RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.

Long had the crimes of Spain cried out to Heaven; At length the measure of offence was full. Count Julian call’d the invaders; not because Inhuman priests with unoffending blood Had stain’d their country; not because a yoke Of iron servitude oppress’d and gall’d The children of the soil; a private wrong Roused the remorseless Baron. Mad to wreak His vengeance for his violated child On Roderick’s head, in evil hour for Spain, For that unhappy daughter and himself, Desperate apostate ... on the Moors he call’d; And like a cloud of locusts, whom the South Wafts from the plains of wasted Africa, The Musselmen upon Iberia’s shore Descend. A countless multitude they came, Syrian, Moor, Saracen, Greek renegade, Persian and Copt and Tatar, in one bond Of erring faith conjoin’d, ... strong in the youth And heat of zeal, ... a dreadful brotherhood, In whom all turbulent vices were let loose; While Conscience, with their impious creed accurst Drunk as with wine, had sanctified to them All bloody, all abominable things. Thou, Calpe, saw’st their coming; ancient Rock Renown’d, no longer now shalt thou be call’d From Gods and Heroes of the years of yore, Kronos, or hundred-handed Briareus, Bacchus or Hercules; but doom’d to bear The name of thy new conqueror, and thenceforth To stand his everlasting monument. Thou saw’st the dark-blue waters flash before Their ominous way, and whiten round their keels; Their swarthy myriads darkening o’er thy sands. There on the beach the Misbelievers spread Their banners, flaunting to the sun and breeze; Fair shone the sun upon their proud array, White turbans, glittering armour, shields engrail’d With gold, and scymitars of Syrian steel; And gently did the breezes, as in sport, Curl their long flags outrolling, and display The blazon’d scrolls of blasphemy. Too soon The gales of Spain from that unhappy land Wafted, as from an open charnel-house, The taint of death; and that bright sun, from fields, Of slaughter, with the morning dew drew up Corruption through the infected atmosphere. Then fell the kingdom of the Goths; their hour Was come, and Vengeance, long withheld, went loose. Famine and Pestilence had wasted them, And Treason, like an old and eating sore, Consumed the bones and sinews of their strength; And worst of enemies, their Sins were arm’d Against them. Yet the sceptre from their hands Pass’d not away inglorious, nor was shame Left for their children’s lasting heritage; Eight summer days, from morn till latest eve, The fatal fight endured, till perfidy Prevailing to their overthrow, they sunk Defeated, not dishonour’d. On the banks Of Chrysus, Roderick’s royal car was found, His battle-horse Orelio, and that helm Whose horns, amid the thickest of the fray Eminent, had mark’d his presence. Did the stream Receive him with the undistinguish’d dead, Christian and Moor, who clogg’d its course that day? So thought the Conqueror, and from that day forth, Memorial of his perfect victory, He bade the river bear the name of Joy. So thought the Goths; they said no prayer for him, For him no service sung, nor mourning made, But charged their crimes upon his head, and curs’d His memory. Bravely in that eight-days fight The King had striven, ... for victory first, while hope Remain’d, then desperately in search of death. The arrows pass’d him by to right and left, The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar Glanced from his helmet. Is the shield of Heaven, Wretch that I am, extended over me? Cried Roderick; and he dropt Orelio’s reins, And threw his hands aloft in frantic prayer, ... Death is the only mercy that I crave, Death soon and short, death and forgetfulness! Aloud he cried; but in his inmost heart There answer’d him a secret voice, that spake Of righteousness and judgement after death, And God’s redeeming love, which fain would save The guilty soul alive. ’Twas agony, And yet ’twas hope; ... a momentary light, That flash’d through utter darkness on the Cross To point salvation, then left all within Dark as before. Fear, never felt till then, Sudden and irresistible as stroke Of lightning, smote him. From his horse he dropt, Whether with human impulse, or by Heaven Struck down, he knew not; loosen’d from his wrist The sword-chain, and let fall the sword, whose hilt Clung to his palm a moment ere it fell, Glued there with Moorish gore. His royal robe, His horned helmet and enamell’d mail, He cast aside, and taking from the dead A peasant’s garment, in those weeds involved Stole like a thief in darkness from the field. Evening closed round to favour him. All night He fled, the sound of battle in his ear Ringing, and sights of death before his eyes, With forms more horrible of eager fiends That seem’d to hover round, and gulphs of fire Opening beneath his feet. At times the groan Of some poor fugitive, who, bearing with him His mortal hurt, had fallen beside the way, Roused him from these dread visions, and he call’d In answering groans on his Redeemer’s name, That word the only prayer that pass’d his lips Or rose within his heart. Then would he see The Cross whereon a bleeding Saviour hung, Who call’d on him to come and cleanse his soul In those all-healing streams, which from his wounds, As from perpetual springs, for ever flow’d. No hart e’er panted for the water-brooks As Roderick thirsted there to drink and live: But Hell was interposed; and worse than Hell ... Yea to his eyes more dreadful than the fiends Who flock’d like hungry ravens round his head, ... Florinda stood between, and warn’d him off With her abhorrent hands, ... that agony Still in her face, which, when the deed was done, Inflicted on her ravisher the curse That it invoked from Heaven.... Oh what a night Of waking horrors! Nor when morning came Did the realities of light and day Bring aught of comfort; wheresoe’er he went The tidings of defeat had gone before; And leaving their defenceless homes to seek What shelter walls and battlements might yield, Old men with feeble feet, and tottering babes, And widows with their infants in their arms, Hurried along. Nor royal festival, Nor sacred pageant, with like multitudes E’er fill’d the public way. All whom the sword Had spared were here; bed-rid infirmity Alone was left behind; the cripple plied His crutches, with her child of yesterday The mother fled, and she whose hour was come Fell by the road. Less dreadful than this view Of outward suffering which the day disclosed, Had night and darkness seem’d to Roderick’s heart, With all their dread creations. From the throng He turn’d aside, unable to endure This burthen of the general woe; nor walls, Nor towers, nor mountain fastnesses he sought, A firmer hold his spirit yearn’d to find, A rock of surer strength. Unknowing where, Straight through the wild he hasten’d on all day And with unslacken’d speed was travelling still When evening gather’d round. Seven days from morn Till night he travell’d thus; the forest oaks, The fig-grove by the fearful husbandman Forsaken to the spoiler, and the vines, Where fox and household dog together now Fed on the vintage, gave him food; the hand Of Heaven was on him, and the agony Which wrought within, supplied a strength beyond All natural force of man. When the eighth eve Was come, he found himself on Ana’s banks, Fast by the Caulian Schools. It was the hour Of vespers, but no vesper bell was heard, Nor other sound, than of the passing stream, Or stork, who flapping with wide wing the air, Sought her broad nest upon the silent tower. Brethren and pupils thence alike had fled To save themselves within the embattled walls Of neighbouring Merida. One aged Monk Alone was left behind; he would not leave The sacred spot beloved, for having served There from his childhood up to ripe old age God’s holy altar, it became him now, He thought, before that altar to await The merciless misbelievers, and lay down His life, a willing martyr. So he staid When all were gone, and duly fed the lamps, And kept devotedly the altar drest, And duly offer’d up the sacrifice. Four days and nights he thus had pass’d alone, In such high mood of saintly fortitude, That hope of Heaven became a heavenly joy; And now at evening to the gate he went If he might spy the Moors, ... for it seem’d long To tarry for his crown. Before the Cross Roderick had thrown himself; his body raised, Half kneeling, half at length he lay; his arms Embraced its foot, and from his lifted face Tears streaming down bedew’d the senseless stone. He had not wept till now, and at the gush Of these first tears, it seem’d as if his heart, From a long winter’s icey thrall let loose, Had open’d to the genial influences Of Heaven. In attitude, but not in act Of prayer he lay; an agony of tears Was all his soul could offer. When the Monk Beheld him suffering thus, he raised him up, And took him by the arm, and led him in; And there before the altar, in the name Of Him whose bleeding image there was hung, Spake comfort, and adjured him in that name There to lay down the burthen of his sins. Lo! said Romano, I am waiting here The coming of the Moors, that from their hands My spirit may receive the purple robe Of martyrdom, and rise to claim its crown. That God who willeth not the sinner’s death Hath led thee hither. Threescore years and five, Even from the hour when I, a five-years child, Enter’d the schools, have I continued here And served the altar: not in all those years Hath such a contrite and a broken heart Appear’d before me. O my brother, Heaven Hath sent thee for thy comfort, and for mine, That my last earthly act may reconcile A sinner to his God. Then Roderick knelt Before the holy man, and strove to speak. Thou seest, he cried, ... thou seest, ... but memory And suffocating thoughts repress’d the word, And shudderings like an ague fit, from head To foot convulsed him; till at length, subduing His nature to the effort, he exclaim’d, Spreading his hands and lifting up his face, As if resolved in penitence to bear A human eye upon his shame, ... Thou seest Roderick the Goth! That name would have sufficed To tell its whole abhorred history: He not the less pursued, ... the ravisher, The cause of all this ruin! Having said, In the same posture motionless he knelt, Arms straighten’d down, and hands outspread, and eyes Raised to the Monk, like one who from his voice Awaited life or death. All night the old man Pray’d with his penitent, and minister’d Unto the wounded soul, till he infused A healing hope of mercy that allay’d Its heat of anguish. But Romano saw What strong temptations of despair beset, And how he needed in this second birth, Even like a yearling child, a fosterer’s care. Father in Heaven, he cried, thy will be done! Surely I hoped that I this day should sing Hosannahs at thy throne; but thou hast yet Work for thy servant here. He girt his loins, And from her altar took with reverent hands Our Lady’s image down: In this, quoth he, We have our guide and guard and comforter, The best provision for our perilous way. Fear not but we shall find a resting place, The Almighty’s hand is on us. They went forth, They cross’d the stream, and when Romano turn’d For his last look toward the Caulian towers, Far off the Moorish standards in the light Of morn were glittering, where the miscreant host Toward the Lusitanian capital To lay their siege advanced; the eastern breeze Bore to the fearful travellers far away The sound of horn and tambour o’er the plain. All day they hasten’d, and when evening fell Sped toward the setting sun, as if its line Of glory came from Heaven to point their course. But feeble were the feet of that old man For such a weary length of way; and now Being pass’d the danger (for in Merida Sacaru long in resolute defence Withstood the tide of war,) with easier pace The wanderers journey’d on; till having cross’d Rich Tagus, and the rapid Zezere, They from Albardos’ hoary height beheld Pine-forest, fruitful vale, and that fair lake Where Alcoa, mingled there with Baza’s stream, Rests on its passage to the western sea, That sea the aim and boundary of their toil. The fourth week of their painful pilgrimage Was full, when they arrived where from the land A rocky hill, rising with steep ascent, O’erhung the glittering beach; there on the top A little lowly hermitage they found, And a rude Cross, and at its foot a grave, Bearing no name, nor other monument. Where better could they rest than here, where faith And secret penitence and happiest death Had bless’d the spot, and brought good Angels down, And open’d as it were a way to Heaven? Behind them was the desert, offering fruit And water for their need: on either side The white sand sparkling to the sun; in front, Great Ocean with its everlasting voice, As in perpetual jubilee, proclaim’d The wonders of the Almighty, filling thus The pauses of their fervent orisons. Where better could the wanderers rest than here?

