La Caba

Safe of my purpose now ! The way is barr'd ; —
Thou need'st not hasten hither! — Ho! Count
Illan,
I tell thee I have barr'd the battlements !
I tell thee that no human power can curb
A desperate will. The poison and the knife —
These thou couldst wrest from me; but here I stand
Beyond thy thrall — free mistress of myself.
Though thou hadst wings, thou couldst not over- take
My purpose. I command my destiny.
Would I stand dallying on Death's threshold here.
If it were possible that hand of man
Could pluck me back ?
Why didst thou bring me here
To set my foot, reluctant as I was.
On this most injured and unhappy land ;
Yonder in Afric — on a foreign shore,
I might have linger'd out my wretched life —
I might have found some distant lurking place.
Where my accursed tale was never known;
Where Gothic speech would never reach my ear, —
Where among savages I might have fled
The leprous curse of infamy ! But here —
In Spain, — in my own country ; — night and morn
Where all good people curse me in their prayers ;
Where every Moorish accent that I hear
Doth tell me of my country's overthrow,
Doth stab me like a dagger to the soul ;
Here — here — in desolated Spain, whose fields
Yet reek to Heaven with blood, — whose slaughtered sons
Lie rotting in the open light of day.
My victims ; — said I, mine i Nay — Nay, Count
Illan,
They are thy victims ! at the throne of God
Their spirits call for vengeance on thy head ;
Their blood is on thy soul, — even I, myself,
I am thy victim too, — and this death more
Must yet be placed in Hell to thy account
O my dear country ! O my mother Spain !
My cradle and my grave ! — for thou art dear;
And nursed to thy undoing as I was,
Still, still I am thy child — and love thee still;
I shall be written in thy chronicles
The veriest wretch that ever yet betray'd
Her native land ! From sire to son my name
Will be transmitted down for infamy ! —
Never again will mother call her child
La Caba, — an Iscariot curse will lie
Upon the name, and children in their songs
Will teach the rocks and hills to echo with it
Strumpet and traitoress !
This is thy work, father
Nay, tell me not my shame is wash'd away —
That all this ruin and this misery
Is vengeance for my wrongs. I ask'd not this, —
I call'd for open, manly, Gothic vengeance.
Thou wert a vassal, and thy villain lord
Most falsely and most foully broke his faith ;
Thou wert a father, and the lustful king
By force abused thy child ! — Thou hadst a sword ;
Shame on thee to call in the ci meter
To do thy work ! Thou wert a Goth — a Christian —
Son of an old and honourable house, —
It was my boast, my proudest happiness,
To think I was the daughter of Count Illan.
Fool that I am to call this African
By that good name ! O do not spread thy hands
To me ! — and put not on that father's look !
Moor ! turbaned misbeliever ! renegade !
Circumcised traitor ! Thou Count Illan, Thou ! —
Thou my dear father ? — cover me, O Earth ?
Hell, hide me from the knowledge !