RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. (continued 3)

Now, when from Covadonga, down the vale Holding his way, the princely mountaineer Came with that happy family in sight Of Cangas and his native towers, far off He saw before the gate, in fair array, The assembled land. Broad banners were display’d, And spears were sparkling to the sun, shields shone, And helmets glitter’d, and the blairing horn, With frequent sally of impatient joy, Provoked the echoes round. Well he areeds, From yonder ensigns and augmented force, That Odoar and the Primate from the west Have brought their aid; but wherefore all were thus Instructed as for some great festival, He found not, till Favila’s quicker eye Catching the ready buckler, the glad boy Leapt up, and clapping his exultant hands, Shouted, King! King! my father shall be King This day! Pelayo started at the word, And the first thought which smote him brought a sigh For Roderick’s fall; the second was of hope, Deliverance for his country, for himself Enduring fame, and glory for his line. That high prophetic forethought gather’d strength, As looking to his honour’d mate, he read Her soul’s accordant augury; her eyes Brighten’d; the quicken’d action of the blood Tinged with a deeper hue her glowing cheek, And on her lips there sate a smile which spake The honourable pride of perfect love, Rejoicing, for her husband’s sake, to share The lot he chose, the perils he defied, The lofty fortune which their faith foresaw. Roderick, in front of all the assembled troops, Held the broad buckler, following to the end That steady purpose to the which his zeal Had this day wrought the Chiefs. Tall as himself, Erect it stood beside him, and his hands Hung resting on the rim. This was an hour That sweeten’d life, repaid and recompensed All losses; and although it could not heal All griefs, yet laid them for awhile to rest. The active agitating joy that fill’d The vale, that with contagious influence spread Through all the exulting mountaineers, that gave New ardour to all spirits, to all breasts Inspired fresh impulse of excited hope, Moved every tongue, and strengthen’d every limb, ... That joy which every man reflected saw From every face of all the multitude, And heard in every voice, in every sound, Reach’d not the King. Aloof from sympathy, He from the solitude of his own soul Beheld the busy scene. None shared or knew His deep and incommunicable joy; None but that heavenly Father, who alone Beholds the struggles of the heart, alone Sees and rewards the secret sacrifice. Among the chiefs conspicuous, Urban stood, He whom, with well-weigh’d choice, in arduous time To arduous office the consenting Church Had call’d when Sindered fear-smitten fled; Unfaithful shepherd, who for life alone Solicitous, forsook his flock, when most In peril and in suffering they required A pastor’s care. Far off at Rome he dwells In ignominious safety, while the Church Keeps in her annals the deserter’s name, But from the service which with daily zeal Devout her ancient prelacy recalls, Blots it, unworthy to partake her prayers. Urban, to that high station thus being call’d, From whence disanimating fear had driven The former primate, for the general weal Consulting first, removed with timely care The relics and the written works of Saints, Toledo’s choicest treasure, prized beyond All wealth, their living and their dead remains; These to the mountain fastnesses he bore Of unsubdued Cantabria, there deposed, One day to be the boast of yet unbuilt Oviedo, and the dear idolatry Of multitudes unborn. To things of state Then giving thought mature, he held advice With Odoar, whom of counsel competent And firm of heart he knew. What then they plann’d, Time and the course of over-ruled events To earlier act had ripen’d, than their hope Had ever in its gladdest dream proposed; And here by agents unforeseen, and means Beyond the scope of foresight brought about, This day they saw their dearest heart’s desire Accorded them: All-able Providence Thus having ordered all, that Spain this hour With happiest omens, and on surest base, Should from its ruins rear again her throne. For acclamation and for sacring now One form must serve, more solemn for the breach Of old observances, whose absence here Deeplier impress’d the heart, than all display Of regal pomp and wealth pontifical, Of vestments radiant with their gems, and stiff With ornature of gold; the glittering train, The long procession, and the full-voiced choir. This day the forms of piety and war, In strange but fitting union must combine. Not in his alb and cope and orary Came Urban now, nor wore he mitre here, Precious or auriphrygiate; bare of head He stood, all else in arms complete, and o’er His gorget’s iron rings the pall was thrown Of wool undyed, which on the Apostle’s tomb Gregory had laid, and sanctified with prayer; That from the living Pontiff and the dead Replete with holiness, it might impart Doubly derived its grace. One Page beside Bore his broad-shadow’d helm; another’s hand Held the long spear, more suited in these times For Urban, than the crosier richly wrought With silver foliature, the elaborate work Of Grecian or Italian artist, train’d In the eastern capital, or sacred Rome, Still o’er the West predominant, though fallen. Better the spear befits the shepherd’s hand When robbers break the fold. Now he had laid The weapon by, and held a natural cross Of rudest form, unpeel’d, even as it grew On the near oak that morn. Mutilate alike Of royal rites was this solemnity. Where was the rubied crown, the sceptre where, And where the golden pome, the proud array Of ermines, aureate vests, and jewelry, With all which Leuvigild for after kings Left, ostentatious of his power? The Moor Had made his spoil of these, and on the field Of Xeres, where contending multitudes Had trampled it beneath their bloody feet, The standard of the Goths forgotten lay Defiled, and rotting there in sun and rain. Utterly is it lost; nor ever more Herald or antiquary’s patient search Shall from forgetfulness avail to save Those blazon’d arms, so fatally of old Renown’d through all the affrighted Occident. That banner, before which imperial Rome First to a conqueror bow’d her head abased; Which when the dreadful Hun, with all his powers, Came like a deluge rolling o’er the world, Made head, and in the front of battle broke His force, till then resistless; which so oft Had with alternate fortune braved the Frank: Driven the Byzantine from the farthest shores Of Spain, long lingering there, to final flight; And of their kingdoms and their name despoil’d The Vandal, and the Alan, and the Sueve; Blotted from human records is it now As it had never been. So let it rest With things forgotten! But Oblivion ne’er Shall cancel from the historic roll, nor Time, Who changeth all, obscure that fated sign, Which brighter now than mountain snows at noon To the bright sun displays its argent field. Rose not the vision then upon thy soul, O Roderick, when within that argent field Thou saw’st the rampant Lion, red as if Upon some noblest quarry he had roll’d, Rejoicing in his satiate rage, and drunk With blood and fury? Did the auguries Which open’d on thy spirit bring with them A perilous consolation, deadening heart And soul, yea worse than death, ... that thou through all Thy checquer’d way of life, evil and good, Thy errors and thy virtues, had’st but been The poor mere instrument of things ordain’d, Doing or suffering, impotent alike To will or act, ... perpetually bemock’d With semblance of volition, yet in all Blind worker of the ways of destiny! That thought intolerable, which in the hour Of woe indignant conscience had repell’d, As little might it find reception now, When the regenerate spirit self-approved Beheld its sacrifice complete. With faith Elate, he saw the banner’d Lion float Refulgent, and recall’d that thrilling shout Which he had heard when on Romano’s grave The joy of victory woke him from his dream, And sent him with prophetic hope to work Fulfilment of the great events ordain’d, There in imagination’s inner world Prefigured to his soul. Alone, advanced Before the ranks, the Goth in silence stood, While from all voices round, loquacious joy Mingled its buzz continuous with the blast Of horn, shrill pipe, and tinkling cymbals’ clash, And sound of deafening drum. But when the Prince Drew nigh, and Urban with the Cross upheld Stept forth to meet him, all at once were still’d With instantaneous hush; as when the wind, Before whose violent gusts the forest oaks, Tossing like billows their tempestuous heads, Roar like a raging sea, suspends its force, And leaves so dead a calm that not a leaf Moves on the silent spray. The passing air Bore with it from the woodland undisturb’d The ringdove’s wooing, and the quiet voice Of waters warbling near. Son of a race Of Heroes and of Kings! the Primate thus Address’d him, Thou in whom the Gothic blood, Mingling with old Iberia’s, hath restored To Spain a ruler of her native line, Stand forth, and in the face of God and man Swear to uphold the right, abate the wrong, With equitable hand, protect the Cross Whereon thy lips this day shall seal their vow, And underneath that hallow’d symbol, wage Holy and inextinguishable war Against the accursëd nation that usurps Thy country’s sacred soil! So speak of me Now and for ever, O my countrymen! Replied Pelayo; and so deal with me Here and hereafter, thou, Almighty God, In whom I put my trust! Lord God of Hosts, Urban pursued, of Angels and of Men Creator and Disposer, King of Kings, Ruler of Earth and Heaven, ... look down this day, And multiply thy blessings on the head Of this thy servant, chosen in thy sight! Be thou his counsellor, his comforter, His hope, his joy, his refuge, and his strength; Crown him with justice, and with fortitude, Defend him with thine all-sufficient shield, Surround him every where with the right hand Of thine all-present power, and with the might Of thine omnipotence, send in his aid Thy unseen Angels forth, that potently And royally against all enemies He may endure and triumph! Bless the land O’er which he is appointed: bless thou it With the waters of the firmament, the springs Of the low-lying deep, the fruits which Sun And Moon mature for man, the precious stores Of the eternal hills, and all the gifts Of Earth, its wealth and fulness! Then he took Pelayo’s hand, and on his finger placed The mystic circlet.... With this ring, O Prince, To our dear Spain, who like a widow now Mourneth in desolation, I thee wed: For weal or woe thou takest her, till death Dispart the union: Be it blest to her, To thee, and to thy seed! Thus when he ceased, He gave the awaited signal. Roderick brought The buckler: Eight for strength and stature chosen Came to their honour’d office: Round the shield Standing, they lower it for the Chieftain’s feet, Then, slowly raised upon their shoulders, lift The steady weight. Erect Pelayo stands, And thrice he brandishes the burnish’d sword, While Urban to the assembled people cries, Spaniards, behold your King! The multitude Then sent forth all their voice with glad acclaim, Raising the loud Real; thrice did the word Ring through the air, and echo from the walls Of Cangas. Far and wide the thundering shout, Rolling among reduplicating rocks, Peal’d o’er the hills, and up the mountain vales. The wild ass starting in the forest glade Ran to the covert; the affrighted wolf Skulk’d through the thicket to a closer brake; The sluggish bear, awakened in his den, Roused up and answer’d with a sullen growl, Low-breathed and long; and at the uproar scared, The brooding eagle from her nest took wing. Heroes and Chiefs of old! and ye who bore Firm to the last your part in that dread strife, When Julian and Witiza’s viler race Betray’d their country, hear ye from yon Heaven The joyful acclamation which proclaims That Spain is born again! O ye who died In that disastrous field, and ye who fell Embracing with a martyr’s love your death Amid the flames of Auria; and all ye Victims innumerable, whose cries unheard On earth, but heard in Heaven, from all the land Went up for vengeance; not in vain ye cry Before the eternal throne!... Rest innocent blood! Vengeance is due, and vengeance will be given, Rest innocent blood! The appointed age is come! The star that harbingers a glorious day Hath risen! Lo there the Avenger stands! Lo there He brandishes the avenging sword! Lo there The avenging banner spreads its argent field Refulgent with auspicious light!... Rejoice, O Leon, for thy banner is displayed, Rejoice with all thy mountains, and thy vales And streams! And thou, O Spain, through all thy realms, For thy deliverance cometh! Even now, As from all sides the miscreant hosts move on ... From southern Betis; from the western lands, Where through redundant vales smooth Minho flows, And Douro pours through vine-clad hills the wealth Of Leon’s gathered waters; from the plains Burgensian, in old time Vardulia call’d, But in their castellated strength ere long To be design’d Castille, a deathless name; From midland regions where Toledo reigns Proud city on her royal eminence, And Tagus bends his sickle round the scene Of Roderick’s fall; from rich Rioja’s fields; Dark Ebro’s shores; the walls of Salduba, Seat of the Sedetanians old, by Rome Cæsarian and August denominate, Now Zaragoza, in this later time Above all cities of the earth renown’d For duty perfectly perform’d; ... East, West And South, where’er their gather’d multitudes Urged by the speed of vigorous tyranny, With more than with commeasurable strength Haste to prevent the danger, crush the hopes Of rising Spain, and rivet round her neck The eternal yoke, ... the ravenous fowls of heaven Flock there presentient of their food obscene, Following the accursed armies, whom too well They know their purveyors long. Pursue their march, Ominous attendants! Ere the moon hath fill’d Her horns, these purveyors shall become the prey, And ye on Moorish not on Christian flesh Wearying your beaks, shall clog your scaly feet With foreign gore. Soon will ye learn to know, Followers and harbingers of blood, the flag Of Leon where it bids you to your feast! Terror and flight shall with that flag go forth, And Havoc and the Dogs of War and Death. Thou Covadonga with the tainted stream Of Deva, and this now rejoicing vale, Soon its primitial triumphs wilt behold! Nor shall the glories of the noon be less Than such miraculous promise of the dawn: Witness Clavijo, where the dreadful cry Of Santiago, then first heard, o’erpower’d The Akbar, and that holier name blasphemed By misbelieving lips! Simancas, thou Be witness! And do ye your record bear, Tolosan mountains, where the Almohade Beheld his myriads scatter’d and destroy’d, Like locusts swept before the stormy North! Thou too, Salado, on that later day When Africa received her final foil, And thy swoln stream incarnadined, roll’d back The invaders to the deep, ... there shall they toss Till on their native Mauritanian shore The waves shall cast their bones to whiten there.