Twelve months they sojourn’d in their solitude, And then beneath the burthen of old age Romano sunk. No brethren were there here To spread the sackcloth, and with ashes strew That penitential bed, and gather round To sing his requiem, and with prayer and psalm Assist him in his hour of agony. He lay on the bare earth, which long had been His only couch; beside him Roderick knelt, Moisten’d from time to time his blacken’d lips, Received a blessing with his latest breath, Then closed his eyes, and by the nameless grave Of the fore-tenant of that holy place Consign’d him earth to earth. Two graves are here, And Roderick transverse at their feet began To break the third. In all his intervals Of prayer, save only when he search’d the woods And fill’d the water-cruise, he labour’d there; And when the work was done, and he had laid Himself at length within its narrow sides And measured it, he shook his head to think There was no other business now for him. Poor wretch, thy bed is ready, he exclaim’d, And would that night were come!... It was a task, All gloomy as it was, which had beguiled The sense of solitude; but now he felt The burthen of the solitary hours: The silence of that lonely hermitage Lay on him like a spell; and at the voice Of his own prayers, he started half aghast. Then too as on Romano’s grave he sate And pored upon his own, a natural thought Arose within him, ... well might he have spared That useless toil; the sepulchre would be No hiding place for him; no Christian hands Were here who should compose his decent corpse And cover it with earth. There he might drag His wretched body at its passing hour, But there the Sea-Birds of her heritage Would rob the worm, or peradventure seize, Ere death had done its work, their helpless prey. Even now they did not fear him: when he walk’d Beside them on the beach, regardlessly They saw his coming; and their whirring wings Upon the height had sometimes fann’d his cheek, As if, being thus alone, humanity Had lost its rank, and the prerogative Of man were done away. For his lost crown And sceptre never had he felt a thought Of pain; repentance had no pangs to spare For trifles such as these, ... the loss of these Was a cheap penalty; ... that he had fallen Down to the lowest depth of wretchedness, His hope and consolation. But to lose His human station in the scale of things, ... To see brute nature scorn him, and renounce Its homage to the human form divine; ... Had then Almighty vengeance thus reveal’d His punishment, and was he fallen indeed Below fallen man, below redemption’s reach, ... Made lower than the beasts, and like the beasts To perish!... Such temptations troubled him By day, and in the visions of the night; And even in sleep he struggled with the thought. And waking with the effort of his prayers The dream assail’d him still. A wilder form Sometimes his poignant penitence assumed, Starting with force revived from intervals Of calmer passion, or exhausted rest; When floating back upon the tide of thought Remembrance to a self-excusing strain Beguiled him, and recall’d in long array The sorrows and the secret impulses Which to the abyss of wretchedness and guilt Led their unwary victim. The evil hour Return’d upon him, when reluctantly Yielding to worldly counsel his assent, In wedlock to an ill-assorted mate He gave his cold unwilling hand: then came The disappointment of the barren bed, The hope deceived, the soul dissatisfied, Home without love, and privacy from which Delight was banish’d first, and peace too soon Departed. Was it strange that when he met A heart attuned, ... a spirit like his own, Of lofty pitch, yet in affection mild, And tender as a youthful mother’s joy, ... Oh was it strange if at such sympathy The feelings which within his breast repell’d And chill’d had shrunk, should open forth like flowers After cold winds of night, when gentle gales Restore the genial sun? If all were known, Would it indeed be not to be forgiven?... (Thus would he lay the unction to his soul,) If all were truly known, as Heaven knows all, Heaven that is merciful as well as just, ... A passion slow and mutual in its growth, Pure as fraternal love, long self-conceal’d, And when confess’d in silence, long controll’d; Treacherous occasion, human frailty, fear Of endless separation, worse than death, ... The purpose and the hope with which the Fiend Tempted, deceived, and madden’d him; ... but then As at a new temptation would he start, Shuddering beneath the intolerable shame, And clench in agony his matted hair; While in his soul the perilous thought arose, How easy ’twere to plunge where yonder waves Invited him to rest. Oh for a voice Of comfort, ... for a ray of hope from Heaven! A hand that from these billows of despair May reach and snatch him ere he sink engulph’d! At length, as life when it hath lain long time Opprest beneath some grievous malady, Seems to rouse up with re-collected strength, And the sick man doth feel within himself A second spring; so Roderick’s better mind Arose to save him. Lo! the western sun Flames o’er the broad Atlantic; on the verge Of glowing ocean rests; retiring then Draws with it all its rays, and sudden night Fills the whole cope of heaven. The penitent Knelt by Romano’s grave, and falling prone, Claspt with extended arms the funeral mould. Father! he cried; Companion! only friend, When all beside was lost! thou too art gone, And the poor sinner whom from utter death Thy providential hand preserved, once more Totters upon the gulph. I am too weak For solitude, ... too vile a wretch to bear This everlasting commune with myself. The Tempter hath assail’d me; my own heart Is leagued with him; Despair hath laid the nets To take my soul, and Memory, like a ghost, Haunts me, and drives me to the toils. O Saint, While I was blest with thee, the hermitage Was my sure haven! Look upon me still, For from thy heavenly mansion thou canst see The suppliant; look upon thy child in Christ. Is there no other way for penitence? I ask not martyrdom; for what am I That I should pray for triumphs, the fit meed Of a long life of holy works like thine; Or how should I presumptuously aspire To wear the heavenly crown resign’d by thee, For my poor sinful sake? Oh point me thou Some humblest, painfulest, severest path, ... Some new austerity, unheard of yet In Syrian fields of glory, or the sands Of holiest Egypt. Let me bind my brow With thorns, and barefoot seek Jerusalem, Tracking the way with blood; there day by day Inflict upon this guilty flesh the scourge, Drink vinegar and gall, and for my bed Hang with extended limbs upon the Cross, A nightly crucifixion!... any thing Of action, difficulty, bodily pain, Labour, and outward suffering, ... any thing But stillness and this dreadful solitude! Romano! Father! let me hear thy voice In dreams, O sainted Soul! or from the grave Speak to thy penitent; even from the grave Thine were a voice of comfort. Thus he cried, Easing the pressure of his burthen’d heart With passionate prayer; thus pour’d his spirit forth, Till with the long impetuous effort spent, His spirit fail’d, and laying on the grave His weary head as on a pillow, sleep Fell on him. He had pray’d to hear a voice Of consolation, and in dreams a voice Of consolation came. Roderick, it said, ... Roderick, my poor, unhappy, sinful child, Jesus have mercy on thee!... Not if Heaven Had opened, and Romano, visible In his beatitude, had breathed that prayer; ... Not if the grave had spoken, had it pierced So deeply in his soul, nor wrung his heart With such compunctious visitings, nor given So quick, so keen a pang. It was that voice Which sung his fretful infancy to sleep So patiently; which soothed his childish griefs, Counsell’d, with anguish and prophetic tears, His headstrong youth. And lo! his Mother stood Before him in the vision; in those weeds Which never from the hour when to the grave She follow’d her dear lord Theodofred Rusilla laid aside; but in her face A sorrow that bespake a heavier load At heart, and more unmitigated woe, ... Yea, a more mortal wretchedness than when Witiza’s ruffians and the red-hot brass Had done their work, and in her arms she held Her eyeless husband; wiped away the sweat Which still his tortures forced from every pore Cool’d his scorch’d lids with medicinal herbs, And pray’d the while for patience for herself And him, and pray’d for vengeance too, and found Best comfort in her curses. In his dream, Groaning he knelt before her to beseech Her blessing, and she raised her hands to lay A benediction on him. But those hands Were chain’d, and casting a wild look around, With thrilling voice she cried, Will no one break These shameful fetters? Pedro, Theudemir, Athanagild, where are ye? Roderick’s arm Is wither’d; ... Chiefs of Spain, but where are ye? And thou, Pelayo, thou our surest hope, Dost thou too sleep?... Awake, Pelayo!... up!... Why tarriest thou, Deliverer?... But with that She broke her bonds, and lo! her form was changed! Radiant in arms she stood! a bloody Cross Gleam’d on her breast-plate, in her shield display’d Erect a lion ramp’d; her helmed head Rose like the Berecynthian Goddess crown’d With towers, and in her dreadful hand the sword Red as a fire-brand blazed. Anon the tramp Of horsemen, and the din of multitudes Moving to mortal conflict, rang around; The battle-song, the clang of sword and shield, War-cries and tumult, strife and hate and rage, Blasphemous prayers, confusion, agony, Rout and pursuit and death; and over all The shout of victory ... Spain and Victory! Roderick, as the strong vision master’d him, Rush’d to the fight rejoicing: starting then, As his own effort burst the charm of sleep, He found himself upon that lonely grave In moonlight and in silence. But the dream Wrought in him still; for still he felt his heart Pant, and his wither’d arm was trembling still; And still that voice was in his ear which call’d On Jesus for his sake. Oh, might he hear That actual voice! and if Rusilla lived, ... If shame and anguish for his crimes not yet Had brought her to the grave, ... sure she would bless Her penitent child, and pour into his heart Prayers and forgiveness, which like precious balm, Would heal the wounded soul. Nor to herself Less precious, or less healing, would the voice That spake forgiveness flow. She wept her son For ever lost, cut off with all the weight Of unrepented sin upon his head, Sin which had weigh’d a nation down ... what joy To know that righteous Heaven had in its wrath Remember’d mercy, and she yet might meet The child whom she had borne, redeem’d, in bliss. The sudden impulse of such thoughts confirm’d That unacknowledged purpose, which till now Vainly had sought its end. He girt his loins, Laid holiest Mary’s image in a cleft Of the rock, where, shelter’d from the elements, It might abide till happier days came on, From all defilement safe; pour’d his last prayer Upon Romano’s grave, and kiss’d the earth Which cover’d his remains, and wept as if At long leave-taking, then began his way.

