RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.

A Tragic Poem.

[Illustration: TOLEDO.

_Painted by T. Creswick._ _Engraved by E. Finden._

LONDON; LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN & LONGMANS.]

[Illustration: _Cordoval._

_Painted by T. Creswick._ _Engraved by W. Finden._

LONDON. LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN & LONGMANS. PATERNOSTER ROW.]




                                RODERICK,
                          THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.

                              A Tragic Poem.

                         BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

                              A NEW EDITION.

                                 LONDON:
                               PRINTED FOR
                   LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS.
                                MDCCCXLIV.




                                RODERICK,
                          THE LAST OF THE GOTHS:

                              A Tragic Poem.

    Tanto acrior apud majores, sicut virtutibus gloria, ita
    flagitiis pœnitentia, fuit. Sed hæc aliaque, ex veteri memorià
    petita, quotiens res locusque exempla recti, aut solatia mali,
    poscet, haud absurdè memorabimus.

                                       TACITI _Hist. lib. 3. c. 51_.




                                    TO
                        GROSVENOR CHARLES BEDFORD,
                         THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED,
                           IN LASTING MEMORIAL
                 OF A LONG AND UNINTERRUPTED FRIENDSHIP,
                         BY HIS OLD SCHOOLFELLOW,
                             ROBERT SOUTHEY.




CONTENTS.


                                           Page

    PREFACE                                  ix

    ORIGINAL PREFACE                        xxi

    RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS:

        I. Roderick and Romano                1

       II. Roderick in Solitude              12

      III. Adosinda                          21

       IV. The Monastery of St. Felix        35

        V. Roderick and Siverian             46

       VI. Roderick in Times past            59

      VII. Roderick and Pelayo               67

     VIII. Alphonso                          74

       IX. Florinda                          82

        X. Roderick and Florinda             87

       XI. Count Pedro’s Castle             101

      XII. The Vow                          108

     XIII. Count Eudon                      116

      XIV. The Rescue                       125

       XV. Roderick at Cangas               131

      XVI. Covadonga                        141

     XVII. Roderick and Siverian            152

    XVIII. The Acclamation                  161

      XIX. Roderick and Rusilla             173

       XX. The Moorish Camp                 178

      XXI. The Fountain in the Forest       188

     XXII. The Moorish Council              204

    XXIII. The Vale of Covadonga            212

     XXIV. Roderick and Count Julian        222

      XXV. Roderick in Battle               232

    NOTES                                   251


              As the ample Moon,
  In the deep stillness of a summer even
  Rising behind a thick and lofty Grove,
  Burns like an unconsuming fire of light
  In the green trees; and kindling on all sides
  Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil
  Into a substance glorious as her own,
  Yea, with her own incorporated, by power
  Capacious and serene: Like power abides
  In Man’s celestial Spirit; Virtue thus
  Sets forth and magnifies herself: thus feeds
  A calm, a beautiful and silent fire,
  From the incumbrances of mortal life,
  From error, disappointment, ... nay from guilt;
  And sometimes, so relenting Justice wills,
  From palpable oppressions of Despair.

                                      WORDSWORTH.




PREFACE.


This poem was commenced at Keswick, Dec. 2. 1809, and finished there July
14. 1814.

A French translation, by M. B. de S., in three volumes 12mo., was
published in 1820, and another by M. le Chevalier ⸺ in one volume 8vo.,
1821. Both are in prose.

When the latest of these versions was nearly ready for publication, the
publisher, who was also the printer, insisted upon having a life of the
author prefixed. The French public, he said, knew nothing of M. Southey,
and in order to make the book sell, it must be managed to interest them
for the writer. The Chevalier represented as a conclusive reason for not
attempting any thing of the kind, that he was not acquainted with M.
Southey’s private history. “Would you believe it?” says a friend of the
translator’s, from whose letter I transscribe what follows; “this was
his answer _verbatim_: ‘_N’importe, écrivez toujours; brodez, brodez-la
un peu; que ce soit vrai ou non ce ne fait rien; qui prendra la peine de
s’informer?_’” Accordingly a _Notice sur M. Southey_ was composed, not
exactly in conformity with the publisher’s notions of biography, but from
such materials as could be collected from magazines and other equally
unauthentic sources.

In one of these versions a notable mistake occurs, occasioned by the
French pronunciation of an English word. The whole passage indeed, in
both versions, may be regarded as curiously exemplifying the difference
between French and English poetry.

            “The lamps and tapers now grew pale,
  And through the eastern windows 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 I
  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.”[1]

_Il se livrait à toutes ces réflexions, quand la lumière des lampes et
des cierges commença à pâlir, et que les premières teintes de l’aurore
se montrèrent à travers les hautes croisées tournées vers l’orient.
Le retour du jour ne ramena point dans ces murs des sons joyeux ni
les mouvemens de la vie qui se réveille; les seuls papillons de nuit,
agitant leurs ailes pesantes, bourdonnaient encore sous les voûtes
ténébreuses. Bientôt le premier rayon du soleil glissant obliquement
par-dessus l’autel, vint s’arrêter sur la tombe de la femme pécheresse,
et la lumière du ciel sembla y pénétrer. “Que ce présage s’accomplisse,”
s’écria Pelage, qui absorbé dans ses méditations, fixait en ce moment
ses yeux sur le tombeau de sa mere; “Dieu de miséricorde, qu’il en soit
ainsi! Puisse ta bonté vivifiante y verser de même le pardon! Que les
sanglots de la pénitence expirante, et que mes prières amères ne montent
point en vain devant le trône éternel. Et toi, pauvre âme, qui de ton
séjour douloureux de souffrances et de larmes, espères en moi pour
abréger et adoucir ton supplice, temporaire, pardonne moi d’avoir, sous
ces habits et dans cette nuit, détourné mes pensées sur d’autres devoirs.
Notre patrie commune a exigé de moi ce sacrifice, et ton fils doit
dorénavant accomplir plus d’une veille dans la profondeur des forêts,
sur la cime des monts, dans les plaines couvertes de tentes, observant,
pour l’amour de l’Espagne, la marche des astres de la nuit, et préparant
l’ouvrage de sa journée avant que le soleil ne commence sa course._”—T.
i. pp. 175-177.

In the other translation the _motes_ are not converted into moths,—but
the image is omitted.

_Consumées dans des soins pareils les rapides heures s’écouloient, les
lampes et les torches commençoient à pâlir, et l’oblique rayon du matin
doroit déjà les vitraux élevés qui regardoient vers l’Orient: le retour
du jour ne ramenoit point, dans cette sombre enceinte, les sons joyeux,
ni le tableau mouvant de la vie qui se reveille; mais, tombant d’en haut,
le céleste rayon, passant au-dessus de l’autel, vint frapper le tombeau
de la femme pécheresse. “Ainsi soit-il,” s’écria Pelage; “ainsi soit-il,
ô divin Créateur! Puisse ta vivifiante bonté verser ainsi le pardon en ce
lieu! Que les gémissemens d’une mort pénitente, que mes amères prières ne
soient pas arrivées en vain devant le trône de miséricorde! Et toi, qui,
de ton séjour de souffrances et de larmes, regardes vers ton fils, pour
abréger et soulager tes peines, pardonne, si d’autres devoirs ont rempli
les heures que cette nuit et cet habit m’enjoignoient de te consacrer!
Notre patrie exigeoit ce sacrifice; d’autres vigiles m’attendent dans
les bois et les défilés de nos montagnes; et bientôt sous la tente, il
me faudra veiller, le soir, avant que le ciel ne se couvre d’étoiles,
être prêt pour le travail du jour, avant que le soleil ne commence sa
course._”—pp. 92, 93.

A very good translation in Dutch verse, was published in two volumes,
8vo. 1823-4, with this title:—“Rodrigo de Goth, Koning van Spanje. Naar
het Engelsch van Southey gevolgd, door Vrouwe Katharina Wilhelmina
Bilderdijk. Te ’s Gravenhage.” It was sent to me with the following
epistle from her husband, Mr. Willem Bilderdijk.

                 “Roberto Southey, viro spectatissimo,
                     Gulielmus Bilderdijk, S. P. D.

    “Etsi ea nunc temporis passim invaluerit opinio, poetarum genus
    quam maxima gloriæ cupiditate flagrare, mihi tamen contraria
    semper insedit persuasio, qui divinæ Poëseos altitudinem
    veramque laudem non nisi ab iis cognosci putavi quorum præ
    cæteris e meliori luto finxerit præcordia Titan, neque aut
    verè aut justè judicari vatem nisi ab iis qui eodem afflatu
    moveantur. Sexagesimus autem jam agitur annus ex quo et ipse
    meos inter æquales poëta salutor, eumque locum quem ineunte
    adolescentia occupare contigit, in hunc usque diem tenuisse
    videor, popularis auræ nunquam captator, quin immo perpetuus
    contemptor; parcus ipse laudator, censor gravis et nonnunquam
    molestus. Tuum vero nomen, Vir celeberrime ac spectatissime,
    jam antea veneratus, perlecto tuo de Roderico rege poëmate,
    non potui non summis extollere laudibus, quo doctissimo simul
    ac venustissimo opere, si minus _divinam Aeneida_, saltem
    immortalem Tassonis Epopeiam _tentasse_, quin et certo respectu
    ita superasse videris, ut majorum perpaucos, æqualium neminem,
    cum vera fide ac pietate in Deum, tum ingenio omnique poëtica
    dote tibi comparandum existimem. Ne mireris itaque, carminis
    tui gravitate ac dulcedine captam, meoque judicio fultam,
    non illaudatam in nostratibus Musam tuum illud nobile poëma
    fœminea manu sed non insueto labore attrectasse, Belgicoque
    sermone reddidisse. Hanc certe, per quadrantem seculi et quod
    excurrit felicissimo connubio mihi junctam, meamque in Divina
    arte alumnam ac sociam, nimium in eo sibi sumpsisse nemo facile
    arbitrabitur cui vel minimum Poëseos nostræ sensum usurpare
    contigerit; nec ego hos ejus conatus quos illustri tuo nomini
    dicandos putavit, tibi mea manu offerre dubitabam. Hæc itaque
    utriusque nostrum in te observantiæ specimina accipe, Vir
    illustrissime, ac si quod communium studiorum, si quod veræ
    pietatis est vinculum, nos tibi ex animo habe addictissimos.
    Vale.

    “Dabam Lugduni in Batavis. Ipsis idib. Februar. CIↃIↃCCCXXIV.”

I went to Leyden in 1825, for the purpose of seeing the writer of this
epistle, and the lady who had translated my poem, and addressed it to me
in some very affecting stanzas. It so happened, that on my arrival in
that city, I was laid up under a surgeon’s care; they took me into their
house, and made the days of my confinement as pleasurable as they were
memorable. I have never been acquainted with a man of higher intellectual
power, nor of greater learning, nor of more various and extensive
knowledge than Bilderdijk, confessedly the most distinguished man of
letters in his own country. His wife was worthy of him. I paid them
another visit the following year. They are now both gone to their rest,
and I shall not look upon their like again.

Soon after the publication of Roderick, I received the following curious
letter from the Ettrick Shepherd, (who had passed a few days with me in
the preceding autumn,) giving me an account of his endeavours to procure
a favourable notice of the poem in the Edinburgh Review.

                                          “Edinburgh, Dec. 15. 1814.

    “MY DEAR SIR,

    “I was very happy at seeing the post-mark of Keswick, and
    quite proud of the pleasure you make me believe my “Wake” has
    given to the beauteous and happy groupe at Greta Hall. Indeed
    few things could give me more pleasure, for I left my heart a
    sojourner among them. I have had a higher opinion of matrimony
    since that period than ever I had before, and I desire that
    you will positively give my kindest respects to each of them
    individually.

    “The Pilgrim of the Sun is published, as you will see by the
    Papers, and if I may believe some communications that I have
    got, the public opinion of it is high; but these communications
    to an author are not to be depended on.

    “I have read Roderick over and over again, and am the more and
    more convinced that it is the noblest epic poem of the age. I
    have had some correspondence and a good deal of conversation
    with Mr. Jeffrey about it, though he does not agree with
    me in every particular. He says it is too long, and wants
    _elasticity_, and will not, he fears, be generally read, though
    much may be said in its favour. I had even teazed him to let
    me review it for him, on account, as I said, that he could not
    appreciate its merits. I copy one sentence out of the letter he
    sent in answer to mine:—

    “‘For Southey I have, as well as you, great respect, and when
    he will let me, great admiration; but he is a most provoking
    fellow, and at least as conceited as his neighbour Wordsworth.
    I cannot just trust you with his Roderick; but I shall be
    extremely happy to talk over that and other kindred subjects
    with you; for I am every way disposed to give Southey a lavish
    allowance of praise, and few things would give me greater
    pleasure than to find he had afforded me a fair opportunity.
    But I must do my duty according to my own apprehensions of it.’

    “I supped with him last night, but there was so many people
    that I got but little conversation with him, but what we had
    was solely about you and Wordsworth. I suppose you have heard
    what a crushing review he has given the latter. I still found
    him persisting in his first asseveration, that it was heavy;
    but what was my pleasure to find that he had only got to the
    seventeenth division. I assured him he had the marrow of the
    thing to come at as yet, and in that I was joined by Mr.
    Alison. There was at the same time a Lady M⸺ joined us at
    the instant; short as her remark was, it seemed to make more
    impression on Jeffrey than all our arguments:—“Oh, I do love
    Southey!” that was all.

    “I have no room to tell you more. But I beg that you will not
    do any thing, nor publish any thing that will nettle Jeffrey
    for the present, knowing as you do how omnipotent he is with
    the fashionable world, and seemingly so well disposed toward
    you.

                     “I am ever your’s most truly,

                                                        “JAMES HOGG.

    “I wish the Notes may be safe enough. I never looked at them. I
    wish these large quartos were all in hell burning.”

The reader will be as much amused as I was with poor Hogg’s earnest
desire that I would not say any thing which might tend to frustrate his
friendly intentions.

  But what success the Shepherd met
  Is to the world a secret yet.

There can be no reason, however, for withholding what was said in my
reply of the _crushing_ review which had been given to Mr. Wordsworth’s
poem:—“_He_ crush the Excursion!! Tell him he might as easily crush
Skiddaw!”

  _Keswick, 15 June, 1838._




ORIGINAL PREFACE.


The history of the Wisi-Goths for some years before their overthrow
is very imperfectly known. It is, however, apparent, that the enmity
between the royal families of Chindasuintho and Wamba was one main cause
of the destruction of the kingdom, the latter party having assisted in
betraying their country to the Moors for the gratification of their own
revenge. Theodofred and Favila were younger sons of King Chindasuintho;
King Witiza, who was of Wamba’s family, put out the eyes of Theodofred,
and murdered Favila, at the instigation of that Chieftain’s wife, with
whom he lived in adultery. Pelayo, the son of Favila, and afterwards
the founder of the Spanish monarchy, was driven into exile. Roderick,
the son of Theodofred, recovered the throne, and put out Witiza’s eyes
in vengeance for his father; but he spared Orpas, the brother of the
tyrant, as being a Priest, and Ebba and Sisibert, the two sons of Witiza,
by Pelayo’s mother. It may be convenient thus briefly to premise these
circumstances of an obscure portion of history, with which few readers
can be supposed to be familiar; and a list of the principal persons who
are introduced, or spoken of, may as properly be prefixed to a Poem as to
a Play.

    WITIZA,          King of the Wisi-Goths; dethroned and blinded by
                       Roderick.
    THEODOFRED,      son of King Chindasuintho, blinded by King Witiza.
    FAVILA,          his brother; put to death by Witiza.
    The Wife of Favila, Witiza’s adulterous mistress.

(_These four persons are dead before the action of the poem commences._)

    RODERICK,        the last King of the Wisi-Goths: son of Theodofred.
    PELAYO,          the founder of the Spanish Monarchy: son of Favila.
    GAUDIOSA,        his wife.
    GUISLA,          his sister.
    FAVILA,          his son.
    HERMESIND,       his daughter.
    RUSILLA,         widow of Theodofred, and mother of Roderick.
    COUNT PEDRO, }   powerful Lords of Cantabria.
    COUNT EUDON, }
    ALPHONSO,        Count Pedro’s son, afterwards King.
    URBAN,           Archbishop of Toledo.
    ROMANO,          a Monk of the Caulian Schools, near Merida.
    ABDALAZIZ,       the Moorish Governor of Spain.
    EGILONA,         formerly the wife of Roderick, now of Abdalaziz.
    ABULCACEM, }
    ALCAHMAN,  }
    AYUB,      }     Moorish Chiefs.
    IBRAHIM,   }
    MAGUED,    }
    ORPAS,           brother to Witiza, and formerly Archbishop of
                       Seville, now a renegade.
    SISIBERT,  }     sons of Witiza and of Pelayo’s mother.
    EBBA,      }
    NUMACIAN,        a renegade, governor of Gegio.
    COUNT JULIAN,    a powerful Lord among the Wisi-Goths, now a
                       renegade.
    FLORINDA,        his daughter, violated by King Roderick.

    ADOSINDA,        daughter of the Governor of Auria.
    ODOAR,           Abbot of St. Felix.
    SIVERIAN,        Roderick’s foster-father.
    FAVINIA,         Count Pedro’s wife.

The four latter persons are imaginary. All the others are mentioned in
history. I ought, however, to observe, that Romano is a creature of
monkish legends; that the name of Pelayo’s sister has not been preserved;
and that that of Roderick’s mother, Ruscilo, has been altered to Rusilla,
for the sake of euphony.




RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.




I.

RODERICK AND ROMANO.


  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?




II.

RODERICK IN SOLITUDE.


  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.




III.

ADOSINDA.


  ’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!




IV.

THE MONASTERY OF ST. FELIX.


  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!




V.

RODERICK AND SIVERIAN.


  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!




VI.

RODERICK IN TIMES PAST.


  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.




VII.

RODERICK AND PELAYO.


  ’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.




VIII.

ALPHONSO.


  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.




IX.

FLORINDA.


  There sate a woman like a supplicant,
  Muffled and cloak’d, before Pelayo’s gate,
  Awaiting when he should return that morn.
  She rose at his approach, and bow’d her head,
  And, with a low and trembling utterance,
  Besought him to vouchsafe her speech within
  In privacy. And when they were alone,
  And the doors closed, she knelt and claspt his knees,
  Saying, a boon! a boon! This night, O Prince,
  Hast thou kept vigil for thy mother’s soul:
  For her soul’s sake, and for the soul of him
  Whom once, in happier days, of all mankind
  Thou heldest for thy chosen bosom friend,
  Oh for the sake of his poor suffering soul,
  Refuse me not!
                How should I dare refuse,
  Being thus adjured? he answer’d. Thy request
  Is granted, woman, ... be it what it may,
  So it be lawful, and within the bounds
  Of possible atchievement: ... aught unfit
  Thou wouldst not with these adjurations seek.
  But who thou art, I marvel, that dost touch
  Upon that string, and ask in Roderick’s name!...
  She bared her face, and, looking up, replied,
  Florinda!... Shrinking then, with both her hands
  She hid herself, and bow’d her head abased
  Upon her knee, ... as one who, if the grave
  Had oped beneath her, would have thrown herself,
  Even like a lover, in the arms of Death.

    Pelayo stood confused: he had not seen
  Count Julian’s daughter since in Roderick’s court,
  Glittering in beauty and in innocence,
  A radiant vision, in her joy she moved;
  More like a poet’s dream, or form divine,
  Heaven’s prototype of perfect womanhood,
  So lovely was the presence, ... than a thing
  Of earth and perishable elements.
  Now had he seen her in her winding-sheet,
  Less painful would that spectacle have proved;
  For peace is with the dead, and piety
  Bringeth a patient hope to those who mourn
  O’er the departed; but this alter’d face,
  Bearing its deadly sorrow character’d,
  Came to him like a ghost, which in the grave
  Could find no rest. He, taking her cold hand,
  Raised her, and would have spoken; but his tongue
  Fail’d in its office, and could only speak
  In under tones compassionate her name.