When all had been perform’d, the royal Goth Look’d up towards the chamber in the tower, Where gazing on the multitude below, Alone Rusilla stood. He met her eye, For it was singling him amid the crowd; Obeying then the hand which beckon’d him, He went with heart prepared, nor shrinking now, But arm’d with self-approving thoughts that hour. Entering in tremulous haste, he closed the door, And turn’d to clasp her knees; but lo, she spread Her arms, and catching him in close embrace, Fell on his neck, and cried, My Son, my Son!... Ere long, controlling that first agony With effort of strong will, backward she bent, And gazing on his head now shorn and grey, And on his furrow’d countenance, exclaim’d, Still, still, my Roderick! the same noble mind! The same heroic heart! Still, still, my Son; ... Changed, ... yet not wholly fallen, ... not wholly lost, He cried, ... not wholly in the sight of Heaven Unworthy, O my Mother, nor in thine! She lock’d her arms again around his neck, Saying, Lord, let me now depart in peace! And bow’d her head again, and silently Gave way to tears. When that first force was spent, And passion in exhaustment found relief, ... I knew thee, said Rusilla, when the dog Rose from my feet, and lick’d his master’s hand. All flash’d upon me then; the instinctive sense That goes unerringly where reason fails, ... The voice, the eye, ... a mother’s thoughts are quick, ... Miraculous as it seem’d, ... Siverian’s tale, ... Florinda’s, ... every action, ... every word, ... Each strengthening each, and all confirming all, Reveal’d thee, O my Son! but I restrain’d My heart, and yielded to thy holier will The thoughts which rose to tempt a soul not yet Wean’d wholly from the world. What thoughts? replied Roderick. That I might see thee yet again Such as thou wert, she answer’d; not alone To Heaven and me restored, but to thyself, ... Thy Crown, ... thy Country, ... all within thy reach; Heaven so disposing all things, that the means Which wrought the ill, might work the remedy. Methought I saw thee once again the hope, ... The strength, ... the pride of Spain! The miracle Which I beheld made all things possible. I know the inconstant people how their mind, With every breath of good or ill report, Fluctuates, like summer corn before the breeze; Quick in their hatred, quicker in their love, Generous and hasty, soon would they redress All wrongs of former obloquy ... I thought Of happiness restored, ... the broken heart Heal’d, ... and Count Julian, for his daughter’s sake, Turning in thy behalf against the Moors His powerful sword: ... all possibilities That could be found or fancied, built a dream Before me; such as easiest might illude A lofty spirit train’d in palaces, And not alone amid the flatteries Of youth with thoughts of high ambition fed When all is sunshine, but through years of woe, When sorrow sanctified their use, upheld By honourable pride and earthly hopes. I thought I yet might nurse upon my knee Some young Theodofred, and see in him Thy Father’s image and thine own renew’d, And love to think the little hand which there Play’d with the bauble, should in after days Wield the transmitted sceptre; ... that through him The ancient seed should be perpetuate, ... That precious seed revered so long, desired So dearly, and so wonderously preserved. Nay, he replied, Heaven hath not with its bolts Scathed the proud summit of the tree, and left The trunk unflaw’d; ne’er shall it clothe its boughs Again, nor push again its scyons forth, Head, root, and branch, all mortified alike!... Long ere these locks were shorn had I cut off The thoughts of royalty! Time might renew Their growth, as for Manoah’s captive son, And I too on the miscreant race, like him, Might prove my strength regenerate; but the hour, When in its second best nativity, My soul was born again through grace, this heart Died to the world. Dreams such as thine pass now Like evening clouds before me; if I think How beautiful they seem, ’tis but to feel How soon they fade, how fast the night shuts in. But in that World to which my hopes look on, Time enters not, nor Mutability; Beauty and goodness are unfading there; Whatever there is given us to enjoy, That we enjoy for ever, still the same.... Much might Count Julian’s sword atchieve for Spain And me, but more will his dear daughter’s soul Effect in Heaven; and soon will she be there An Angel at the throne of Grace, to plead In his behalf and mine. I knew thy heart, She answer’d, and subdued the vain desire. It was the World’s last effort. Thou hast chosen The better part. Yes, Roderick, even on earth There is a praise above the monarch’s fame, A higher, holier, more enduring praise, And this will yet be thine! O tempt me not, Mother! he cried; nor let ambition take That specious form to cheat us! What but this, Fallen as I am, have I to offer Heaven? The ancestral sceptre, public fame, content Of private life, the general good report, Power, reputation, happiness, ... whate’er The heart of man desires to constitute His earthly weal, ... unerring Justice claim’d In forfeiture. I with submitted soul Bow to the righteous law and kiss the rod. Only while thus submitted, suffering thus, ... Only while offering up that name on earth, Perhaps in trial offer’d to my choice, Could I present myself before thy sight; Thus only could endure myself, or fix My thoughts upon that fearful pass, where Death Stands in the Gate of Heaven!... Time passes on, The healing work of sorrow is complete; All vain desires have long been weeded out, All vain regrets subdued; the heart is dead, The soul is ripe and eager for her birth. Bless me, my Mother! and come when it will The inevitable hour, we die in peace. So saying, on her knees he bow’d his head; She raised her hands to Heaven and blest her child; Then bending forward, as he rose, embraced And claspt him to her heart, and cried, Once more Theodofred, with pride behold thy son!

The times are big with tidings; every hour From east and west and south the breathless scouts Bring swift alarums in; the gathering foe, Advancing from all quarters to one point, Close their wide crescent. Nor was aid of fear To magnify their numbers needed now, They came in myriads. Africa had pour’d Fresh shoals upon the coast of wretched Spain; Lured from their hungry deserts to the scene Of spoil, like vultures to the battle-field, Fierce, unrelenting, habited in crimes, Like bidden guests the mirthful ruffians flock To that free feast which in their Prophet’s name Rapine and Lust proclaim’d. Nor were the chiefs Of victory less assured, by long success Elate, and proud of that o’erwhelming strength, Which, surely they believed, as it had roll’d Thus far uncheck’d would roll victorious on, Till, like the Orient, the subjected West Should bow in reverence at Mahommed’s name; And pilgrims, from remotest Arctic shores, Tread with religious feet the burning sands Of Araby, and Mecca’s stony soil. Proud of his part in Roderick’s overthrow, Their leader Abulcacem came, a man Immitigable, long in war renown’d. Here Magued comes, who on the conquer’d walls Of Cordoba, by treacherous fear betray’d, Planted the moony standard: Ibrahim here, He, who by Genil and in Darro’s vales, Had for the Moors the fairest portion won Of all their spoils, fairest and best maintain’d, And to the Alpuxarras given in trust His other name, through them preserved in song Here too Alcahman, vaunting his late deeds At Auria, all her children by the sword Cut off, her bulwarks rased, her towers laid low, Her dwellings by devouring flames consumed, Bloody and hard of heart, he little ween’d, Vain-boastful chief! that from those fatal flames The fire of retribution had gone forth Which soon should wrap him round. The renegades Here too were seen, Ebba and Sisibert; A spurious brood, but of their parent’s crimes True heirs, in guilt begotten, and in ill Train’d up. The same unnatural rage that turn’d Their swords against their country, made them seek, Unmindful of their wretched mother’s end, Pelayo’s life. No enmity is like Domestic hatred. For his blood they thirst, As if that sacrifice might satisfy Witiza’s guilty ghost, efface the shame Of their adulterous birth, and one crime more Crowning a hideous course, emancipate Thenceforth their spirits from all earthly fear. This was their only care; but other thoughts Were rankling in that elder villain’s mind, Their kinsman Orpas, he of all the crew Who in this fatal visitation fell, The foulest and the falsest wretch that e’er Renounced his baptism. From his cherish’d views Of royalty cut off, he coveted Count Julian’s wide domains, and hopeless now To gain them through the daughter, laid his toils Against the father’s life, ... the instrument Of his ambition first, and now design’d Its victim. To this end with cautious hints, At favouring season ventured, he possess’d The leader’s mind; then, subtly fostering The doubts himself had sown, with bolder charge He bade him warily regard the Count, Lest underneath an outward show of faith The heart uncircumcised were Christian still: Else, wherefore had Florinda not obey’d Her dear loved sire’s example, and embraced The saving truth? Else, wherefore was her hand, Plighted to him so long, so long withheld, Till she had found a fitting hour to fly With that audacious Prince, who now in arms, Defied the Caliph’s power; ... for who could doubt That in his company she fled, perhaps The mover of his flight? What if the Count Himself had plann’d the evasion which he feign’d In sorrow to condemn? What if she went A pledge assured, to tell the mountaineers That when they met the Musselmen in the heat Of fight, her father passing to their side Would draw the victory with him?... Thus he breathed Fiend-like in Abulcacem’s ear his schemes Of murderous malice; and the course of things, Ere long, in part approving his discourse, Aided his aim, and gave his wishes weight. For scarce on the Asturian territory Had they set foot, when, with the speed of fear, Count Eudon, nothing doubting that their force Would like a flood sweep all resistance down, Hasten’d to plead his merits; ... he alone, Found faithful in obedience through reproach And danger, when the madden’d multitude Hurried their chiefs along, and high and low With one infectious frenzy seized, provoked The invincible in arms. Pelayo led The raging crew, ... he doubtless the prime spring Of all these perilous movements; and ’twas said He brought the assurance of a strong support, Count Julian’s aid, for in his company From Cordoba, Count Julian’s daughter came. Thus Eudon spake before the assembled chiefs; When instantly a stern and wrathful voice Replied, I know Pelayo never made That senseless promise! He who raised the tale Lies foully; but the bitterest enemy That ever hunted for Pelayo’s life Hath never with the charge of falsehood touch’d His name. The Baron had not recognized Till then, beneath the turban’s shadowing folds, Julian’s swart visage, where the fiery skies Of Africa, through many a year’s long course, Had set their hue inburnt. Something he sought In quick excuse to say of common fame, Lightly believed and busily diffused, And that no enmity had moved his speech Repeating rumour’s tale. Julian replied, Count Eudon, neither for thyself nor me Excuse is needed here. The path I tread Is one wherein there can be no return. No pause, no looking back! A choice like mine For time and for eternity is made, Once and for ever! and as easily The breath of vain report might build again The throne which my just vengeance overthrew, As in the Caliph and his Captain’s mind Affect the opinion of my well-tried truth. The tidings which thou givest me of my child Touch me more vitally; bad though they be, A secret apprehension of aught worse Makes me with joy receive them. Then the Count To Abulcacem turn’d his speech, and said, I pray thee, Chief, give me a messenger By whom I may to this unhappy child Dispatch a father’s bidding, such as yet May win her back. What I would say requires No veil of privacy; before ye all The errand shall be given. Boldly he spake, Yet wary in that show of open truth, For well he knew what dangers girt him round Amid the faithless race. Blind with revenge, For them in madness had he sacrificed His name, his baptism, and his native land, To feel, still powerful as he was, that life Hung on their jealous favour. But his heart Approved him now, where love, too long restrain’d, Resumed its healing influence, leading him Right on with no misgiving. Chiefs, he said, Hear me, and let your wisdom judge between Me and Prince Orpas!... Known it is to all, Too well, what mortal injury provoked My spirit to that vengeance which your aid So signally hath given. A covenant We made when first our purpose we combined, That he should have Florinda for his wife, My only child, so should she be, I thought, Revenged and honour’d best. My word was given Truly, nor did I cease