’Twas now the earliest morning; soon the Sun, Rising above Albardos, pour’d his light Amid the forest, and with ray aslant Entering its depth, illumed the branchless pines, Brighten’d their bark, tinged with a redder hue Its rusty stains, and cast along the floor Long lines of shadow, where they rose erect Like pillars of the temple. With slow foot Roderick pursued his way; for penitence, Remorse which gave no respite, and the long And painful conflict of his troubled soul, Had worn him down. Now brighter thoughts arose, And that triumphant vision floated still Before his sight with all her blazonry, Her castled helm, and the victorious sword That flash’d like lightning o’er the field of blood. Sustain’d by thoughts like these, from morn till eve He journey’d, and drew near Leyria’s walls. ’Twas even-song time, but not a bell was heard Instead thereof, on her polluted towers, Bidding the Moors to their unhallow’d prayer, The cryer stood, and with his sonorous voice Fill’d the delicious vale where Lena winds Thro’ groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight Of turban, girdle, robe, and scymitar, And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth; The face of human-kind so long unseen Confused him now, and through the streets he went With haggëd mien, and countenance like one Crazed or bewilder’d. All who met him turn’d, And wonder’d as he pass’d. One stopt him short. Put alms into his hand, and then desired In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man To bless him. With a look of vacancy Roderick received the alms; his wandering eye Fell on the money, and the fallen King, Seeing his own royal impress on the piece, Broke out into a quick convulsive voice, That seem’d like laughter first, but ended soon In hollow groans supprest; the Musselman Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified The name of Allah as he hasten’d on. A Christian woman spinning at her door Beheld him, and, with sudden pity touch’d She laid her spindle by, and running in Took bread, and following after call’d him back, And placing in his passive hands the loaf, She said, Christ Jesus for his mother’s sake Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem’d Like idiotcy he heard her, and stood still, Staring awhile; then bursting into tears Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart, Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts. So through the streets, and through the northern gate Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place, With feeble yet with hurried step pursue His agitated way; and when he reach’d The open fields, and found himself alone Beneath the starry canopy of Heaven, The sense of solitude, so dreadful late, Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf; And shedding o’er that long untasted food Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul He breathed thanksgiving forth, then made his bed On heath and myrtle. But when he arose At day-break and pursued his way, his heart Felt lighten’d that the shock of mingling first Among his fellow-kind was overpast; And journeying on, he greeted whom he met With such short interchange of benison As each to other gentle travellers give, Recovering thus the power of social speech Which he had long disused. When hunger prest He ask’d for alms: slight supplication served; A countenance so pale and woe-begone Moved all to pity; and the marks it bore Of rigorous penance and austerest life, With something too of majesty that still Appear’d amid the wreck, inspired a sense Of reverence too. The goat-herd on the hills Open’d his scrip for him; the babe in arms, Affrighted at his visage, turn’d away, And clinging to the mother’s neck in tears Would yet again look up and then again, Shrink back, with cry renew’d. The bolder imps Sporting beside the way, at his approach Brake off their games for wonder, and stood still In silence; some among them cried, A Saint! The village matron when she gave him food Besought his prayers; and one entreated him To lay his healing hands upon her child, For with a sore and hopeless malady Wasting, it long had lain, ... and sure, she said, He was a man of God. Thus travelling on He past the vale where wild Arunca pours Its wintry torrents; and the happier site Of old Conimbrica, whose ruin’d towers Bore record of the fierce Alani’s wrath. Mondego too he cross’d, not yet renown’d In poets’ amorous lay; and left behind The walls at whose foundation pious hands Of Priest and Monk and Bishop meekly toil’d, ... So had the insulting Arian given command. Those stately palaces and rich domains Were now the Moor’s, and many a weary age Must Coimbra wear the misbeliever’s yoke, Before Fernando’s banner through her gate Shall pass triumphant, and her hallow’d Mosque Behold the hero of Bivar receive The knighthood which he glorified so oft In his victorious fields. Oh if the years To come might then have risen on Roderick’s soul, How had they kindled and consoled his heart!... What joy might Douro’s haven then have given, Whence Portugal, the faithful and the brave, Shall take her name illustrious!... what, those walls Where Mumadona one day will erect Convent and town and towers, which shall become The cradle of that famous monarchy! What joy might these prophetic scenes have given, ... What ample vengeance on the Musselman, Driven out with foul defeat, and made to feel In Africa the wrongs he wrought to Spain; And still pursued by that relentless sword, Even to the farthest Orient, where his power Received its mortal wound. O years of pride! In undiscoverable futurity, Yet unevolved, your destined glories lay; And all that Roderick in these fated scenes Beheld, was grief and wretchedness, ... the waste Of recent war, and that more mournful calm Of joyless, helpless, hopeless servitude. ’Twas not the ruin’d walls of church or tower, Cottage or hall or convent, black with smoke; ’Twas not the unburied bones, which where the dogs And crows had strewn them, lay amid the field Bleaching in sun or shower, that wrung his heart With keenest anguish: ’twas when he beheld The turban’d traitor shew his shameless front In the open eye of Heaven, ... the renegade, On whose base brutal nature unredeem’d Even black apostacy itself could stamp No deeper reprobation, at the hour Assign’d fall prostrate; and unite the names Of God and the Blasphemer, ... impious prayer, ... Most impious, when from unbelieving lips The accursëd utterance came. Then Roderick’s heart With indignation burnt, and then he long’d To be a King again, that so, for Spain Betray’d and his Redeemer thus renounced, He might inflict due punishment, and make These wretches feel his wrath. But when he saw The daughters of the land, ... who, as they went With cheerful step to church, were wont to shew Their innocent faces to all passers eyes, Freely, and free from sin as when they look’d In adoration and in praise to Heaven, ... Now mask’d in Moorish mufflers, to the Mosque Holding uncompanied their jealous way, His spirit seem’d at that unhappy sight To die away within him, and he too Would fain have died, so death could bring with it Entire oblivion. Rent with thoughts like these, He reach’d that city, once the seat renown’d Of Suevi kings, where, in contempt of Rome Degenerate long, the North’s heroic race Raised first a rival throne; now from its state Of proud regality debased and fallen. Still bounteous nature o’er the lovely vale, Where like a Queen rose Bracara august, Pour’d forth her gifts profuse; perennial springs Flow’d for her habitants, and genial suns, With kindly showers to bless the happy clime, Combined in vain their gentle influences: For patient servitude was there, who bow’d His neck beneath the Moor, and silent grief That eats into the soul. The walls and stones Seem’d to reproach their dwellers; stately piles Yet undecay’d, the mighty monuments Of Roman pomp, Barbaric palaces, And Gothic halls, where haughty Barons late Gladden’d their faithful vassals with the feast And flowing bowl, alike the spoiler’s now. Leaving these captive scenes behind, he crost Cavado’s silver current, and the banks Of Lima, through whose groves in after years, Mournful yet sweet, Diogo’s amorous lute Prolong’d its tuneful echoes. But when now Beyond Arnoya’s tributary tide, He came where Minho roll’d its ampler stream By Auria’s ancient walls, fresh horrors met His startled view; for prostrate in the dust Those walls were laid, and towers and temples stood Tottering in frightful ruins, as the flame Had left them black and bare; and through the streets, All with the recent wreck of war bestrewn, Helmet and turban, scymitar and sword, Christian and Moor in death promiscuous lay Each where they fell; and blood-flakes, parch’d and crack’d Like the dry slime of some receding flood; And half-burnt bodies, which allured from far The wolf and raven, and to impious food Tempted the houseless dog. A thrilling pang, A sweat like death, a sickness of the soul, Came over Roderick. Soon they pass’d away, And admiration in their stead arose, Stern joy, and inextinguishable hope, With wrath, and hate, and sacred vengeance now Indissolubly link’d. O valiant race, O people excellently brave, he cried, True Goths ye fell, and faithful to the last; Though overpower’d, triumphant, and in death Unconquer’d! Holy be your memory! Bless’d and glorious now and evermore Be your heroic names!... Led by the sound, As thus he cried aloud, a woman came Toward him from the ruins. For the love Of Christ, she said, lend me a little while Thy charitable help!... Her words, her voice, Her look, more horror to his heart convey’d Than all the havoc round: for though she spake With the calm utterance of despair, in tones Deep-breathed and low, yet never sweeter voice Pour’d forth its hymns in ecstasy to Heaven. Her hands were bloody, and her garments stain’d With blood, her face with blood and dust defiled. Beauty and youth, and grace and majesty, Had every charm of form and feature given; But now upon her rigid countenance Severest anguish set a fixedness Ghastlier than death. She led him through the streets A little way along, where four low walls, Heapt rudely from the ruins round, enclosed A narrow space: and there upon the ground Four bodies, decently composed, were laid, Though horrid all with wounds and clotted gore; A venerable ancient, by his side A comely matron, for whose middle age, (If ruthless slaughter had not intervened,) Nature it seem’d, and gentle Time, might well Have many a calm declining year in store; The third an armëd warrior, on his breast An infant, over whom his arms were cross’d. There, ... with firm eye and steady countenance, Unfaltering, she addrest him, ... there they lie, Child, Husband, Parents, ... Adosinda’s all! I could not break the earth with these poor hands Nor other tomb provide, ... but let that pass! Auria itself is now but one wide tomb For all its habitants:—What better grave? What worthier monument?... Oh cover not Their blood, thou Earth! and ye, ye blessëd Souls Of Heroes and of murder’d Innocents, Oh never let your everlasting cries Cease round the Eternal Throne, till the Most High For all these unexampled wrongs hath given Full, ... overflowing vengeance! While she spake She raised her lofty hands to Heaven, as if Calling for justice on the Judgement-seat; Then laid them on her eyes, and leaning on Bent o’er the open sepulchre. But soon With quiet mien collectedly, like one Who from intense devotion, and the act Of ardent prayer, arising, girds himself For this world’s daily business, ... she arose, And said to Roderick, Help me now to raise The covering of the tomb. With half-burnt planks Which