    The voice of pity soothed and melted her;
  And when the Prince bade her be comforted,
  Proffering his zealous aid in whatsoe’er
  Might please her to appoint, a feeble smile
  Pass’d slowly over her pale countenance,
  Like moonlight on a marble statue. Heaven
  Requite thee, Prince! she answer’d. All I ask
  Is but a quiet resting-place, wherein
  A broken heart, in prayer and humble hope,
  May wait for its deliverance. Even this
  My most unhappy fate denies me here.
  Griefs which are known too widely and too well
  I need not now remember. I could bear
  Privation of all Christian ordinances,
  The woe which kills hath saved me too, and made
  A temple of this ruin’d tabernacle,
  Wherein redeeming God doth not disdain
  To let his presence shine. And I could bear
  To see the turban on my father’s brow, ...
  Sorrow beyond all sorrows, ... shame of shames, ...
  Yet to be borne, while I with tears of blood,
  And throes of agony, in his behalf
  Implore and wrestle with offended Heaven.
  This I have borne resign’d: but other ills
  And worse assail me now; the which to bear,
  If to avoid be possible, would draw
  Damnation down. Orpas, the perjured Priest,
  The apostate Orpas, claims me for his bride.
  Obdurate as he is, the wretch profanes
  My sacred woe, and woos me to his bed,
  The thing I am, ... the living death thou seest!

    Miscreant! exclaim’d Pelayo. Might I meet
  That renegado, sword to scymitar,
  In open field, never did man approach
  The altar for the sacrifice in faith
  More sure, than I should hew the villain down!
  But how should Julian favour his demand?...
  Julian, who hath so passionately loved
  His child, so dreadfully revenged her wrongs!

    Count Julian, she replied, hath none but me,
  And it hath, therefore, been his heart’s desire
  To see his ancient line by me preserved.
  This was their covenant when in fatal hour
  For Spain, and for themselves, in traitorous bond
  Of union they combined. My father, stung
  To madness, only thought of how to make
  His vengeance sure; the Prelate, calm and cool,
  When he renounced his outward faith in Christ,
  Indulged at once his hatred of the King,
  His inbred wickedness, and a haughty hope,
  Versed as he was in treasons, to direct
  The invaders by his secret policy,
  And at their head, aided by Julian’s power,
  Reign as a Moor upon that throne to which
  The priestly order else had barr’d his way.
  The African hath conquer’d for himself;
  But Orpas coveteth Count Julian’s lands,
  And claims to have the covenant perform’d.
  Friendless, and worse than fatherless, I come
  To thee for succour. Send me secretly, ...
  For well I know all faithful hearts must be
  At thy devotion, ... with a trusty guide
  To guard me on the way, that I may reach
  Some Christian land, where Christian rites are free,
  And there discharge a vow, alas! too long,
  Too fatally delay’d. Aid me in this
  For Roderick’s sake, Pelayo! and thy name
  Shall be remember’d in my latest prayer.

    Be comforted! the Prince replied; but when
  He spake of comfort, twice did he break off
  The idle words, feeling that earth had none
  For grief so irremediable as hers.
  At length he took her hand, and pressing it,
  And forcing through involuntary tears
  A mournful smile affectionate, he said,
  Say not that thou art friendless while I live!
  Thou couldst not to a readier ear have told
  Thy sorrows, nor have ask’d in fitter hour
  What for my country’s honour, for my rank,
  My faith, and sacred knighthood, I am bound
  In duty to perform; which not to do
  Would show me undeserving of the names
  Of Goth, Prince, Christian, even of Man. This day
  Lady, prepare to take thy lot with me,
  And soon as evening closes meet me here.
  Duties bring blessings with them, and I hold
  Thy coming for a happy augury,
  In this most aweful crisis of my fate.




X.

RODERICK AND FLORINDA.


  With sword and breast-plate, under rustic weeds
  Conceal’d, at dusk Pelayo pass’d the gate,
  Florinda following near, disguised alike.
  Two peasants on their mules they seem’d, at eve
  Returning from the town. Not distant far,
  Alphonso by the appointed orange-grove,
  With anxious eye and agitated heart,
  Watch’d for the Prince’s coming. Eagerly
  At every foot-fall through the gloom he strain’d
  His sight, nor did he recognize him when
  The Chieftain thus accompanied drew nigh;
  And when the expected signal called him on,
  Doubting this female presence, half in fear
  Obey’d the call. Pelayo too perceived
  The boy was not alone; he not for that
  Delay’d the summons, but lest need should be,
  Laying hand upon his sword, toward him bent
  In act soliciting speech, and low of voice
  Enquired if friend or foe. Forgive me, cried
  Alphonso, that I did not tell thee this,
  Full as I was of happiness, before.
  ’Tis Hoya, servant of my father’s house,
  Unto whose dutiful care and love, when sent
  To this vile bondage, I was given in charge.
  How could I look upon my father’s face
  If I had in my joy deserted him,
  Who was to me found faithful?... Right! replied
  The Prince; and viewing him with silent joy,
  Blessed the Mother, in his heart he said,
  Who gave thee birth! but sure of womankind
  Most blessed she whose hand her happy stars
  Shall link with thine! and with that thought the form
  Of Hermesind, his daughter, to his soul
  Came in her beauty.
                      Soon by devious tracks
  They turn’d aside. The favouring moon arose,
  To guide them on their flight through upland paths
  Remote from frequentage, and dales retired,
  Forest and mountain glen. Before their feet
  The fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade,
  Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their way;
  The timorous blackbird, starting at their step,
  Fled from the thicket with shrill note of fear;
  And far below them in the peopled dell,
  When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased,
  The distant watch-dog’s voice at times was heard,
  Answering the nearer wolf. All through the night
  Among the hills they travell’d silently;
  Till when the stars were setting, at what hour
  The breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheld
  Within a lonely grove the expected fire,
  Where Roderick and his comrade anxiously
  Look’d for the appointed meeting. Halting there,
  They from the burthen and the bit relieved
  Their patient bearers, and around the fire
  Partook of needful food and grateful rest.

    Bright rose the flame replenish’d; it illumed
  The cork-tree’s furrow’d rind, its rifts and swells
  And redder scars, ... and where its aged boughs
  O’erbower’d the travellers, cast upon the leaves
  A floating, grey, unrealizing gleam.
  Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heath
  Lay carelessly dispread, in happy dreams
  Of home; his faithful Hoya slept beside.
  Years and fatigue to old Siverian brought
  Easy oblivion; and the Prince himself,
  Yielding to weary nature’s gentle will,
  Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sate
  Beholding Roderick with fix’d eyes intent,
  Yet unregardant of the countenance
  Whereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb’d,
  Collecting fortitude for what she yearn’d,
  Yet trembled to perform. Her steady look
  Disturb’d the Goth, albeit he little ween’d
  What agony awaited him that hour.
  Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was now
  Half-hidden, and the lustre of her eye
  Extinct; nor did her voice awaken in him
  One startling recollection when she spake,
  So altered were its tones.
                            Father, she said,
  All thankful as I am to leave behind
  The unhappy walls of Cordoba, not less
  Of consolation doth my heart receive
  At sight of one to whom I may disclose
  The sins which trouble me, and at his feet
  Lay down repentantly, in Jesu’s name,
  The burthen of my spirit. In his name
  Hear me, and pour into a wounded soul
  The balm of pious counsel.... Saying thus,
  She drew toward the minister ordain’d,
  And kneeling by him, Father, dost thou know
  The wretch who kneels beside thee? she enquired,
  He answered, Surely we are each to each
  Equally unknown.
                  Then said she, Here thou seest
  One who is known too fatally for all, ...
  The daughter of Count Julian.... Well it was
  For Roderick that no eye beheld him now;
  From head to foot a sharper pang than death
  Thrill’d him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke,
  Ceased from its functions: his breath fail’d, and when
  The power of life recovering set its springs
  Again in action, cold and clammy sweat
  Starting at every pore suffused his frame.
  Their presence help’d him to subdue himself;
  For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallen
  Before Florinda prostrate on the earth,
  And in that mutual agony belike
  Both souls had taken flight. She mark’d him not,
  For having told her name, she bow’d her head,
  Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven,
  While, as a penitent, she wrought herself
  To open to his eye her hidden wounds.

    Father, at length she said, all tongues amid
  This general ruin shed their bitterness
  On Roderick, load his memory with reproach,
  And with their curses persecute his soul....
  Why shouldst thou tell me this? exclaim’d the Goth,
  From his cold forehead wiping as he spake
  The death-like moisture; ... Why of Roderick’s guilt
  Tell me? Or thinkest thou I know it not?
  Alas! who hath not heard the hideous tale
  Of Roderick’s shame! Babes learn it from their nurses,
  And children, by their mothers unreproved,
  Link their first execrations to his name.
  Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy,
  That, like Iscariot’s, through all time shall last,
  Reeking and fresh for ever!
                              There! she cried,
  Drawing her body backward where she knelt,
  And stretching forth her arms with head upraised,
  There! it pursues me still!... I came to thee,
  Father, for comfort, and thou heapest fire
  Upon my head. But hear me patiently,
  And let me undeceive thee; self-abased,
  Not to arraign another, do I come;
  I come a self-accuser, self-condemn’d
  To take upon myself the pain deserved;
  For I have drank the cup of bitterness,
  And having drank therein of heavenly grace,
  I must not put away the cup of shame.

    Thus as she spake she falter’d at the close,
  And in that dying fall her voice sent forth
  Somewhat of its original sweetness. Thou!...
  Thou self-abased! exclaim’d the astonish’d King; ...
  Thou self-condemn’d!... The cup of shame for thee!
  Thee ... thee, Florinda!... But the very excess
  Of passion check’d his speech, restraining thus
  From farther transport, which had haply else
  Master’d him; and he sate like one entranced,
  Gazing upon that countenance so fallen,
  So changed: her face, raised from its muffler now,
  Was turn’d toward him, and the fire-light shone
  Full on its mortal paleness; but the shade
  Conceal’d the King.
                      She roused him from the spell
  Which held him like a statue motionless.
  Thou too, quoth she, dost join the general curse,
  Like one who when he sees a felon’s grave,
  Casting a stone there as he passes by,
  Adds to the heap of shame. Oh what are we,
  Frail creatures as we are, that we should sit
  In judgement man on man! and what were we,
  If the All-merciful should mete to us
  With the same rigorous measure wherewithal
  Sinner to sinner metes! But God beholds
  The secrets of the heart, ... therefore his name
  Is Merciful. Servant of God, see thou
  The hidden things of mine, and judge thou then
  In charity thy brother who hath fallen....
  Nay, hear me to the end! I loved the King, ...
  Tenderly, passionately, madly loved him.
  Sinful it was to love a child of earth
  With such entire devotion as I loved
  Roderick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth!
  And yet methought this was its only crime,
  The imaginative passion seem’d so pure:
  Quiet and calm like duty, hope nor fear
  Disturb’d the deep contentment of that love;
  He was the sunshine of my soul, and like
  A flower, I lived and flourish’d in his light.
  Oh bear not with me thus impatiently!
  No tale of weakness this, that in the act
  Of penitence, indulgent to itself,
  With garrulous palliation half repeats
  The sin it ill repents. I will be brief,
  And shrink not from confessing how the love
  Which thus began in innocence, betray’d
  My unsuspecting heart; nor me alone,
  But him, before whom, shining as he shone
  With whatsoe’er is noble, whatsoe’er
  Is lovely, whatsoever good and great,
  I was as dust and ashes, ... him, alas!
  This glorious being, this exalted Prince,
  Even him, with all his royalty of soul,
  Did this ill-omen’d, this accursëd love,
  To his most lamentable fall betray
  And utter ruin. Thus it was: The King,
  By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised,
  To an unworthy mate had bound himself
  In politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tell
  How Nature upon Egilona’s form,
  Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts,
  Left, like a statue from the graver’s hands,
  Deformity and hollowness beneath
  The rich external? For the love of pomp
  And emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr’d
  The grief and wonder of good men, the gibes
  Of vulgar ribaldry, the reproach of all;
  Profaning the most holy sacrament
  Of marriage, to become chief of the wives
  Of Abdalaziz, of the Infidel,
  The Moor, the tyrant-enemy of Spain!
  All know her now; but they alone who knew
  What Roderick was can judge his wretchedness,
  To that light spirit and unfeeling heart
  In hopeless bondage bound. No children rose
  From this unhappy union, towards whom
  The springs of love within his soul confined
  Might flow in joy and fulness; nor was he
  One, like Witiza, of the vulgar crew,
  Who in promiscuous appetite can find
  All their vile nature seeks. Alas for man!
  Exuberant health diseases him, frail worm!
  And the slight bias of untoward chance
  Makes his best virtue from the even line,
  With fatal declination, swerve aside.
  Aye, thou mayest groan for poor mortality, ...
  Well, Father, mayest thou groan!
                                  My evil fate
  Made me an inmate of the royal house,
  And Roderick found in me, if not a heart
  Like his, ... for who was like the heroic Goth?...
  One which at least felt his surpassing worth,
  And loved him for himself.... A little yet
  Bear with me, reverend Father, for I touch
  Upon the point, and this long prologue goes,
  As justice bids, to palliate his offence,
  Not mine. The passion, which I fondly thought
  Such as fond sisters for a brother feel,
  Grew day by day, and strengthen’d in its growth,
  Till the beloved presence had become
  Needful as food or necessary sleep,
  My hope, light, sunshine, life, and every thing.
  Thus lapt in dreams of bliss, I might have lived
  Contented with this pure idolatry,
  Had he been happy: but I saw and knew
  The inward discontent and household griefs
  Which he subdued in silence; and alas!
  Pity with admiration mingling then,
  Alloy’d and lower’d and humanized my love,
  Till to the level of my lowliness
  It brought him down; and in this treacherous heart
  Too often the repining thought arose,
  That if Florinda had been Roderick’s Queen,
  Then might domestic peace and happiness
  Have bless’d his home and crown’d our wedded loves.
  Too often did that sinful thought recur,
  Too feebly the temptation was repell’d.

    See, Father, I have probed my inmost soul;
  Have search’d to its remotest source the sin;
  And tracing it through all its specious forms
  Of fair disguisement, I present it now,
  Even as it lies before the eye of God,
  Bare and exposed, convicted and condemn’d.
  One eve, as in the bowers which overhang
  The glen where Tagus rolls between his rocks
  I roam’d alone, alone I met the King.
  His countenance was troubled, and his speech
  Like that of one whose tongue to light discourse
  At fits constrain’d, betrays a heart disturb’d:
  I too, albeit unconscious of his thoughts,
  With anxious looks reveal’d what wandering words
  In vain essay’d to hide. A little while
  Did this oppressive intercourse endure,
  Till our eyes met in silence, each to each
  Telling their mutual tale, then consciously
  Together fell abash’d. He took my hand
  And said, Florinda, would that thou and I
  Earlier had met! oh what a blissful lot
  Had then been mine, who might have found in thee
  The sweet companion and the friend endear’d,
  A fruitful wife and crown of earthly joys!
  Thou too shouldst then have been of womankind
  Happiest, as now the loveliest.... And with that,
  First giving way to passion first disclosed,
  He press’d upon my lips a guilty kiss, ...
  Alas! more guiltily received than given.
  Passive and yielding, and yet self-reproach’d,
  Trembling I stood, upheld in his embrace;
  When coming steps were heard, and Roderick said,
  Meet me to-morrow, I beseech thee, here,
  Queen of my heart! Oh meet me here again,
  My own Florinda, meet me here again!...
  Tongue, eye, and pressure of the impassion’d hand
  Solicited and urged the ardent suit,
  And from my hesitating hurried lips
  The word of promise fatally was drawn.
  O Roderick, Roderick! hadst thou told me all
  Thy purpose at that hour, from what a world
  Of woe had thou and I.... The bitterness
  Of that reflection overcame her then,
  And choak’d her speech. But Roderick sate the while
  Covering his face with both his hands close-prest,
  His head bow’d down, his spirit to such point
  Of sufferance knit, as one who patiently
  Awaits the uplifted sword.
                            Till now, said she,
  Resuming her confession, I had lived,
  If not in innocence, yet self-deceived,
  And of my perilous and sinful state
  Unconscious. But this fatal hour reveal’d
  To my awakening soul her guilt and shame;
  And in those agonies with which remorse,
  Wrestling with weakness and with cherish’d sin,
  Doth triumph o’er the lacerated heart,
  That night ... that miserable night ... I vow’d,
  A virgin dedicate, to pass my life
  Immured; and, like redeemëd Magdalen,
  Or that Egyptian penitent, whose tears
  Fretted the rock, and moisten’d round her cave
  The thirsty desert, so to mourn my fall.
  The struggle ending thus, the victory
  Thus, as I thought, accomplish’d, I believed
  My soul was calm, and that the peace of Heaven
  Descended to accept and bless my vow
  And in this faith, prepared to consummate
  The sacrifice, I went to meet the King.
  See, Father, what a snare had Satan laid!
  For Roderick came to tell me that the Church
  From his unfruitful bed would set him free,
  And I should be his Queen.
                            O let me close
  The dreadful tale! I told him of my vow;
  And from sincere and scrupulous piety,
  But more, I fear me, in that desperate mood
  Of obstinate will perverse, the which, with pride
  And shame and self-reproach, doth sometimes make
  A woman’s tongue, her own worst enemy,
  Run counter to her dearest heart’s desire, ...
  In that unhappy mood did I resist
  All his most earnest prayers to let the power
  Of holy Church, never more rightfully
  Invoked, he said, than now in our behalf,
  Release us from our fatal bonds. He urged
  With kindling warmth his suit, like one whose life
  Hung on the issue; I dissembled not
  My cruel self-reproaches, nor my grief,
  Yet desperately maintain’d the rash resolve;
  Till in the passionate argument he grew
  Incensed, inflamed, and madden’d or possess’d, ...
  For Hell too surely at that hour prevail’d,
  And with such subtile toils enveloped him,
  That even in the extremity of guilt
  No guilt he purported, but rather meant
  An amplest recompence of life-long love
  For transitory wrong, which fate perverse,
  Thus madly he deceived himself, compell’d,
  And therefore stern necessity excused.
  Here then, O Father, at thy feet I own
  Myself the guiltier; for full well I knew
  These were his thoughts, but vengeance master’d me,
  And in my agony I cursed the man
  Whom I loved best.
                    Dost thou recall that curse?
  Cried Roderick, in a deep and inward voice,
  Still with his head depress’d, and covering still
  His countenance. Recall it? she exclaim’d;
  Father, I come to thee because I gave
  The reins to wrath too long, ... because I wrought
  His ruin, death, and infamy.... O God,
  Forgive the wicked vengeance thus indulged,
  As I forgive the King!... But teach me thou
  What reparation more than tears and prayers
  May now be made; ... how shall I vindicate
  His injured name, and take upon myself....
  Daughter of Julian, firmly he replied,
  Speak not of that, I charge thee! On his fame
  The Ethiop dye, fixed ineffaceably,
  For ever will abide; so it must be,
  So should be: ’tis his rightful punishment;
  And if to the full measure of his sin
  The punishment hath fallen, the more our hope
  That through the blood of Jesus he may find
  That sin forgiven him.
                        Pausing then, he raised
  His hand, and pointed where Siverian lay
  Stretch’d on the heath. To that old man, said he,
  And to the mother of the unhappy Goth,
  Tell, if it please thee, ... not what thou hast pour’d
  Into my secret ear, but that the child
  For whom they mourn with anguish unallay’d,
  Sinn’d not from vicious will, or heart corrupt,
  But fell by fatal circumstance betray’d.
  And if in charity to them thou sayest
  Something to palliate, something to excuse
  An act of sudden frenzy when the Fiend
  O’ercame him, thou wilt do for Roderick
  All he could ask thee, all that can be done
  On earth, and all his spirit could endure.

    Venturing towards her an imploring look,
  Wilt thou join with me for his soul in prayer?
  He said, and trembled as he spake. That voice
  Of sympathy was like Heaven’s influence,
  Wounding at once and comforting the soul.
  O Father, Christ requite thee! she exclaim’d;
  Thou hast set free the springs which withering griefs
  Have closed too long. Forgive me, for I thought
  Thou wert a rigid and unpitying judge;
  One whose stern virtue, feeling in itself
  No flaw of frailty, heard impatiently
  Of weakness and of guilt. I wrong’d thee Father!...
  With that she took his hand, and kissing it,
  Bathed it with tears. Then in a firmer speech,
  For Roderick, for Count Julian and myself,
  Three wretchedest of all the human race,
  Who have destroyed each other and ourselves,
  Mutually wrong’d and wronging, let us pray!




XI.

COUNT PEDRO’S CASTLE.


