A coward's guilt alone should wash its stains

         In such ignoble streams. The man who weeps

         Without a blush will ne'er want cause for tears!

         Who is this man? By what mistake of nature

         Has he thus strayed amongst mankind? A tear

         Is man's unerring, lasting attribute.

         Whose eye is dry was ne'er of woman born!

         Oh, teach the eye that ne'er hath overflowed,

         The timely science of a tear – thou'lt need

         The moist relief in some dark hour of woe.

         Think'st thou to shake thy father's strong mistrust

         With specious words?

                    Mistrust! Then I'll remove it.

         Here will I hang upon my father's breast,

         Strain at his heart with vigor, till each shred

         Of that mistrust, which, with a rock's endurance,

         Clings firmly round it, piecemeal fall away.

         And who are they who drive me from the king —

         My father's favor? What requital hath

         A monk to give a father for a son?

         What compensation can the duke supply

         For a deserted and a childless age?

         Would'st thou be loved? Here in this bosom springs

         A fresher, purer fountain, than e'er flowed

         From those dark, stagnant, muddy reservoirs,

         Which Philip's gold must first unlock.

                             No more,

         Presuming boy! For know the hearts thou slanderest

         Are the approved, true servants of my choice.

         'Tis meet that thou do honor to them.

                             Never!

         I know my worth – all that your Alva dares —

         That, and much more, can Carlos. What cares he,

         A hireling! for the welfare of the realm

         That never can be his? What careth he

         If Philip's hair grow gray with hoary age?

         Your Carlos would have loved you: – Oh, I dread

         To think that you the royal throne must fill

         Deserted and alone.

                    I am alone!

         You have been so till now. Hate me no more,

         And I will love you dearly as a son:

         But hate me now no longer! Oh, how sweet,

         Divinely sweet it is to feel our being

         Reflected in another's beauteous soul;

         To see our joys gladden another's cheek,

         Our pains bring anguish to another's bosom,

         Our sorrows fill another's eye with tears!

         How sweet, how glorious is it, hand in hand,

         With a dear child, in inmost soul beloved,

         To tread once more the rosy paths of youth,

         And dream life's fond illusions o'er again!

         How proud to live through endless centuries

         Immortal in the virtues of a son;

         How sweet to plant what his dear hand shall reap;

         To gather what will yield him rich return,