she had gather’d for this funeral use They roof’d the vault, then laying stones above They closed it down; last, rendering all secure, Stones upon stones they piled, till all appear’d A huge and shapeless heap. Enough, she cried; And taking Roderick’s hands in both her own, And wringing them with fervent thankfulness, May God shew mercy to thee, she exclaim’d, When most thou needest mercy! Who thou art I know not; not of Auria, ... for of all Her sons and daughters, save the one who stands Before thee, not a soul is left alive. But thou hast render’d to me, in my hour Of need, the only help which man could give. What else of consolation may be found For one so utterly bereft, from Heaven And from myself must come. For deem not thou That I shall sink beneath calamity: This visitation, like a lightning-stroke, Hath scathed the fruit and blossom of my youth; One hour hath orphan’d me, and widow’d me, And made me childless. In this sepulchre Lie buried all my earthward hopes and fears, All human loves and natural charities; ... All womanly tenderness, all gentle thoughts, All female weakness too, I bury here, Yea, all my former nature. There remain Revenge and death: ... the bitterness of death Is past, and Heaven already hath vouchsafed A foretaste of revenge. Look here! she cried, And drawing back, held forth her bloody hands, ... ’Tis Moorish!... In the day of massacre, A captain of Alcahman’s murderous host Reserved me from the slaughter. Not because My rank and station tempted him with thoughts Of ransom, for amid the general waste Of ruin all was lost; ... Nor yet, be sure, That pity moved him, ... they who from this race Accurst for pity look, such pity find As ravenous wolves shew the defenceless flock. My husband at my feet had fallen; my babe, ... Spare me that thought, O God!... and then ... even then Amid the maddening throes of agony Which rent my soul, ... when if this solid Earth Had open’d and let out the central fire Before whose all-involving flames wide Heaven Shall shrivel like a scroll and be consumed, The universal wreck had been to me Relief and comfort; ... even then this Moor Turn’d on me his libidinous eyes, and bade His men reserve me safely for an hour Of dalliance, ... me!... me in my agonies! But when I found for what this miscreant child Of Hell had snatch’d me from the butchery, The very horror of that monstrous thought Saved me from madness; I was calm at once, ... Yet comforted and reconciled to life: Hatred became to me the life of life, Its purpose and its power. The glutted Moors At length broke up. This hell-dog turn’d aside Toward his home: we travell’d fast and far, Till by a forest edge at eve he pitched His tents. I wash’d and ate at his command, Forcing revolted nature; I composed My garments and bound up my scatter’d hair; And when he took my hand, and to his couch Would fain have drawn me, gently I retired From that abominable touch, and said, Forbear to-night I pray thee, for this day A widow, as thou seest me, am I made; Therefore, according to our law, must watch And pray to-night. The loathsome villain paused Ere he assented, then laid down to rest; While at the door of the pavilion, I Knelt on the ground, and bowed my face to earth; But when the neighbouring tents had ceased their stir, The fires were out, and all were fast asleep, Then I arose. The blessed Moon from Heaven Lent me her holy light. I did not pray For strength, for strength was given me as I drew The scymitar, and, standing o’er his couch, Raised it in both my hands with steady aim And smote his neck. Upward, as from a spring When newly open’d by the husbandman, The villain’s life-blood spouted. Twice I struck So making vengeance sure; then, praising God, Retired amid the wood, and measured back My patient way to Auria, to perform This duty which thou seest. As thus she spake, Roderick intently listening had forgot His crown, his kingdom, his calamities, His crimes, ... so like a spell upon the Goth Her powerful words prevail’d. With open lips, And eager ear, and eyes which, while they watch’d Her features, caught the spirit that she breathed, Mute and enrapt he stood, and motionless; The vision rose before him; and that shout, Which, like a thunder-peal, victorious Spain Sent through the welkin, rung within his soul Its deep prophetic echoes. On his brow The pride and power of former majesty Dawn’d once again, but changed and purified: Duty and high heroic purposes Now hallow’d it, and as with inward light Illumed his meagre countenance austere. Awhile in silence Adosinda stood, Reading his alter’d visage and the thoughts Which thus transfigured him. Aye, she exclaim’d, My tale hath moved thee! it might move the dead, Quicken captivity’s dead soul, and rouse This prostrate country from her mortal trance: Therefore I live to tell it; and for this Hath the Lord God Almighty given to me A spirit not mine own and strength from Heaven; Dealing with me as in the days of old With that Bethulian Matron when she saved His people from the spoiler. What remains But that the life which he hath thus preserved I consecrate to him? Not veil’d and vow’d To pass my days in holiness and peace; Nor yet between sepulchral walls immured, Alive to penitence alone; my rule He hath himself prescribed, and hath infused A passion in this woman’s breast, wherein All passions and all virtues are combined; Love, hatred, joy, and anguish, and despair, And hope, and natural piety, and faith, Make up the mighty feeling. Call it not Revenge! thus sanctified and thus sublimed, ’Tis duty, ’tis devotion. Like the grace Of God, it came and saved me; and in it Spain must have her salvation. In thy hands Here, on the grave of all my family, I make my vow. She said, and kneeling down, Placed within Roderick’s palms her folded hands. This life, she cried, I dedicate to God, Therewith to do him service in the way Which he hath shown. To rouse the land against This impious, this intolerable yoke, ... To offer up the invader’s hateful blood, ... This shall be my employ, my rule and rite, Observances and sacrifice of faith; For this I hold the life which he hath given, A sacred trust; for this, when it shall suit His service, joyfully will lay it down. So deal with me as I fulfil the pledge, O Lord my God, my Saviour and my Judge. Then rising from the earth, she spread her arms, And looking round with sweeping eyes exclaim’d, Auria, and Spain, and Heaven receive the vow!

Thus long had Roderick heard her powerful words In silence, awed before her; but his heart Was fill’d the while with swelling sympathy, And now with impulse not to be restrain’d The feeling overpower’d him. Hear me too, Auria, and Spain, and Heaven! he cried; and thou Who risest thus above mortality, Sufferer and patriot, saint and heroine, The servant and the chosen of the Lord, For surely such thou art, ... receive in me The first-fruits of thy calling. Kneeling then, And placing as he spake his hand in her’s, As thou hast sworn, the royal Goth pursued, Even so I swear; my soul hath found at length Her rest and refuge; in the invader’s blood She must efface her stains of mortal sin, And in redeeming this lost land, work out Redemption for herself. Herein I place My penance for the past, my hope to come, My faith and my good works; here offer up All thoughts and passions of mine inmost heart, My days and night, ... this flesh, this blood, this life, Yea, this whole being, do I here devote For Spain. Receive the vow, all Saints in Heaven, And prosper its good end!... Clap now your wings, The Goth with louder utterance as he rose Exclaim’d, ... clap now your wings exultingly Ye ravenous fowl of Heaven; and in your dens Set up, ye wolves of Spain, a yell of joy; For, lo! a nation hath this day been sworn To furnish forth your banquet; for a strife Hath been commenced, the which from this day forth Permits no breathing-time, and knows no end Till in this land the last invader bow His neck beneath the exterminating sword. Said I not rightly? Adosinda cried; The will which goads me on is not mine own, ’Tis from on high, ... yea, verily of Heaven! But who art thou who hast profess’d with me, My first sworn brother in the appointed rule? Tell me thy name. Ask any thing but that! The fallen King replied. My name was lost When from the Goths the sceptre pass’d away. The nation will arise regenerate; Strong in her second youth and beautiful, And like a spirit which hath shaken off The clog of dull mortality, shall Spain Arise in glory. But for my good name No resurrection is appointed here. Let it be blotted out on earth: in Heaven There shall be written with it penitence And grace and saving faith and such good deeds Wrought in atonement as my soul this day Hath sworn to offer up. Then be thy name, She answer’d, Maccabee, from this day forth: For this day art thou born again; and like Those brethren of old times, whose holy names Live in the memory of all noble hearts For love and admiration, ever young, ... So for our native country, for her hearths And altars, for her cradles and her graves, Hast thou thyself devoted. Let us now Each to our work. Among the neighbouring hills, I to the vassals of my father’s house; Thou to Visonia. Tell the Abbot there What thou hast seen at Auria; and with him Take counsel who of all our Baronage Is worthiest to lead on the sons of Spain, And wear upon his brow the Spanish crown. Now, brother, fare thee well! we part in hope, And we shall meet again, be sure, in joy. So saying, Adosinda left the King Alone amid the ruins. There he stood, As when Elisha, on the farther bank Of Jordan, saw that elder prophet mount The fiery chariot, and the steeds of fire, Trampling the whirlwind, bear him up the sky: Thus gazing after her did Roderick stand; And as the immortal Tishbite left behind His mantle and prophetic power, even so Had her inspiring presence left infused The spirit which she breathed. Gazing he stood, As at a heavenly visitation there Vouchsafed in mercy to himself and Spain; And when the heroic mourner from his sight Had pass’d away, still reverential awe Held him suspended there and motionless. Then turning from the ghastly scene of death Up murmuring Lona, he began toward The holy Bierzo his obedient way. Sil’s ample stream he crost, where through the vale Of Orras, from that sacred land it bears The whole collected waters; northward then, Skirting the heights of Aguiar, he reach’d That consecrated pile amid the wild, Which sainted Fructuoso in his zeal Rear’d to St. Felix, on Visonia’s banks. In commune with a priest of age mature, Whose thoughtful visage and majestic mien Bespake authority and weight of care, Odoar, the venerable Abbot, sate, When ushering Roderick in, the Porter said, A stranger came from Auria, and required His private ear. From Auria? said the old man, Comest thou from Auria, brother? I can spare Thy painful errand then, ... we know the worst. Nay, answer’d Roderick, but thou hast not heard My tale. Where that devoted city lies In ashes, mid the ruins and the dead I found a woman, whom the Moors had borne Captive away; but she, by Heaven inspired And her good heart, with her own arm had wrought Her own deliverance, smiting in his tent A lustful Moorish miscreant, as of yore By Judith’s holy deed the Assyrian fell. And that same spirit which had strengthen’d her Work’d in her still. Four walls with patient toil She rear’d, wherein, as in a sepulchre, With her own hands she laid her murder’d babe, Her husband and her parents, side by side; And when we cover’d in this shapeless tomb, There on the grave of all her family, Did this courageous mourner dedicate All thoughts and actions of her future life To her