  Twelve weary days with unremitting speed,
  Shunning frequented tracks, the travellers
  Pursued their way; the mountain path they chose,
  The forest or the lonely heath wide-spread,
  Where cistus shrubs sole-seen exhaled at noon
  Their fine balsamic odour all around;
  Strew’d with their blossoms, frail as beautiful,
  The thirsty soil at eve; and when the sun
  Relumed the gladden’d earth, opening anew
  Their stores exuberant, prodigal as frail,
  Whiten’d again the wilderness. They left
  The dark Sierra’s skirts behind, and cross’d
  The wilds where Ana in her native hills
  Collects her sister springs, and hurries on
  Her course melodious amid loveliest glens,
  With forest and with fruitage overbower’d.
  These scenes profusely blest by Heaven they left,
  Where o’er the hazel and the quince the vine
  Wide-mantling spreads; and clinging round the cork
  And ilex, hangs amid their dusky leaves
  Garlands of brightest hue, with reddening fruit
  Pendant, or clusters cool of glassy green.
  So holding on o’er mountain and o’er vale,
  Tagus they cross’d where midland on his way
  The King of Rivers rolls his stately stream;
  And rude Alverches wide and stony bed,
  And Duero distant far, and many a stream
  And many a field obscure, in future war
  For bloody theatre of famous deeds
  Foredoom’d; and deserts where in years to come
  Shall populous towns arise, and crested towers
  And stately temples rear their heads on high.

    Cautious with course circuitous they shunn’d
  The embattled city, which in eldest time
  Thrice-greatest Hermes built, so fables say,
  Now subjugate, but fated to behold
  Ere long the heroic Prince (who passing now
  Unknown and silently the dangerous track,
  Turns thither his regardant eye) come down
  Victorious from the heights, and bear abroad
  Her banner’d Lion, symbol to the Moor
  Of rout and death through many an age of blood.
  Lo, there the Asturian hills! Far in the west,
  Huge Rabanal and Foncebadon huge,
  Pre-eminent, their giant bulk display,
  Darkening with earliest shade the distant vales
  Of Leon, and with evening premature.
  Far in Cantabria eastward, the long line
  Extends beyond the reach of eagle’s eye,
  When buoyant in mid-heaven the bird of Jove
  Soars at his loftiest pitch. In the north, before
  The travellers the Erbasian mountains rise,
  Bounding the land beloved, their native land.

    How then, Alphonso, did thy eager soul
  Chide the slow hours and painful way, which seem’d
  Lengthening to grow before their lagging pace!
  Youth of heroic thought and high desire,
  ’Tis not the spur of lofty enterprize
  That with unequal throbbing hurries now
  The unquiet heart, now makes it sink dismay’d;
  ’Tis not impatient joy which thus disturbs
  In that young breast the healthful spring of life;
  Joy and ambition have forsaken him,
  His soul is sick with hope. So near his home,
  So near his mother’s arms; ... alas! perchance
  The long’d-for meeting may be yet far off
  As earth from heaven. Sorrow in these long months
  Of separation may have laid her low;
  Or what if at his flight the bloody Moor
  Hath sent his ministers of slaughter forth,
  And he himself should thus have brought the sword
  Upon his father’s head?... Sure Hoya too
  The same dark presage feels, the fearful boy
  Said in himself; or wherefore is his brow
  Thus overcast with heaviness, and why
  Looks he thus anxiously in silence round?

    Just then that faithful servant raised his hand,
  And turning to Alphonso with a smile,
  He pointed where Count Pedro’s towers far off
  Peer’d in the dell below; faint was the smile,
  And while it sate upon his lips, his eye
  Retain’d its troubled speculation still.
  For long had he look’d wistfully in vain,
  Seeking where far or near he might espy
  From whom to learn if time or chance had wrought
  Change in his master’s house: but on the hills
  Nor goat-herd could he see, nor traveller,
  Nor huntsman early at his sports afield,
  Nor angler following up the mountain glen
  His lonely pastime; neither could he hear
  Carol, or pipe, or shout of shepherd’s boy,
  Nor woodman’s axe, for not a human sound
  Disturb’d the silence of the solitude.

    Is it the spoiler’s work? At yonder door
  Behold the favourite kidling bleats unheard;
  The next stands open, and the sparrows there
  Boldly pass in and out. Thither he turn’d
  To seek what indications were within;
  The chesnut-bread was on the shelf, the churn,
  As if in haste forsaken, full and fresh;
  The recent fire had moulder’d on the hearth;
  And broken cobwebs mark’d the whiter space
  Where from the wall the buckler and the sword
  Had late been taken down. Wonder at first
  Had mitigated fear, but Hoya now
  Return’d to tell the symbols of good hope,
  And they prick’d forward joyfully. Ere long
  Perceptible above the ceaseless sound
  Of yonder stream, a voice of multitudes,
  As if in loud acclaim, was heard far off;
  And nearer as they drew, distincter shouts
  Came from the dell, and at Count Pedro’s gate
  The human swarm were seen, ... a motley group,
  Maids, mothers, helpless infancy, weak age,
  And wondering children and tumultuous boys,
  Hot youth and resolute manhood gather’d there,
  In uproar all. Anon the moving mass
  Falls in half circle back, a general cry
  Bursts forth, exultant arms are lifted up
  And caps are thrown aloft, as through the gate
  Count Pedro’s banner came. Alphonso shriek’d
  For joy, and smote his steed and gallop’d on.

    Fronting the gate the standard-bearer holds
  His precious charge. Behind the men divide
  In order’d files; green boyhood presses there,
  And waning eld, pleading a youthful soul,
  Intreats admission. All is ardour here,
  Hope and brave purposes and minds resolved.
  Nor where the weaker sex is left apart
  Doth aught of fear find utterance, though perchance
  Some paler cheeks might there be seen, some eyes
  Big with sad bodings, and some natural tears.
  Count Pedro’s war-horse in the vacant space
  Strikes with impatient hoof the trodden turf,
  And gazing round upon the martial show,
  Proud of his stately trappings, flings his head,
  And snorts and champs the bit, and neighing shrill
  Wakes the near echo with his voice of joy.
  The page beside him holds his master’s spear
  And shield and helmet. In the castle-gate
  Count Pedro stands, his countenance resolved
  But mournful, for Favinia on his arm
  Hung, passionate with her fears, and held him back.
  Go not, she cried, with this deluded crew!
  She hath not, Pedro, with her frantic words
  Bereft thy faculty, ... she is crazed with grief,
  And her delirium hath infected these:
  But, Pedro, thou art calm; thou dost not share
  The madness of the crowd; thy sober mind
  Surveys the danger in its whole extent,
  And sees the certain ruin, ... for thou know’st
  I know thou hast no hope. Unhappy man,
  Why then for this most desperate enterprize
  Wilt thou devote thy son, thine only child?
  Not for myself I plead, nor even for thee;
  Thou art a soldier, and thou canst not fear
  The face of death; and I should welcome it
  As the best visitant whom Heaven could send.
  Not for our lives I speak then, ... were they worth
  The thought of preservation; ... Nature soon
  Must call for them; the sword that should cut short
  Sorrow’s slow work were merciful to us.
  But spare Alphonso! there is time and hope
  In store for him. O thou who gavest him life,
  Seal not his death, his death and mine at once!

    Peace! he replied: thou know’st there is no choice,
  I did not raise the storm; I cannot turn
  Its course aside! but where yon banner goes
  Thy Lord must not be absent! Spare me then,
  Favinia, lest I hear thy honour’d name
  Now first attainted with deserved reproach.
  The boy is in God’s hands. He who of yore
  Walk’d with the sons of Judah in the fire,
  And from the lion’s den drew Daniel forth
  Unhurt, can save him, ... if it be his will.

    Even as he spake, the astonish’d troop set up
  A shout of joy which rung through all the hills.
  Alphonso heeds not how they break their ranks
  And gather round to greet him; from his horse
  Precipitate and panting off he springs.
  Pedro grew pale, and trembled at his sight;
  Favinia claspt her hands, and looking up
  To Heaven as she embraced the boy, exclaim’d,
  Lord God, forgive me for my sinful fears;
  Unworthy that I am, ... my son, my son!




XII.

THE VOW.


  Always I knew thee for a generous foe,
  Pelayo! said the Count; and in our time
  Of enmity, thou too, I know, didst feel
  The feud between us was but of the house,
  Not of the heart. Brethren in arms henceforth
  We stand or fall together: nor will I
  Look to the event with one misgiving thought, ...
  That were to prove myself unworthy now
  Of Heaven’s benignant providence, this hour,
  Scarcely by less than miracle, vouchsafed.
  I will believe that we have days in store
  Of hope, now risen again as from the dead, ...
  Of vengeance, ... of portentous victory, ...
  Yea, maugre all unlikelihoods, ... of peace.
  Let us then here indissolubly knit
  Our ancient houses, that those happy days,
  When they arrive, may find us more than friends,
  And bound by closer than fraternal ties.
  Thou hast a daughter, Prince, to whom my heart
  Yearns now, as if in winning infancy
  Her smiles had been its daily food of love.
  I need not tell thee what Alphonso is, ...
  Thou know’st the boy!
                        Already had that hope,
  Replied Pelayo, risen within my soul.
  O Thou, who in thy mercy from the house
  Of Moorish bondage hast deliver’d us,
  Fulfil the pious purposes for which
  Here, in thy presence, thus we pledge our hands!

    Strange hour to plight espousals! yielding half
  To superstitious thoughts, Favinia cried,
  And these strange witnesses!... The times are strange,
  With thoughtful speech composed her Lord replies,
  And what thou seest accords with them. This day
  Is wonderful; nor could auspicious Heaven
  With fairer or with fitter omen gild
  Our enterprize, when strong in heart and hope
  We take the field, preparing thus for works
  Of piety and love. Unwillingly
  I yielded to my people’s general voice,
  Thinking that she who with her powerful words
  To this excess had roused and kindled them,
  Spake from the spirit of her griefs alone,
  Not with prophetic impulse. Be that sin
  Forgiven me! and the calm and quiet faith
  Which, in the place of incredulity,
  Hath fill’d me, now that seeing I believe,
  Doth give of happy end to righteous cause
  A presage, not presumptuous, but assured.

    Then Pedro told Pelayo how from vale
  To vale the exalted Adosinda went,
  Exciting sire and son, in holy war
  Conquering or dying, to secure their place
  In Paradise: and how reluctantly,
  And mourning for his child by his own act
  Thus doom’d to death, he bade with heavy heart
  His banner be brought forth. Devoid alike
  Of purpose and of hope himself, he meant
  To march toward the western Mountaineers,
  Where Odoar by his counsel might direct
  Their force conjoin’d. Now, said he, we must haste
  To Cangas, there, Pelayo, to secure,
  With timely speed, I trust in God, thy house.

    Then looking to his men, he cried, Bring forth
  The armour which in Wamba’s wars I wore...
  Alphonso’s heart leapt at the auspicious words.
  Count Pedro mark’d the rising glow of joy,..
  Doubly to thee, Alphonso, he pursued,
  This day above all other days is blest,
  From whence as from a birth-day thou wilt date
  Thy life in arms!
                    Rejoicing in their task,
  The servants of the house with emulous love
  Dispute the charge. One brings the cuirass, one
  The buckler; this excitingly displays
  The sword, his comrade lifts the helm on high:
  The greaves, the gauntlets they divide; a spur
  Seems now to dignify the officious hand
  Which for such service bears it to his Lord.
  Greek artists in the imperial city forged
  That splendid armour, perfect in their craft;
  With curious skill they wrought it, framed alike
  To shine amid the pageantry of war,
  And for the proof of battle. Many a time
  Alphonso from his nurse’s lap had stretch’d
  His infant hands toward it eagerly,
  Where gleaming to the central fire it hung
  High in the hall; and many a time had wish’d
  With boyish ardour, that the day were come
  When Pedro to his prayers would grant the boon,
  His dearest heart’s desire. Count Pedro then
  Would smile, and in his heart rejoice to see
  The noble instinct manifest itself.
  Then too Favinia with maternal pride
  Would turn her eyes exulting to her Lord,
  And in that silent language bid him mark
  His spirit in his boy; all danger then
  Was distant, and if secret forethought faint
  Of manhood’s perils, and the chance of war,
  Hateful to mothers, pass’d across her mind,
  The ill remote gave to the present hour
  A heighten’d feeling of secure delight.

    No season this for old solemnities,
  For wassailry and sport; ... the bath, the bed,
  The vigil, ... all preparatory rites
  Omitted now, ... here in the face of Heaven,
  Before the vassals of his father’s house,
  With them in instant peril to partake
  The chance of life or death, the heroic boy
  Dons his first arms; the coated scales of steel
  Which o’er the tunic to his knees depend,
  The hose, the sleeves of mail; bareheaded then
  He stood. But when Count Pedro took the spurs
  And bent his knee in service to his son,
  Alphonso from that gesture half drew back,
  Starting in reverence, and a deeper hue
  Spread o’er the glow of joy which flush’d his cheeks.
  Do thou the rest, Pelayo! said the Count;
  So shall the ceremony of this hour
  Exceed in honour what in form it lacks.
  The Prince from Hoya’s faithful hand receiv’d
  The sword; he girt it round the youth, and drew
  And placed it in his hand; unsheathing then
  His own good falchion, with its burnish’d blade
  He touch’d Alphonso’s neck, and with a kiss
  Gave him his rank in arms.
                            Thus long the crowd
  Had look’d intently on, in silence hush’d;
  Loud and continuous now with one accord,
  Shout following shout, their acclamations rose;
  Blessings were breathed from every heart, and joy,
  Powerful alike in all, which as with force
  Of an inebriating cup inspired
  The youthful, from the eye of age drew tears.
  The uproar died away, when standing forth,
  Roderick with lifted hand besought a pause
  For speech, and moved towards the youth. I too,
  Young Baron, he began, must do my part;
  Not with prerogative of earthly power,
  But as the servant of the living God,
  The God of Hosts. This day thou promisest
  To die when honour calls thee for thy faith,
  For thy liege Lord, and for thy native land;
  The duties which at birth we all contract,
  Are by the high profession of this hour
  Made thine especially. Thy noble blood,
  The thoughts with which thy childhood hath been fed,
  And thine own noble nature more than all,
  Are sureties for thee. But these dreadful times
  Demand a farther pledge; for it hath pleased
  The Highest, as he tried his Saints of old,
  So in the fiery furnace of his wrath
  To prove and purify the sons of Spain;
  And they must knit their spirits to the proof,
  Or sink, for ever lost. Hold forth thy sword,
  Young Baron, and before thy people take
  The vow which, in Toledo’s sacred name,
  Poor as these weeds bespeak me, I am here
  To minister with delegated power.

    With reverential awe was Roderick heard
  By all, so well authority became
  That mien and voice and countenance austere.
  Pelayo with complacent eye beheld
  The unlook’d-for interposal, and the Count
  Bends toward Alphonso his approving head.
  The youth obedient loosen’d from his belt
  The sword, and looking, while his heart beat fast,
  To Roderick, reverently expectant stood.

    O noble youth, the Royal Goth pursued,
  Thy country is in bonds; an impious foe
  Oppresses her; he brings with him strange laws,
  Strange language, evil customs, and false faith,
  And forces them on Spain. Swear that thy soul
  Will make no covenant with these accursed,
  But that the sword shall be from this day forth
  Thy children’s portion, to be handed down
  From sire to son, a sacred heritage,
  Through every generation, till the work
  Be done, and this insulted land hath drunk
  In sacrifice, the last invader’s blood!

    Bear witness, ancient Mountains! cried the youth,
  And ye, my native Streams, who hold your course
  For ever; ... this dear Earth, and yonder Sky,
  Be witness! for myself I make the vow,
  And for my children’s children. Here I stand
  Their sponsor, binding them in sight of Heaven,
  As by a new baptismal sacrament,
  To wage hereditary holy war,
  Perpetual, patient, persevering war,
  Till not one living enemy pollute
  The sacred soil of Spain.
                            So as he ceased,
  While yet toward the clear blue firmament
  His eyes were raised, he lifted to his lips
  The sword, with reverent gesture bending then
  Devoutly kiss’d its cross.
                            And ye! exclaimed
  Roderick, as turning to the assembled troop
  He motion’d with authoritative hand, ...
  Ye children of the hills and sons of Spain!

    Through every heart the rapid feeling ran, ...
  For us! they answer’d all with one accord,
  And at the word they knelt: People and Prince,
  The young and old, the father and the son,
  At once they knelt; with one accord they cried,
  For us, and for our seed! with one accord
  They cross’d their fervent arms, and with bent head
  Inclined toward that aweful voice from whence
  The inspiring impulse came. The Royal Goth
  Made answer, I receive your vow for Spain
  And for the Lord of Hosts: your cause is good,
  Go forward in his spirit and his strength.

    Ne’er in his happiest hours had Roderick
  With such commanding majesty dispensed
  His princely gifts, as dignified him now,
  When with slow movement, solemnly upraised,
  Toward the kneeling troop he spread his arms,
  As if the expanded soul diffused itself,
  And carried to all spirits with the act
  Its effluent inspiration. Silently
  The people knelt, and when they rose, such awe
  Held them in silence, that the eagle’s cry,
  Who far above them, at her highest flight
  A speck scarce visible, gyred round and round,
  Was heard distinctly; and the mountain stream,
  Which from the distant glen sent forth its sounds
  Wafted upon the wind, grew audible
  In that deep hush of feeling, like the voice
  Of waters in the stillness of the night.




XIII.

COUNT EUDON.


  That aweful silence still endured, when one,
  Who to the northern entrance of the vale
  Had turn’d his casual eye, exclaim’d, The Moors!...
  For from the forest verge a troop were seen
  Hastening toward Pedro’s hall. Their forward speed
  Was check’d when they beheld his banner spread,
  And saw his order’d spears in prompt array
  Marshall’d to meet their coming. But the pride
  Of power and insolence of long command
  Prick’d on their Chief presumptuous: We are come
  Late for prevention, cried the haughty Moor,
  But never time more fit for punishment!
  These unbelieving slaves must feel and know
  Their master’s arm!... On, faithful Musselmen,
  On ... on, ... and hew down the rebellious dogs!...
  Then as he spurr’d his steed, Allah is great!
  Mahommed is his Prophet! he exclaim’d,
  And led the charge.
                      Count Pedro met the Chief
  In full career; he bore him from his horse
  A full spear’s length upon the lance transfix’d;
  Then leaving in his breast the mortal shaft,
  Pass’d on, and breaking through the turban’d files
  Open’d a path. Pelayo, who that day
  Fought in the ranks afoot, for other war
  Yet unequipp’d, pursued and smote the foe,
  But ever on Alphonso at his side
  Retain’d a watchful eye. The gallant boy
  Gave his good sword that hour its earliest taste
  Of Moorish blood, ... that sword whose hungry edge,
  Through the fair course of all his glorious life
  From that auspicious day, was fed so well.
  Cheap was the victory now for Spain achieved;
  For the first fervour of their zeal inspired
  The Mountaineers, ... the presence of their Chiefs,
  The sight of all dear objects, all dear ties,
  The air they breathed, the soil whereon they trod,
  Duty, devotion, faith, and hope and joy.
  And little had the misbelievers ween’d
  In such impetuous onset to receive
  A greeting deadly as their own intent;
  Victims they thought to find, not men prepared
  And eager for the fight; their confidence
  Therefore gave way to wonder, and dismay
  Effected what astonishment began.
  Scatter’d before the impetuous Mountaineers,
  Buckler and spear and scymitar they dropt,
  As in precipitate route they fled before
  The Asturian sword: the vales and hills and rocks
  Received their blood, and where they fell the wolves
  At evening found them.
                        From the fight apart
  Two Africans had stood, who held in charge
  Count Eudon. When they saw their countrymen
  Falter, give way, and fly before the foe,
  One turn’d toward him with malignant rage,
  And saying, Infidel! thou shalt not live
  To join their triumph! aim’d against his neck
  The moony falchion’s point. His comrade raised
  A hasty hand and turn’d its edge aside,
  Yet so that o’er the shoulder glancing down
  It scarr’d him as it pass’d. The murderous Moor,
  Not tarrying to secure his vengeance, fled;
  While he of milder mood, at Eudon’s feet
  Fell and embraced his knees. The mountaineer
  Who found them thus, withheld at Eudon’s voice
  His wrathful hand, and led them to his Lord.

