The Proclamation of King Henry

At the feet of Don Henrique now King Pedro dead is lying,
Not that Henry's might was greater, but that blood to Heaven was crying.
Though deep the dagger had its sheath within his brother's breast,
Firm on the frozen throat beneath Don Henry's foot is prest.

So dark and sullen is the glare of Pedro's lifeless eyes,
Still half he fears what slumbers there to vengeance may arise.
So stands the brother, on his brow the mark of blood is seen,
Yet had he not been Pedro's Cain, his Cain had Pedro been.

Close round the scene of cursed strife, the armed knights appear
Of either band, with silent thoughts of joyfulness or fear;
All for a space, in silence, the fratricide survey,
Then sudden bursts the mingling voice of triumph and dismay.

Glad shout on shout from Henry's host ascends unto the sky;
"God save King Henry—save the King—King Henry!" is their cry.
But Pedro's Barons clasp their brows, in sadness stand they near,
Whate'er to others he had been, their friend lies murder'd here.

The deed, say those, was justly done—a tyrant's soul is sped;
These ban and curse the traitorous blow, by which a King is dead.
"Now see," cries one, "how Heaven's amand asserts the people's rights;"
Another—"God will judge the hand that God's anointed smites."—

"The Lord's vicegerent," quoth a priest, "is sovereign of the land,
And he rebels 'gainst Heaven's behest, that slights his King's command."—
"Now Heaven be witness, if he sinn'd," thus speaks a gallant young,
"The fault was in Padilla's eye, that o'er him magic flung;—

"Or if no magic be her blame, so heavenly fair is she,
The wisest, for so bright a dame, might well a sinner be.
Let none speak ill of Pedro—No Roderick hath he been;
He dearly loved fair Spain, although 'tis true he slew the Queen."—

The words he spake they all might hear, yet none vouchsafe reply,
"God save great Henry—save the King—King Henry!" is the cry;
While Pedro's liegemen turn aside, their groans are in your ear,
"Whate'er to others he hath been, our friend lies slaughter'd here!"—

Nor paltry souls are wanting among King Pedro's band,
That, now their King is dead, draw near to kiss his murderer's hand.
The false cheek clothes it in a smile, and laughs the hollow eye,
And wags the traitor tongue the while with flattery's ready lie.

The valour of the King that is—the justice of his cause—
The blindness and the tyrannies of him the King that was—
All—all are doubled in their speech, yet truth enough is there
To sink the spirit shivering near, in darkness of despair.

The murder of the Master, the tender Infants' doom,
And blessed Blanche's thread of life snapt short in dungeon's gloom,
With tragedies yet unreveal'd, that stain'd the King's abode,
By lips his bounty should have seal'd are blazon'd black abroad.

Whom served he most at others' cost, most loud they rend the sky,
"God save great Henry—save our King—King Henry!" is the cry.
But still, amid too many foes, the grief is in your ear—
Of dead King Pedro's faithful few—"Alas! our lord lies here!"

But others' tears, and others' groans, what are they: match with thine,
Maria de Padilla—thou fatal concubine!
Because she is King Henry's slave, the damsel weepeth sore,
Because she's Pedro's widow'd love, alas! she weepeth more.

"O Pedro! Pedro!" hear her cry—"how often did I say
That wicked counsel and weak trust would haste thy life away!"—
She stands upon her turret top, she looks down from on high,
Where mantled in his bloody cloak she sees her lover lie.

Low lies King Pedro in his blood, while bending down ye see
Caitiffs that trembled ere he spake, crouch'd at his murderer's knee;
They place the sceptre in his hand, and on his head the crown,
And trumpets clear are blown, and bells are merry through the town.

The sun shines bright, and the gay rout with clamours rend the sky,
"God save great Henry—save the King—King Henry!" is the cry;
But the pale Lady weeps above, with many a bitter tear,
Whate'er he was, he was her love, and he lies slaughter'd here.

At first, in silence down her cheek the drops of sadness roll,
But rage and anger come to break the sorrow of her soul;
The triumph of her haters—the gladness of their cries,
Enkindle flames of ire and scorn within her tearful eyes.

In her hot cheek the blood mounts high, as she stands gazing down,
Now on proud Henry's royal state, his robe and golden crown,
And now upon the trampled cloak that hides not from her view
The slaughter'd Pedro's marble brow, and lips of livid hue.

With furious grief she twists her hands among her long black hairs,
And all from off her lovely brow the blameless locks she tears;
She tears the ringlets from her front, and scatters all the pearls
King Pedro's hand had planted among the raven curls.

"Stop, caitiff tongues!"—they hear her not—"King Pedro's love am I."
They heed her not—"God save the King—great Henry!" still they cry.
She rends her hair, she wrings her hands, but none to help is near,
"God look in vengeance on their deed, my lord lies murder'd here!"—

Away she flings her garments, her broider'd veil and vest,
As if they should behold her love within her lovely breast—
As if to call upon her foes the constant heart to see,—
Where Pedro's form is still enshrined, and evermore shall be.

But none on fair Maria looks, by none her breast is seen,—
Save angry Heaven remembering well the murder of the Queen,—
The wounds of jealous harlot rage, which virgin blood must staunch,
And all the scorn that mingled in the bitter cup of Blanche

The utter coldness of neglect that haughty spirit stings,
As if a thousand fiends were there, with all their flapping wings;
She wraps the veil about her head, as if 'twere all adream—
The love—the murder—and the wrath—and that rebellious scream;

For still there's shouting on the plain, and spurring far and nigh,
"God save the King—Amen! amen!—King Henry!" is the cry;
While Pedro all alone is left, upon his bloody bier,
Not one remains to cry to God, "Our lord lies murder'd here!"—