poor country. For she said, that Heaven Supporting her, in mercy had vouchsafed A foretaste of revenge; that, like the grace Of God, revenge had saved her; that in it Spain must have her salvation; and henceforth That passion, thus sublimed and sanctified, Must be to all the loyal sons of Spain The pole-star of their faith, their rule and rite, Observances and worthiest sacrifice. I took the vow, unworthy as I am, Her first sworn follower in the appointed rule; And then we parted; she among the hills To rouse the vassals of her father’s house: I at her bidding hitherward, to ask Thy counsel, who of our old Baronage Shall place upon his brow the Spanish crown. The Lady Adosinda? Odoar cried. Roderick made answer, So she call’d herself. Oh none but she! exclaim’d the good old man, Clasping his hands, which trembled as he spake In act of pious passion raised to Heaven, ... Oh none but Adosinda!... none but she, ... None but that noble heart, which was the heart Of Auria while it stood, its life and strength, More than her father’s presence, or the arm Of her brave husband, valiant as he was. Hers was the spirit which inspired old age, Ambitious boyhood, girls in timid youth, And virgins in the beauty of their spring, And youthful mothers, doting like herself With ever-anxious love: She breathed through all That zeal and that devoted faithfulness, Which to the invader’s threats and promises Turn’d a deaf ear alike; which in the head And flood of prosperous fortune check’d his course, Repell’d him from the walls, and when at length His overpowering numbers forced their way, Even in that uttermost extremity Unyielding, still from street to street, from house To house, from floor to floor, maintain’d the fight: Till by their altars falling, in their doors, And on their household hearths, and by their beds And cradles, and their fathers’ sepulchres, This noble army, gloriously revenged, Embraced their martyrdom. Heroic souls! Well have ye done, and righteously discharged Your arduous part! Your service is perform’d, Your earthly warfare done! Ye have put on The purple robe of everlasting peace! Ye have received your crown! Ye bear the palm Before the throne of Grace! With that he paused, Checking the strong emotions of his soul. Then with a solemn tone addressing him Who shared his secret thoughts, thou knowest, he said, O Urban, that they have not fallen in vain; For by this virtuous sacrifice they thinn’d Alcahman’s thousands; and his broken force, Exhausted by their dear-bought victory, Turn’d back from Auria, leaving us to breathe Among our mountains yet. We lack not here Good hearts, nor valiant hands. What walls or towers Or battlements are like these fastnesses, These rocks and glens and everlasting hills? Give but that Aurian spirit, and the Moors Will spend their force as idly on these holds, As round the rocky girdle of the land The wild Cantabrian billows waste their rage. Give but that spirit!... Heaven hath given it us, If Adosinda thus, as from the dead, Be granted to our prayers! And who art thou, Said Urban, who hast taken on thyself This rule of warlike faith? Thy countenance And those poor weeds bespeak a life ere this Devoted to austere observances. Roderick replied, I am a sinful man, One who in solitude hath long deplored A life mis-spent; but never bound by vows, Till Adosinda taught me where to find Comfort, and how to work forgiveness out. When that exalted woman took my vow, She call’d me Maccabee; from this day forth Be that my earthly name. But tell me now, Whom shall we rouse to take upon his head The crown of Spain? Where are the Gothic Chiefs? Sacaru, Theudemir, Athanagild, All who survived that eight days’ obstinate fight, When clogg’d with bodies Chrysus scarce could for Its bloody stream along? Witiza’s sons, Bad offspring of a stock accurst, I know, Have put the turban on their recreant heads. Where are your own Cantabrian Lords? I ween, Eudon, and Pedro, and Pelayo now Have ceased their rivalry. If Pelayo live, His were the worthy heart and rightful hand To wield the sceptre and the sword of Spain. Odoar and Urban eyed him while he spake, As if they wonder’d whose the tongue might be Familiar thus with Chiefs and thoughts of state. They scann’d his countenance, but not a trace Betray’d the Royal Goth: sunk was that eye Of sovereignty, and on the emaciate cheek Had penitence and anguish deeply drawn Their furrows premature, ... forestalling time, And shedding upon thirty’s brow more snows Than threescore winters in their natural course Might else have sprinkled there. It seems indeed That thou hast pass’d thy days in solitude, Replied the Abbot, or thou would’st not ask Of things so long gone by. Athanagild And Theudemir have taken on their necks The yoke. Sacaru play’d a nobler part. Long within Merida did he withstand The invader’s hot assault; and when at length, Hopeless of all relief, he yielded up The gates, disdaining in his father’s land To breathe the air of bondage, with a few Found faithful till the last, indignantly Did he toward the ocean bend his way, And shaking from his feet the dust of Spain, Took ship, and hoisted sail through seas unknown To seek for freedom. Our Cantabrian Chiefs All have submitted, but the wary Moor Trusteth not all alike: At his own Court He holds Pelayo, as suspecting most That calm and manly spirit; Pedro’s son There too is held as hostage, and secures His father’s faith; Count Eudon is despised, And so lives unmolested. When he pays His tribute, an uncomfortable thought May then perhaps disturb him: ... or more like He meditates how profitable ’twere To be a Moor; and if apostacy Were all, and to be unbaptized might serve, ... But I waste breath upon a wretch like this; Pelayo is the only hope of Spain, Only Pelayo. If, as we believe, Said Urban then, the hand of Heaven is here, And dreadful though they be, yet for wise end Of good, these visitations do its work; And dimly as our mortal sight may scan The future, yet methinks my soul descries How in Pelayo should the purposes Of Heaven be best accomplish’d. All too long, Here in their own inheritance, the sons Of Spain have groan’d beneath a foreign yoke, Punic and Roman, Kelt, and Goth, and Greek: This latter tempest comes to sweep away All proud distinctions which commingling blood And time’s long course have fail’d to efface; and now Perchance it is the will of Fate to rear Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne, Restoring in Pelayo’s native line The sceptre to the Spaniard. Go thou, then, And seek Pelayo at the Conqueror’s court. Tell him the mountaineers are unsubdued; The precious time they needed hath been gain’d By Auria’s sacrifice, and all they ask Is him to guide them on. In Odoar’s name And Urban’s, tell him that the hour is come. Then pausing for a moment, he pursued: The rule which thou hast taken on thyself Toledo ratifies: ’tis meet for Spain, And as the will divine, to be received, Observed, and spread abroad. Come hither thou, Who for thyself hath chosen the good part; Let me lay hands on thee, and consecrate Thy life unto the Lord. Me! Roderick cried; Me? sinner that I am!... and while he spake His wither’d cheek grew paler, and his limbs Shook. As thou goest among the infidels, Pursued the Primate, many thou wilt find Fallen from the faith; by weakness some betray’d, Some led astray by baser hope of gain, And haply too by ill example led Of those in whom they trusted. Yet have these Their lonely hours, when sorrow, or the touch Of sickness, and that aweful power divine Which hath its dwelling in the heart of man, Life of his soul, his monitor and judge, Move them with silent impulse; but they look For help, and finding none to succour them, The irrevocable moment passeth by. Therefore, my brother, in the name of Christ Thus I lay hands on thee, that in His name Thou with His gracious promises may’st raise The fallen, and comfort those that are in need, And bring salvation to the penitent. Now, brother, go thy way: the peace of God Be with thee, and his blessing prosper us!

Between St. Felix and the regal seat Of Abdalazis, ancient Cordoba, Lay many a long day’s journey interposed; And many a mountain range hath Roderick cross’d, And many a lovely vale, ere he beheld Where Betis, winding through the unbounded plain Roll’d his majestic waters. There at eve Entering an inn, he took his humble seat With other travellers round the crackling hearth, Where heath and cistus gave their flagrant flame. That flame no longer, as in other times, Lit up the countenance of easy mirth And light discourse: the talk which now went round Was of the grief that press’d on every heart; Of Spain subdued; the sceptre of the Goths Broken; their nation and their name effaced; Slaughter and mourning, which had left no house Unvisited; and shame, which set its mark On every Spaniard’s face. One who had seen His sons fall bravely at his side, bewail’d The unhappy chance which, rescuing him from death, Left him the last of all his family; Yet he rejoiced to think that none who drew Their blood from him remain’d to wear the yoke, Be at the miscreant’s beck, and propagate A breed of slaves to serve them. Here sate one Who told of fair possessions lost, and babes To goodly fortunes born, of all bereft. Another for a virgin daughter mourn’d, The lewd barbarian’s spoil. A fourth had seen His only child forsake him in his age, And for a Moor renounce her hope in Christ. His was the heaviest grief of all, he said; And clenching as he spake his hoary locks, He cursed King Roderick’s soul. Oh curse him not! Roderick exclaim’d, all shuddering as he spake. Oh, for the love of Jesus, curse him not! Sufficient is the dreadful load of guilt That lies upon his miserable soul! O brother, do not curse that sinful soul, Which Jesus suffer’d on the cross to save! But then an old man, who had sate thus long A silent listener, from his seat arose, And moving round to Roderick took his hand; Christ bless thee, brother, for that Christian speech, He said; and shame on me that any tongue Readier than mine was found to utter it! His own emotion fill’d him while he spake, So that he did not feel how Roderick’s hand Shook like a palsied limb; and none could see How, at his well-known voice, the countenance Of that poor traveller suddenly was changed, And sunk with deadlier paleness; for the flame Was spent, and from behind him, on the wall High hung, the lamp with feeble glimmering play’d. Oh it is ever thus! the old man pursued, The crimes and woes of universal Spain Are charged on him; and curses which should aim At living heads, pursue beyond the grave His poor unhappy soul! As if his sin Had wrought the fall of our old monarchy! As if the Musselmen in their career Would ne’er have overleapt the gulf which parts Iberia from the Mauritanian shore, If Julian had not beckon’d them!... Alas! The evils which drew on our overthrow, Would soon by other means have wrought their end, Though Julian’s daughter should have lived and died A virgin vow’d and veil’d. Touch not on that, Shrinking with inward shiverings at the thought, The penitent exclaim’d. Oh, if thou lovest The soul of Roderick, touch not on that deed! God in his mercy may forgive it him, But human tongue must never speak his name Without reproach and utter infamy, For that abhorred act. Even thou.... But here Siverian taking up the word, brake off Unwittingly the incautious speech. Even I, Quoth he, who nursed him in his father’s hall, ... Even I can only for that deed of shame Offer in agony my secret prayers. But Spain hath witness’d other crimes as foul: Have we not seen Favila’s shameless wife. Throned in Witiza’s ivory car, parade Our towns