    Count Pedro and Alphonso and the Prince
  Stood on a little rocky eminence
  Which overlook’d the vale. Pedro had put
  His helmet off, and with sonorous horn
  Blew the recall; for well he knew what thoughts,
  Calm as the Prince appear’d and undisturb’d,
  Lay underneath his silent fortitude;
  And how at this eventful juncture speed
  Imported more than vengeance. Thrice he sent
  The long-resounding signal forth, which rung
  From hill to hill, re-echoing far and wide.
  Slow and unwillingly his men obey’d
  The swelling horn’s reiterated call;
  Repining that a single foe escaped
  The retribution of that righteous hour.
  With lingering step reluctant from the chase
  They turn’d, ... their veins full-swoln, their sinews strung
  For battle still, their hearts unsatisfied;
  Their swords were dropping still with Moorish blood,
  And where they wiped their reeking brows, the stain
  Of Moorish gore was left. But when they came
  Where Pedro, with Alphonso at his side,
  Stood to behold their coming, then they press’d
  All emulous, with gratulation round,
  Extolling for his deeds that day display’d
  The noble boy. Oh! when had Heaven, they said,
  With such especial favour manifest
  Illustrated a first essay in arms!
  They bless’d the father from whose loins he sprung,
  The mother at whose happy breast he fed;
  And pray’d that their young hero’s fields might be
  Many, and all like this.
                          Thus they indulged
  The honest heart, exuberant of love,
  When that loquacious joy at once was check’d,
  For Eudon and the Moor were brought before
  Count Pedro. Both came fearfully and pale,
  But with a different fear: the African
  Felt at this crisis of his destiny
  Such apprehension as without reproach
  Might blanch a soldier’s cheek, when life and death
  Hang on another’s will, and helplessly
  He must abide the issue. But the thoughts
  Which quail’d Count Eudon’s heart, and made his limbs
  Quiver, were of his own unworthiness,
  Old enmity, and that he stood in power
  Of hated and hereditary foes.
  I came not with them willingly! he cried,
  Addressing Pedro and the Prince at once,
  Rolling from each to each his restless eyes
  Aghast, ... the Moor can tell I had no choice;
  They forced me from my castle: ... in the fight
  They would have slain me: ... see I bleed! The Moor
  Can witness that a Moorish scymitar
  Inflicted this: ... he saved me from worse hurt: ...
  I did not come in arms: ... he knows it all; ...
  Speak, man, and let the truth be known to clear
  My innocence!
                Thus as he ceased, with fear
  And rapid utterance panting open-mouth’d,
  Count Pedro half represt a mournful smile,
  Wherein compassion seem’d to mitigate
  His deep contempt. Methinks, said he, the Moor
  Might with more reason look himself to find
  An intercessor, than be call’d upon
  To play the pleader’s part. Didst thou then save
  The Baron from thy comrades?
                              Let my Lord
  Show mercy to me, said the Musselman,
  As I am free from falsehood. We were left,
  I and another, holding him in charge;
  My fellow would have slain him when he saw
  How the fight fared: I turn’d the scymitar
  Aside, and trust that life will be the meed
  For life by me preserved.
                            Nor shall thy trust,
  Rejoin’d the Count, be vain. Say farther now,
  From whence ye came? ... your orders what? ... what force
  In Gegio? and if others like yourselves
  Are in the field?
                    The African replied,
  We came from Gegio, order’d to secure
  This Baron on the way, and seek thee here
  To bear thee hence in bonds. A messenger
  From Cordoba, whose speed denoted well
  He came with urgent tidings, was the cause
  Of this our sudden movement. We went forth
  Three hundred men; an equal force was sent
  For Cangas, on like errand as I ween.
  Four hundred in the city then were left.
  If other force be moving from the south,
  I know not, save that all appearances
  Denote alarm and vigilance.
                              The Prince
  Fix’d upon Eudon then his eye severe;
  Baron, he said, the die of war is cast;
  What part art thou prepared to take? against,
  Or with the oppressor?
                        Not against my friends, ...
  Not against you!... the irresolute wretch replied,
  Hasty, yet faltering in his fearful speech:
  But ... have ye weigh’d it well?... It is not yet
  Too late, ... their numbers, ... their victorious force,
  Which hath already trodden in the dust
  The sceptre of the Goths: ... the throne destroy’d, ...
  Our towns subdued, ... our country overrun, ...
  The people to the yoke of their new Lords
  Resign’d in peace.... Can I not mediate?...
  Were it not better through my agency
  To gain such terms, ... such honourable terms....

    Terms! cried Pelayo, cutting short at once
  That dastard speech, and checking, ere it grew
  Too powerful for restraint, the incipient wrath
  Which in indignant murmurs breathing round,
  Rose like a gathering storm, learn thou what terms
  Asturias, this day speaking by my voice,
  Doth constitute to be the law between
  Thee and thy Country. Our portentous age,
  As with an earthquake’s desolating force,
  Hath loosen’d and disjointed the whole frame
  Of social order, and she calls not now
  For service with the force of sovereign will.
  That which was common duty in old times,
  Becomes an arduous, glorious virtue now;
  And every one, as between Hell and Heaven,
  In free election must be left to chuse.
  Asturias asks not of thee to partake
  The cup which we have pledged; she claims from none
  The dauntless fortitude, the mind resolved,
  Which only God can give; ... therefore such peace
  As thou canst find where all around is war,
  She leaves thee to enjoy. But think not, Count,
  That because thou art weak, one valiant arm,
  One generous spirit must be lost to Spain!
  The vassal owes no service to the Lord
  Who to his Country doth acknowledge none.
  The summons which thou hast not heart to give,
  I and Count Pedro over thy domains
  Will send abroad; the vassals who were thine
  Will fight beneath our banners, and our wants
  Shall from thy lands, as from a patrimony
  Which hath reverted to the common stock,
  Be fed: such tribute, too, as to the Moors
  Thou renderest, we will take: It is the price
  Which in this land for weakness must be paid
  While evil stars prevail. And mark me, Chief!
  Fear is a treacherous counsellor! I know
  Thou thinkëst that beneath his horses’s hoofs
  The Moor will trample our poor numbers down;
  But join not, in contempt of us and Heaven,
  His multitudes! for if thou shouldst be found
  Against thy country, on the readiest tree
  Those recreant bones shall rattle in the wind,
  When the birds have left them bare.
                                      As thus he spake,
  Count Eudon heard and trembled: every joint
  Was loosen’d, every fibre of his flesh
  Thrill’d, and from every pore effused, cold sweat
  Clung on his quivering limbs. Shame forced it forth,
  Envy, and inward consciousness, and fear
  Predominant, which stifled in his heart
  Hatred and rage. Before his livid lips
  Could shape to utterance their essay’d reply,
  Compassionately Pedro interposed.
  Go, Baron, to the Castle, said the Count:
  There let thy wound be look’d to, and consult
  Thy better mind at leisure. Let this Moor
  Attend upon thee there, and when thou wilt,
  Follow thy fortunes.... To Pelayo then
  He turn’d, and saying, All-too-long, O Prince,
  Hath this unlook’d-for conflict held thee here, ...
  He bade his gallant men begin their march.

    Flush’d with success, and in auspicious hour,
  The Mountaineers set forth. Blessings and prayers
  Pursued them at their parting, and the tears
  Which fell were tears of fervour, not of grief.
  The sun was verging to the western slope
  Of Heaven, but they till midnight travell’d on;
  Renewing then at early dawn their way,
  They held their unremitting course from morn
  Till latest eve, such urgent cause impell’d;
  And night had closed around, when to the vale
  Where Sella in her ampler bed receives
  Pionia’s stream they came. Massive and black
  Pelayo’s castle there was seen; its lines
  And battlements against the deep blue sky
  Distinct in solid darkness visible.
  No light is in the tower. Eager to know
  The worst, and with that fatal certainty
  To terminate intolerable dread,
  He spurr’d his courser forward. All his fears
  Too surely are fulfill’d, ... for open stand
  The doors, and mournfully at times a dog
  Fills with his howling the deserted hall.
  A moment overcome with wretchedness,
  Silent Pelayo stood! recovering then,
  Lord God, resign’d he cried, thy will be done!




XIV.

THE RESCUE.


  Count, said Pelayo, Nature hath assign’d
  Two sovereign remedies for human grief;
  Religion, surest, firmest, first and best,
  Strength to the weak and to the wounded balm;
  And strenuous action next. Think not I came
  With unprovided heart. My noble wife,
  In the last solemn words, the last farewell
  With which she charged her secret messenger,
  Told me that whatsoe’er was my resolve,
  She bore a mind prepared. And well I know
  The evil, be it what it may, hath found
  In her a courage equal to the hour.
  Captivity, or death, or what worse pangs,
  She in her children may be doom’d to feel,
  Will never make that steady soul repent
  Its virtuous purpose. I too did not cast
  My single life into the lot, but knew
  These dearer pledges on the die were set;
  And if the worst have fallen, I shall but bear
  That in my breast, which, with transfiguring power
  Of piety, makes chastening sorrow take
  The form of hope, and sees, in Death, the friend
  And the restoring Angel. We must rest
  Perforce, and wait what tidings night may bring,
  Haply of comfort. Ho there! kindle fires,
  And see if aught of hospitality
  Can yet within these mournful walls be found!

    Thus while he spake, lights were descried far off
  Moving among the trees, and coming sounds
  Were heard as of a distant multitude.
  Anon a company of horse and foot,
  Advancing in disorderly array,
  Came up the vale; before them and beside
  Their torches flash’d on Sella’s rippling stream;
  Now gleam’d through chesnut groves, emerging now,
  O’er their huge boughs and radiated leaves
  Cast broad and bright a transitory glare.
  That sight inspired with strength the mountaineers;
  All sense of weariness, all wish for rest
  At once were gone; impatient in desire
  Of second victory alert they stood;
  And when the hostile symbols, which from far
  Imagination to their wish had shaped,
  Vanish’d in nearer vision, high-wrought hope
  Departing, left the spirit pall’d and blank.
  No turban’d race, no sons of Africa
  Were they who now came winding up the vale,
  As waving wide before their horses’ feet
  The torch-light floated, with its hovering glare
  Blackening the incumbent and surrounding night.
  Helmet and breast-plate glitter’d as they came,
  And spears erect; and nearer as they drew
  Were the loose folds of female garments seen
  On those who led the company. Who then
  Had stood beside Pelayo, might have heard
  The beating of his heart.
                            But vainly there
  Sought he with wistful eye the well-known forms
  Beloved; and plainly might it now be seen
  That from some bloody conflict they return’d
  Victorious, ... for at every saddle-bow
  A gorey head was hung. Anon they stopt,
  Levelling in quick alarm their ready spears.
  Hold! who goes there? cried one. A hundred tongues
  Sent forth with one accord the glad reply,
  Friends and Asturians. Onward moved the lights, ...
  The people knew their Lord.
                              Then what a shout
  Rung through the valley! From their clay-built nests,
  Beneath the overbrowing battlements,
  Now first disturb’d, the affrighted martins flew,
  And uttering notes of terror short and shrill,
  Amid the yellow glare and lurid smoke
  Wheel’d giddily. Then plainly was it shown
  How well the vassals loved their generous Lord,
  How like a father the Asturian Prince
  Was dear. They crowded round; they claspt his knees;
  They snatch’d his hand; they fell upon his neck, ...
  They wept; ... they blest Almighty Providence,
  Which had restored him thus from bondage free;
  God was with them and their good cause, they said;
  His hand was here.... His shield was over them, ...
  His spirit was abroad, ... His power display’d:
  And pointing to their bloody trophies then,
  They told Pelayo there he might behold
  The first-fruits of the harvest they should soon
  Reap in the field of war! Benignantly,
  With voice and look and gesture, did the Prince
  To these warm greetings of tumultuous joy
  Respond; and sure if at that moment aught
  Could for awhile have overpower’d those fears
  Which from the inmost heart o’er all his frame
  Diffused their chilling influence, worthy pride,
  And sympathy of love and joy and hope,
  Had then possess’d him wholly. Even now
  His spirit rose; the sense of power, the sight
  Of his brave people, ready where he led
  To fight their country’s battles, and the thought
  Of instant action, and deliverance, ...
  If Heaven, which thus far had protected him,
  Should favour still, ... revived his heart, and gave
  Fresh impulse to its spring. In vain he sought
  Amid that turbulent greeting to enquire
  Where Gaudiosa was, his children where,
  Who call’d them to the field, who captain’d them;
  And how these women, thus with arms and death
  Environ’d, came amid their company?
  For yet, amid the fluctuating light
  And tumult of the crowd, he knew them not.

    Guisla was one. The Moors had found in her
  A willing and concerted prisoner.
  Gladly to Gegio, to the renegade
  On whom her loose and shameless love was bent,
  Had she set forth; and in her heart she cursed
  The busy spirit, who, with powerful call
  Rousing Pelayo’s people, led them on
  In quick pursual, and victoriously
  Achieved the rescue, to her mind perverse
  Unwelcome as unlook’d for. With dismay
  She recognized her brother, dreaded now
  More than he once was dear; her countenance
  Was turn’d toward him, ... not with eager joy
  To court his sight, and meeting its first glance,
  Exchange delightful welcome, soul with soul;
  Hers was the conscious eye, that cannot chuse
  But look to what it fears. She could not shun
  His presence, and the rigid smile constrain’d,
  With which she coldly drest her features, ill
  Conceal’d her inward thoughts, and the despite
  Of obstinate guilt and unrepentant shame.
  Sullenly thus upon her mule she sate,
  Waiting the greeting which she did not dare
  Bring on. But who is she that at her side,
  Upon a stately war-horse eminent,
  Holds the loose rein with careless hand? A helm
  Presses the clusters of her flaxen hair;
  The shield is on her arm; her breast is mail’d;
  A sword-belt is her girdle, and right well
  It may be seen that sword hath done its work
  To-day, for upward from the wrist her sleeve
  Is stiff with blood. An unregardant eye,
  As one whose thoughts were not of earth, she cast
  Upon the turmoil round. One countenance
  So strongly mark’d, so passion-worn was there,
  That it recall’d her mind. Ha! Maccabee!
  Lifting her arm, exultingly she cried,
  Did I not tell thee we should meet in joy?
  Well, Brother, hast thou done thy part, ... I too
  Have not been wanting! Now be His the praise,
  From whom the impulse came!
                              That startling call,
  That voice so well remember’d, touch’d the Goth
  With timely impulse now; for he had seen
  His Mother’s face, ... and at her sight, the past
  And present mingled like a frightful dream,
  Which from some dread reality derives
  Its deepest horror. Adosinda’s voice
  Dispersed the waking vision. Little deem’d
  Rusilla at that moment that the child,
  For whom her supplications day and night
  Were offer’d, breathed the living air. Her heart
  Was calm; her placid countenance, though grief
  Deeper than time had left its traces there,
  Retain’d its dignity serene; yet when
  Siverian, pressing through the people, kiss’d
  Her reverend hand, some quiet tears ran down.
  As she approach’d the Prince, the crowd made way
  Respectful. The maternal smile which bore
  Her greeting, from Pelayo’s heart at once
  Dispell’d its boding. What he would have ask’d
  She knew, and bending from her palfrey down,
  Told him that they for whom he look’d were safe,
  And that in secret he should hear the rest.




XV.

RODERICK AT CANGAS.


  How calmly gliding through the dark-blue sky
  The midnight Moon ascends! Her placid beams
  Through thinly scatter’d leaves and boughs grotesque,
  Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;
  Here, o’er the chesnut’s fretted foliage grey
  And massy, motionless they spread; here shine
  Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night
  Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry
  Ripples and glances on the confluent streams.
  A lovelier, purer light than that of day
  Rests on the hills; and oh how awefully
  Into that deep and tranquil firmament
  The summits of Auseva rise serene!
  The watchman on the battlements partakes
  The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels
  The silence of the earth, the endless sound
  Of flowing water soothes him, and the stars,
  Which in that brightest moon-light well-nigh quench’d
  Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth
  Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,
  Draw on with elevating influence
  Toward eternity the attemper’d mind.
  Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands,
  And to the Virgin Mother silently
  Prefers her hymn of praise.
                              The mountaineers
  Before the castle, round their mouldering fires,
  Lie on the hearth outstretch’d. Pelayo’s hall
  Is full, and he upon his careful couch
  Hears all around the deep and long-drawn breath
  Of sleep: for gentle night hath brought to these
  Perfect and undisturb’d repose, alike
  Of corporal powers and inward faculty.
  Wakeful the while he lay, yet more by hope
  Than grief or anxious thoughts possess’d, ... though grief
  For Guisla’s guilt, which freshen’d in his heart
  The memory of their wretched mother’s crime,
  Still made its presence felt, like the dull sense
  Of some perpetual inward malady;
  And the whole peril of the future lay
  Before him clearly seen. He had heard all;
  How that unworthy sister, obstinate
  In wrong and shameless, rather seem’d to woo
  The upstart renegado than to wait
  His wooing; how, as guilt to guilt led on,
  Spurning at gentle admonition first,
  When Gaudiosa hopelessly forbore
  From farther counsel, then in sullen mood
  Resentful, Guisla soon began to hate
  The virtuous presence before which she felt
  Her nature how inferior, and her fault
  How foul. Despiteful thus she grew, because
  Humbled yet unrepentant. Who could say
  To what excess bad passions might impel
  A woman thus possess’d? She could not fail
  To mark Siverian’s absence, for what end
  Her conscience but too surely had divined;
  And Gaudiosa, well aware that all
  To the vile paramour was thus made known,
  Had to safe hiding-place with timely fear
  Removed her children. Well the event had proved
  How needful was that caution; for at night
  She sought the mountain solitudes, and morn
  Beheld Numacian’s soldiers at the gate.
  Yet did not sorrow in Pelayo’s heart
  For this domestic shame prevail that hour,
  Nor gathering danger weigh his spirit down.
  The anticipated meeting put to flight
  These painful thoughts; to-morrow will restore
  All whom his heart holds dear; his wife beloved,
  No longer now remember’d for regret,
  Is present to his soul with hope and joy;
  His inward eye beholds Favila’s form
  In opening youth robust, and Hermesind,
  His daughter, lovely as a budding rose;
  Their images beguile the hours of night,
  Till with the earliest morning he may seek
  Their secret hold.
                    The nightingale not yet
  Had ceased her song, nor had the early lark
  Her dewy nest forsaken, when the Prince
  Upward beside Pionia took his way
  Toward Auseva. Heavily to him,
  Impatient for the morrow’s happiness,
  Long night had linger’d, but it seem’d more long
  To Roderick’s aching heart. He too had watch’d
  For dawn, and seen the earliest break of day,
  And heard its earliest sounds; and when the Prince
  Went forth, the melancholy man was seen
  With pensive pace upon Pionia’s side
  Wandering alone and slow. For he had left
  The wearying place of his unrest, that morn
  With its cold dews might bathe his throbbing brow,
  And with its breath allay the feverish heat
  That burnt within. Alas! the gales of morn
  Reach not the fever of a wounded heart!
  How shall he meet his Mother’s eye, how make
  His secret known, and from that voice revered
  Obtain forgiveness, ... all that he has now
  To ask, ere on the lap of earth in peace
  He lay his head resign’d? In silent prayer
  He supplicated Heaven to strengthen him
  Against that trying hour, there seeking aid
  Where all who seek shall find; and thus his soul
  Received support, and gather’d fortitude,
  Never than now more needful, for the hour
  Was nigh. He saw Siverian drawing near,
  And with a dim but quick foreboding met
  The good old man; yet when he heard him say
  My Lady sends to seek thee, like a knell
  To one expecting and prepared for death,
  But fearing the dread point that hastens on,
  It smote his heart. He follow’d silently,
  And knit his suffering spirit to the proof.