to use all means Of counsel or command, entreating her Sometimes with tears, seeking sometimes with threats Of an offended father’s curse to enforce Obedience; that, she said, the Christian law Forbade, moreover she had vow’d herself A servant to the Lord. In vain I strove To win her to the Prophet’s saving faith, Using perhaps a rigour to that end Beyond permitted means, and to my heart, Which loved her dearer than its own life-blood, Abhorrent. Silently she suffer’d all, Or when I urged her with most vehemence, Only replied, I knew her fix’d resolve, And craved my patience but a little while Till death should set her free. Touch’d as I was, I yet persisted, till at length to escape The ceaseless importunity, she fled: And verily I fear’d until this hour, My rigour to some fearfuller resolve Than flight, had driven my child. Chiefs, I appeal To each and all, and Orpas to thyself Especially, if, having thus essay’d All means that law and nature have allow’d To bend her will, I may not rightfully Hold myself free, that promise being void Which cannot be fulfill’d. Thou sayest then, Orpas replied, that from her false belief Her stubborn opposition drew its force. I should have thought that from the ways corrupt Of these idolatrous Christians, little care Might have sufficed to wean a duteous child, The example of a parent so beloved Leading the way; and yet I will not doubt Thou didst enforce with all sincerity And holy zeal upon thy daughter’s mind The truths of Islam. Julian knit his brow, And scowling on the insidious renegade, He answer’d, By what reasoning my poor mind Was from the old idolatry reclaim’d, None better knows than Seville’s mitred chief, Who first renouncing errors which he taught, Led me his follower to the Prophet’s pale. Thy lessons I repeated as I could; Of graven images, unnatural vows, False records, fabling creeds, and juggling priests, Who making sanctity the cloak of sin, Laugh’d at the fools on whose credulity They fatten’d. To these arguments, whose worth Prince Orpas, least of all men, should impeach, I added, like a soldier bred in arms, And to the subtleties of schools unused, The flagrant fact, that Heaven with victory, Where’er they turn’d, attested and approved The chosen Prophet’s arms. If thou wert still The mitred Metropolitan, and I Some wretch of Arian or of Hebrew race Thy proper business then might be to pry, And question me for lurking flaws of faith. We Musselmen, Prince Orpas, live beneath A wiser law, which with the iniquities Of thine old craft, hath abrogated this Its foulest practice! As Count Julian ceased, From underneath his black and gather’d brow There went a look, which with these wary words Bore to the heart of that false renegade Their whole envenom’d meaning. Haughtily Withdrawing then his alter’d eyes, he said Too much of this! return we to the sum Of my discourse. Let Abulcacem say, In whom the Caliph speaks, if with all faith Having essay’d in vain all means to win My child’s consent, I may not hold henceforth The covenant discharged. The Moor replied. Well hast thou said, and rightly may’st assure Thy daughter that the Prophet’s holy law Forbids compulsion. Give thine errand now; The messenger is here. Then Julian said, Go to Pelayo, and from him entreat Admittance to my child, where’er she be. Say to her, that her father solemnly Annuls the covenant with Orpas pledged, Nor with solicitations, nor with threats, Will urge her more, nor from that liberty Of faith restrain her, which the Prophet’s law, Liberal as Heaven from whence it came, to all Indulges. Tell her that her father says His days are number’d, and beseeches her By that dear love, which from her infancy Still he hath borne her, growing as she grew. Nursed in our weal and strengthen’d in our woe, She will not in the evening of his life Leave him forsaken and alone. Enough Of sorrow, tell her, have her injuries Brought on her father’s head; let not her act Thus aggravate the burden. Tell her too, That when he pray’d her to return, he wept Profusely as a child; but bitterer tears Than ever fell from childhood’s eyes, were those Which traced his hardy cheeks. With faltering voice He spake, and after he had ceased from speech His lip was quivering still. The Moorish chief Then to the messenger his bidding gave. Say, cried he, to these rebel infidels, Thus Abulcacem in the Caliph’s name Exhorteth them: Repent and be forgiven! Nor think to stop the dreadful storm of war, Which conquering and to conquer must fulfil Its destined circle, rolling eastward now Back from the subjugated west, to sweep Thrones and dominions down, till in the bond Of unity all nations join, and Earth Acknowledge, as she sees one Sun in heaven, One God, one Chief, one Prophet, and one Law. Jerusalem, the holy City, bows To holier Mecca’s creed; the Crescent shines Triumphant o’er the eternal pyramids; On the cold altars of the worshippers Of Fire, moss grows, and reptiles leave their slime; The African idolatries are fallen, And Europe’s senseless gods of stone and wood Have had their day. Tell these misguided men, A moment for repentance yet is left, And mercy the submitted neck will spare Before the sword is drawn: but once unsheath’d, Let Auria witness how that dreadful sword Accomplisheth its work! They little know The Moors who hope in battle to withstand Their valour, or in flight escape their rage! Amid our deserts we hunt down the birds Of heaven, ... wings do not save them! Nor shall rocks, And holds, and fastnesses, avail to save These mountaineers. Is not the Earth the Lord’s? And we, his chosen people, whom he sends To conquer and possess it in his name?

The second eve had closed upon their march Within the Asturian border, and the Moors Had pitch’d their tents amid an open wood Upon the mountain side. As day grew dim, Their scatter’d fires shone with distincter light Among the trees, above whose top the smoke Diffused itself, and stain’d the evening sky. Ere long the stir of occupation ceased, And all the murmur of the busy host Subsiding died away, as through the camp The crier from a knoll proclaim’d the hour For prayer appointed, and with sonorous voice, Thrice in melodious modulation full, Pronounced the highest name. There is no God But God, he cried; there is no God but God! Mahommed is the Prophet of the Lord! Come ye to prayer! to prayer! The Lord is great! There is no God but God!... Thus he pronounced His ritual form, mingling with holiest truth The audacious name accurst. The multitude Made their ablutions in the mountain stream Obedient, then their faces to the earth Bent in formality of easy prayer. An arrow’s flight above that mountain stream There was a little glade, where underneath A long smooth mossy stone a fountain rose. An oak grew near, and with its ample boughs O’ercanopied the spring; its fretted roots Emboss’d the bank, and on their tufted bark Grew plants which love the moisture and the shade; Short ferns, and longer leaves of wrinkled green Which bent toward the spring, and when the wind Made itself felt, just touch’d with gentle dip The glassy surface, ruffled ne’er but then, Save when a bubble rising from the depth Burst, and with faintest circles mark’d its place, Or if an insect skimm’d it with its wing, Or when in heavier drops the gather’d rain Fell from the oak’s high bower. The mountain roe, When, having drank there, he would bound across, Drew up upon the bank his meeting feet, And put forth half his force. With silent lapse From thence through mossy banks the water stole, Then murmuring hastened to the glen below. Diana might have loved in that sweet spot To take her noontide rest; and when she stoopt Hot from the chase to drink, well pleased had seen Her own bright crescent, and the brighter face It crown’d, reflected there. Beside that spring Count Julian’s tent was pitch’d upon the glade; There his ablutions Moor-like he perform’d, And Moor-like knelt in prayer, bowing his head Upon the mossy bank. There was a sound Of voices at the tent when he arose, And lo! with hurried step a woman came Toward him; rightly then his heart presaged, And ere he could behold her countenance, Florinda knelt, and with uplifted arms Embraced her sire. He raised her from the ground, Kiss’d her, and claspt her to his heart, and said, Thou hast not then forsaken me, my child! Howe’er the inexorable will of Fate May in the world which is to come, divide Our everlasting destinies, in this Thou wilt not, O my child, abandon me! And then with deep and interrupted voice, Nor seeking to restrain his copious tears, My blessing be upon thy head, he cried, A father’s blessing! Though all faiths were false, It should not lose its worth!... She lock’d her hands Around his neck, and gazing in his face Through streaming tears, exclaim’d, Oh never more, Here or hereafter, never let us part! And breathing then a prayer in silence forth, The name of Jesus trembled on her tongue. Whom hast thou there? cried Julian, and drew back, Seeing that near them stood a meagre man In humble garb, who rested with raised hands On a long staff, bending his head like one Who when he hears the distant vesper-bell, Halts by the way, and, all unseen of men, Offers his homage in the eye of Heaven. She answered, Let not my dear father frown In anger on his child! Thy messenger Told me that I should be restrain’d no more From liberty of faith, which the new law Indulged to all; how soon my hour might come I knew not, and although that hour will bring Few terrors, yet methinks I would not be Without a Christian comforter in death. A Priest! exclaimed the Count, and drawing back, Stoopt for his turban that he might not lack Some outward symbol of apostacy; For still in war his wonted arms he wore, Nor for the scymitar had changed the sword Accustomed to his hand. He covered now His short grey hair, and under the white folds His swarthy brow, which gather’d as he rose, Darken’d. Oh frown not thus! Florinda said, A kind and gentle counsellor is this, One who pours balm into a wounded soul, And mitigates the griefs he cannot heal. I told him I had vow’d to pass my days A servant of the Lord, yet that my heart, Hearing the message of thy love, was drawn With powerful yearnings back. Follow thy heart, ... It answers to the call of duty here, He said, nor canst thou better serve the Lord Than at thy father’s side. Count Julian’s brow, While thus she spake, insensibly relax’d. A Priest, cried he, and thus with even hand Weigh vows and natural duty in the scale? In what old heresy hath he been train’d? Or in what wilderness hath he escaped The domineering Prelate’s fire and sword? Come hither, man, and tell me who thou art! A sinner, Roderick, drawing nigh, replied; Brought to repentance by the grace of God, And trusting for forgiveness through the blood Of Christ in humble hope. A smile of scorn Julian assumed, but merely from the lips It came; for he was troubled while he gazed On the strong countenance and thoughtful eye Before him. A new law hath been proclaim’d, Said he, which overthrows in its career The Christian altars of idolatry. What think’st thou of the Prophet?... Roderick Made answer, I am in the Moorish camp, And he who asketh is a Musselman. How then should I reply?... Safely, rejoin’d The renegade, and freely may’st thou speak To all that Julian asks. Is not the yoke Of Mecca easy, and its burden light?... Spain hath not found it so, the Goth replied, And groaning, turn’d away his countenance. Count Julian knit his brow, and stood awhile Regarding him with meditative eye In silence. Thou art honest too! he cried; Why ’twas in quest of such a man as this That the old Grecian search’d by lantern light In open day the city’s crowded streets, So rare he deem’d the virtue. Honesty And sense of natural duty in a Priest! Now for a miracle, ye Saints of Spain! I shall not pry too closely for the wires, For, seeing what I see, ye have me now In the believing mood! O blessed Saints, Florinda cried, ’tis from the bitterness, Not from the hardness of the heart, he speaks! Hear him! and in your goodness give the scoff The virtue of a prayer! So saying, she raised Her hands in fervent action claspt to Heaven: Then as, still claspt, they fell, toward her sire She turn’d her eyes, beholding him through tears. The look, the gesture, and that silent woe, Soften’d her father’s heart, which in this hour Was open to the influences of love. Priest, thy vocation were a blessed one, Said Julian, if its mighty power were used To lessen human misery, not to swell The mournful sum, already all-too-great. If, as thy former counsel should imply, Thou art not one who would for his craft’s sake Fret with corrosives and inflame the wound, Which the poor sufferer brings to thee in trust That thou with virtuous balm will bind it up, ... If, as I think, thou art not one of those Whose villainy makes honest men turn Moors, Thou then wilt answer with unbiass’d mind What I