with regal pageantry, and bid The murderous tyrant in her husband’s blood Dip his adulterous hand? Did we not see Pelayo, by that bloody king’s pursuit, And that unnatural mother, from the land With open outcry, like an outlaw’d thief, Hunted? And saw ye not Theodofred, As through the streets I guided his dark steps, Roll mournfully toward the noon-day sun His blank and senseless eye-balls? Spain saw this And suffer’d it!... I seek not to excuse The sin of Roderick. Jesu, who beholds The burning tears I shed in solitude, Knows how I plead for him in midnight prayer. But if, when he victoriously revenged The wrongs of Chindasuintho’s house, his sword Had not for mercy turn’d aside its edge, Oh what a day of glory had there been Upon the banks of Chrysus! Curse not him, Who in that fatal conflict to the last So valiantly maintain’d his country’s cause; But if your sorrow needs must have its vent In curses, let your imprecations strike The caitiffs, who, when Roderick’s hornëd helm Rose eminent amid the thickest fight, Betraying him who spared and trusted them, Forsook their King, their Country, and their God, And gave the Moor his conquest. Aye! they said, These were Witiza’s hateful progeny; And in an evil hour the unhappy King Had spared the viperous brood. With that they talk’d How Sisibert and Ebba through the land Guided the foe: and Orpas, who had cast The mitre from his renegado brow, Went with the armies of the infidels; And how in Hispalis, even where his hands Had minister’d so oft the bread of life, The circumcised apostate did not shame To shew in open day his turban’d head. The Queen too, Egilona, one exclaim’d; Was she not married to the enemy, The Moor, the Misbeliever? What a heart Were hers, that she could pride and plume herself To rank among his herd of concubines, Having been what she had been! And who could say How far domestic wrongs and discontent Had wrought upon the King!... Hereat the old man, Raising beneath the knit and curly brow His mournful eyes, replied, This I can tell, That that unquiet spirit and unblest, Though Roderick never told his sorrows, drove Rusilla from the palace of her son. She could not bear to see his generous mind Wither beneath the unwholesome influence, And cankering at the core. And I know well, That oft when she deplored his barren bed, The thought of Egilona’s qualities Came like a bitter medicine for her grief, And to the extinction of her husband’s line, Sad consolation, reconciled her heart. But Roderick, while they communed thus, had ceased To hear, such painfulest anxiety The sight of that old venerable man Awoke. A sickening fear came over him: The hope which led him from his hermitage Now seem’d for ever gone, for well he knew Nothing but death could break the ties which bound That faithful servant to his father’s house. She then for whose forgiveness he had yearn’d, Who in her blessing would have given and found The peace of Heaven, ... she then was to the grave Gone down disconsolate at last; in this Of all the woes of her unhappy life Unhappiest, that she did not live to see God had vouchsafed repentance to her child. But then a hope arose that yet she lived; The weighty cause which led Siverian here Might draw him from her side; better to know The worst than fear it. And with that he bent Over the embers, and with head half raised Aslant, and shadow’d by his hand, he said, Where is King Roderick’s mother? lives she still? God hath upheld her, the old man replied; She bears this last and heaviest of her griefs, Not as she bore her husband’s wrongs, when hope And her indignant heart supported her; But patiently, like one who finds from Heaven A comfort which the world can neither give Nor take away.... Roderick inquired no more; He breathed a silent prayer in gratitude, Then wrapt his cloak around him, and lay down Where he might weep unseen. When morning came, Earliest of all the travellers he went forth, And linger’d for Siverian by the way, Beside a fountain, where the constant fall Of water its perpetual gurgling made, To the wayfaring or the musing man Sweetest of all sweet sounds. The Christian hand, Whose general charity for man and beast Built it in better times, had with a cross Of well-hewn stone crested the pious work, Which now the misbelievers had cast down, And broken in the dust it lay defiled. Roderick beheld it lying at his feet, And gathering reverently the fragments up, Placed them within the cistern, and restored With careful collocation its dear form, ... So might the waters, like a crystal shrine, Preserve it from pollution. Kneeling then, O’er the memorial of redeeming love He bent, and mingled with the fount his tears, And pour’d his spirit to the Crucified. A Moor came by, and seeing him, exclaim’d, Ah, Kaffer! worshipper of wood and stone, God’s curse confound thee! And as Roderick turn’d His face, the miscreant spurn’d him with his foot Between the eyes. The indignant King arose, And fell’d him to the ground. But then the Moor Drew forth his dagger, rising as he cried, What, darëst thou, thou infidel and slave, Strike a believer? and he aim’d a blow At Roderick’s breast. But Roderick caught his arm, And closed, and wrench’d the dagger from his hold, ... Such timely strength did those emaciate limbs From indignation draw, ... and in his neck With mortal stroke he drove the avenging steel Hilt deep. Then, as the thirsty sand drank in The expiring miscreant’s blood, he look’d around In sudden apprehension, lest the Moors Had seen them; but Siverian was in sight, The only traveller, and he smote his mule And hasten’d up. Ah, brother! said the old man, Thine is a spirit of the ancient mould! And would to God a thousand men like thee Had fought at Roderick’s side on that last day When treason overpower’d him! Now, alas! A manly Gothic heart doth ill accord With these unhappy times. Come, let us hide This carrion, while the favouring hour permits. So saying he alighted. Soon they scoop’d Amid loose-lying sand a hasty grave, And levell’d over it the easy soil. Father, said Roderick, as they journey’d on, Let this thing be a seal and sacrament Of truth between us: Wherefore should there be Concealment between two right Gothic hearts In evil days like ours? What thou hast seen Is but the first fruit of the sacrifice, Which on this injured and polluted soil, As on a bloody altar, I have sworn To offer to insulted Heaven for Spain, Her vengeance and her expiation. This Was but a hasty act, by sudden wrong Provoked: but I am bound for Cordoba, On weighty mission from Visonia sent, To breathe into Pelayo’s ear a voice Of spirit-stirring power, which like the trump Of the Arch-angel, shall awake dead Spain. The northern mountaineers are unsubdued; They call upon Pelayo for their chief; Odoar and Urban tell him that the hour Is come. Thou too, I ween, old man, art charged With no light errand, or thou wouldst not now Have left the ruins of thy master’s house. Who art thou? cried Siverian, as he search’d The wan and wither’d features of the King. The face is of a stranger, but thy voice Disturbs me like a dream. Roderick replied, Thou seest me as I am, ... a stranger; one Whose fortunes in the general wreck were lost, His name and lineage utterly extinct, Himself in mercy spared, surviving all; ... In mercy, that the bitter cup might heal A soul diseased. Now, having cast the slough Of old offences, thou beholdest me A man new-born; in second baptism named, Like those who in Judea bravely raised Against the Heathèn’s impious tyranny The banner of Jehovah, Maccabee; So call me. In that name hath Urban laid His consecrating hands upon my head; And in that name have I myself for Spain Devoted. Tell me now why thou art sent To Cordoba; for sure thou goëst not An idle gazer to the Conqueror’s court. Thou judgest well, the old man replied. I too Seek the Cantabrian Prince, the hope of Spain, With other tidings charged, for other end Design’d, yet such as well may work with thine. My noble Mistress sends me to avert The shame that threats his house. The renegade Numacian, he who for the infidels Oppresses Gegio, insolently woos His sister. Moulded in a wicked womb, The unworthy Guisla hath inherited Her Mother’s leprous taint; and willingly She to the circumcised and upstart slave, Disdaining all admonishment, gives ear. The Lady Gaudiosa sees in this, With the quick foresight of maternal care, The impending danger to her husband’s house, Knowing his generous spirit ne’er will brook The base alliance. Guisla lewdly sets His will at nought; but that vile renegade, From hatred, and from avarice, and from fear, Will seek the extinction of Pelayo’s line. This too my venerable Mistress sees; Wherefore these valiant and high-minded dames Send me to Cordoba; that if the Prince Cannot by timely interdiction stop The irrevocable act of infamy, He may at least to his own safety look, Being timely warn’d. Thy Mistress sojourns then With Gaudiosa, in Pelayo’s hall? Said Roderick. ’Tis her natural home, rejoin’d Siverian: Chindasuintho’s royal race Have ever shared one lot of weal or woe: And she who hath beheld her own fair shoot, The goodly summit of that ancient tree, Struck by Heaven’s bolt, seeks shelter now beneath The only branch of its majestic stem That still survives the storm. Thus they pursued Their journey, each from other gathering store For thought, with many a silent interval Of mournful meditation, till they saw The temples and the towers of Cordoba Shining majestic in the light of eve. Before them Betis roll’d his glittering stream, In many a silvery winding traced afar Amid the ample plain. Behind the walls And stately piles which crown’d its margin, rich With olives, and with sunny slope of vines, And many a lovely hamlet interspersed, Whose citron bowers were once the abode of peace, Height above height, receding hills were seen Imbued with evening hues; and over all The summits of the dark sierra rose, Lifting their heads amid the silent sky. The traveller who with a heart at ease Had seen the goodly vision, would have loved To linger, seeking with insatiate sight To treasure up its image, deep impress’d, A joy for years to come. O Cordoba, Exclaim’d the old man, how princely are thy towers, How fair thy vales, thy hills how beautiful! The sun who sheds on thee his parting smiles Sees not in all his wide career a scene Lovelier, nor more exuberantly blest By bounteous earth and heaven. The very gales Of Eden waft not from the immortal bowers Odours to sense more exquisite, than these Which, breathing from thy groves and gardens, now Recall in me such thoughts of bitterness. The time has been when happy was their lot Who had their birthright here; but happy now Are they who to thy bosom are gone home, Because they feel not in their graves the feet That trample upon Spain. ’Tis well that age Hath made me like a child, that I can weep: My heart would else have broken, overcharged, And I, false servant, should lie down to rest Before my work is done. Hard by their path, A little way without the walls, there stood An edifice, whereto, as by a spell, Siverian’s heart was drawn. Brother, quoth he, ’Tis like the urgency of our return Will brook of no retardment; and this spot It were a sin if I should pass, and leave Unvisited. Beseech you turn with me, The while I offer up one duteous prayer. Roderick made no reply. He had not dared To turn his face toward those walls; but now He follow’d where the old man led the way. Lord! in his heart the silent sufferer said, Forgive my feeble soul, which would have shrunk From this, ... for what am I that I should put The bitter cup aside! O let my shame And anguish be accepted in thy sight!