    He went resolved to tell his Mother all,
  Fall at her feet, and drinking the last dregs
  Of bitterness, receive the only good
  Earth had in store for him. Resolved for this
  He went; yet was it a relief to find
  That painful resolution must await
  A fitter season, when no eye but Heaven’s
  Might witness to their mutual agony.
  Count Julian’s daughter with Rusilla sate;
  Both had been weeping, both were pale, but calm.
  With head as for humility abased
  Roderick approach’d, and bending, on his breast
  He cross’d his humble arms. Rusilla rose
  In reverence to the priestly character,
  And with a mournful eye regarding him,
  Thus she began. Good Father, I have heard
  From my old faithful servant and true friend,
  Thou didst reprove the inconsiderate tongue,
  That in the anguish of its spirit pour’d
  A curse upon my poor unhappy child.
  O Father Maccabee, this is a hard world,
  And hasty in its judgements! Time has been,
  When not a tongue within the Pyrenees
  Dared whisper in dispraise of Roderick’s name,
  Lest, if the conscious air had caught the sound,
  The vengeance of the honest multitude
  Should fall upon the traitorous head, or brand
  For life-long infamy the lying lips.
  Now if a voice be raised in his behalf,
  ’Tis noted for a wonder, and the man
  Who utters the strange speech shall be admired
  For such excess of Christian charity.
  Thy Christian charity hath not been lost; ...
  Father, I feel its virtue: ... it hath been
  Balm to my heart; ... with words and grateful tears, ...
  All that is left me now for gratitude, ...
  I thank thee, and beseech thee in thy prayers
  That thou wilt still remember Roderick’s name.

    Roderick so long had to this hour look’d on,
  That when the actual point of trial came,
  Torpid and numb’d it found him; cold he grew,
  And as the vital spirits to the heart
  Retreated, o’er his wither’d countenance,
  Deathy and damp, a whiter paleness spread.
  Unmoved the while, the inward feeling seem’d,
  Even in such dull insensibility
  As gradual age brings on, or slow disease,
  Beneath whose progress lingering life survives
  The power of suffering. Wondering at himself,
  Yet gathering confidence, he raised his eyes,
  Then slowly shaking as he bent his head,
  O venerable Lady, he replied,
  If aught may comfort that unhappy soul,
  It must be thy compassion, and thy prayers.
  She whom he most hath wrong’d, she who alone
  On earth can grant forgiveness for his crime,
  She hath forgiven him; and thy blessing now
  Were all that he could ask, ... all that could bring
  Profit or consolation to his soul,
  If he hath been as sure we may believe,
  A penitent sincere.
                      Oh had he lived,
  Replied Rusilla, never penitence
  Had equall’d his! full well I know his heart,
  Vehement in all things. He would on himself
  Have wreak’d such penance as had reach’d the height
  Of fleshly suffering ... yea, which being told
  With its portentuous rigour should have made
  The memory of his fault, o’erpower’d and lost
  In shuddering pity and astonishment,
  Fade like a feebler horror. Otherwise
  Seem’d good to Heaven. I murmur not, nor doubt
  The boundless mercy of redeeming love.
  For sure I trust that not in his offence
  Harden’d and reprobate was my lost son,
  A child of wrath, cut off!... that dreadful thought,
  Not even amid the first fresh wretchedness,
  When the ruin burst around me like a flood,
  Assail’d my soul. I ever deem’d his fall
  An act of sudden madness; and this day
  Hath in unlook’d-for confirmation given
  A livelier hope, a more assurëd faith.
  Smiling benignant then amid her tears,
  She took Florinda by the hand, and said,
  I little thought that I should live to bless
  Count Julian’s daughter! She hath brought to me
  The last, the best, the only comfort earth
  Could minister to this afflicted heart,
  And my grey hairs may now unto the grave
  Go down in peace.
                    Happy, Florinda cried,
  Are they for whom the grave hath peace in store!
  The wrongs they have sustain’d, the woes they bear,
  Pass not that holy threshold, where Death heals
  The broken heart. O Lady, thou may’st trust
  In humble hope, through Him who on the Cross
  Gave his atoning blood for lost mankind,
  To meet beyond the grave thy child forgiven.
  I too with Roderick there may interchange
  Forgiveness. But the grief which wastes away
  This mortal frame, hastening the happy hour
  Of my enlargement, is but a light part
  Of what my soul endures!... that grief hath lost
  Its sting: ... I have a keener sorrow here, ...
  One which, ... but God forefend that dire event, ...
  May pass with me the portals of the grave,
  And with a thought, like sin which cannot die,
  Embitter Heaven. My father hath renounced
  His hope in Christ! It was his love for me
  Which drove him to perdition.... I was born
  To ruin all who loved me, ... all I loved!
  Perhaps I sinn’d in leaving him; ... that fear
  Rises within me to disturb the peace
  Which I should else have found.
                                  To Roderick then
  The pious mourner turn’d her suppliant eyes:
  O Father, there is virtue in thy prayers!...
  I do beseech thee offer them to Heaven
  In his behalf! For Roderick’s sake, for mine,
  Wrestle with Him whose name is Merciful,
  That Julian may with penitence be touch’d,
  And clinging to the Cross, implore that grace
  Which ne’er was sought in vain. For Roderick’s sake
  And mine, pray for him! We have been the cause
  Of his offence! What other miseries
  May from that same unhappy source have risen,
  Are earthly, temporal, reparable all; ...
  But if a soul be lost through our misdeeds,
  That were eternal evil! Pray for him,
  Good Father Maccabee, and be thy prayers
  More fervent, as the deeper is the crime.

    While thus Florinda spake, the dog who lay
  Before Rusilla’s feet, eyeing him long
  And wistfully, had recognised at length,
  Changed as he was and in those sordid weeds,
  His royal master. And he rose and lick’d
  His wither’d hand, and earnestly look’d up
  With eyes whose human meaning did not need
  The aid of speech; and moan’d, as if at once
  To court and chide the long-withheld caress.
  A feeling uncommix’d with sense of guilt
  Or shame, yet painfulest, thrill’d through the King;
  But he to self-controul now long inured,
  Represt his rising heart, nor other tears,
  Full as his struggling bosom was, let fall
  Than seem’d to follow on Florinda’s words.
  Looking toward her then, yet so that still
  He shunn’d the meeting of her eye, he said,
  Virtuous and pious as thou art, and ripe
  For Heaven, O Lady, I must think the man
  Hath not by his good Angel been cast off
  For whom thy supplications rise. The Lord
  Whose justice doth in its unerring course
  Visit the children for the sire’s offence,
  Shall He not in his boundless mercy hear
  The daughter’s prayer, and for her sake restore
  The guilty parent? My soul shall with thine
  In earnest and continual duty join....
  How deeply, how devoutly, He will know
  To whom the cry is raised!
                            Thus having said,
  Deliberately, in self-possession still,
  Himself from that most painful interview
  Dispeeding, he withdrew. The watchful dog
  Follow’d his footsteps close. But he retired
  Into the thickest grove; there yielding way
  To his o’erburthen’d nature, from all eyes
  Apart, he cast himself upon the ground,
  And threw his arms around the dog, and cried,
  While tears stream’d down, Thou, Theron, then hast known
  Thy poor lost master, ... Theron, none but thou!




XVI.

COVADONGA.


  Meantime Pelayo up the vale pursued
  Eastward his way, before the sun had climb’d
  Auseva’s brow, or shed his silvering beams
  Upon Europa’s summit, where the snows
  Through all revolving seasons hold their seat.
  A happy man he went, his heart at rest,
  Of hope and virtue and affection full,
  To all exhilarating influences
  Of earth and heaven alive. With kindred joy
  He heard the lark, who from her airy height,
  On twinkling pinions poised, pour’d forth profuse,
  In thrilling sequence of exuberant song,
  As one whose joyous nature overflow’d
  With life and power, her rich and rapturous strain.
  The early bee, buzzing along the way,
  From flower to flower, bore gladness on its wing
  To his rejoicing sense; and he pursued,
  With quicken’d eye alert, the frolic hare,
  Where from the green herb in her wanton path
  She brush’d away the dews. For he long time,
  Far from his home and from his native hills,
  Had dwelt in bondage; and the mountain breeze,
  Which he had with the breath of infancy
  Inhaled, such impulse to his heart restored,
  As if the seasons had roll’d back, and life
  Enjoy’d a second spring.
                          Through fertile fields
  He went, by cots with pear-trees overbower’d,
  Or spreading to the sun their trelliced vines;
  Through orchards now, and now by thymy banks,
  Where wooden hives in some warm nook were hid
  From wind and shower; and now thro’ shadowy paths,
  Where hazels fringed Pionia’s vocal stream;
  Till where the loftier hills to narrower bound
  Confine the vale, he reach’d those huts remote
  Which should hereafter to the noble line
  Of Soto origin and name impart:
  A gallant lineage, long in fields of war
  And faithful chronicler’s enduring page
  Blazon’d: but most by him illustrated,
  Avid of gold, yet greedier of renown,
  Whom not the spoils of Atabalipa
  Could satisfy insatiate, nor the fame
  Of that wide empire overthrown appease;
  But he to Florida’s disastrous shores
  In evil hour his gallant comrades led,
  Through savage woods and swamps, and hostile tribes,
  The Apalachian arrows, and the snares
  Of wilier foes, hunger, and thirst, and toil;
  Till from ambition’s feverish dream the touch
  Of Death awoke him; and when he had seen
  The fruit of all his treasures, all his toil,
  Foresight, and long endurance, fade away,
  Earth to the restless one refusing rest,
  In the great river’s midland bed he left
  His honour’d bones.
                      A mountain rivulet,
  Now calm and lovely in its summer course,
  Held by those huts its everlasting way
  Towards Pionia. They whose flocks and herds
  Drink of its water call it Deva. Here
  Pelayo southward up the ruder vale
  Traced it, his guide unerring. Amid heaps
  Of mountain wreck, on either side thrown high,
  The wide-spread traces of its wintry might,
  The tortuous channel wound; o’er beds of sand
  Here silently it flows; here from the rock
  Rebutted, curls and eddies; plunges here
  Precipitate; here roaring among crags,
  It leaps and foams and whirls and hurries on.
  Grey alders here and bushy hazels hid
  The mossy side; their wreath’d and knotted feet
  Bared by the current, now against its force
  Repaying the support they found, upheld
  The bank secure. Here, bending to the stream,
  The birch fantastic stretch’d its rugged trunk,
  Tall and erect from whence, as from their base,
  Each like a tree, its silver branches grew.
  The cherry here hung for the birds of heaven
  Its rosy fruit on high. The elder there
  Its purple berries o’er the water bent,
  Heavily hanging. Here, amid the brook,
  Grey as the stone to which it clung, half root,
  Half trunk, the young ash rises from the rock;
  And there its parent lifts a lofty head,
  And spreads its graceful boughs; the passing wind
  With twinkling motion lifts the silent leaves,
  And shakes its rattling tufts.
                                Soon had the Prince
  Behind him left the farthest dwelling-place
  Of man; no fields of waving corn were here,
  Nor wicker storehouse for the autumnal grain,
  Vineyard, nor bowery fig, nor fruitful grove;
  Only the rocky vale, the mountain stream,
  Incumbent crags, and hills that over hills
  Arose on either hand, here hung with woods,
  Here rich with heath, that o’er some smooth ascent
  Its purple glory spread, or golden gorse;
  Bare here, and striated with many a hue,
  Scored by the wintry rain; by torrents here
  Riven, and with overhanging rocks abrupt.
  Pelayo, upward as he cast his eyes
  Where crags loose-hanging o’er the narrow pass
  Impended, there beheld his country’s strength
  Insuperable, and in his heart rejoiced.
  Oh that the Musselman were here, he cried,
  With all his myriads! While thy day endures,
  Moor! thou may’st lord it in the plains; but here
  Hath Nature for the free and brave prepared
  A sanctuary, where no oppressor’s power,
  No might of human tyranny can pierce.

    The tears which started then sprang not alone
  From lofty thoughts of elevating joy;
  For love and admiration had their part,
  And virtuous pride. Here then thou hast retired,
  My Gaudiosa! in his heart he said;
  Excellent woman! ne’er was richer boon
  By fate benign to favour’d man indulged,
  Than when thou wert before the face of Heaven
  Given me to be my children’s mother, brave
  And virtuous as thou art! Here thou hast fled,
  Thou who wert nurst in palaces, to dwell
  In rocks and mountain caves!... The thought was proud,
  Yet not without a sense of inmost pain;
  For never had Pelayo till that hour
  So deeply felt the force of solitude.
  High over head the eagle soar’d serene,
  And the grey lizard on the rocks below
  Bask’d in the sun: no living creature else
  In this remotest wilderness was seen;
  Nor living voice was there, ... only the flow
  Of Deva, and the rushing of its springs
  Long in the distance heard, which nearer now,
  With endless repercussion deep and loud,
  Throbb’d on the dizzy sense.
                              The ascending vale,
  Long straiten’d by the narrowing mountains, here
  Was closed. In front a rock, abrupt and bare,
  Stood eminent, in height exceeding far
  All edifice of human power, by King
  Or Caliph, or barbaric Sultan rear’d,
  Or mightier tyrants of the world of old,
  Assyrian or Egyptian, in their pride;
  Yet far above, beyond the reach of sight,
  Swell after swell, the heathery mountain rose.
  Here, in two sources, from the living rock
  The everlasting springs of Deva gush’d.
  Upon a smooth and grassy plat below,
  By Nature there as for an altar drest,
  They join’d their sister stream, which from the earth
  Well’d silently. In such a scene rude man
  With pardonable error might have knelt,
  Feeling a present Deity, and made
  His offering to the fountain Nymph devout.

    The arching rock disclosed above the springs
  A cave, where hugest son of giant birth,
  That e’er of old in forest of romance
  ’Gainst knights and ladies waged discourteous war,
  Erect within the portal might have stood.
  The broken stone allow’d for hand and foot
  No difficult ascent, above the base
  In height a tall man’s stature, measured thrice.
  No holier spot than Covadonga Spain
  Boasts in her wide extent, though all her realms
  Be with the noblest blood of martyrdom
  In elder or in later days enrich’d,
  And glorified with tales of heavenly aid
  By many a miracle made manifest;
  Nor in the heroic annals of her fame
  Doth she show forth a scene of more renown.
  Then, save the hunter, drawn in keen pursuit
  Beyond his wonted haunts, or shepherd’s boy,
  Following the pleasure of his straggling flock,
  None knew the place.
                      Pelayo, when he saw
  Those glittering sources and their sacred cave,
  Took from his side the bugle silver-tipt,
  And with a breath long drawn and slow expired
  Sent forth that strain, which, echoing from the walls
  Of Cangas, wont to tell his glad return.
  When from the chace he came. At the first sound
  Favila started in the cave, and cried,
  My father’s horn!... A sudden flush suffused
  Hermesind’s cheek, and she with quicken’d eye
  Look’d eager to her mother silently;
  But Gaudiosa trembled and grew pale,
  Doubting her sense deceived. A second time
  The bugle breathed its well-known notes abroad
  And Hermesind around her mother’s neck
  Threw her white arms, and earnestly exclaim’d,
  ’Tis he!... But when a third and broader blast
  Rung in the echoing archway, ne’er did wand,
  With magic power endued, call up a sight
  So strange, as sure in that wild solitude
  It seem’d, when from the bowels of the rock
  The mother and her children hastened forth;
  She in the sober charms and dignity
  Of womanhood mature, nor verging yet
  Upon decay; in gesture like a Queen,
  Such inborn and habitual majesty
  Ennobled all her steps, ... or Priestess, chosen
  Because within such faultless work of Heaven
  Inspiring Deity might seem to make
  Its habitation known.... Favila such
  In form and stature as the Sea Nymph’s son,
  When that wise Centaur from his cave well-pleased
  Beheld the boy divine his growing strength
  Against some shaggy lionet essay,
  And fixing in the half-grown mane his hands,
  Roll with him in fierce dalliance intertwined.
  But like a creature of some higher sphere
  His sister came; she scarcely touch’d the rock,
  So light was Hermesind’s aërial speed.
  Beauty and grace and innocence in her
  In heavenly union shone. One who had held
  The faith of elder Greece, would sure have thought
  She was some glorious nymph of seed divine,
  Oread or Dryad, of Diana’s train
  The youngest and the loveliest: yea she seem’d
  Angel, or soul beatified, from realms
  Of bliss, on errand of parental love
  To earth re-sent, ... if tears and trembling limbs
  With such celestial natures might consist.

    Embraced by all, in turn embracing each,
  The husband and the father for awhile
  Forgot his country and all things beside:
  Life hath few moments of such pure delight,
  Such foretaste of the perfect joy of Heaven.
  And when the thought recurr’d of sufferings past,
  Perils which threaten’d still, and arduous toil
  Yet to be undergone, remember’d griefs
  Heighten’d the present happiness; and hope
  Upon the shadows of futurity
  Shone like the sun upon the morning mists,
  When driven before his rising rays they roll,
  And melt and leave the prospect bright and clear.

    When now Pelayo’s eyes had drank their fill
  Of love from those dear faces, he went up
  To view the hiding place. Spacious it was
  As that Sicilian cavern in the hill
  Wherein earth-shaking Neptune’s giant son
  Duly at eve was wont to fold his flock,
  Ere the wise Ithacan, over that brute force
  By wiles prevailing, for a life-long night
  Seel’d his broad eye. The healthful air had here
  Free entrance, and the cheerful light of heaven;
  But at the end, an opening in the floor
  Of rock disclosed a wider vault below,
  Which never sun-beam visited, nor breath
  Of vivifying morning came to cheer.
  No light was there but that which from above
  In dim reflection fell, or found its way,
  Broken and quivering, through the glassy stream,
  Where through the rock it gush’d. That shadowy light
  Sufficed to show, where from their secret bed
  The waters issued; with whose rapid course,
  And with whose everlasting cataracts
  Such motion to the chill damp atmosphere
  Was given, as if the solid walls of rock
  Were shaken with the sound.
                              Glad to respire
  The upper air, Pelayo hasten’d back
  From that drear den. Look! Hermesind exclaim’d,
  Taking her father’s hand, thou hast not seen
  My chamber: ... See!... did ever ring-dove chuse
  In so secure a nook her hiding-place,
  Or build a warmer nest? ’Tis fragrant too,
  As warm, and not more sweet than soft; for thyme
  And myrtle with the elastic heath are laid,
  And, over all, this dry and pillowy moss ...
  Smiling she spake. Pelayo kiss’d the child,
  And, sighing, said within himself, I trust
  In Heaven, whene’er thy May of life is come,
  Sweet bird, that thou shalt have a blither bower!
  Fitlier, he thought, such chamber might beseem
  Some hermit of Hilarion’s school austere,
  Or old Antonius, he who from the hell
  Of his bewilder’d phantasy saw fiends
  In actual vision, a foul throng grotesque
  Of all horrific shapes and forms obscene
  Crowd in broad day before his open eyes.
  That feeling cast a momentary shade
  Of sadness o’er his soul. But deeper thoughts,
  If he might have foreseen the things to come,
  Would there have fill’d him; for within that cave
  His own remains were one day doom’d to find
  Their final place of rest; and in that spot,
  Where that dear child with innocent delight
  Had spread her mossy couch, the sepulchre
  Shall in the consecrated rock be hewn,
  Where with Alphonso, her beloved lord,
  Laid side by side, must Hermesind partake
  The everlasting marriage-bed, when he,
  Leaving a name perdurable on earth,
  Hath changed his earthly for a heavenly crown.
  Dear child, upon that fated spot she stood,
  In all the beauty of her opening youth,
  In health’s rich bloom, in virgin innocence,
  While her eyes sparkled and her heart o’erflow’d
  With pure and perfect joy of filial love.

    Many a slow century since that day hath fill’d
  Its course, and countless multitudes have trod
  With pilgrim feet that consecrated cave;
  Yet not in all those ages, amid all
  The untold concourse, hath one breast been swoln
  With such emotions as Pelayo felt
  That hour. O Gaudiosa, he exclaim’d,
  And thou couldst seek for shelter here, amid
  This aweful solitude, in mountain caves!
  Thou noble spirit! Oh when hearts like thine
  Grow on this sacred soil, would it not be
  In me, thy husband, double infamy,
  And tenfold guilt, if I despair’d of Spain?
  In all her visitations, favouring Heaven
  Hath left her still the unconquerable mind;
  And thus being worthy of redemption, sure
  Is she to be redeem’d.
                        Beholding her
  Through tears he spake, and prest upon her lips
  A kiss of deepest love. Think ever thus,
  She answer’d, and that faith will give the power
  In which it trusts. When to this mountain hold
  These children, thy dear images, I brought,
  I said within myself, where should they fly
  But to the bosom of their native hills?
  I brought them here as to a sanctuary,
  Where, for the temple’s sake, the indwelling God
  Would guard his supplicants. O my dear Lord,
  Proud as I was to know that they were thine,
  Was it a sin if I almost believed,
  That Spain, her destiny being link’d with theirs,
  Must save the precious charge?
                                So let us think,
  The chief replied, so feel and teach and act.
  Spain is our common parent: let the sons
  Be to the parent true, and in her strength
  And Heaven, their sure deliverance they will find.