shall ask thee, and exorcise thus The sick and feverish conscience of my child, From inbred phantoms, fiend-like, which possess Her innocent spirit. Children we are all Of one great Father, in whatever clime Nature or chance hath cast the seeds of life, All tongues, all colours: neither after death Shall we be sorted into languages And tints, ... white, black, and tawny, Greek and Goth, Northmen and offspring of hot Africa; The All-Father, He in whom we live and move, He the indifferent Judge of all, regards Nations, and hues, and dialects alike; According to their works shall they be judged, When even-handed Justice in the scale Their good and evil weighs. All creeds, I ween, Agree in this, and hold it orthodox. Roderick, perceiving here that Julian paused, As if he waited for acknowledgement Of that plain truth, in motion of assent Inclined his brow complacently, and said, Even so: What follows?... This; resumed the Count, That creeds like colours being but accident, Are therefore in the scale imponderable; ... Thou seest my meaning; ... that from every faith As every clime, there is a way to Heaven, And thou and I may meet in Paradise. Oh grant it, God! cried Roderick fervently, And smote his breast. Oh grant it, gracious God! Through the dear blood of Jesus, grant that he And I may meet before the Mercy-throne! That were a triumph of Redeeming Love, For which admiring Angels would renew Their hallelujahs through the choir of Heaven! Man! quoth Count Julian, wherefore art thou moved To this strange passion? I require of thee Thy judgement, not thy prayers! Be not displeased! In gentle voice subdued the Goth replies; A prayer, from whatsoever lips it flow, By thine own rule should find the way to Heaven, So that the heart in its sincerity Straight forward breathe it forth. I, like thyself, Am all untrain’d to subtleties of speech, Nor competent of this great argument Thou openest; and perhaps shall answer thee Wide of the words, but to the purport home. There are to whom the light of gospel truth Hath never reach’d; of such I needs must deem As of the sons of men who had their day Before the light was given. But, Count, for those Who, born amid the light, to darkness turn Wilful in error, ... I dare only say, God doth not leave the unhappy soul without An inward monitor, and till the grave Open, the gate of mercy is not closed. Priest-like! the renegade replied, and shook His head in scorn. What is not in the craft Is error, and for error there shall be No mercy found in Him whom yet ye name The Merciful! Now God forbid, rejoin’d The fallen King, that one who stands in need Of mercy for his sins should argue thus Of error! Thou hast said that thou and I, Thou dying in name a Musselman, and I A servant of the Cross, may meet in Heaven. Time was when in our fathers’ ways we walk’d Regardlessly alike; faith being to each, ... For so far thou hast reason’d rightly, ... like Our country’s fashion and our mother-tongue, Of mere inheritance, ... no thing of choice In judgement fix’d, nor rooted in the heart. Me have the arrows of calamity Sore stricken; sinking underneath the weight Of sorrow, yet more heavily oppress’d Beneath the burthen of my sins, I turn’d In that dread hour to Him who from the Cross Calls to the heavy-laden. There I found Relief and comfort; there I have my hope, My strength and my salvation; there, the grave Ready beneath my feet, and Heaven in view I to the King of Terrors say, Come, Death, ... Come quickly! Thou too wert a stricken deer, Julian, ... God pardon the unhappy hand That wounded thee!... but whither didst thou go For healing? Thou hast turn’d away from Him, Who saith, Forgive as ye would be forgiven And that the Moorish sword might do thy work, Received the creed of Mecca: with what fruit For Spain, let tell her cities sack’d, her sons Slaughter’d, her daughters than thine own dear child More foully wrong’d, more wretched! For thyself, Thou hast had thy fill of vengeance, and perhaps The cup was sweet: but it hath left behind A bitter relish! Gladly would thy soul Forget the past; as little canst thou bear To send into futurity thy thoughts: And for this Now, what is it, Count, but fear.... However bravely thou may’st bear thy front, ... Danger, remorse, and stinging obloquy? One only hope, one only remedy, One only refuge yet remains.... My life Is at thy mercy, Count! Call, if thou wilt, Thy men, and to the Moors deliver me! Or strike thyself! Death were from any hand A welcome gift; from thine, and in this cause, A boon indeed! My latest words on earth Should tell thee that all sins may be effaced, Bid thee repent, have faith, and be forgiven! Strike, Julian, if thou wilt, and send my soul To intercede for thine, that we may meet, Thou and thy child and I, beyond the grave. Thus Roderick spake, and spread his arms as if He offer’d to the sword his willing breast, With looks of passionate persuasion fix’d Upon the Count, who in his first access Of anger, seem’d as though he would have call’d His guards to seize the Priest. The attitude Disarm’d him, and that fervent zeal sincere, And more than both, the look and voice, which like A mystery troubled him. Florinda too Hung on his arm with both her hands, and cried, O father, wrong him not! he speaks from God! Life and salvation are upon his tongue! Judge thou the value of that faith whereby, Reflecting on the past, I murmur not, And to the end of all look on with joy Of hope assured! Peace, innocent! replied The Count, and from her hold withdrew his arm. Then with a gather’d brow of mournfulness Rather than wrath, regarding Roderick, said, Thou preachest that all sins may be effaced: Is there forgiveness, Christian, in thy creed For Roderick’s crime?... For Roderick and for thee, Count Julian, said the Goth, and as he spake Trembled through every fibre of his frame, The gate of Heaven is open. Julian threw His wrathful hand aloft, and cried, Away! Earth could not hold us both, nor can one Heaven Contain my deadliest enemy and me! My father, say not thus! Florinda cried; I have forgiven him! I have pray’d for him! For him, for thee, and for myself I pour One constant prayer to Heaven! In passion then She knelt, and bending back, with arms and face Raised toward the sky, the supplicant exclaim’d, Redeemer, heal his heart! It is the grief Which festers there that hath bewilder’d him! Save him, Redeemer! by thy precious death Save, save him, O my God! Then on her face She fell, and thus with bitterness pursued In silent throes her agonizing prayer. Afflict not thus thyself, my child, the Count Exclaim’d; O dearest, be thou comforted; Set but thy heart at rest, I ask no more! Peace dearest, peace!... and weeping as he spake, He knelt to raise her. Roderick also knelt; Be comforted, he cried, and rest in faith That God will hear thy prayers! they must be heard. He who could doubt the worth of prayers like thine May doubt of all things! Sainted as thou art In sufferings here, this miracle will be Thy work and thy reward! Then raising her, They seated her upon the fountain’s brink, And there beside her sate. The moon had risen, And that fair spring lay blackened half in shade, Half like a burnish’d mirror in her light. By that reflected light Count Julian saw That Roderick’s face was bathed with tears, and pale As monumental marble. Friend, said he, Whether thy faith be fabulous, or sent Indeed from Heaven, its dearest gift to man, Thy heart is true: and had the mitred Priest Of Seville been like thee, or hadst thou held The place he fill’d; ... but this is idle talk, ... Things are as they will be; and we, poor slaves, Fret in the harness as we may, must drag The Car of Destiny where’er she drives, Inexorable and blind! Oh wretched man! Cried Roderick, if thou seekest to assuage Thy wounded spirit with that deadly drug, Hell’s subtlest venom; look to thine own heart, Where thou hast Will and Conscience to belie This juggling sophistry, and lead thee yet Through penitence to Heaven! Whate’er it be That governs us, in mournful tone the Count Replied, Fate, Providence, or Allah’s will, Or reckless Fortune, still the effect the same, A world of evil and of misery! Look where we will we meet it; wheresoe’er We go we bear it with us. Here we sit Upon the margin of this peaceful spring, And oh! what volumes of calamity Would be unfolded here, if either heart Laid open its sad records! Tell me not Of goodness! Either in some freak of power This frame of things was fashion’d, then cast off To take its own wild course, the sport of chance; Or the bad Spirit o’er the Good prevails, And in the eternal conflict hath arisen Lord of the ascendant! Rightly would’st thou say Were there no world but this! the Goth replied. The happiest child of earth that e’er was mark’d To be the minion of prosperity, Richest in corporal gifts and wealth of mind, Honour and fame attending him abroad, Peace and all dear domestic joys at home, And sunshine till the evening of his days Closed in without a cloud, ... even such a man Would from the gloom and horror of his heart Confirm thy fatal thought, were this world all, Oh! who could bear the haunting mystery, If death and retribution did not solve The riddle, and to heavenliest harmony Reduce the seeming chaos!... Here we see The water at its well-head; clear it is, Not more transpicuous the invisible air; Pure as an infant’s thoughts; and here to life And good directed all its uses serve. The herb grows greener on its brink; sweet flowers Bend o’er the stream that feeds their freshened roots; The red-breast loves it for his wintry haunts; And when the buds begin to open forth, Builds near it with his mate their brooding nest; The thirsty stag with widening nostrils there Invigorated draws his copious draught; And there amid its flags the wild-boar stands, Nor suffering wrong nor meditating hurt. Through woodlands wild and solitary fields Unsullied thus it holds its bounteous course; But when it reaches the resorts of men, The service of the city there defiles The tainted stream; corrupt and foul it flows Through loathsome banks and o’er a bed impure, Till in the sea, the appointed end to which Through all its way it hastens, ’tis received, And, losing all pollution, mingles there In the wide world of waters. So is it With the great stream of things, if all were seen; Good the beginning, good the end shall be, And transitory evil only make The good end happier. Ages pass away, Thrones fall, and nations disappear, and worlds Grow old and go to wreck; the soul alone Endures, and what she chuseth for herself, The arbiter of her own destiny That only shall be permanent. But guilt, And all our suffering? said the Count. The Goth Replied, Repentance taketh sin away, Death remedies the rest.... Soothed by the strain Of such discourse, Julian was silent then, And sate contemplating. Florinda too Was calm’d: If sore experience may be thought To teach the uses of adversity, She said, alas! who better learn’d than I In that sad school! Methinks if ye would know How visitations of calamity Affect the pious soul, ’tis shown ye there! Look yonder at that cloud, which through the sky Sailing alone, doth cross in her career The rolling Moon! I watch’d it as it came, And deem’d the deep opake would blot her beams But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs In folds of wavey silver round, and clothes The orb with richer beauties than her own, Then passing, leaves her in her light serene. Thus having said, the pious sufferer sate, Beholding with fix’d eyes that lovely orb, Till quiet tears confused in dizzy light The broken moonbeams. They too by the toil Of spirit, as by travail of the day Subdued, were silent, yielding to the hour. The silver cloud diffusing slowly past, And now into its airy elements Resolved is gone; while through the azure depth Alone in heaven the glorious Moon pursues Her course appointed, with indifferent beams Shining upon the silent hills around, And the dark tents of that unholy host, Who, all unconscious of impending fate, Take their last slumber there. The camp is still; The fires have mouldered, and the breeze which stirs The soft and snowy embers, just lays bare At times a red and evanescent light, Or for a moment wakes a feeble flame. They by the fountain hear the stream below, Whose murmurs, as the wind arose or fell, Fuller or fainter reach the ear attuned. And now the nightingale, not distant far, Began her solitary song; and pour’d To the cold moon a richer, stronger strain Than that with which the lyric lark salutes The new-born day. Her deep and thrilling song Seem’d with its piercing melody to reach The soul, and in mysterious unison Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love. Their hearts were open to the healing power Of nature; and the splendour of the night, The flow of waters, and that sweetest lay Came to them like a copious evening dew Falling on vernal herbs which thirst for rain.