The mansion whitherward they went, was one Which in his youth Theodofred had built: Thither had he brought home in happy hour His blooming bride; there fondled on his knee The lovely boy she bore him. Close beside, A temple to that Saint he rear’d, who first, As old tradition tells, proclaim’d to Spain The gospel-tidings; and in health and youth, There mindful of mortality, he saw His sepulchre prepared. Witiza took For his adulterous leman and himself The stately pile: but to that sepulchre, When from captivity and darkness death Enlarged him, was Theodofred consign’d; For that unhappy woman, wasting then Beneath a mortal malady, at heart Was smitten, and the Tyrant at her prayer This poor and tardy restitution made. Soon the repentant sinner follow’d him; And calling on Pelayo ere she died, For his own wrongs, and for his father’s death, Implored forgiveness of her absent child, ... If it were possible he could forgive Crimes black as her’s, she said. And by the pangs Of her remorse, ... by her last agonies, ... The unutterable horrors of her death, ... And by the blood of Jesus on the cross For sinners given, did she beseech his prayers In aid of her most miserable soul. Thus mingling sudden shrieks with hopeless vows, And uttering franticly Pelayo’s name, And crying out for mercy in despair, Here had she made her dreadful end, and here Her wretched body was deposited. That presence seem’d to desecrate the place: Thenceforth the usurper shunn’d it with the heart Of conscious guilt; nor could Rusilla bear These groves and bowers, which, like funereal shades, Opprest her with their monumental forms: One day of bitter and severe delight, When Roderick came for vengeance, she endured, And then for ever left her bridal halls. Oh when I last beheld yon princely pile, Exclaim’d Siverian, with what other thoughts Full, and elate of spirit, did I pass Its joyous gates! The weedery which through The interstices of those neglected courts Uncheck’d had flourish’d long, and seeded there, Was trampled then and bruised beneath the feet Of thronging crowds. Here drawn in fair array, The faithful vassals of my master’s house, Their javelins sparkling to the morning sun, Spread their triumphant banners; high-plumed helms Rose o’er the martial ranks, and prancing steeds Made answer to the trumpet’s stirring voice; While yonder towers shook the dull silence off Which long to their deserted walls had clung, And with redoubling echoes swell’d the shout That hail’d victorious Roderick. Louder rose The acclamation, when the dust was seen Rising beneath his chariot-wheels far off; But nearer as the youthful hero came, All sounds of all the multitude were hush’d, And from the thousands and ten thousands here, Whom Cordoba and Hispalis sent forth, ... Yea whom all Bætica, all Spain pour’d out To greet his triumph, ... not a whisper rose To Heaven, such awe and reverence master’d them, Such expectation held them motionless. Conqueror and King he came; but with no joy Of conquest, and no pride of sovereignty That day display’d; for at his father’s grave Did Roderick come to offer up his vow Of vengeance well perform’d. Three coal-black steed Drew on his ivory chariot: by his side, Still wrapt in mourning for the long-deceased, Rusilla state; a deeper paleness blanch’d Her faded countenance, but in her eye The light of her majestic nature shone. Bound, and expecting at their hands the death So well deserved, Witiza follow’d them; Aghast and trembling, first he gazed around, Wildly from side to side; then from the face Of universal execration shrunk, Hanging his wretched head abased; and poor Of spirit, with unmanly tears deplored His fortune, not his crimes. With bolder front, Confiding in his priestly character, Came Orpas next; and then the spurious race Whom in unhappy hour Favila’s wife Brought forth for Spain. O mercy ill bestow’d, When Roderick, in compassion for their youth, And for Pelayo’s sake, forebore to crush The brood of vipers! Err perchance he might, Replied the Goth, suppressing as he spake All outward signs of pain, though every word Went like a dagger to his bleeding heart; ... But sure, I ween, that error is not placed Among his sins. Old man, thou mayest regret The mercy ill deserved, and worse return’d, But not for this wouldst thou reproach the King! Reproach him? cried Siverian; ... I reproach My child, ... my noble boy, ... whom every tongue Bless’d at that hour, ... whose love fill’d every heart With joy, and every eye with joyful tears! My brave, my beautiful, my generous boy! Brave, beautiful, and generous as he was, Never so brave, so beautiful, so great As then, ... not even on that glorious day, When on the field of victory, elevate Amid the thousands who acclaim’d him King, Firm on the shield above their heads upraised, Erect he stood, and waved his bloody sword.... Why dost thou shake thy head as if in doubt? I do not dream, nor fable! Ten short years Have scarcely past away, since all within The Pyrenean hills, and the three seas Which girdle Spain, echoed in one response The acclamation from that field of fight.... Or doth aught ail thee, that thy body quakes And shudders thus? ’Tis but a chill, replied The King, in passing from the open air Under the shadow of this thick-set grove. Oh! if this scene awoke in thee such thoughts As swell my bosom here, the old man pursued, Sunshine, or shade, and all things from without, Would be alike indifferent. Gracious God, Only but ten short years, ... and all so changed! Ten little years since in yon court he check’d His fiery steeds. The steeds obey’d his hand, The whirling wheels stood still, and when he leapt Upon the pavement, the whole people heard, In their deep silence, open-ear’d, the sound. With slower movement from the ivory seat Rusilla rose, her arm, as down she stept, Extended to her son’s supporting hand; Not for default of firm or agile strength, But that the feeling of that solemn hour Subdued her then, and tears bedimm’d her sight. Howbeit when to her husband’s grave she came, On the sepulchral stone she bow’d her head Awhile; then rose collectedly, and fix’d Upon the scene her calm and steady eye. Roderick, ... oh when did valour wear a form So beautiful, so noble, so august? Or vengeance, when did it put on before A character so aweful, so divine? Roderick stood up, and reaching to the tomb His hands, my hero cried, Theodofred! Father! I stand before thee once again, According to thy prayer, when kneeling down Between thy knees I took my last farewell; And vow’d by all thy sufferings, all thy wrongs, And by my mother’s days and nights of woe, Her silent anguish, and the grief which then Even from thee she did not seek to hide, That if our cruel parting should avail To save me from the Tyrant’s jealous guilt, Surely should my avenging sword fulfil Whate’er he omen’d. Oh that time, I cried, Would give the strength of manhood to this arm, Already would it find a manly heart To guide it to its purpose! And I swore Never again to see my father’s face, Nor ask my mother’s blessing, till I brought, Dead or in chains, the Tyrant to thy feet. Boy as I was, before all Saints in Heaven, And highest God, whose justice slumbereth not, I made the vow. According to thy prayer, In all things, O my father, is that vow Perform’d, alas too well! for thou didst pray, While looking up I felt the burning tears Which from thy sightless sockets stream’d, drop down, ... That to thy grave, and not thy living feet, The oppressor might be led. Behold him there, ... Father! Theodofred! no longer now In darkness, from thy heavenly seat look down, And see before thy grave thine enemy In bonds, awaiting judgment at my hand! Thus while the hero spake, Witiza stood Listening in agony, with open mouth, And head, half-raised, toward his sentence turn’d; His eye-lids stiffen’d and pursed up, ... his eyes Rigid, and wild, and wide; and when the King Had ceased, amid the silence which ensued, The dastard’s chains were heard, link against link Clinking. At length upon his knees he fell, And lifting up his trembling hands, outstretch’d In supplication, ... Mercy! he exclaim’d.... Chains, dungeons, darkness, ... any thing but death!... I did not touch his life. Roderick replied, His hour, whenever it had come, had found A soul prepared: he lived in peace with Heaven, And life prolong’d for him, was bliss delay’d. But life, in pain and darkness and despair, For thee, all leprous as thou art with crimes, Is mercy.... Take him hence, and let him see The light of day no more! Such Roderick was When last I saw these courts, ... his theatre Of glory; ... such when last I visited My master’s grave! Ten years have hardly held Their course, ... ten little years ... break, break, old heart.... Oh why art thou so tough! As thus he spake They reach’d the church. The door before his hand Gave way; both blinded with their tears, they went Straight to the tomb; and there Siverian knelt, And bow’d his face upon the sepulchre, Weeping aloud; while Roderick, overpower’d, And calling upon earth to cover him, Threw himself prostrate on his father’s grave. Thus as they lay, an aweful voice in tones Severe address’d them. Who are ye, it said, That with your passion thus, and on this night, Disturb my prayers? Starting they rose; there stood A man before them of majestic form And stature, clad in sackcloth, bare of foot, Pale, and in tears, with ashes on his head.

’Twas not in vain that on her absent son, Pelayo’s mother from the bed of death Call’d for forgiveness, and in agony Besought his prayers; all guilty as she was, Sure he had not been human, if that cry Had fail’d to pierce him. When he heard the tale He bless’d the messenger, even while his speech Was faltering, ... while from head to foot he shook With icey feelings from his inmost heart Effused. It changed the nature of his woe, Making the burthen more endurable: The life-long sorrow that remain’d, became A healing and a chastening grief, and brought His soul, in close communion, nearer Heaven. For he had been her first-born, and the love Which at her breast he drew, and from her smiles, And from her voice of tenderness imbibed, Gave such unnatural horror to her crimes, That when the thought came over him, it seem’d As if the milk which with his infant life Had blended, thrill’d like poison through his frame. It was a woe beyond all reach of hope, Till with the dreadful tale of her remorse Faith touch’d his heart; and ever from that day Did he for her who bore him, night and morn, Pour out the anguish of his soul in prayer: But chiefly as the night return’d, which heard Her last expiring groans of penitence, Then through the long and painful hours, before The altar, like a penitent himself, He kept his vigils; and when Roderick’s sword Subdued Witiza, and the land was free, Duly upon her grave he offer’d up His yearly sacrifice of agony And prayer. This was the night, and he it was Who now before Siverian and the King Stood up in sackcloth. The old man, from fear Recovering and from wonder, knew him first. It is the Prince! he cried, and bending down Embraced his knees. The action and the word Awaken’d Roderick; he shook off the load Of struggling thoughts, which pressing on his heart, Held him like one entranced; yet, all untaught To bend before the face of man, confused Awhile he stood, forgetful of his part. But when Siverian cried, My Lord, my Lord, Now God be praised that I have found thee thus, My Lord and Prince, Spain’s only hope and mine! Then Roderick, echoing him, exclaim’d, My Lord, And Prince, Pelayo!... and approaching near, He bent his knee obeisant: but his head Earthward inclined; while the old man, looking up From his low gesture to Pelayo’s face, Wept at beholding him for grief and joy. Siverian! cried the chief, ... of whom hath Death Bereaved me, that thou comest to Cordoba?... Children, or wife?... Or hath the merciless scythe Of this abhorr’d and jealous tyranny Made my house desolate at one wide sweep? They are as thou couldst wish, the old man replied, Wert thou but lord of thine own house again, And Spain were Spain once more. A tale of ill I bear, but one that touches not the heart Like what thy fears forebode. The renegade Numacian woos thy sister, and she lends To the vile slave, unworthily, her ear: The Lady Gaudiosa hath in vain Warn’d her of all the evils which await A union thus accurst: she sets at nought Her faith, her lineage, and thy certain wrath. Pelayo hearing him, remain’d awhile Silent; then turning to his mother’s grave, ... O thou poor dust, hath then the infectious taint Survived thy dread remorse, that it should run In Guisla’s veins? he cried; ... I should have heard This shameful sorrow any where but here!... Humble thyself, proud heart; thou, gracious Heaven, Be merciful!... it is the original flaw, ... And what are we?... a weak unhappy race, Born to our sad inheritance of sin And death!... He smote his forehead as he spake, And from his head the ashes fell, like snow Shaken from some dry beech-leaves, when a bird Lights on the bending spray. A little while In silence, rather than in thought, he stood Passive beneath the sorrow: turning then, And what doth Gaudiosa counsel me? He ask’d the old man; for she hath ever been My wise and faithful counsellor.... He replied, The Lady Gaudiosa bade me say She sees the danger which on every part Besets her husband’s house.... Here she had ceased; But when my noble Mistress gave in charge, How I should tell thee that in evil times The bravest counsels ever are the best; Then that high-minded Lady thus rejoin’d, Whatever be my Lord’s resolve, he knows I bear a mind prepared. Brave spirits! cried Pelayo, worthy to remove all stain Of weakness from their sex! I should be less Than man, if, drawing strength where others find Their hearts most open to assault of fear, I quail’d at danger. Never be it said Of Spain, that in the hour of her distress Her women were as heroes, but her men Perform’d the woman’s part. Roderick at that Look’d up, and taking up the word, exclaim’d, O Prince, in better days the pride of Spain, And prostrate as she lies, her surest hope, Hear now my tale. The fire which seem’d extinct Hath risen revigorate: a living spark From Auria’s ashes, by a woman’s hand Preserved and quicken’d, kindles far and wide The beacon-flame o’er all the Asturian hills. There hath a vow been offer’d up, which binds Us and our children’s children to the work Of holy hatred. In the name of Spain That vow hath been pronounced, and register’d Above, to be the bond whereby we stand For condemnation or acceptance. Heaven Received the irrevocable vow, and Earth Must witness its fulfilment; Earth and Heaven Call upon thee, Pelayo! Upon thee The spirits of thy royal ancestors Look down expectant; unto thee, from fields Laid waste, and hamlets burnt, and cities sack’d, The blood of infancy and helpless age Cries out; thy native mountains call for thee, Echoing from all their armed sons thy name. And deem not thou that hot impatience goads Thy countrymen to counsels immature. Odoar and Urban from Visonia’s banks Send me, their sworn and trusted messenger, To summon thee, and tell thee in their name That now the hour is come: For sure it seems, Thus saith the Primate, Heaven’s high will to rear Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne, Restoring in thy native line, O Prince, The sceptre to the Spaniard. Worthy son Of that most ancient and heroic race, Which with unweariable endurance still Hath striven against its mightier enemies, Roman or Carthaginian, Greek or Goth; So often by superior arms oppress’d, More often by superior arts beguiled; Yet amid all its sufferings, all the waste Of sword and fire remorselessly employ’d, Unconquer’d and unconquerable still; ... Son of that injured and illustrious stock, Stand forward thou, draw forth the sword of Spain, Restore them to their rights, too long withheld, And place upon thy brow the Spanish crown. When Roderick ceased, the princely Mountaineer Gazed on the passionate orator awhile, With eyes intently fix’d, and thoughtful brow; Then turning to the altar, he let fall The sackcloth robe, which late with folded arms Against his heart was prest; and stretching forth His hands toward the crucifix, exclaim’d, My God and my Redeemer! where but here, Before thy aweful presence, in this garb, With penitential ashes thus bestrewn, Could I so fitly answer to the call Of Spain; and for her sake, and in thy name, Accept the Crown of Thorns she proffers me! And where but here, said Roderick in his heart, Could I so properly, with humbled knee And willing soul, confirm my forfeiture?... The action follow’d on that secret thought: He knelt, and took Pelayo’s hand, and cried, First of the Spaniards, let me with this kiss Do homage to thee here, my Lord and King!... With voice unchanged and steady countenance He spake; but when Siverian follow’d him, The old man trembled as his lips pronounced The faltering vow; and rising he exclaim’d, God grant thee, O my Prince, a better fate Than thy poor kinsman’s, who in happier days Received thy homage here! Grief choak’d his speech And, bursting into tears, he sobb’d aloud. Tears too adown Pelayo’s manly cheek Roll’d silently. Roderick alone appear’d Unmoved and calm; for now the royal Goth Had offer’d his accepted sacrifice, And therefore in his soul he felt that peace Which follows painful duty well perform’d, ... Perfect and heavenly peace, ... the peace of God.