XVII.

RODERICK AND SIVERIAN.


  O holiest Mary, Maid and Mother! thou
  In Covadonga, at thy rocky shrine,
  Hast witness’d whatsoe’er of human bliss
  Heart can conceive most perfect! Faithful love,
  Long crost by envious stars, hath there attain’d
  Its crown, in endless matrimony given;
  The youthful mother there hath to the font
  Her first-born borne, and there, with deeper sense
  Of gratitude for that dear babe redeem’d
  From threatening death, return’d to pay her vows.
  But ne’er on nuptial, nor baptismal day,
  Nor from their grateful pilgrimage discharged,
  Did happier group their way down Deva’s vale
  Rejoicing hold, than this blest family,
  O’er whom the mighty Spirit of the Land
  Spread his protecting wings. The children, free
  In youthhead’s happy season from all cares
  That might disturb the hour, yet capable
  Of that intense and unalloyed delight
  Which childhood feels when it enjoys again
  The dear parental presence long deprived;
  Nor were the parents now less bless’d than they,
  Even to the height of human happiness;
  For Gaudiosa and her Lord that hour
  Let no misgiving thoughts intrude: she fix’d
  Her hopes on him, and his were fix’d on Heaven;
  And hope in that courageous heart derived
  Such rooted strength and confidence assured
  In righteousness, that ’twas to him like faith ...
  An everlasting sunshine of the soul,
  Illumining and quickening all its powers.

    But on Pionia’s side meantime a heart
  As generous, and as full of noble thoughts,
  Lay stricken with the deadliest bolts of grief.
  Upon a smooth grey stone sate Roderick there;
  The wind above him stirr’d the hazel boughs,
  And murmuring at his feet the river ran.
  He sate with folded arms and head declined
  Upon his breast, feeding on bitter thoughts,
  Till nature gave him in the exhausted sense
  Of woe a respite something like repose;
  And then the quiet sound of gentle winds
  And waters with their lulling consonance
  Beguiled him of himself. Of all within
  Oblivious there he sate, sentient alone
  Of outward nature, ... of the whispering leaves
  That soothed his ear, ... the genial breath of Heaven
  That fann’d his cheek, ... the stream’s perpetual flow,
  That, with its shadows and its glancing lights,
  Dimples and thread-like motions infinite,
  For ever varying and yet still the same,
  Like time toward eternity, ran by.
  Resting his head upon his master’s knees,
  Upon the bank beside him Theron lay.
  What matters change of state and circumstance,
  Or lapse of years, with all their dread events,
  To him? What matters it that Roderick wears
  The crown no longer, nor the sceptre wields?...
  It is the dear-loved hand, whose friendly touch
  Had flatter’d him so oft; it is the voice,
  At whose glad summons to the field so oft
  From slumber he had started, shaking off
  Dreams of the chace, to share the actual joy;
  The eye, whose recognition he was wont
  To watch and welcome with exultant tongue.

    A coming step, unheard by Roderick, roused
  His watchful ear, and turning he beheld
  Siverian. Father, said the good old man,
  As Theron rose and fawn’d about his knees,
  Hast thou some charm, which draws about thee thus
  The hearts of all our house, ... even to the beast
  That lacks discourse of reason, but too oft,
  With uncorrupted feeling and dumb faith,
  Puts lordly man to shame?... The king replied,
  ’Tis that mysterious sense by which mankind
  To fix their friendships and their loves are led,
  And which with fainter influence doth extend
  To such poor things as this. As we put off
  The cares and passions of this fretful world,
  It may be too that we thus far approach
  To elder nature, and regain in part
  The privilege through sin in Eden lost.
  The timid hare soon learns that she may trust
  The solitary penitent, and birds
  Will light upon the hermit’s harmless hand.

    Thus Roderick answer’d in excursive speech,
  Thinking to draw the old man’s mind from what
  Might touch him else too nearly, and himself
  Disposed to follow on the lure he threw,
  As one whom such imaginations led
  Out of the world of his own miseries.
  But to regardless ears his words were given,
  For on the dog Siverian gazed the while,
  Pursuing his own thoughts. Thou hast not felt,
  Exclaim’d the old man, the earthquake and the storm;
  The kingdom’s overthrow, the wreck of Spain,
  The ruin of thy royal master’s house,
  Have reach’d not thee!... Then turning to the King,
  When the destroying enemy drew nigh
  Toledo, he continued, and we fled
  Before their fury, even while her grief
  Was fresh, my Mistress would not leave behind
  This faithful creature. Well we knew she thought
  Of Roderick then, although she named him not;
  For never since the fatal certainty
  Fell on us all, hath that unhappy name,
  Save in her prayers, been known to pass her lips
  Before this day. She names him now, and weeps;
  But now her tears are tears of thankfulness,
  For blessed hath thy coming been to her
  And all who loved the King.
                              His faltering voice
  Here fail’d him, and he paused: recovering soon,
  When that poor injured Lady, he pursued,
  Did in my presence to the Prince absolve
  The unhappy King....
                    Absolve him! Roderick cried,
  And in that strong emotion turn’d his face
  Sternly toward Siverian, for the sense
  Of shame and self-reproach drove from his min
  All other thoughts. The good old man replied
  Of human judgements humanly I speak.
  Who knows not what Pelayo’s life hath been?
  Not happier in all dear domestic ties,
  Than worthy for his virtue of the bliss
  Which is that virtue’s fruit; and yet did he
  Absolve, upon Florinda’s tale, the King.
  Siverian, thus he said, what most I hoped,
  And still within my secret heart believed,
  Is now made certain. Roderick hath been
  More sinn’d against than sinning. And with that
  He claspt his hands, and, lifting them to Heaven,
  Cried, Would to God that he were yet alive!
  For not more gladly did I draw my sword
  Against Witiza in our common cause,
  Than I would fight beneath his banners now,
  And vindicate his name!
                          Did he say this?
  The Prince? Pelayo? in astonishment
  Roderick exclaim’d.... He said it, quoth the old man.
  None better knew his kinsman’s noble heart,
  None loved him better, none bewail’d him more:
  And as he felt, like me, for his reproach
  A deeper grief than for his death, even so
  He cherish’d in his heart the constant thought
  Something was yet untold, which, being known,
  Would palliate his offence, and make the fall
  Of one till then so excellently good,
  Less monstrous, less revolting to belief,
  More to be pitied, more to be forgiven.

    While thus he spake, the fall’n King felt his face
  Burn, and his blood flow fast. Down, guilty thoughts!
  Firmly he said within his soul; lie still,
  Thou heart of flesh! I thought thou hadst been quell’d,
  And quell’d thou shalt be! Help me, O my God,
  That I may crucify this inward foe!
  Yea, thou hast help’d me, Father! I am strong,
  O Saviour, in thy strength.
                              As he breath’d thus
  His inward supplications, the old man
  Eyed him with frequent and unsteady looks.
  He had a secret trembling on his lips,
  And hesitated, still irresolute
  In utterance to embody the dear hope:
  Fain would he have it strengthen’d and assured
  By this concording judgement, yet he fear’d
  To have it chill’d in cold accoil. At length
  Venturing, he brake with interrupted speech
  The troubled silence. Father Maccabee,
  I cannot rest till I have laid my heart
  Open before thee. When Pelayo wish’d
  That his poor kinsman were alive to rear
  His banner once again, a sudden thought..
  A hope.. a fancy.. what shall it be call’d?
  Possess’d me, that perhaps the wish might see
  Its glad accomplishment,.. that Roderick lived,
  And might in glory take the field once more
  For Spain.... I see thou startest at the thought!
  Yet spurn it not with hasty unbelief,
  As though ’twere utterly beyond the scope
  Of possible contingency. I think
  That I have calmly satisfied myself
  How this is more than idle fancy, more
  Than mere imaginations of a mind
  Which from its wishes builds a baseless faith.
  His horse, his royal robe, his horned helm,
  His mail and sword were found upon the field;
  But if King Roderick had in battle fallen,
  That sword, I know, would only have been found
  Clench’d in the hand which, living, knew so well
  To wield the dreadful steel! Not in the throng
  Confounded, nor amid the torpid stream,
  Opening with ignominious arms a way
  For flight, would he have perish’d! Where the strife
  Was hottest, ring’d about with slaughter’d foes,
  Should Roderick have been found: by this sure mark
  Ye should have known him, if nought else remain’d,
  That his whole body had been gored with wounds,
  And quill’d with spears, as if the Moors had felt
  That in his single life the victory lay,
  More than in all the host!
                            Siverian’s eyes
  Shone with a youthful ardour while he spake,
  His gathering brow grew stern, and as he raised
  His arm, a warrior’s impulse character’d
  The impassion’d gesture. But the King was calm
  And heard him with unchanging countenance;
  For he had taken his resolve, and felt
  Once more the peace of God within his soul,
  As in that hour when by his father’s grave
  He knelt before Pelayo.
                          Soon the old man
  Pursued in calmer tones, ... Thus much I dare
  Believe, that Roderick fell not on that day
  When treason brought about his overthrow.
  If yet he live, for sure I think I know
  His noble mind, ’tis in some wilderness,
  Where, in some savage den inhumed, he drags
  The weary load of life, and on his flesh
  As on a mortal enemy, inflicts
  Fierce vengeance with immitigable hand.
  Oh that I knew but where to bend my way
  In his dear search! my voice perhaps might reach
  His heart, might reconcile him to himself,
  Restore him to his mother ere she dies,
  His people and his country: with the sword,
  Them and his own good name should he redeem.
  Oh might I but behold him once again
  Leading to battle these intrepid bands,
  Such as he was, ... yea rising from his fall
  More glorious, more beloved! Soon I believe
  Joy would accomplish then what grief hath fail’d
  To do with this old heart, and I should die
  Clasping his knees with such intense delight,
  That when I woke in Heaven, even Heaven itself
  Could have no higher happiness in store.

    Thus fervently he spake, and copious tears
  Ran down his cheeks. Full oft the Royal Goth,
  Since he came forth again among mankind,
  Had trembled lest some curious eye should read
  His lineaments too closely; now he long’d
  To fall upon the neck of that old man,
  And give his full heart utterance. But the sense
  Of duty, by the pride of self-controul
  Corroborate, made him steadily repress
  His yearning nature. Whether Roderick live,
  Paying in penitence the bitter price
  Of sin, he answered, or if earth hath given
  Rest to his earthly part, is only known
  To him and Heaven. Dead is he to the world;
  And let not these imaginations rob
  His soul of thy continual prayers, whose aid
  Too surely, in whatever world, he needs.
  The faithful love that mitigates his fault,
  Heavenward addrest, may mitigate his doom.
  Living or dead, old man, be sure his soul, ...
  It were unworthy else, ... doth hold with thine
  Entire communion! Doubt not he relies
  Firmly on thee, as on a father’s love,
  Counts on thy offices, and joins with thee
  In sympathy and fervent act of faith,
  Though regions, or though worlds, should intervene.
  Lost as he is, to Roderick this must be
  Thy first, best, dearest duty; next must be
  To hold right onward in that noble path,
  Which he would counsel, could his voice be heard.
  Now therefore aid me, while I call upon
  The Leaders and the People, that this day
  We may acclaim Pelayo for our King.




XVIII.

THE ACCLAMATION.


  Now, when from Covadonga, down the vale
  Holding his way, the princely mountaineer
  Came with that happy family in sight
  Of Cangas and his native towers, far off
  He saw before the gate, in fair array,
  The assembled land. Broad banners were display’d,
  And spears were sparkling to the sun, shields shone,
  And helmets glitter’d, and the blairing horn,
  With frequent sally of impatient joy,
  Provoked the echoes round. Well he areeds,
  From yonder ensigns and augmented force,
  That Odoar and the Primate from the west
  Have brought their aid; but wherefore all were thus
  Instructed as for some great festival,
  He found not, till Favila’s quicker eye
  Catching the ready buckler, the glad boy
  Leapt up, and clapping his exultant hands,
  Shouted, King! King! my father shall be King
  This day! Pelayo started at the word,
  And the first thought which smote him brought a sigh
  For Roderick’s fall; the second was of hope,
  Deliverance for his country, for himself
  Enduring fame, and glory for his line.
  That high prophetic forethought gather’d strength,
  As looking to his honour’d mate, he read
  Her soul’s accordant augury; her eyes
  Brighten’d; the quicken’d action of the blood
  Tinged with a deeper hue her glowing cheek,
  And on her lips there sate a smile which spake
  The honourable pride of perfect love,
  Rejoicing, for her husband’s sake, to share
  The lot he chose, the perils he defied,
  The lofty fortune which their faith foresaw.

    Roderick, in front of all the assembled troops,
  Held the broad buckler, following to the end
  That steady purpose to the which his zeal
  Had this day wrought the Chiefs. Tall as himself,
  Erect it stood beside him, and his hands
  Hung resting on the rim. This was an hour
  That sweeten’d life, repaid and recompensed
  All losses; and although it could not heal
  All griefs, yet laid them for awhile to rest.
  The active agitating joy that fill’d
  The vale, that with contagious influence spread
  Through all the exulting mountaineers, that gave
  New ardour to all spirits, to all breasts
  Inspired fresh impulse of excited hope,
  Moved every tongue, and strengthen’d every limb, ...
  That joy which every man reflected saw
  From every face of all the multitude,
  And heard in every voice, in every sound,
  Reach’d not the King. Aloof from sympathy,
  He from the solitude of his own soul
  Beheld the busy scene. None shared or knew
  His deep and incommunicable joy;
  None but that heavenly Father, who alone
  Beholds the struggles of the heart, alone
  Sees and rewards the secret sacrifice.

    Among the chiefs conspicuous, Urban stood,
  He whom, with well-weigh’d choice, in arduous time
  To arduous office the consenting Church
  Had call’d when Sindered fear-smitten fled;
  Unfaithful shepherd, who for life alone
  Solicitous, forsook his flock, when most
  In peril and in suffering they required
  A pastor’s care. Far off at Rome he dwells
  In ignominious safety, while the Church
  Keeps in her annals the deserter’s name,
  But from the service which with daily zeal
  Devout her ancient prelacy recalls,
  Blots it, unworthy to partake her prayers.
  Urban, to that high station thus being call’d,
  From whence disanimating fear had driven
  The former primate, for the general weal
  Consulting first, removed with timely care
  The relics and the written works of Saints,
  Toledo’s choicest treasure, prized beyond
  All wealth, their living and their dead remains;
  These to the mountain fastnesses he bore
  Of unsubdued Cantabria, there deposed,
  One day to be the boast of yet unbuilt
  Oviedo, and the dear idolatry
  Of multitudes unborn. To things of state
  Then giving thought mature, he held advice
  With Odoar, whom of counsel competent
  And firm of heart he knew. What then they plann’d,
  Time and the course of over-ruled events
  To earlier act had ripen’d, than their hope
  Had ever in its gladdest dream proposed;
  And here by agents unforeseen, and means
  Beyond the scope of foresight brought about,
  This day they saw their dearest heart’s desire
  Accorded them: All-able Providence
  Thus having ordered all, that Spain this hour
  With happiest omens, and on surest base,
  Should from its ruins rear again her throne.

    For acclamation and for sacring now
  One form must serve, more solemn for the breach
  Of old observances, whose absence here
  Deeplier impress’d the heart, than all display
  Of regal pomp and wealth pontifical,
  Of vestments radiant with their gems, and stiff
  With ornature of gold; the glittering train,
  The long procession, and the full-voiced choir.
  This day the forms of piety and war,
  In strange but fitting union must combine.
  Not in his alb and cope and orary
  Came Urban now, nor wore he mitre here,
  Precious or auriphrygiate; bare of head
  He stood, all else in arms complete, and o’er
  His gorget’s iron rings the pall was thrown
  Of wool undyed, which on the Apostle’s tomb
  Gregory had laid, and sanctified with prayer;
  That from the living Pontiff and the dead
  Replete with holiness, it might impart
  Doubly derived its grace. One Page beside
  Bore his broad-shadow’d helm; another’s hand
  Held the long spear, more suited in these times
  For Urban, than the crosier richly wrought
  With silver foliature, the elaborate work
  Of Grecian or Italian artist, train’d
  In the eastern capital, or sacred Rome,
  Still o’er the West predominant, though fallen.
  Better the spear befits the shepherd’s hand
  When robbers break the fold. Now he had laid
  The weapon by, and held a natural cross
  Of rudest form, unpeel’d, even as it grew
  On the near oak that morn.
                            Mutilate alike
    Of royal rites was this solemnity.
  Where was the rubied crown, the sceptre where,
  And where the golden pome, the proud array
  Of ermines, aureate vests, and jewelry,
  With all which Leuvigild for after kings
  Left, ostentatious of his power? The Moor
  Had made his spoil of these, and on the field
  Of Xeres, where contending multitudes
  Had trampled it beneath their bloody feet,
  The standard of the Goths forgotten lay
  Defiled, and rotting there in sun and rain.
  Utterly is it lost; nor ever more
  Herald or antiquary’s patient search
  Shall from forgetfulness avail to save
  Those blazon’d arms, so fatally of old
  Renown’d through all the affrighted Occident.
  That banner, before which imperial Rome
  First to a conqueror bow’d her head abased;
  Which when the dreadful Hun, with all his powers,
  Came like a deluge rolling o’er the world,
  Made head, and in the front of battle broke
  His force, till then resistless; which so oft
  Had with alternate fortune braved the Frank:
  Driven the Byzantine from the farthest shores
  Of Spain, long lingering there, to final flight;
  And of their kingdoms and their name despoil’d
  The Vandal, and the Alan, and the Sueve;
  Blotted from human records is it now
  As it had never been. So let it rest
  With things forgotten! But Oblivion ne’er
  Shall cancel from the historic roll, nor Time,
  Who changeth all, obscure that fated sign,
  Which brighter now than mountain snows at noon
  To the bright sun displays its argent field.