Thus they beside the fountain sate, of food And rest forgetful, when a messenger Summon’d Count Julian to the Leader’s tent. In council there at that late hour he found The assembled Chiefs, on sudden tidings call’d Of unexpected weight from Cordoba. Jealous that Abdalazis had assumed A regal state, affecting in his court The forms of Gothic sovereignty, the Moors, Whom artful spirits of ambitious mould Stirr’d up, had risen against him in revolt: And he who late had in the Caliph’s name Ruled from the Ocean to the Pyrenees, A mutilate and headless carcase now, From pitying hands received beside the road A hasty grave, scarce hidden there from dogs And ravens, nor from wintry rains secure. She, too, who in the wreck of Spain preserved Her queenly rank, the wife of Roderick first, Of Abdalazis after, and to both Alike unhappy, shared the ruin now Her counsels had brought on; for she had led The infatuate Moor, in dangerous vauntery, To these aspiring forms, ... so should he gain Respect and honour from the Musselmen, She said, and that the obedience of the Goths Follow’d the sceptre. In an evil hour She gave the counsel, and in evil hour He lent a willing ear; the popular rage Fell on them both; and they to whom her name Had been a mark for mockery and reproach, Shudder’d with human horror at her fate. Ayub was heading the wild anarchy; But where the cement of authority Is wanting, all things there are dislocate: The mutinous soldiery, by every cry Of rumour set in wild career, were driven By every gust of passion, setting up One hour, what in the impulse of the next, Equally unreasoning, they destroy’d: thus all Was in misrule where uproar gave the law, And ere from far Damascus they could learn The Caliph’s pleasure, many a moon must pass. What should be done? should Abulcacem march To Cordoba, and in the Caliph’s name Assume the power which to his rank in arms Rightly devolved, restoring thus the reign Of order? or pursue with quicken’d speed The end of this great armament, and crush Rebellion first, then to domestic ills Apply his undivided mind and force Victorious? What in this emergency Was Julian’s counsel, Abulcacem ask’d, Should they accomplish soon their enterprize? Or would the insurgent infidels prolong The contest, seeking by protracted war To weary them, and trusting in the strength Of these wild hills? Julian replied, The Chief Of this revolt is wary, resolute, Of approved worth in war: a desperate part He for himself deliberately hath chosen, Confiding in the hereditary love Borne to him by these hardy mountaineers, A love which his own noble qualities Have strengthen’d so that every heart is his. When ye can bring them to the open proof Of battle, ye will find them in his cause Lavish of life; but well they know the strength Of their own fastnesses, the mountain paths Impervious to pursuit, the vantages Of rock, and pass, and woodland, and ravine; And hardly will ye tempt them to forego These natural aids wherein they put their trust As in their stubborn spirit, each alike Deem’d by themselves invincible, and so By Roman found and Goth ... beneath whose sway Slowly persuaded rather than subdued They came, and still through every change retain’d Their manners obstinate and barbarous speech. My counsel, therefore, is, that we secure With strong increase of force the adjacent posts, And chiefly Gegio, leaving them so mann’d As may abate the hope of enterprize Their strength being told. Time in a strife like this Becomes the ally of those who trust in him: Make then with Time your covenant. Old feuds May disunite the chiefs: some may be gain’d By fair entreaty, others by the stroke Of nature, or of policy, cut off. This was the counsel which in Cordoba I offer’d Abdalazis: in ill hour Rejecting it, he sent upon this war His father’s faithful friend! Dark are the ways Of destiny! had I been at his side Old Muza would not now have mourn’d his age Left childless, nor had Ayub dared defy The Caliph’s represented power. The case Calls for thine instant presence, with the weight Of thy legitimate authority. Julian said Orpas, turning from beneath His turban to the Count a crafty eye, Thy daughter is return’d; doth she not bring Some tidings of the movements of the foe? The Count replied, When child and parent meet First reconciled from discontents which wrung The hearts of both, ill should their converse be Of warlike matters! There hath been no time For such enquiries, neither should I think To ask her touching that for which I know She hath neither eye nor thought. There was a time Orpas with smile malignant thus replied, When in the progress of the Caliph’s arms Count Julian’s daughter had an interest Which touch’d her nearly! But her turn is served, And hatred of Prince Orpas may beget Indifference to the cause. Yet Destiny Still guideth to the service of the faith The wayward heart of woman; for as one Delivered Roderick to the avenging sword, So hath another at this hour betray’d Pelayo to his fall. His sister came At nightfall to my tent a fugitive. She tells me that on learning our approach The rebel to a cavern in the hills Had sent his wife and children, and with them Those of his followers, thinking there conceal’d They might be safe. She, moved, by injuries Which stung her spirit, on the way escaped, And for revenge will guide us. In reward She asks her brother’s forfeiture of lands In marriage with Numacian: something too Touching his life, that for her services It might be spared, she said; ... an after-thought To salve decorum, and if conscience wake Serve as a sop: but when the sword shall smite Pelayo and his dangerous race, I ween That a thin kerchief will dry all the tears The Lady Guisla sheds! ’Tis the old taint! Said Julian mournfully; from her mother’s womb She brought the inbred wickedness which now In ripe infection blossoms. Woman, woman, Still to the Goths art thou the instrument Of overthrow; thy virtue and thy vice Fatal alike to them! Say rather, cried The insidious renegade, that Allah thus By woman punisheth the idolatry Of those who raise a woman to the rank Of godhead, calling on their Mary’s name With senseless prayers. In vain shall they invoke Her trusted succour now! like silly birds By fear betray’d, they fly into the toils; And this Pelayo, who in lengthen’d war Baffling our force, has thought perhaps to reign Prince of the Mountains, when we hold his wife And offspring at our mercy, must himself Come to the lure. Enough, the Leader said; This unexpected work of favouring Fate Opens an easy way to our desires, And renders farther counsel needless now. Great is the Prophet whose protecting power Goes with the faithful forth! the rebels’ days Are number’d; Allah hath deliver’d them Into our hands! So saying he arose; The Chiefs withdrew, Orpas alone remain’d Obedient to his indicated will. The event, said Abulcacem, hath approved Thy judgement in all points; his daughter comes At the first summons, even as thou saidst; Her errand with the insurgents done, she brings Their well-concerted project back, a safe And unexpected messenger; ... the Moor, The shallow Moor, ... must see and not perceive; Must hear and understand not; yea must bear, Poor easy fool, to serve their after mirth, A part in his own undoing! But just Heaven With this unlook’d-for incident hath marr’d Their complots, and the sword shall cut this web Of treason. Well, the renegade replied, Thou knowest Count Julian’s spirit, quick in wiles, In act audacious. Baffled now, he thinks Either by instant warning to apprize The rebels of their danger, or preserve The hostages when fallen into our power, Till secret craft contrive, or open force Win their enlargement. Haply too he dreams Of Cordoba, the avenger and the friend Of Abdalazis, in that cause to arm Moor against Moor, preparing for himself The victory o’er the enfeebled conquerors. Success in treason hath embolden’d him, And power but serves him for fresh treachery, false To Roderick first, and to the Caliph now. The guilt, said Abulcacem, is confirm’d, The sentence past; all that is now required Is to strike sure and safely. He hath with him A veteran force devoted to his will, Whom to provoke were perilous; nor less Of peril lies there in delay: what course Between these equal dangers should we steer? They have been train’d beneath him in the wars Of Africa, the renegade replied; Men are they who, from their youth up, have found Their occupation and their joy in arms; Indifferent to the cause for which they fight, But faithful to their leader, who hath won By licence largely given, yet temper’d still With exercise of firm authority, Their whole devotion. Vainly should we seek By proof of Julian’s guilt to pacify Such martial spirits, unto whom all creeds And countries are alike; but take away The head, and forthwith their fidelity Goes at the market price. The act must be Sudden and secret; poison is too slow. Thus it may best be done; the Mountaineers, Doubtless, ere long will rouse us with some spur Of sudden enterprise: at such a time A trusty minister approaching him May smite him, so that all shall think the spear Comes from the hostile troops. Right counsellor! Cried Abulcacem, thou shalt have his lands, The proper meed of thy fidelity: His daughter thou may’st take or leave. Go now And find a faithful instrument to put Our purpose in effect!... And when ’tis done, The Moor, as Orpas from the tent withdrew, Muttering pursued, ... look for a like reward Thyself! that restless head of wickedness In the grave will brood no treasons. Other babes Scream when the Devil, as they spring to life, Infects them with his touch; but thou didst stretch Thine arms to meet him, and like mother’s milk Suck the congenial evil! Thou hast tried Both laws, and were there aught to gain, wouldst prove A third as readily; but when thy sins Are weigh’d, ’twill be against an empty scale, And neither Prophet will avail thee then!

The camp is stirring, and ere day hath dawn’d The tents are struck. Early they rise whom hope Awakens, and they travel fast with whom She goes companion of the way. By noon Hath Abulcacem in his speed attain’d The vale of Cangas. Well the trusty scouts Observe his march, and fleet as mountain roes, From post to post with instantaneous speed The warning bear: none else is nigh; the vale Hath been deserted, and Pelayo’s hall Is open to the foe, who on the tower Hoist their white signal-flag. In Sella’s stream The misbelieving multitudes perform, With hot and hasty hand, their noontide rite, Then hurryingly repeat the Impostor’s prayer. Here they divide; the Chieftain halts with half The host, retaining Julian and his men, Whom where the valley widen’d he disposed, Liable to first attack, that so the deed Of murder plann’d with Orpas might be done. The other force the Moor Alcahman led, Whom Guisla guided up Pionia’s stream Eastward to Soto. Ibrahim went with him, Proud of Granada’s snowy heights subdued, And boasting of his skill in mountain war; Yet sure he deem’d an easier victory Awaited him this day. Little, quoth he, Weens the vain Mountaineer who puts his trust In dens and rocky fastnesses, how close Destruction is at hand! Belike he thinks The Humma’s happy wings have shadow’d him, And therefore Fate with royalty must crown His chosen head! Pity the scymitar With its rude edge so soon should interrupt The pleasant dream! There can be no escape For those who in the cave seek shelter, cried Alcahman; yield they must, or from their holes Like bees we smoke them out. The Chief perhaps May reign awhile King of the wolves and bears, Till his own subjects hunt him down, or kites And crows divide what hunger may have left Upon his ghastly limbs. Happier for him That destiny should this day to our hands Deliver him; short would be his sufferings then; And we right joyfully should in one hour Behold our work accomplish’d, and his race Extinct. Thus these in mockery and in thoughts Of bloody triumph, to the future blind, Indulged the scornful vein; nor deem’d that they Whom to the sword’s unsparing edge they doom’d, Even then in joyful expectation pray’d To Heaven for their approach, and at their post Prepared, were trembling with excess of hope. Here in these mountain straits the Mountaineer Had felt his country’s strength insuperable; Here he had pray’d to see the Musselman With all his myriads; therefore had he look’d To Covadonga as a sanctuary Apt for concealment, easy of defence; And Guisla’s flight, though to his heart it sent A pang more poignant for their mother’s sake, Yet did it further in its consequence His hope and project, surer than decoy Well-laid, or best-concerted stratagem. That sullen and revengeful mind, he knew, Would follow to the extremity of guilt Its long fore-purposed shame: the toils were laid, And she who by the Musselmen full sure Thought on her kindred her revenge to wreak, Led the Moors in. Count Pedro and his son Were hovering with the main Asturian force In the wider vale to watch occasion there, And with hot onset when the alarm began Pursue the vantage. In the fated straits Of Deva had the King disposed the rest: Amid the hanging woods, and on the cliffs, A long mile’s length on either side its bed, They lay. The lever and the axe and saw Had skilfully been plied; and trees and stones, A dread artillery, ranged on crag and shelf And steep descent, were ready at the word Precipitate to roll resistless down. The faithful maiden not more wistfully Looks for the day that brings her lover home; ... Scarce more impatiently the horse endures The rein, when loud and shrill the hunter’s horn Rings in his joyous ears, than at their post The Mountaineers await their certain prey; Yet mindful of their Prince’s order, oft And solemnly enforced, with eagerness Subdued by minds well-master’d, they expect The appointed signal. Hand must not be raised, Foot stirr’d, nor voice be utter’d, said the Chief, Till the word pass: impatience would mar all. God hath deliver’d over to your hands His enemies and ours, so we but use The occasion wisely. Not till the word pass From man to man transmitted, “In the name “Of God, for Spain and Vengeance!” let a hand Be lifted; on obedience all depends, Their march below with noise of horse and foot And haply with the clang of instruments, Might drown all other signal, this is sure; But wait it calmly; it will not be given Till the whole line hath enter’d in the toils. Comrades, be patient, so shall none escape Who once set foot within these straits of death. Thus had Pelayo on the Mountaineers With frequent and impressive charge enforced The needful exhortation. This alone He doubted, that the Musselmen might see The perils of the vale, and warily Forbear to enter. But they thought to find, As Guisla told, the main Asturian force Seeking concealment there, no other aid Soliciting from these their native hills; And that the babes and women having fallen In thraldom, they would lay their weapons down, And supplicate forgiveness for their sake. Nor did the Moors perceive in what a strait They enter’d; for the morn had risen o’ercast, And when the Sun had reach’d the height of heaven, Dimly his pale and beamless orb was seen Moving through mist. A soft and gentle rain, Scarce heavier than the summer’s evening dew, Descended, ... through so still an atmosphere, That every leaf upon the moveless trees Was studded o’er with rain-drops, bright and full, None falling till from its own weight o’erswoln The motion came. Low on the mountain side The fleecey vapour hung, and in its veil With all their dreadful preparations wrapt The Mountaineers; ... in breathless hope they lay, Some blessing God in silence for the power This day vouchsafed; others with fervency Of prayer and vow invoked the Mother-Maid, Beseeching her that in this favouring hour She would be strongly with them. From below Meantime distinct they heard the passing tramp Of horse and foot, continuous as the sound Of Deva’s stream, and barbarous tongues commixt With laughter, and with frequent shouts, ... for all Exultant came, expecting sure success; Blind wretches, over whom the ruin hung! They say, quoth one, that though the Prophet’s soul Doth with the black-eyed Houris bathe in bliss, Life hath not left his body, which bears up By its miraculous power the holy tomb, And holds it at Medina in the air Buoyant between the temple’s floor and roof: And there the Angels fly to him with news From East, West, North, and South, of what befalls His faithful people. If when he shall hear The tale of this day’s work, he should for joy Forget that he is dead, and walk abroad, ... It were as good a miracle as when He sliced the moon! Sir Angel hear me now, Whoe’er thou be’st who art about to speed From Spain to Araby! when thou hast got The Prophet’s ear, be sure thou tellest him How bravely Ghauleb did his part to-day, And with what special reverence he alone Desired thee to commend him to his grace!... Fie on