Yet when we recur to the "Numantia," we find this sentence unjust, for there is poetry of conception and passion in the "Numantia" of the highest order; nor is it wanting in that of language. It has been mentioned that of the twenty or thirty plays which Cervantes says he wrote, soon after his marriage, "Numantia" and "El Trato de Argel" (Life in Algiers) alone remain. They are written on the simplest plan, though not on the Greek; they are without choruses, without entanglement of plot, sustained only by impassioned dialogue and situations of high-wrought interest. The "Numantia" is founded on the siege of that city, under Scipio Africanus, when the unfortunate inhabitants destroyed themselves, their wives and children, and their property, rather than fall, and let them fall into the conquerors' hands. It is divided into four acts: the first two are the least impressive, though containing scenes of extreme pathos, and well calculated to raise by degrees the interest of the reader to the horrors that ensue. Scipio, desirous of sparing the lives of his men, resolves to assault the city no more, but, digging a trench round it on all sides, except where the river flows, means to reduce it by famine. The Numantines determine to endure all to the last. They consult the gods, and dark auguries repel every hope: the dreadful pains of hunger creep about the city; and when two betrothed meet, and the lover asks the maiden but to stay awhile that he may gaze on her, he exclaims-- "What now? what stand'st thou mutely thinking, Thou of my thought the only treasure? _Lira._ I'm thinking how thy dream of pleasure And mine so fast away are sinking; It will not fall beneath the hand Of him who wastes our native land. For long, or e'er the war be o'er, My hapless life shall be no more. _Morandro._ Joy of my soul, what has thou said? _Lira._ That I am worn with hunger so, That quickly will th' o'erpowering woe For ever break my vital thread. What bridal rapture dost thou dream, From one at such a sad extreme? For, trust me, ere an hour be past, I fear I shall have breathed my last. My brother fainted yesterday, By wasting hunger overborne; And then my mother, all out-worn By hunger, slowly sunk away. And if my health can struggle yet With hunger's cruel power, in truth It is because my stronger youth Its wasting force hath better mat. But now so many a day hath pass'd, Since aught I've had its powers to strengthen; It can no more the conflict lengthen, But it must faint and fail at last. _Morandro._ Lira, dry thy weeping eyes; But ah! let mine, my love, the more Their overflowing rivers pour, Wailing thy wretched agonies. But though thou still art held in strife With hunger thus incessantly; Of hunger still thou shalt not die. So long as I retain my life. I offer here from you high wall, To leap o'er ditch and battlement; Thy death one instant to prevent, I fear not on mine own to fall. The bread the Roman eateth now, I'll snatch away and bear to thee;