    Rose not the vision then upon thy soul,
  O Roderick, when within that argent field
  Thou saw’st the rampant Lion, red as if
  Upon some noblest quarry he had roll’d,
  Rejoicing in his satiate rage, and drunk
  With blood and fury? Did the auguries
  Which open’d on thy spirit bring with them
  A perilous consolation, deadening heart
  And soul, yea worse than death, ... that thou through all
  Thy checquer’d way of life, evil and good,
  Thy errors and thy virtues, had’st but been
  The poor mere instrument of things ordain’d,
  Doing or suffering, impotent alike
  To will or act, ... perpetually bemock’d
  With semblance of volition, yet in all
  Blind worker of the ways of destiny!
  That thought intolerable, which in the hour
  Of woe indignant conscience had repell’d,
  As little might it find reception now,
  When the regenerate spirit self-approved
  Beheld its sacrifice complete. With faith
  Elate, he saw the banner’d Lion float
  Refulgent, and recall’d that thrilling shout
  Which he had heard when on Romano’s grave
  The joy of victory woke him from his dream,
  And sent him with prophetic hope to work
  Fulfilment of the great events ordain’d,
  There in imagination’s inner world
  Prefigured to his soul.
                          Alone, advanced
  Before the ranks, the Goth in silence stood,
  While from all voices round, loquacious joy
  Mingled its buzz continuous with the blast
  Of horn, shrill pipe, and tinkling cymbals’ clash,
  And sound of deafening drum. But when the Prince
  Drew nigh, and Urban with the Cross upheld
  Stept forth to meet him, all at once were still’d
  With instantaneous hush; as when the wind,
  Before whose violent gusts the forest oaks,
  Tossing like billows their tempestuous heads,
  Roar like a raging sea, suspends its force,
  And leaves so dead a calm that not a leaf
  Moves on the silent spray. The passing air
  Bore with it from the woodland undisturb’d
  The ringdove’s wooing, and the quiet voice
  Of waters warbling near.
                          Son of a race
  Of Heroes and of Kings! the Primate thus
  Address’d him, Thou in whom the Gothic blood,
  Mingling with old Iberia’s, hath restored
  To Spain a ruler of her native line,
  Stand forth, and in the face of God and man
  Swear to uphold the right, abate the wrong,
  With equitable hand, protect the Cross
  Whereon thy lips this day shall seal their vow,
  And underneath that hallow’d symbol, wage
  Holy and inextinguishable war
  Against the accursëd nation that usurps
  Thy country’s sacred soil!
                            So speak of me
  Now and for ever, O my countrymen!
  Replied Pelayo; and so deal with me
  Here and hereafter, thou, Almighty God,
  In whom I put my trust!
                          Lord God of Hosts,
  Urban pursued, of Angels and of Men
  Creator and Disposer, King of Kings,
  Ruler of Earth and Heaven, ... look down this day,
  And multiply thy blessings on the head
  Of this thy servant, chosen in thy sight!
  Be thou his counsellor, his comforter,
  His hope, his joy, his refuge, and his strength;
  Crown him with justice, and with fortitude,
  Defend him with thine all-sufficient shield,
  Surround him every where with the right hand
  Of thine all-present power, and with the might
  Of thine omnipotence, send in his aid
  Thy unseen Angels forth, that potently
  And royally against all enemies
  He may endure and triumph! Bless the land
  O’er which he is appointed: bless thou it
  With the waters of the firmament, the springs
  Of the low-lying deep, the fruits which Sun
  And Moon mature for man, the precious stores
  Of the eternal hills, and all the gifts
  Of Earth, its wealth and fulness!
                                    Then he took
  Pelayo’s hand, and on his finger placed
  The mystic circlet.... With this ring, O Prince,
  To our dear Spain, who like a widow now
  Mourneth in desolation, I thee wed:
  For weal or woe thou takest her, till death
  Dispart the union: Be it blest to her,
  To thee, and to thy seed!
                            Thus when he ceased,
  He gave the awaited signal. Roderick brought
  The buckler: Eight for strength and stature chosen
  Came to their honour’d office: Round the shield
  Standing, they lower it for the Chieftain’s feet,
  Then, slowly raised upon their shoulders, lift
  The steady weight. Erect Pelayo stands,
  And thrice he brandishes the burnish’d sword,
  While Urban to the assembled people cries,
  Spaniards, behold your King! The multitude
  Then sent forth all their voice with glad acclaim,
  Raising the loud _Real_; thrice did the word
  Ring through the air, and echo from the walls
  Of Cangas. Far and wide the thundering shout,
  Rolling among reduplicating rocks,
  Peal’d o’er the hills, and up the mountain vales.
  The wild ass starting in the forest glade
  Ran to the covert; the affrighted wolf
  Skulk’d through the thicket to a closer brake;
  The sluggish bear, awakened in his den,
  Roused up and answer’d with a sullen growl,
  Low-breathed and long; and at the uproar scared,
  The brooding eagle from her nest took wing.

    Heroes and Chiefs of old! and ye who bore
  Firm to the last your part in that dread strife,
  When Julian and Witiza’s viler race
  Betray’d their country, hear ye from yon Heaven
  The joyful acclamation which proclaims
  That Spain is born again! O ye who died
  In that disastrous field, and ye who fell
  Embracing with a martyr’s love your death
  Amid the flames of Auria; and all ye
  Victims innumerable, whose cries unheard
  On earth, but heard in Heaven, from all the land
  Went up for vengeance; not in vain ye cry
  Before the eternal throne!... Rest innocent blood!
  Vengeance is due, and vengeance will be given,
  Rest innocent blood! The appointed age is come!
  The star that harbingers a glorious day
  Hath risen! Lo there the Avenger stands! Lo there
  He brandishes the avenging sword! Lo there
  The avenging banner spreads its argent field
  Refulgent with auspicious light!... Rejoice,
  O Leon, for thy banner is displayed,
  Rejoice with all thy mountains, and thy vales
  And streams! And thou, O Spain, through all thy realms,
  For thy deliverance cometh! Even now,
  As from all sides the miscreant hosts move on ...
  From southern Betis; from the western lands,
  Where through redundant vales smooth Minho flows,
  And Douro pours through vine-clad hills the wealth
  Of Leon’s gathered waters; from the plains
  Burgensian, in old time Vardulia call’d,
  But in their castellated strength ere long
  To be design’d Castille, a deathless name;
  From midland regions where Toledo reigns
  Proud city on her royal eminence,
  And Tagus bends his sickle round the scene
  Of Roderick’s fall; from rich Rioja’s fields;
  Dark Ebro’s shores; the walls of Salduba,
  Seat of the Sedetanians old, by Rome
  Cæsarian and August denominate,
  Now Zaragoza, in this later time
  Above all cities of the earth renown’d
  For duty perfectly perform’d; ... East, West
  And South, where’er their gather’d multitudes
  Urged by the speed of vigorous tyranny,
  With more than with commeasurable strength
  Haste to prevent the danger, crush the hopes
  Of rising Spain, and rivet round her neck
  The eternal yoke, ... the ravenous fowls of heaven
  Flock there presentient of their food obscene,
  Following the accursed armies, whom too well
  They know their purveyors long. Pursue their march,
  Ominous attendants! Ere the moon hath fill’d
  Her horns, these purveyors shall become the prey,
  And ye on Moorish not on Christian flesh
  Wearying your beaks, shall clog your scaly feet
  With foreign gore. Soon will ye learn to know,
  Followers and harbingers of blood, the flag
  Of Leon where it bids you to your feast!
  Terror and flight shall with that flag go forth,
  And Havoc and the Dogs of War and Death.
  Thou Covadonga with the tainted stream
  Of Deva, and this now rejoicing vale,
  Soon its primitial triumphs wilt behold!
  Nor shall the glories of the noon be less
  Than such miraculous promise of the dawn:
  Witness Clavijo, where the dreadful cry
  Of Santiago, then first heard, o’erpower’d
  The Akbar, and that holier name blasphemed
  By misbelieving lips! Simancas, thou
  Be witness! And do ye your record bear,
  Tolosan mountains, where the Almohade
  Beheld his myriads scatter’d and destroy’d,
  Like locusts swept before the stormy North!
  Thou too, Salado, on that later day
  When Africa received her final foil,
  And thy swoln stream incarnadined, roll’d back
  The invaders to the deep, ... there shall they toss
  Till on their native Mauritanian shore
  The waves shall cast their bones to whiten there.




XIX.

RODERICK AND RUSILLA.


  When all had been perform’d, the royal Goth
  Look’d up towards the chamber in the tower,
  Where gazing on the multitude below,
  Alone Rusilla stood. He met her eye,
  For it was singling him amid the crowd;
  Obeying then the hand which beckon’d him,
  He went with heart prepared, nor shrinking now,
  But arm’d with self-approving thoughts that hour.
  Entering in tremulous haste, he closed the door,
  And turn’d to clasp her knees; but lo, she spread
  Her arms, and catching him in close embrace,
  Fell on his neck, and cried, My Son, my Son!...
  Ere long, controlling that first agony
  With effort of strong will, backward she bent,
  And gazing on his head now shorn and grey,
  And on his furrow’d countenance, exclaim’d,
  Still, still, my Roderick! the same noble mind!
  The same heroic heart! Still, still, my Son; ...
  Changed, ... yet not wholly fallen, ... not wholly lost,
  He cried, ... not wholly in the sight of Heaven
  Unworthy, O my Mother, nor in thine!
  She lock’d her arms again around his neck,
  Saying, Lord, let me now depart in peace!
  And bow’d her head again, and silently
  Gave way to tears.
                    When that first force was spent,
  And passion in exhaustment found relief, ...
  I knew thee, said Rusilla, when the dog
  Rose from my feet, and lick’d his master’s hand.
  All flash’d upon me then; the instinctive sense
  That goes unerringly where reason fails, ...
  The voice, the eye, ... a mother’s thoughts are quick, ...
  Miraculous as it seem’d, ... Siverian’s tale, ...
  Florinda’s, ... every action, ... every word, ...
  Each strengthening each, and all confirming all,
  Reveal’d thee, O my Son! but I restrain’d
  My heart, and yielded to thy holier will
  The thoughts which rose to tempt a soul not yet
  Wean’d wholly from the world.
                                What thoughts? replied
  Roderick. That I might see thee yet again
  Such as thou wert, she answer’d; not alone
  To Heaven and me restored, but to thyself, ...
  Thy Crown, ... thy Country, ... all within thy reach;
  Heaven so disposing all things, that the means
  Which wrought the ill, might work the remedy.
  Methought I saw thee once again the hope, ...
  The strength, ... the pride of Spain! The miracle
  Which I beheld made all things possible.
  I know the inconstant people how their mind,
  With every breath of good or ill report,
  Fluctuates, like summer corn before the breeze;
  Quick in their hatred, quicker in their love,
  Generous and hasty, soon would they redress
  All wrongs of former obloquy ... I thought
  Of happiness restored, ... the broken heart
  Heal’d, ... and Count Julian, for his daughter’s sake,
  Turning in thy behalf against the Moors
  His powerful sword: ... all possibilities
  That could be found or fancied, built a dream
  Before me; such as easiest might illude
  A lofty spirit train’d in palaces,
  And not alone amid the flatteries
  Of youth with thoughts of high ambition fed
  When all is sunshine, but through years of woe,
  When sorrow sanctified their use, upheld
  By honourable pride and earthly hopes.
  I thought I yet might nurse upon my knee
  Some young Theodofred, and see in him
  Thy Father’s image and thine own renew’d,
  And love to think the little hand which there
  Play’d with the bauble, should in after days
  Wield the transmitted sceptre; ... that through him
  The ancient seed should be perpetuate, ...
  That precious seed revered so long, desired
  So dearly, and so wonderously preserved.

    Nay, he replied, Heaven hath not with its bolts
  Scathed the proud summit of the tree, and left
  The trunk unflaw’d; ne’er shall it clothe its boughs
  Again, nor push again its scyons forth,
  Head, root, and branch, all mortified alike!...
  Long ere these locks were shorn had I cut off
  The thoughts of royalty! Time might renew
  Their growth, as for Manoah’s captive son,
  And I too on the miscreant race, like him,
  Might prove my strength regenerate; but the hour,
  When in its second best nativity,
  My soul was born again through grace, this heart
  Died to the world. Dreams such as thine pass now
  Like evening clouds before me; if I think
  How beautiful they seem, ’tis but to feel
  How soon they fade, how fast the night shuts in.
  But in that World to which my hopes look on,
  Time enters not, nor Mutability;
  Beauty and goodness are unfading there;
  Whatever there is given us to enjoy,
  That we enjoy for ever, still the same....
  Much might Count Julian’s sword atchieve for Spain
  And me, but more will his dear daughter’s soul
  Effect in Heaven; and soon will she be there
  An Angel at the throne of Grace, to plead
  In his behalf and mine.
                          I knew thy heart,
  She answer’d, and subdued the vain desire.
  It was the World’s last effort. Thou hast chosen
  The better part. Yes, Roderick, even on earth
  There is a praise above the monarch’s fame,
  A higher, holier, more enduring praise,
  And this will yet be thine!
                              O tempt me not,
  Mother! he cried; nor let ambition take
  That specious form to cheat us! What but this,
  Fallen as I am, have I to offer Heaven?
  The ancestral sceptre, public fame, content
  Of private life, the general good report,
  Power, reputation, happiness, ... whate’er
  The heart of man desires to constitute
  His earthly weal, ... unerring Justice claim’d
  In forfeiture. I with submitted soul
  Bow to the righteous law and kiss the rod.
  Only while thus submitted, suffering thus, ...
  Only while offering up that name on earth,
  Perhaps in trial offer’d to my choice,
  Could I present myself before thy sight;
  Thus only could endure myself, or fix
  My thoughts upon that fearful pass, where Death
  Stands in the Gate of Heaven!... Time passes on,
  The healing work of sorrow is complete;
  All vain desires have long been weeded out,
  All vain regrets subdued; the heart is dead,
  The soul is ripe and eager for her birth.
  Bless me, my Mother! and come when it will
  The inevitable hour, we die in peace.

    So saying, on her knees he bow’d his head;
  She raised her hands to Heaven and blest her child;
  Then bending forward, as he rose, embraced
  And claspt him to her heart, and cried, Once more
  Theodofred, with pride behold thy son!




XX.

THE MOORISH CAMP.


  The times are big with tidings; every hour
  From east and west and south the breathless scouts
  Bring swift alarums in; the gathering foe,
  Advancing from all quarters to one point,
  Close their wide crescent. Nor was aid of fear
  To magnify their numbers needed now,
  They came in myriads. Africa had pour’d
  Fresh shoals upon the coast of wretched Spain;
  Lured from their hungry deserts to the scene
  Of spoil, like vultures to the battle-field,
  Fierce, unrelenting, habited in crimes,
  Like bidden guests the mirthful ruffians flock
  To that free feast which in their Prophet’s name
  Rapine and Lust proclaim’d. Nor were the chiefs
  Of victory less assured, by long success
  Elate, and proud of that o’erwhelming strength,
  Which, surely they believed, as it had roll’d
  Thus far uncheck’d would roll victorious on,
  Till, like the Orient, the subjected West
  Should bow in reverence at Mahommed’s name;
  And pilgrims, from remotest Arctic shores,
  Tread with religious feet the burning sands
  Of Araby, and Mecca’s stony soil.
  Proud of his part in Roderick’s overthrow,
  Their leader Abulcacem came, a man
  Immitigable, long in war renown’d.
  Here Magued comes, who on the conquer’d walls
  Of Cordoba, by treacherous fear betray’d,
  Planted the moony standard: Ibrahim here,
  He, who by Genil and in Darro’s vales,
  Had for the Moors the fairest portion won
  Of all their spoils, fairest and best maintain’d,
  And to the Alpuxarras given in trust
  His other name, through them preserved in song
  Here too Alcahman, vaunting his late deeds
  At Auria, all her children by the sword
  Cut off, her bulwarks rased, her towers laid low,
  Her dwellings by devouring flames consumed,
  Bloody and hard of heart, he little ween’d,
  Vain-boastful chief! that from those fatal flames
  The fire of retribution had gone forth
  Which soon should wrap him round.
                                    The renegades
  Here too were seen, Ebba and Sisibert;
  A spurious brood, but of their parent’s crimes
  True heirs, in guilt begotten, and in ill
  Train’d up. The same unnatural rage that turn’d
  Their swords against their country, made them seek,
  Unmindful of their wretched mother’s end,
  Pelayo’s life. No enmity is like
  Domestic hatred. For his blood they thirst,
  As if that sacrifice might satisfy
  Witiza’s guilty ghost, efface the shame
  Of their adulterous birth, and one crime more
  Crowning a hideous course, emancipate
  Thenceforth their spirits from all earthly fear.
  This was their only care; but other thoughts
  Were rankling in that elder villain’s mind,
  Their kinsman Orpas, he of all the crew
  Who in this fatal visitation fell,
  The foulest and the falsest wretch that e’er
  Renounced his baptism. From his cherish’d views
  Of royalty cut off, he coveted
  Count Julian’s wide domains, and hopeless now
  To gain them through the daughter, laid his toils
  Against the father’s life, ... the instrument
  Of his ambition first, and now design’d
  Its victim. To this end with cautious hints,
  At favouring season ventured, he possess’d
  The leader’s mind; then, subtly fostering
  The doubts himself had sown, with bolder charge
  He bade him warily regard the Count,
  Lest underneath an outward show of faith
  The heart uncircumcised were Christian still:
  Else, wherefore had Florinda not obey’d
  Her dear loved sire’s example, and embraced
  The saving truth? Else, wherefore was her hand,
  Plighted to him so long, so long withheld,
  Till she had found a fitting hour to fly
  With that audacious Prince, who now in arms,
  Defied the Caliph’s power; ... for who could doubt
  That in his company she fled, perhaps
  The mover of his flight? What if the Count
  Himself had plann’d the evasion which he feign’d
  In sorrow to condemn? What if she went
  A pledge assured, to tell the mountaineers
  That when they met the Musselmen in the heat
  Of fight, her father passing to their side
  Would draw the victory with him?... Thus he breathed
  Fiend-like in Abulcacem’s ear his schemes
  Of murderous malice; and the course of things,
  Ere long, in part approving his discourse,
  Aided his aim, and gave his wishes weight.
  For scarce on the Asturian territory
  Had they set foot, when, with the speed of fear,
  Count Eudon, nothing doubting that their force
  Would like a flood sweep all resistance down,
  Hasten’d to plead his merits; ... he alone,
  Found faithful in obedience through reproach
  And danger, when the madden’d multitude
  Hurried their chiefs along, and high and low
  With one infectious frenzy seized, provoked
  The invincible in arms. Pelayo led
  The raging crew, ... he doubtless the prime spring
  Of all these perilous movements; and ’twas said
  He brought the assurance of a strong support,
  Count Julian’s aid, for in his company
  From Cordoba, Count Julian’s daughter came.