thee, scoffer that thou art! replied His comrade; thou wilt never leave these gibes Till some commission’d arrow through the teeth Shall nail the offending tongue. Hast thou not heard How when our clay is leaven’d first with life, The ministering Angel brings it from that spot Whereon ’tis written in the eternal book That soul and body must their parting take, And earth to earth return? How knowest thou But that the Spirit who compounded thee, To distant Syria from this very vale Bore thy component dust, and Azrael here Awaits thee at this hour?... Little thought he Who spake, that in that valley at that hour One death awaited both! Thus they pursued Toward the cave their inauspicious way. Weak childhood there and ineffective age In the chambers of the rock were placed secure; But of the women, all whom with the babes Maternal care detain’d not, were aloft To aid in the destruction; by the side Of fathers, brethren, husbands, station’d there They watch and pray. Pelayo in the cave With the venerable primate took his post. Ranged on the rising cliffs on either hand, Vigilant sentinels with eye intent Observe his movements, when to take the word And pass it forward. He in arms complete Stands in the portal: a stern majesty Reign’d in his countenance severe that hour, And in his eye a deep and dreadful joy Shone, as advancing up the vale he saw The Moorish banners. God hath blinded them! He said; the measure of their crimes is full! O Vale of Deva, famous shalt thou be From this day forth for ever; and to these Thy springs shall unborn generations come In pilgrimage, and hallow with their prayers The cradle of their native monarchy! There was a stirring in the air, the sun Prevail’d, and gradually the brightening mist Began to rise and melt. A jutting crag Upon the right projected o’er the stream, Not farther from the cave than a strong hand Expert, with deadly aim, might cast the spear. Or a strong voice, pitch’d to full compass, make Its clear articulation heard distinct. A venturous dalesman, once ascending there To rob the eagle’s nest, had fallen, and hung Among the heather, wonderously preserved: Therefore had he with pious gratitude Placed on that overhanging brow a Cross, Tall as the mast of some light fisher’s skiff, And from the vale conspicuous. As the Moors Advanced, the Chieftain in the van was seen Known by his arms, and from the crag a voice Pronounced his name, ... Alcahman! hoa, look up, Alcahman! As the floating mist drew up, It had divided there, and open’d round The Cross; part clinging to the rock beneath, Hovering and waving part in fleecey folds, A canopy of silver light condensed To shape and substance. In the midst there stood A female form, one hand upon the Cross, The other raised in menacing act; below Loose flow’d her raiment, but her breast was arm’d, And helmeted her head. The Moor turn’d pale, For on the walls of Auria he had seen That well-known figure, and had well believed She rested with the dead. What, hoa! she cried, Alcahman! In the name of all who fell At Auria in the massacre, this hour I summon thee before the throne of God To answer for the innocent blood! This hour, Moor, Miscreant, Murderer, Child of Hell, this hour I summon thee to judgement!... In the name Of God! for Spain and Vengeance! Thus she closed Her speech; for taking from the Primate’s hand That oaken cross which at the sacring rites Had served for crosier, at the cavern’s mouth Pelayo lifted it and gave the word. From voice to voice on either side it pass’d With rapid repetition, ... In the name Of God! for Spain and Vengeance! and forthwith On either side along the whole defile The Asturians shouting in the name of God, Set the whole ruin loose! huge trunks and stones, And loosen’d crags, down down they roll’d with rush And bound, and thundering force. Such was the fall As when some city by the labouring earth Heaved from its strong foundations is cast down, And all its dwellings, towers, and palaces, In one wide desolation prostrated. From end to end of that long strait, the crash Was heard continuous, and commixt with sounds More dreadful, shrieks of horror and despair, And death, ... the wild and agonizing cry Of that whole host in one destruction whelm’d. Vain was all valour there, all martial skill; The valiant arm is helpless now; the feet Swift in the race avail not now to save; They perish, all their thousands perish there, ... Horsemen and infantry they perish all, ... The outward armour and the bones within Broken and bruised and crush’d. Echo prolong’d The long uproar: a silence then ensued, Through which the sound of Deva’s stream was heard, A lonely voice of waters, wild and sweet; The lingering groan, the faintly-utter’d prayer, The louder curses of despairing death, Ascended not so high. Down from the cave Pelayo hastes, the Asturians hasten down, Fierce and immitigable down they speed On all sides, and along the vale of blood The avenging sword did mercy’s work that hour.

Thou hast been busy, Death! this day, and yet But half thy work is done; the Gates of Hell Are throng’d, yet twice ten thousand spirits more, Who from their warm and healthful tenements Fear no divorce, must ere the sun go down Enter the world of woe! the Gate of Heaven Is open too, and Angels round the throne Of Mercy on their golden harps this day Shall sing the triumphs of Redeeming Love. There was a Church at Cangas dedicate To that Apostle unto whom his Lord Had given the keys; a humble edifice, Whose rude and time-worn structure suited well That vale among the mountains. Its low roof With stone plants and with moss was overgrown, Short fern, and richer weeds which from the eaves Hung their long tresses down. White lichens clothed The sides, save where the ivy spread, which bower’d The porch, and clustering round the pointed wall, Wherein two bells, each open to the wind, Hung side by side, threaded with hairy shoots The double nich; and climbing to the cross, Wreathed it and half conceal’d its sacred form With bushy tufts luxuriant. Here in the font, ... Borne hither with rejoicing and with prayers Of all the happy land who saw in him The lineage of their ancient Chiefs renew’d, ... The Prince had been immersed: and here within An oaken galilee, now black with age, His old Iberian ancestors were laid. Two stately oaks stood nigh, in the full growth Of many a century. They had flourish’d there Before the Gothic sword was felt in Spain, And when the ancient sceptre of the Goths Was broken, there they flourish’d still. Their boughs Mingled on high, and stretching wide around, Form’d a deep shade, beneath which canopy Upon the ground Count Julian’s board was spread, For to his daughter he had left his tent Pitch’d for her use hard by. He at the board Sate with his trusted Captains, Gunderick, Felix and Miro, Theudered and Paul, Basil and Cottila, and Virimar, Men through all fortunes faithful to their Lord, And to that old and tried fidelity, By personal love and honour held in ties Strong as religious bonds. As there they sate, In the distant vale a rising dust was seen, And frequent flash of steel, ... the flying fight Of men who, by a fiery foe pursued, Put forth their coursers at full speed, to reach The aid in which they trust. Up sprung the Chiefs, And hastily taking helm and shield, and spear, Sped to their post. Amid the chesnut groves On Sella’s side, Alphonso had in charge To watch the foe; a prowling band came nigh, Whom with the ardour of impetuous youth He charged and followed them in close pursuit: Quick succours join’d them; and the strife grew hot, Ere Pedro hastening to bring off his son, Or Julian and his Captains, ... bent alike That hour to abstain from combat, (for by this Full sure they deem’d Alcahman had secured The easy means of certain victory,) ... Could reach the spot. Both thus in their intent According, somewhat had they now allay’d The fury of the fight, though still spears flew, And strokes of sword and mace were interchanged, When passing through the troop a Moor came up On errand from the Chief, to Julian sent; A fatal errand fatally perform’d For Julian, for the Chief, and for himself, And all that host of Musselmen he brought; For while with well-dissembled words he lured The warrior’s ear, the dexterous ruffian mark’d The favouring moment and unguarded place, And plunged a javelin in his side. The Count, Fell, but in falling called to Cottila, Treachery! the Moor! the Moor!... He too on whom He call’d had seen the blow from whence it came, And seized the murderer. Miscreant! he exclaim’d, Who set thee on? The Musselman, who saw His secret purpose baffled, undismayed, Replies, What I have done is authorized; To punish treachery and prevent worse ill Orpas and Abulcacem sent me here; The service of the Caliph and the Faith Required the blow. The Prophet and the Fiend Reward thee then! cried Cottila; meantime Take thou from me thy proper earthly meed; Villain!... and lifting as he spake the sword, He smote him on the neck: the trenchant blade Through vein and artery pass’d and yielding bone And on the shoulder, as the assassin dropt, His head half-severed fell. The curse of God Fall on the Caliph and the Faith and thee! Stamping for anguish, Cottila pursued; African dogs, thus is it ye requite Our services?... But dearly shall ye pay For this day’s work!... O Fellow-soldiers, here, Stretching his hands toward the host, he cried, Behold your noble leader basely slain! He who for twenty years hath led us forth To war, and brought us home with victory, Here he lies foully murdered, ... by the Moors, ... Those whom he trusted, whom he served so well! Our turn is next! but neither will we wait Idly, nor tamely fall! Amid the grief, Tumult, and rage, of those who gather’d round, When Julian could be heard, I have yet life, He said, for vengeance. Virimar, speed thou To yonder Mountaineers, and tell their Chiefs That Julian’s veteran army joins this day Pelayo’s standard! The command devolves On Gunderick. Fellow-soldiers, who so well Redress’d the wrongs of your old General, Ye will not let his death go unrevenged!... Tears then were seen on many an iron cheek, And groans were heard from many a resolute heart, And vows with imprecations mix’d went forth, And curses check’d by sobs. Bear me apart, Said Julian, with a faint and painful voice, And let me see my daughter ere I die. Scarce had he spoken when the pitying throng Divide before her. Eagerly she came; A deep and fearful lustre in her eye, A look of settled woe, ... pale, deadly pale, Yet to no lamentations giving way, Nor tears nor groans; ... within her breaking heart She bore the grief, and kneeling solemnly Beside him, raised her aweful hands to heaven, And cried, Lord God! be with him in this hour Two things have I to think of, O my child, Vengeance and thee; said Julian. For the first I have provided: what remains of life As best may comfort thee may so be best Employ’d; let me be borne within the church, And thou, with that good man who follows thee, Attend me there. Thus when Florinda heard Her father speak, a gleam of heavenly joy Shone through the anguish of her countenance. O gracious God, she cried, my prayers are heard; Now let me die!... They raised him from the earth; He, knitting as they lifted him his brow, Drew in through open lips and teeth firm-closed His painful breath, and on the lance laid hand, Lest its long shaft should shake the mortal wound. Gently his men with slow and steady step Their suffering burthen bore, and in the Church Before the altar laid him down, his head Upon Florinda’s knees.... Now, friends, said he, Farewell. I ever hoped to meet my death Among ye, like a soldier, ... but not thus! Go join the Asturians; and in after years, When of your old commander ye shall talk, How well he loved his followers, what he was In battle, and how basely he was slain, Let not the tale its fit completion lack, But say how bravely was his death revenged. Vengeance! in that good word doth Julian make His testament; your faithful swords must give The will its full performance. Leave me now, I have done with worldly things. Comrades, farewell, And love my memory! They with copious tears Of burning anger, grief exasperating Their rage, and fury giving force to grief, Hasten’d to form their ranks against the Moors. Julian meantime toward the altar turn’d His languid eyes: That Image, is it not St. Peter, he inquired, he who denied His Lord and was forgiven?... Roderick rejoin’d, It is the Apostle; and may that same Lord, O Julian, to thy soul’s salvation bless The seasonable thought! The dying Count Then fix’d upon the Goth his earnest eyes, No time, said he, is this for bravery, As little for dissemblance. I would fain Die in the faith wherein my fathers died, Whereto they pledged me in mine infancy.... A soldier’s habits, he pursued, have steel’d My spirit, and perhaps I do not fear This passage as I ought. But if to feel That I have sinn’d, and from my soul renounce The Impostor’s faith, which never in that soul Obtain’d a place, ... if at the Saviour’s feet, Laden with guilt, to cast myself and cry, Lord, I believe! help thou my unbelief!... If this in the sincerity of death Sufficeth, ... Father, let me from thy lips Receive the assurances with which the Church Doth bless the dying Christian. Roderick raised His eyes to Heaven, and crossing on his breast His open palms, Mysterious are thy ways And merciful, O gracious Lord! he cried, Who to this end hast thus been pleased to lead My wandering steps! O Father, this thy son Hath sinn’d and gone astray: but hast not Thou Said, When the sinner from his evil ways Turneth, that he shall save his soul alive, And Angels at the sight rejoice in Heaven? Therefore do I, in thy most holy name, Into thy family receive again Him who was lost, and in that name absolve The Penitent.... So saying on the head Of Julian solemnly he laid his hands. Then to the altar tremblingly he turn’d, And took the bread, and breaking it, pursued, Julian! receive from me the Bread of Life! In silence reverently the Count partook The reconciling rite, and to his lips Roderick then held the consecrated cup. Me too! exclaim’d Florinda, who till then Had listen’d speechlessly; Thou Man of God, I also must partake! The Lord hath heard My prayers! one sacrament, ... one hour, ... one grave, ... One resurrection! That dread office done, Count Julian with amazement saw the Priest Kneel down before him. By the sacrament Which we have here partaken, Roderick cried, In this most aweful moment; by that hope, ... That holy faith which comforts thee in death, Grant thy forgiveness, Julian, ere thou diest! Behold the man who most hath injured thee! Roderick, the wretched Goth, the guilty cause Of all thy guilt, ... the unworthy instrument Of thy redemption, ... kneels before thee here, And prays to be forgiven! Roderick! exclaim’d The dying Count, ... Roderick!... and from the floor With violent effort half he raised himself; The spear hung heavy in his side, and pain And weakness overcame him, that he fell Back on his daughter’s lap. O Death, cried he, ... Passing his hand across his cold damp brow, ... Thou tamest the strong limb, and conquerest The stubborn heart! But yesterday I said One Heaven could not contain mine enemy And me: and now I lift my dying voice To say, Forgive me, Lord, as I forgive Him who hath done the wrong!... He closed his eyes A moment; then with sudden impulse cried, ... Roderick, thy wife is dead, ... the Church hath power To free thee from thy vows, ... the broken heart Might yet be heal’d, the wrong redress’d, the throne Rebuilt by that same hand which pull’d it down, And these cursed Africans.... Oh for a month Of that waste life which millions misbestow!... His voice was passionate, and in his eye With glowing animation while he spake The vehement spirit shone: its effort soon Was past, and painfully with feeble breath In slow and difficult utterance he pursued, ... Vain hope, if all the evil was ordain’d, And this wide wreck the will and work of Heaven, We but the poor occasion! Death will make All clear, and joining us in better worlds, Complete our union there! Do for me now One friendly office more: ... draw forth the spear, And free me from this pain!... Receive his soul, Saviour! exclaim’d the Goth, as he perform’d The fatal service. Julian cried, O friend!... True friend!... and gave to him his dying hand. Then said he to Florinda, I go first, Thou followest!... kiss me, child!... and now good night! When from her father’s body she arose, Her cheek was flush’d, and in her eyes there beam’d A wilder brightness. On the Goth she gazed While underneath the emotions of that hour Exhausted life gave way. O God! she said, Lifting her hands, thou hast restored me all, ... All ... in one hour!... and round his neck she threw Her arms and cried, My Roderick! mine in Heaven! Groaning, he claspt her close, and in that act And agony her happy spirit fled.

