_Her._ The voice that urges now my manly step Onward in life, recalls me to the past, And from that fount I freshen for the goal. Early in youth, amongst us villagers Converse and ripened counsel you bestowed. O happy days of (far departed!) peace, Days when the mighty Julian stooped his brow Entering our cottage door; another air Breathed thro’ the house; tired age and lightsome youth Beheld him, with intensest gaze—these felt More chastened joy; those, more profound repose. Yes, my best lord, when labour sent them home And midday suns, when from the social meal The wicker window held the summer heat, Prais’d have those been who, going unperceived, Open’d it wide, that all might see you well: Nor were the children blamed, upon the mat, Hurrying to watch what rush would last arise From your foot’s pressure, ere the door was closed, And not yet wondering how they dared to love. Your counsels are more precious now than ever, But are they—pardon if I err—the same? Tarik is gallant, kind, the friend of Julian, Can he be more? or ought he to be less? Alas! his faith! _Jul._ In peace or war? Hernando. _Her._ O, neither—far above it; faith in God— _Jul._ ’Tis God’s, not thine—embrace it not, nor hate it. Precious or vile, how dare we seize that offering, Scatter it, spurn it, in its way to heaven, Because we know it not? the sovran lord Accepts his tribute, myrrh and frankincense From some, from others penitence and prayer: Why intercept them from his gracious hand? Why dash them down? why smite the supplicant? _Her._ ’Tis what they do? _Jul._ Avoid it thou the more. If time were left me, I could hear well-pleased How Tarik fought up Calpe’s fabled cliff, While I pursued the friends of don Roderigo Across the plain, and drew fresh force from mine. O! had some other land, some other cause, Invited him and me, I then could dwell On this hard battle with unmixt delight.