Fain would Pelayo have that hour obey’d The call, commencing his adventurous flight, As one whose soul impatiently endured His country’s thraldom, and in daily prayer Imploring her deliverance, cried to Heaven, How long, O Lord, how long!... But other thoughts Curbing his spirit, made him yet awhile Sustain the weight of bondage. Him alone, Of all the Gothic baronage, the Moors Watch’d with regard of wary policy, ... Knowing his powerful name, his noble mind, And how in him the old Iberian blood, Of royal and remotest ancestry, From undisputed source flow’d undefiled; His mother’s after-guilt attainting not The claim legitimate he derived from her, Her first-born in her time of innocence. He too of Chindasuintho’s regal line Sole remnant now, drew after him the love Of all true Goths, uniting in himself Thus by this double right, the general heart Of Spain. For this the renegado crew, Wretches in whom their conscious guilt and fear Engender’d cruellest hatred, still advised The extinction of Pelayo’s house; but most The apostate Prelate, in iniquity Witiza’s genuine brother as in blood, Orpas, pursued his life. He never ceased With busy zeal, true traitor, to infuse His deadly rancour in the Moorish chief; Their only danger, ever he observed, Was from Pelayo; root his lineage out, The Caliph’s empire then would be secure, And universal Spain, all hope of change Being lost, receive the Prophet’s conquering law. Then did the Arch-villain urge the Moor at once To cut off future peril, telling him Death was a trusty keeper, and that none E’er broke the prison of the grave. But here Keen malice overshot its mark: the Moor, Who from the plunder of their native land Had bought the recreant crew that join’d his arms Or cheaplier with their own possessions bribed Their sordid souls, saw through the flimsy show Of policy wherewith they sought to cloak Old enmity, and selfish aims: he scorn’d To let their private purposes incline His counsels, and believing Spain subdued, Smiled, in the pride of power and victory, Disdainful at the thought of farther strife. Howbeit he held Pelayo at his court, And told him that until his countrymen Submissively should lay their weapons down, He from his children and paternal hearth Apart must dwell; nor hope to see again His native mountains and their vales beloved, Till all the Asturian and Cantabrian hills Had bow’d before the Caliph; Cordoba Must be his nightly prison till that hour. This night, by special favour from the Moor Ask’d and vouchsafed, he pass’d without the walls Keeping his yearly vigil; on this night Therefore the princely Spaniard could not fly, Being thus in strongest bonds by honour held; Nor would he by his own escape expose To stricter bondage, or belike to death, Count Pedro’s son. The ancient enmity Of rival houses from Pelayo’s heart Had, like a thing forgotten, pass’d away; He pitied child and parent, separated By the stern mandate of unfeeling power, And almost with a father’s eyes beheld The boy, his fellow in captivity. For young Alphonso was in truth an heir Of nature’s largest patrimony; rich In form and feature, growing strength of limb, A gentle heart, a soul affectionate, A joyous spirit fill’d with generous thoughts, And genius heightening and ennobling all; The blossom of all manly virtues made His boyhood beautiful. Shield, gracious Heaven, In this ungenial season perilous, ... Thus would Pelayo sometimes breathe in prayer The aspirations of prophetic hope, ... Shield, gracious Heaven, the blooming tree! and let This goodly promise, for thy people’s sake, Yield its abundant fruitage. When the Prince, With hope and fear and grief and shame disturb’d, And sad remembrance, and the shadowy light Of days before him, thronging as in dreams, Whose quick succession fill’d and overpower’d Awhile the unresisting faculty, Could in the calm of troubled thoughts subdued Seek in his heart for counsel, his first care Was for the boy; how best they might evade The Moor, and renegade’s more watchful eye; And leaving in some unsuspicious guise The city, through what unfrequented track Safeliest pursue with speed their dangerous way. Consumed in cares like these, the fleeting hours Went by. The lamps and tapers now grew pale, And through the eastern window slanting fell The roseate ray of morn. Within those walls Returning day restored no cheerful sounds Or joyous motions of awakening life; But in the stream of light the speckled motes, As if in mimicry of insect play, Floated with mazy movement. Sloping down Over the altar pass’d the pillar’d beam, And rested on the sinful woman’s grave As if it enter’d there, a light from Heaven. So be it! cried Pelayo, even so! As in a momentary interval, When thought expelling thought, had left his mind Open and passive to the influxes Of outward sense, his vacant eye was there.... So be it, Heavenly Father, even so! Thus may thy vivifying goodness shed Forgiveness there; for let not thou the groans Of dying penitence, nor my bitter prayers Before thy mercy-seat, be heard in vain! And thou, poor soul, who from the dolorous house Of weeping and of pain, dost look to me To shorten and assuage thy penal term, Pardon me that these hours in other thoughts And other duties than this garb, this night Enjoin, should thus have past! Our mother-land Exacted of my heart the sacrifice; And many a vigil must thy son perform Henceforth in woods and mountain fastnesses, And tented fields, outwatching for her sake The starry host, and ready for the work Of day, before the sun begins his course. The noble Mountaineer, concluding then With silent prayer the service of the night, Went forth. Without the porch awaiting him He saw Alphonso, pacing to and fro With patient step and eye reverted oft. He, springing forward when he heard the door Move on its heavy hinges, ran to him, And welcomed him with smiles of youthful love. I have been watching yonder moon, quoth he How it grew pale and paler as the sun Scatter’d the flying shades; but woe is me, For on the towers of Cordoba the while That baleful crescent glitter’d in the morn, And with its insolent triumph seem’d to mock The omen I had found.... Last night I dreamt That thou wert in the field in arms for Spain, And I was at thy side: the infidels Beset us round, but we with our good swords Hew’d out a way. Methought I stabb’d a Moor Who would have slain thee; but with that I woke For joy, and wept to find it but a dream. Thus as he spake a livelier glow o’erspread His cheek, and starting tears again suffused The brightening lustre of his eyes. The Prince Regarded him a moment stedfastly, As if in quick resolve; then looking round On every side with keen and rapid glance, Drew him within the church. Alphonso’s heart Throbb’d with a joyful boding as he mark’d The calmness of Pelayo’s countenance Kindle with solemn thoughts, expressing now High purposes of resolute hope. He gazed All eagerly to hear what most he wish’d. If, said the Prince, thy dream were verified, And I indeed were in the field in arms For Spain, ... wouldst thou be at Pelayo’s side?... If I should break these bonds, and fly to rear Our country’s banner on our native hills, Wouldst thou, Alphonso, share my dangerous flight, Dear boy, ... and wilt thou take thy lot with me For death, or for deliverance? Shall I swear? Replied the impatient boy; and laying hand Upon the altar, on his knee he bent, Looking towards Pelayo with such joy Of reverential love, as if a God Were present to receive the eager vow. Nay, quoth Pelayo: what hast thou to do With oaths?... Bright emanation as thou art, It were a wrong to thy unsullied soul, A sin to nature, were I to require Promise or vow from thee! Enough for me That thy heart answers to the stirring call. Alphonso, follow thou in happy faith Alway the indwelling voice that counsels thee; And then, let fall the issue as it may, Shall all thy paths be in the light of Heaven, The peace of Heaven be with thee in all hours. How then, exclaim’d the boy, shall I discharge The burthen of this happiness, ... how ease My overflowing soul!... Oh gracious God, Shall I behold my mother’s face again, ... My father’s hall, ... my native hills and vales, And hear the voices of their streams again, ... And free as I was born amid those scenes Beloved, maintain my country’s freedom there, ... Or, failing in the sacred enterprise, Die as becomes a Spaniard?... Saying thus, He lifted up his hands and eyes toward The image of the Crucified, and cried, O Thou who didst with thy most precious blood Redeem us, Jesu! help us while we seek Earthly redemption from this yoke of shame And misbelief and death. The noble boy Then rose, and would have knelt again to clasp Pelayo’s knees, and kiss his hand in act Of homage; but the Prince, preventing this, Bent over him in fatherly embrace, And breathed a fervent blessing on his head.