Eight thousand men had to Asturias march’d Beneath Count Julian’s banner; the remains Of that brave army which in Africa So well against the Musselman made head, Till sense of injuries insupportable, And raging thirst of vengeance, overthrew Their leader’s noble spirit. To revenge His quarrel, twice that number left their bones, Slain in unnatural battle, on the field Of Xeres, when the sceptre from the Goths By righteous Heaven was reft. Others had fallen Consumed in sieges, alway by the Moor To the front of war opposed. The policy, With whatsoever show of honour cloak’d, Was gross, and this surviving band had oft At their carousals, of the flagrant wrong, Held such discourse as stirs the mounting blood, The common danger with one discontent Affecting chiefs and men. Nor had the bonds Of rooted discipline and faith attach’d, Thus long restrain’d them, had they not known well That Julian in their just resentment shared, And fix’d their hopes on him. Slight impulse now Sufficed to make these fiery martialists Break forth in open fury; and though first Count Pedro listen’d with suspicious ear To Julian’s dying errand, deeming it Some new decoy of treason, ... when he found A second legate follow’d Virimar, And then a third, and saw the turbulence Of the camp, and how against the Moors in haste They form’d their lines, he knew that Providence This hour had for his country interposed, And in such faith advanced to use the aid Thus wondrously ordain’d. The eager Chiefs Hasten to greet him, Cottila and Paul, Basil and Miro, Theudered, Gunderick, Felix, and all who held authority; The zealous services of their brave host They proffer’d, and besought him instantly To lead against the African their force Combined, and in good hour assail a foe Divided, nor for such attack prepared. While thus they communed, Roderick from the church Came forth, and seeing Pedro, bent his way Toward them. Sirs, said he, the Count is dead; He died a Christian, reconciled to Heaven, In faith; and when his daughter had received His dying breath, her spirit too took flight. One sacrament, one death, united them; And I beseech ye, ye who from the work Of blood which lies before us may return, ... If, as I think, it should not be my fate ... That in one grave with Christian ceremonies Ye lay them side by side. In Heaven I ween They are met through mercy: ... ill befall the man Who should in death divide them!... Then he turn’d His speech to Pedro in an under voice; The King, said he, I know with noble mind Will judge of the departed; Christian-like He died, and with a manly penitence: They who condemn him most should call to mind How grievous was the wrong which madden’d him; Be that remember’d in his history, And let no shame be offer’d his remains. As Pedro would have answer’d, a loud cry Of menacing imprecation from the troops Arose; for Orpas, by the Moorish Chief Sent to allay the storm his villainy Had stirr’d, came hastening on a milk-white steed, And at safe distance having check’d the rein, Beckon’d for parley. ’Twas Orelio On which he rode, Roderick’s own battle-horse, Who from his master’s hand had wont to feed, And with a glad docility obey His voice familiar. At the sight the Goth Started, and indignation to his soul Brought back the thoughts and feelings of old times. Suffer me, Count, he cried, to answer him, And hold these back the while! Thus having said, He waited no reply, but as he was, Bareheaded, in his weeds, and all unarm’d, Advanced toward the renegade. Sir Priest, Quoth Orpas as he came, I hold no talk With thee; my errand is with Gunderick And the Captains of the host, to whom I bring Such liberal offers and clear proof.... The Goth, Breaking with scornful voice his speech, exclaim’d, What, could no steed but Roderick’s serve thy turn? I should have thought some sleek and sober mule Long train’d in shackles to procession pace, More suited to my lord of Seville’s use Than this good war-horse, ... he who never bore A villain, until Orpas cross’d his back!... Wretch! cried the astonish’d renegade, and stoopt, Foaming with anger, from the saddle-bow To reach his weapon. Ere the hasty hand Trembling in passion could perform its will, Roderick had seized the reins. How now, he cried, Orelio! old companion, ... my good horse, ... Off with this recreant burthen!... And with that He raised his hand, and rear’d and back’d the steed, To that remember’d voice and arm of power Obedient. Down the helpless traitor fell Violently thrown, and Roderick over him Thrice led with just and unrelenting hand The trampling hoofs. Go join Witiza now, Where he lies howling, the avenger cried, And tell him Roderick sent thee! At that sight, Count Julian’s soldiers and the Asturian host Set up a shout, a joyful shout, which rung Wide through the welkin. Their exulting cry With louder acclamation was renew’d, When from the expiring miscreant’s neck they saw That Roderick took the shield, and round his own Hung it, and vaulted in the seat. My horse! My noble horse! he cried, with flattering hand Patting his high-arch’d neck! the renegade, I thank him for’t, hath kept thee daintily! Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still, Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse, Once more thou bearest to the field thy Lord, He who so oft hath fed and cherish’d thee, He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen, Thou wert by all men honour’d. Once again Thou hast thy proper master! Do thy part As thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously, My beautiful Orelio, ... to the last ... The happiest of his fields!... Then he drew forth The scymitar, and waving it aloft, Rode toward the troops; its unaccustom’d shape Disliked him; Renegade in all things! cried The Goth, and cast it from him; to the Chiefs Then said, If I have done ye service here, Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword! The trustiest blade that e’er in Bilbilis Was dipt, would not to-day be misbestowed On this right hand!... Go some one, Gunderick cried, And bring Count Julian’s sword. Whoe’er thou art, The worth which thou hast shown avenging him Entitles thee to wear it. But thou goest For battle unequipp’d; ... haste there and strip Yon villain of his armour! Late he spake, So fast the Moors came on. It matters not, Replied the Goth; there’s many a mountaineer, Who in no better armour cased this day Than his wonted leathern gipion, will be found In the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch’d The unguarded life he ventures.... Taking then Count Julian’s sword, he fitted round his wrist The chain, and eyeing the elaborate steel With stern regard of joy, The African Under unhappy stars was born, he cried, Who tastes thy edge!... Make ready for the charge! They come ... they come!... On, brethren, to the field!... The word is Vengeance! Vengeance was the word; From man to man, and rank to rank it pass’d, By every heart enforced, by every voice Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe. The enemy in shriller sounds return’d Their Akbar and the Prophet’s trusted name. The horsemen lower’d their spears, the infantry Deliberately with slow and steady step Advanced; the bow-strings twang’d, and arrows hiss’d, And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts Met in the shock of battle, horse and man Conflicting; shield struck shield, and sword and mace And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung; Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged, And many a spirit from its mortal hold Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the Chiefs Of Julian’s army in that hour support Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there Enhanced his former praise; and by his side, Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife, Alphonso through the host of infidels Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death. But there was worst confusion and uproar, There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud Of his recover’d Lord, Orelio plunged Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet The living and the dead. Where’er he turns The Moors divide and fly. What man is this, Appall’d they say, who to the front of war Bareheaded offers thus his naked life? Replete with power he is, and terrible, Like some destroying Angel! Sure his lips Have drank of Kaf’s dark fountain, and he comes Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly! They said, this is no human foe!... Nor less Of wonder fill’d the Spaniards when they saw How flight and terror went before his way, And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one, With what command and knightly ease he sits The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power Bestrode with such command and majesty That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day Is death’s black banner, shaking from its folds Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mould Is he who in that garb of peace affronts Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns! Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some Saint Revisits earth! Aye, cries another, Heaven Hath ever with especial bounty blest Above all other lands its favour’d Spain; Chusing her children forth from all mankind For its peculiar people, as of yore Abraham’s ungrateful race beneath the Law. Who knows not how on that most holy night When peace on Earth by Angels was proclaim’d, The light which o’er the fields of Bethlehem shone, Irradiated whole Spain? not just display’d, As to the Shepherds, and again withdrawn; All the long winter hours from eve till morn Her forests and her mountains and her plains, Her hills and valleys were embathed in light, A light which came not from the sun or moon Or stars, by secondary powers dispensed, But from the fountain-springs, the Light of Light Effluent. And wherefore should we not believe That this may be some Saint or Angel, charged To lead us to miraculous victory? Hath not the Virgin Mother oftentimes Descending, clothed in glory, sanctified With feet adorable our happy soil?... Mark’d ye not, said another, how he cast In wrath the unhallow’d scymitar away, And called for Christian weapon? Oh be sure This is the aid of Heaven! On, comrades, on! A miracle to-day is wrought for Spain! Victory and Vengeance! Hew the miscreants down, And spare not! hew them down in sacrifice! God is with us! his Saints are in the field! Victory! miraculous Victory! Thus they Inflamed with wild belief the keen desire Of vengeance on their enemies abhorr’d, The Moorish chief, meantime, o’erlooked the fight From an eminence, and cursed the renegade Whose counsels sorting to such ill effect Had brought this danger on. Lo, from the East Comes fresh alarm! a few poor fugitives Well-nigh with fear exanimate came up, From Covadonga flying, and the rear Of that destruction, scarce with breath to tell Their dreadful tale. When Abulcacem heard, Stricken with horror, like a man bereft Of sense, he stood. O Prophet, he exclaim’d, A hard and cruel fortune hast thou brought This day upon thy servant! Must I then Here with disgrace and ruin close a life Of glorious deeds? But how should man resist Fate’s irreversible decrees, or why Murmur at what must be? They who survive May mourn the evil which this day begins: My part will soon be done!... Grief then gave way To rage, and cursing Guisla, he pursued, Oh that that treacherous woman were but here! It were a consolation to give her The evil death she merits! That reward She hath had, a Moor replied. For when we reach’d The entrance of the vale, it was her choice There in the farthest dwellings to be left, Lest she should see her brother’s face; but thence We found her flying at the overthrow, And visiting the treason on her head, Pierced her with wounds.... Poor vengeance for a host Destroyed! said Abulcacem in his soul. Howbeit, resolving to the last to do His office, he roused up his spirit. Go, Strike off Count Eudon’s head! he cried; the fear Which brought him to our camp will bring him else In arms against us now; For Sisibert And Ebba, he continued thus in thought, Their uncle’s fate for ever bars all plots Of treason on their part; no hope have they Of safety but with us. He call’d them then With chosen troops to join him in the front Of battle, that by bravely making head, Retreat might now be won. Then fiercer raged The conflict, and more frequent cries of death, Mingling with imprecations and with prayers, Rose through the din of war. By this the blood Which Deva down her fatal channel pour’d, Purpling Pionia’s course, had reach’d and stain’d The wider stream of Sella. Soon far off The frequent glance of spears and gleam of arms Were seen, which sparkled to the westering orb, Where down the vale, impatient to complete The glorious work so well that day begun, Pelayo led his troops. On foot they came, Chieftains and men alike; the Oaken Cross Triumphant borne on high, precedes their march, And broad and bright the argent banner shone. Roderick, who dealing death from side to side, Had through the Moorish army now made way, Beheld it flash, and judging well what aid Approach’d, with sudden impulse that way rode, To tell of what had pass’d, ... lest in the strife They should engage with Julian’s men, and mar The mighty consummation. One ran on To meet him fleet of foot, and having given His tale to this swift messenger, the Goth Halted awhile to let Orelio breathe. Siverian, quoth Pelayo, if mine eyes Deceive me not, yon horse, whose reeking sides Are red with slaughter, is the same on whom The apostate Orpas in his vauntery Wont to parade the streets of Cordoba. But thou shouldst know him best; regard him well: Is’t not Orelio? Either it is he, The old man replied, or one so like to him, Whom all thought matchless, that similitude Would be the greater wonder. But behold, What man is he who in that disarray Doth with such power and majesty bestride The noble steed, as if he felt himself In his own proper seat? Look how he leans To cherish him; and how the gallant horse Curves up his stately neck, and bends his head, As if again to court that gentle touch, And answer to the voice which praises him. Can it be Maccabee? rejoin’d the King, Or are the secret wishes of my soul Indeed fulfill’d, and hath the grave given up Its dead?... So saying, on the old man he turn’d Eyes full of wide astonishment, which told The incipient thought that for incredible He spake no farther. But enough had pass’d, For old Siverian started at the words Like one who sees a spectre, and exclaim’d, Blind that I was to know him not till now! My Master, O my Master! He meantime With easy pace moved on to meet their march. King, to Pelayo he began, this day By means scarce less than miracle, thy throne Is stablish’d, and the wrongs of Spain revenged. Orpas the accursed, upon yonder field Lies ready for the ravens. By the Moors Treacherously slain, Count Julian will be found Before Saint Peter’s altar; unto him Grace was vouchsafed; and by that holy power Which at Visonia from the Primate’s hand Of his own proper act to me was given, Unworthy as I am, ... yet sure I think Not without mystery, as the event hath shown, ... Did I accept Count Julian’s penitence, And reconcile the dying man to Heaven. Beside him hath his daughter fallen asleep; Deal honourably with his remains, and let One grave with Christian rites receive them both. Is it not written that as the Tree falls So it shall lie? In this and all things else, Pelayo answer’d, looking wistfully Upon the Goth, thy pleasure shall be done. Then Roderick saw that he was known, and turn’d His head away in silence. But the old man Laid hold upon his bridle, and look’d up In his master’s face, weeping and silently. Thereat the Goth with fervent pressure took His hand, and bending down toward him, said, My good Siverian, go not thou this day To war! I charge thee keep thyself from harm! Thou art past the age for battles, and with whom Hereafter should thy mistress talk of me If thou wert gone?... Thou seest I am unarm’d; Thus disarray’d as thou beholdest me, Clean through yon miscreant army have I cut My way unhurt; but being once by Heaven Preserved, I would not perish with the guilt Of having wilfully provoked my death. Give me thy helmet and thy cuirass!... nay, ... Thou wert not wont to let me ask in vain, Nor to gainsay me when my will was known! To thee methinks I should be still the King. Thus saying, they withdrew a little way Within the trees. Roderick alighted there, And in the old man’s armour dight himself. Dost thou not marvel by what wonderous chance, Said he, Orelio to his master’s hand Hath been restored? I found the renegade Of Seville on his back, and hurl’d him down Headlong to the earth. The noble animal Rejoicingly obey’d my hand to shake His recreant burthen off, and trample out The life which once I spared in evil hour. Now let me meet Witiza’s viperous sons In yonder field, and then I may go rest In peace, ... my work is done! And nobly done! Exclaim’d the old man. Oh! thou art greater now Than in that glorious hour of victory When grovelling in the dust Witiza lay, The prisoner of thy hand!... Roderick replied, O good Siverian, happier victory Thy son hath now achieved, ... the victory Over the world, his sins and his despair. If on the field my body should be found, See it, I charge thee, laid in Julian’s grave, And let no idle ear be told for whom Thou mournest. Thou wilt use Orelio As doth beseem the steed which hath so oft Carried a King to battle; ... he hath done Good service for his rightful Lord to-day, And better yet must do. Siverian, now Farewell! I think we shall not meet again, Till it be in that world where never change Is known, and they who love shall part no more. Commend me to my mother’s prayers, and say That never man enjoy’d a heavenlier peace Than Roderick at this hour. O faithful friend, How dear thou art to me these tears may tell! With that he fell upon the old man’s neck; Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins, And soon rejoin’d the host. On, comrades, on! Victory and Vengeance! he exclaim’d, and took The lead on that good charger, he alone Horsed for the onset. They with one consent Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry, Victory and Vengeance! and the hills and rocks Caught the prophetic shout and roll’d it round. Count Pedro’s people heard amid the heat Of battle, and return’d the glad acclaim. The astonish’d Musselmen, on all sides charged, Hear that tremendous cry; yet manfully They stood, and every where with gallant front Opposed in fair array the shock of war. Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms, And knowing that no safety could be found, Save from their own right hands. No former day Of all his long career had seen their chief Approved so well; nor had Witiza’s sons Ever before this hour achieved in fight Such feats of resolute valour. Sisibert Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot, And twice essay’d beneath his horse’s feet To thrust him down. Twice did the Prince evade The shock, and twice upon his shield received The fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more, Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief, Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth! Go meet thy death from any hand but mine. He said, and turn’d aside. Fitliest from me! Exclaim’d a dreadful voice, as through the throng Orelio forced his way; fitliest from me Receive the rightful death too long withheld! ’Tis Roderick strikes the blow! And as he spake, Upon the traitor’s shoulder fierce he drove The weapon, well-bestow’d. He in the seat Totter’d and fell. The Avenger hasten’d on In search of Ebba; and in the heat of fight Rejoicing and forgetful of all else, Set up his cry as he was wont in youth, Roderick the Goth!... his war-cry known so well. Pelayo eagerly took up the word, And shouted out his kinsman’s name beloved, Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory! Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth; Urban repeated it, and through his ranks Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field Of his great victory, when Witiza fell, With louder acclamations had that name Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven. The unreflecting throng, who yesterday, If it had pass’d their lips, would with a curse Have clogg’d it, echoed it as if it came From some celestial voice in the air, reveal’d To be the certain pledge of all their hopes. Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory! Roderick and Vengeance! O’er the field it spread, All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry; Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round; And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on, Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and smote, And overthrew, and scatter’d, and destroy’d, And trampled down; and still at every blow Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth, Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory! Roderick and Vengeance! Thus he made his way, Smiting and slaying through the astonish’d ranks, Till he beheld, where on a fiery barb, Ebba, performing well a soldier’s part, Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows. With mutual rage they met. The renegade Displays a scymitar, the splendid gift Of Walid from Damascus sent; its hilt Emboss’d with gems, its blade of perfect steel, Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sun With dazzling splendour, flash’d. The Goth objects His shield, and on its rim received the edge Driven from its aim aside, and of its force Diminish’d. Many a frustrate stroke was dealt On either part, and many a foin and thrust Aim’d and rebated; many a deadly blow Straight, or reverse, delivered and repell’d. Roderick at length with better speed hath reach’d The apostate’s turban, and through all its folds The true Cantabrian weapon making way Attain’d his forehead. Wretch! the avenger cried, It comes from Roderick’s hand! Roderick the Goth, Who spared, who trusted thee, and was betray’d! Go tell thy father now how thou hast sped With all thy treasons! Saying thus he seized The miserable, who, blinded now with blood, Reel’d in the saddle; and with sidelong step Backing Orelio, drew him to the ground. He shrieking, as beneath the horse’s feet He fell, forgot his late-learnt creed, and call’d On Mary’s name. The dreadful Goth pass’d on, Still plunging through the thickest war, and still Scattering, where’er he turn’d, the affrighted ranks. O who could tell what deeds were wrought that day, Or who endure to hear the tale of rage, Hatred, and madness, and despair, and fear, Horror, and wounds, and agony, and death, The cries, the blasphemies, the shrieks, and groans, And prayers, which mingled with the din of arms In one wild uproar of terrific sounds; While over all predominant was heard, Reiterate from the conquerors o’er the field, Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory! Roderick and Vengeance!... Woe for Africa! Woe for the circumcised! Woe for the faith Of the lying Ishmaelite that hour! The Chiefs Have fallen; the Moors, confused and captainless, And panic-stricken, vainly seek to escape The inevitable fate. Turn where they will, Strong in his cause, rejoicing in success, Insatiate at the banquet of revenge, The enemy is there; look where they will, Death hath environed their devoted ranks; Fly where they will, the avenger and the sword Await them, ... wretches! whom the righteous arm Hath overtaken!... Join’d in bonds of faith Accurs’d, the most flagitious of mankind From all parts met are here; the apostate Greek, The vicious Syrian, and the sullen Copt, The Persian cruel and corrupt of soul, The Arabian robber, and the prowling sons Of Africa, who from their thirsty sands Pray that the locusts on the peopled plain May settle and prepare their way. Conjoin’d Beneath an impious faith, which sanctifies To them all deeds of wickedness and blood, ... Yea, and halloos them on, ... here are they met To be conjoin’d in punishment this hour. For plunder, violation, massacre, All hideous, all unutterable things, The righteous, the immitigable sword Exacts due vengeance now! the cry of blood Is heard, the measure of their crimes is full; Such mercy as the Moor at Auria gave, Such mercy hath he found this dreadful hour! The evening darken’d, but the avenging sword Turn’d not away its edge till night had closed Upon the field of blood. The Chieftains then Blew the recall, and from their perfect work Return’d rejoicing, all but he for whom All look’d with most expectance. He full sure Had thought upon that field to find his end Desired, and with Florinda in the grave Rest, in indissoluble union join’d. But still where through the press of war he went Half-arm’d, and like a lover seeking death, The arrows past him by to right and left, The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar Glanced from his helmet; he, when he beheld The rout complete, saw that the shield of Heaven Had been extended over him once more, And bowed before its will. Upon the banks Of Sella was Orelio found, his legs And flanks incarnadined, his poitral smeared With froth and foam and gore, his silver mane Sprinkled with blood, which hung on every hair, Aspersed like dew-drops; trembling there he stood From the toil of battle, and at times sent forth His tremulous voice far echoing loud and shrill, A frequent anxious cry, with which he seem’d To call the master whom he loved so well, And who had thus again forsaken him. Siverian’s helm and cuirass on the grass Lay near; and Julian’s sword, its hilt and chain Clotted with blood; but where was he whose hand Had wielded it so well that glorious day?... Days, months, and years, and generations pass’d, And centuries held their course, before, far off Within a hermitage near Viseu’s walls A humble tomb was found, which bore inscribed In ancient characters King Roderick’s name.