    Thus Eudon spake before the assembled chiefs;
  When instantly a stern and wrathful voice
  Replied, I know Pelayo never made
  That senseless promise! He who raised the tale
  Lies foully; but the bitterest enemy
  That ever hunted for Pelayo’s life
  Hath never with the charge of falsehood touch’d
  His name.
            The Baron had not recognized
  Till then, beneath the turban’s shadowing folds,
  Julian’s swart visage, where the fiery skies
  Of Africa, through many a year’s long course,
  Had set their hue inburnt. Something he sought
  In quick excuse to say of common fame,
  Lightly believed and busily diffused,
  And that no enmity had moved his speech
  Repeating rumour’s tale. Julian replied,
  Count Eudon, neither for thyself nor me
  Excuse is needed here. The path I tread
  Is one wherein there can be no return.
  No pause, no looking back! A choice like mine
  For time and for eternity is made,
  Once and for ever! and as easily
  The breath of vain report might build again
  The throne which my just vengeance overthrew,
  As in the Caliph and his Captain’s mind
  Affect the opinion of my well-tried truth.
  The tidings which thou givest me of my child
  Touch me more vitally; bad though they be,
  A secret apprehension of aught worse
  Makes me with joy receive them.
                                  Then the Count
  To Abulcacem turn’d his speech, and said,
  I pray thee, Chief, give me a messenger
  By whom I may to this unhappy child
  Dispatch a father’s bidding, such as yet
  May win her back. What I would say requires
  No veil of privacy; before ye all
  The errand shall be given.
                            Boldly he spake,
  Yet wary in that show of open truth,
  For well he knew what dangers girt him round
  Amid the faithless race. Blind with revenge,
  For them in madness had he sacrificed
  His name, his baptism, and his native land,
  To feel, still powerful as he was, that life
  Hung on their jealous favour. But his heart
  Approved him now, where love, too long restrain’d,
  Resumed its healing influence, leading him
  Right on with no misgiving. Chiefs, he said,
  Hear me, and let your wisdom judge between
  Me and Prince Orpas!... Known it is to all,
  Too well, what mortal injury provoked
  My spirit to that vengeance which your aid
  So signally hath given. A covenant
  We made when first our purpose we combined,
  That he should have Florinda for his wife,
  My only child, so should she be, I thought,
  Revenged and honour’d best. My word was given
  Truly, nor did I cease to use all means
  Of counsel or command, entreating her
  Sometimes with tears, seeking sometimes with threats
  Of an offended father’s curse to enforce
  Obedience; that, she said, the Christian law
  Forbade, moreover she had vow’d herself
  A servant to the Lord. In vain I strove
  To win her to the Prophet’s saving faith,
  Using perhaps a rigour to that end
  Beyond permitted means, and to my heart,
  Which loved her dearer than its own life-blood,
  Abhorrent. Silently she suffer’d all,
  Or when I urged her with most vehemence,
  Only replied, I knew her fix’d resolve,
  And craved my patience but a little while
  Till death should set her free. Touch’d as I was,
  I yet persisted, till at length to escape
  The ceaseless importunity, she fled:
  And verily I fear’d until this hour,
  My rigour to some fearfuller resolve
  Than flight, had driven my child. Chiefs, I appeal
  To each and all, and Orpas to thyself
  Especially, if, having thus essay’d
  All means that law and nature have allow’d
  To bend her will, I may not rightfully
  Hold myself free, that promise being void
  Which cannot be fulfill’d.
                            Thou sayest then,
  Orpas replied, that from her false belief
  Her stubborn opposition drew its force.
  I should have thought that from the ways corrupt
  Of these idolatrous Christians, little care
  Might have sufficed to wean a duteous child,
  The example of a parent so beloved
  Leading the way; and yet I will not doubt
  Thou didst enforce with all sincerity
  And holy zeal upon thy daughter’s mind
  The truths of Islam.
                      Julian knit his brow,
  And scowling on the insidious renegade,
  He answer’d, By what reasoning my poor mind
  Was from the old idolatry reclaim’d,
  None better knows than Seville’s mitred chief,
  Who first renouncing errors which he taught,
  Led me his follower to the Prophet’s pale.
  Thy lessons I repeated as I could;
  Of graven images, unnatural vows,
  False records, fabling creeds, and juggling priests,
  Who making sanctity the cloak of sin,
  Laugh’d at the fools on whose credulity
  They fatten’d. To these arguments, whose worth
  Prince Orpas, least of all men, should impeach,
  I added, like a soldier bred in arms,
  And to the subtleties of schools unused,
  The flagrant fact, that Heaven with victory,
  Where’er they turn’d, attested and approved
  The chosen Prophet’s arms. If thou wert still
  The mitred Metropolitan, and I
  Some wretch of Arian or of Hebrew race
  Thy proper business then might be to pry,
  And question me for lurking flaws of faith.
  We Musselmen, Prince Orpas, live beneath
  A wiser law, which with the iniquities
  Of thine old craft, hath abrogated this
  Its foulest practice!
                        As Count Julian ceased,
  From underneath his black and gather’d brow
  There went a look, which with these wary words
  Bore to the heart of that false renegade
  Their whole envenom’d meaning. Haughtily
  Withdrawing then his alter’d eyes, he said
  Too much of this! return we to the sum
  Of my discourse. Let Abulcacem say,
  In whom the Caliph speaks, if with all faith
  Having essay’d in vain all means to win
  My child’s consent, I may not hold henceforth
  The covenant discharged.
                          The Moor replied.
  Well hast thou said, and rightly may’st assure
  Thy daughter that the Prophet’s holy law
  Forbids compulsion. Give thine errand now;
  The messenger is here.
                        Then Julian said,
  Go to Pelayo, and from him entreat
  Admittance to my child, where’er she be.
  Say to her, that her father solemnly
  Annuls the covenant with Orpas pledged,
  Nor with solicitations, nor with threats,
  Will urge her more, nor from that liberty
  Of faith restrain her, which the Prophet’s law,
  Liberal as Heaven from whence it came, to all
  Indulges. Tell her that her father says
  His days are number’d, and beseeches her
  By that dear love, which from her infancy
  Still he hath borne her, growing as she grew.
  Nursed in our weal and strengthen’d in our woe,
  She will not in the evening of his life
  Leave him forsaken and alone. Enough
  Of sorrow, tell her, have her injuries
  Brought on her father’s head; let not her act
  Thus aggravate the burden. Tell her too,
  That when he pray’d her to return, he wept
  Profusely as a child; but bitterer tears
  Than ever fell from childhood’s eyes, were those
  Which traced his hardy cheeks.
                                With faltering voice
  He spake, and after he had ceased from speech
  His lip was quivering still. The Moorish chief
  Then to the messenger his bidding gave.
  Say, cried he, to these rebel infidels,
  Thus Abulcacem in the Caliph’s name
  Exhorteth them: Repent and be forgiven!
  Nor think to stop the dreadful storm of war,
  Which conquering and to conquer must fulfil
  Its destined circle, rolling eastward now
  Back from the subjugated west, to sweep
  Thrones and dominions down, till in the bond
  Of unity all nations join, and Earth
  Acknowledge, as she sees one Sun in heaven,
  One God, one Chief, one Prophet, and one Law.
  Jerusalem, the holy City, bows
  To holier Mecca’s creed; the Crescent shines
  Triumphant o’er the eternal pyramids;
  On the cold altars of the worshippers
  Of Fire, moss grows, and reptiles leave their slime;
  The African idolatries are fallen,
  And Europe’s senseless gods of stone and wood
  Have had their day. Tell these misguided men,
  A moment for repentance yet is left,
  And mercy the submitted neck will spare
  Before the sword is drawn: but once unsheath’d,
  Let Auria witness how that dreadful sword
  Accomplisheth its work! They little know
  The Moors who hope in battle to withstand
  Their valour, or in flight escape their rage!
  Amid our deserts we hunt down the birds
  Of heaven, ... wings do not save them! Nor shall rocks,
  And holds, and fastnesses, avail to save
  These mountaineers. Is not the Earth the Lord’s?
  And we, his chosen people, whom he sends
  To conquer and possess it in his name?




XXI.

THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST.


  The second eve had closed upon their march
  Within the Asturian border, and the Moors
  Had pitch’d their tents amid an open wood
  Upon the mountain side. As day grew dim,
  Their scatter’d fires shone with distincter light
  Among the trees, above whose top the smoke
  Diffused itself, and stain’d the evening sky.
  Ere long the stir of occupation ceased,
  And all the murmur of the busy host
  Subsiding died away, as through the camp
  The crier from a knoll proclaim’d the hour
  For prayer appointed, and with sonorous voice,
  Thrice in melodious modulation full,
  Pronounced the highest name. There is no God
  But God, he cried; there is no God but God!
  Mahommed is the Prophet of the Lord!
  Come ye to prayer! to prayer! The Lord is great!
  There is no God but God!... Thus he pronounced
  His ritual form, mingling with holiest truth
  The audacious name accurst. The multitude
  Made their ablutions in the mountain stream
  Obedient, then their faces to the earth
  Bent in formality of easy prayer.

    An arrow’s flight above that mountain stream
  There was a little glade, where underneath
  A long smooth mossy stone a fountain rose.
  An oak grew near, and with its ample boughs
  O’ercanopied the spring; its fretted roots
  Emboss’d the bank, and on their tufted bark
  Grew plants which love the moisture and the shade;
  Short ferns, and longer leaves of wrinkled green
  Which bent toward the spring, and when the wind
  Made itself felt, just touch’d with gentle dip
  The glassy surface, ruffled ne’er but then,
  Save when a bubble rising from the depth
  Burst, and with faintest circles mark’d its place,
  Or if an insect skimm’d it with its wing,
  Or when in heavier drops the gather’d rain
  Fell from the oak’s high bower. The mountain roe,
  When, having drank there, he would bound across,
  Drew up upon the bank his meeting feet,
  And put forth half his force. With silent lapse
  From thence through mossy banks the water stole,
  Then murmuring hastened to the glen below.
  Diana might have loved in that sweet spot
  To take her noontide rest; and when she stoopt
  Hot from the chase to drink, well pleased had seen
  Her own bright crescent, and the brighter face
  It crown’d, reflected there.
                              Beside that spring
  Count Julian’s tent was pitch’d upon the glade;
  There his ablutions Moor-like he perform’d,
  And Moor-like knelt in prayer, bowing his head
  Upon the mossy bank. There was a sound
  Of voices at the tent when he arose,
  And lo! with hurried step a woman came
  Toward him; rightly then his heart presaged,
  And ere he could behold her countenance,
  Florinda knelt, and with uplifted arms
  Embraced her sire. He raised her from the ground,
  Kiss’d her, and claspt her to his heart, and said,
  Thou hast not then forsaken me, my child!
  Howe’er the inexorable will of Fate
  May in the world which is to come, divide
  Our everlasting destinies, in this
  Thou wilt not, O my child, abandon me!
  And then with deep and interrupted voice,
  Nor seeking to restrain his copious tears,
  My blessing be upon thy head, he cried,
  A father’s blessing! Though all faiths were false,
  It should not lose its worth!... She lock’d her hands
  Around his neck, and gazing in his face
  Through streaming tears, exclaim’d, Oh never more,
  Here or hereafter, never let us part!
  And breathing then a prayer in silence forth,
  The name of Jesus trembled on her tongue.

    Whom hast thou there? cried Julian, and drew back,
  Seeing that near them stood a meagre man
  In humble garb, who rested with raised hands
  On a long staff, bending his head like one
  Who when he hears the distant vesper-bell,
  Halts by the way, and, all unseen of men,
  Offers his homage in the eye of Heaven.
  She answered, Let not my dear father frown
  In anger on his child! Thy messenger
  Told me that I should be restrain’d no more
  From liberty of faith, which the new law
  Indulged to all; how soon my hour might come
  I knew not, and although that hour will bring
  Few terrors, yet methinks I would not be
  Without a Christian comforter in death.

    A Priest! exclaimed the Count, and drawing back,
  Stoopt for his turban that he might not lack
  Some outward symbol of apostacy;
  For still in war his wonted arms he wore,
  Nor for the scymitar had changed the sword
  Accustomed to his hand. He covered now
  His short grey hair, and under the white folds
  His swarthy brow, which gather’d as he rose,
  Darken’d. Oh frown not thus! Florinda said,
  A kind and gentle counsellor is this,
  One who pours balm into a wounded soul,
  And mitigates the griefs he cannot heal.
  I told him I had vow’d to pass my days
  A servant of the Lord, yet that my heart,
  Hearing the message of thy love, was drawn
  With powerful yearnings back. Follow thy heart, ...
  It answers to the call of duty here,
  He said, nor canst thou better serve the Lord
  Than at thy father’s side.
                            Count Julian’s brow,
  While thus she spake, insensibly relax’d.
  A Priest, cried he, and thus with even hand
  Weigh vows and natural duty in the scale?
  In what old heresy hath he been train’d?
  Or in what wilderness hath he escaped
  The domineering Prelate’s fire and sword?
  Come hither, man, and tell me who thou art!

    A sinner, Roderick, drawing nigh, replied;
  Brought to repentance by the grace of God,
  And trusting for forgiveness through the blood
  Of Christ in humble hope.
                            A smile of scorn
  Julian assumed, but merely from the lips
  It came; for he was troubled while he gazed
  On the strong countenance and thoughtful eye
  Before him. A new law hath been proclaim’d,
  Said he, which overthrows in its career
  The Christian altars of idolatry.
  What think’st thou of the Prophet?... Roderick
  Made answer, I am in the Moorish camp,
  And he who asketh is a Musselman.
  How then should I reply?... Safely, rejoin’d
  The renegade, and freely may’st thou speak
  To all that Julian asks. Is not the yoke
  Of Mecca easy, and its burden light?...
  Spain hath not found it so, the Goth replied,
  And groaning, turn’d away his countenance.

    Count Julian knit his brow, and stood awhile
  Regarding him with meditative eye
  In silence. Thou art honest too! he cried;
  Why ’twas in quest of such a man as this
  That the old Grecian search’d by lantern light
  In open day the city’s crowded streets,
  So rare he deem’d the virtue. Honesty
  And sense of natural duty in a Priest!
  Now for a miracle, ye Saints of Spain!
  I shall not pry too closely for the wires,
  For, seeing what I see, ye have me now
  In the believing mood!
                        O blessed Saints,
  Florinda cried, ’tis from the bitterness,
  Not from the hardness of the heart, he speaks!
  Hear him! and in your goodness give the scoff
  The virtue of a prayer! So saying, she raised
  Her hands in fervent action claspt to Heaven:
  Then as, still claspt, they fell, toward her sire
  She turn’d her eyes, beholding him through tears.
  The look, the gesture, and that silent woe,
  Soften’d her father’s heart, which in this hour
  Was open to the influences of love.
  Priest, thy vocation were a blessed one,
  Said Julian, if its mighty power were used
  To lessen human misery, not to swell
  The mournful sum, already all-too-great.
  If, as thy former counsel should imply,
  Thou art not one who would for his craft’s sake
  Fret with corrosives and inflame the wound,
  Which the poor sufferer brings to thee in trust
  That thou with virtuous balm will bind it up, ...
  If, as I think, thou art not one of those
  Whose villainy makes honest men turn Moors,
  Thou then wilt answer with unbiass’d mind
  What I shall ask thee, and exorcise thus
  The sick and feverish conscience of my child,
  From inbred phantoms, fiend-like, which possess
  Her innocent spirit. Children we are all
  Of one great Father, in whatever clime
  Nature or chance hath cast the seeds of life,
  All tongues, all colours: neither after death
  Shall we be sorted into languages
  And tints, ... white, black, and tawny, Greek and Goth,
  Northmen and offspring of hot Africa;
  The All-Father, He in whom we live and move,
  He the indifferent Judge of all, regards
  Nations, and hues, and dialects alike;
  According to their works shall they be judged,
  When even-handed Justice in the scale
  Their good and evil weighs. All creeds, I ween,
  Agree in this, and hold it orthodox.

    Roderick, perceiving here that Julian paused,
  As if he waited for acknowledgement
  Of that plain truth, in motion of assent
  Inclined his brow complacently, and said,
  Even so: What follows?... This; resumed the Count,
  That creeds like colours being but accident,
  Are therefore in the scale imponderable; ...
  Thou seest my meaning; ... that from every faith
  As every clime, there is a way to Heaven,
  And thou and I may meet in Paradise.

    Oh grant it, God! cried Roderick fervently,
  And smote his breast. Oh grant it, gracious God!
  Through the dear blood of Jesus, grant that he
  And I may meet before the Mercy-throne!
  That were a triumph of Redeeming Love,
  For which admiring Angels would renew
  Their hallelujahs through the choir of Heaven!
  Man! quoth Count Julian, wherefore art thou moved
  To this strange passion? I require of thee
  Thy judgement, not thy prayers!
                                  Be not displeased!
  In gentle voice subdued the Goth replies;
  A prayer, from whatsoever lips it flow,
  By thine own rule should find the way to Heaven,
  So that the heart in its sincerity
  Straight forward breathe it forth. I, like thyself,
  Am all untrain’d to subtleties of speech,
  Nor competent of this great argument
  Thou openest; and perhaps shall answer thee
  Wide of the words, but to the purport home.
  There are to whom the light of gospel truth
  Hath never reach’d; of such I needs must deem
  As of the sons of men who had their day
  Before the light was given. But, Count, for those
  Who, born amid the light, to darkness turn
  Wilful in error, ... I dare only say,
  God doth not leave the unhappy soul without
  An inward monitor, and till the grave
  Open, the gate of mercy is not closed.

    Priest-like! the renegade replied, and shook
  His head in scorn. What is not in the craft
  Is error, and for error there shall be
  No mercy found in Him whom yet ye name
  The Merciful!
                Now God forbid, rejoin’d
  The fallen King, that one who stands in need
  Of mercy for his sins should argue thus
  Of error! Thou hast said that thou and I,
  Thou dying in name a Musselman, and I
  A servant of the Cross, may meet in Heaven.
  Time was when in our fathers’ ways we walk’d
  Regardlessly alike; faith being to each, ...
  For so far thou hast reason’d rightly, ... like
  Our country’s fashion and our mother-tongue,
  Of mere inheritance, ... no thing of choice
  In judgement fix’d, nor rooted in the heart.
  Me have the arrows of calamity
  Sore stricken; sinking underneath the weight
  Of sorrow, yet more heavily oppress’d
  Beneath the burthen of my sins, I turn’d
  In that dread hour to Him who from the Cross
  Calls to the heavy-laden. There I found
  Relief and comfort; there I have my hope,
  My strength and my salvation; there, the grave
  Ready beneath my feet, and Heaven in view
  I to the King of Terrors say, Come, Death, ...
  Come quickly! Thou too wert a stricken deer,
  Julian, ... God pardon the unhappy hand
  That wounded thee!... but whither didst thou go
  For healing? Thou hast turn’d away from Him,
  Who saith, Forgive as ye would be forgiven
  And that the Moorish sword might do thy work,
  Received the creed of Mecca: with what fruit
  For Spain, let tell her cities sack’d, her sons
  Slaughter’d, her daughters than thine own dear child
  More foully wrong’d, more wretched! For thyself,
  Thou hast had thy fill of vengeance, and perhaps
  The cup was sweet: but it hath left behind
  A bitter relish! Gladly would thy soul
  Forget the past; as little canst thou bear
  To send into futurity thy thoughts:
  And for this Now, what is it, Count, but fear....
  However bravely thou may’st bear thy front, ...
  Danger, remorse, and stinging obloquy?
  One only hope, one only remedy,
  One only refuge yet remains.... My life
  Is at thy mercy, Count! Call, if thou wilt,
  Thy men, and to the Moors deliver me!
  Or strike thyself! Death were from any hand
  A welcome gift; from thine, and in this cause,
  A boon indeed! My latest words on earth
  Should tell thee that all sins may be effaced,
  Bid thee repent, have faith, and be forgiven!
  Strike, Julian, if thou wilt, and send my soul
  To intercede for thine, that we may meet,
  Thou and thy child and I, beyond the grave.

    Thus Roderick spake, and spread his arms as if
  He offer’d to the sword his willing breast,
  With looks of passionate persuasion fix’d
  Upon the Count, who in his first access
  Of anger, seem’d as though he would have call’d
  His guards to seize the Priest. The attitude
  Disarm’d him, and that fervent zeal sincere,
  And more than both, the look and voice, which like
  A mystery troubled him. Florinda too
  Hung on his arm with both her hands, and cried,
  O father, wrong him not! he speaks from God!
  Life and salvation are upon his tongue!
  Judge thou the value of that faith whereby,
  Reflecting on the past, I murmur not,
  And to the end of all look on with joy
  Of hope assured!
                  Peace, innocent! replied
  The Count, and from her hold withdrew his arm.
  Then with a gather’d brow of mournfulness
  Rather than wrath, regarding Roderick, said,
  Thou preachest that all sins may be effaced:
  Is there forgiveness, Christian, in thy creed
  For Roderick’s crime?... For Roderick and for thee,
  Count Julian, said the Goth, and as he spake
  Trembled through every fibre of his frame,
  The gate of Heaven is open. Julian threw
  His wrathful hand aloft, and cried, Away!
  Earth could not hold us both, nor can one Heaven
  Contain my deadliest enemy and me!

    My father, say not thus! Florinda cried;
  I have forgiven him! I have pray’d for him!
  For him, for thee, and for myself I pour
  One constant prayer to Heaven! In passion then
  She knelt, and bending back, with arms and face
  Raised toward the sky, the supplicant exclaim’d,
  Redeemer, heal his heart! It is the grief
  Which festers there that hath bewilder’d him!
  Save him, Redeemer! by thy precious death
  Save, save him, O my God! Then on her face
  She fell, and thus with bitterness pursued
  In silent throes her agonizing prayer.

    Afflict not thus thyself, my child, the Count
  Exclaim’d; O dearest, be thou comforted;
  Set but thy heart at rest, I ask no more!
  Peace dearest, peace!... and weeping as he spake,
  He knelt to raise her. Roderick also knelt;
  Be comforted, he cried, and rest in faith
  That God will hear thy prayers! they must be heard.
  He who could doubt the worth of prayers like thine
  May doubt of all things! Sainted as thou art
  In sufferings here, this miracle will be
  Thy work and thy reward!
                          Then raising her,
  They seated her upon the fountain’s brink,
  And there beside her sate. The moon had risen,
  And that fair spring lay blackened half in shade,
  Half like a burnish’d mirror in her light.
  By that reflected light Count Julian saw
  That Roderick’s face was bathed with tears, and pale
  As monumental marble. Friend, said he,
  Whether thy faith be fabulous, or sent
  Indeed from Heaven, its dearest gift to man,
  Thy heart is true: and had the mitred Priest
  Of Seville been like thee, or hadst thou held
  The place he fill’d; ... but this is idle talk, ...
  Things are as they will be; and we, poor slaves,
  Fret in the harness as we may, must drag
  The Car of Destiny where’er she drives,
  Inexorable and blind!
                        Oh wretched man!
  Cried Roderick, if thou seekest to assuage
  Thy wounded spirit with that deadly drug,
  Hell’s subtlest venom; look to thine own heart,
  Where thou hast Will and Conscience to belie
  This juggling sophistry, and lead thee yet
  Through penitence to Heaven!
                              Whate’er it be
  That governs us, in mournful tone the Count
  Replied, Fate, Providence, or Allah’s will,
  Or reckless Fortune, still the effect the same,
  A world of evil and of misery!
  Look where we will we meet it; wheresoe’er
  We go we bear it with us. Here we sit
  Upon the margin of this peaceful spring,
  And oh! what volumes of calamity
  Would be unfolded here, if either heart
  Laid open its sad records! Tell me not
  Of goodness! Either in some freak of power
  This frame of things was fashion’d, then cast off
  To take its own wild course, the sport of chance;
  Or the bad Spirit o’er the Good prevails,
  And in the eternal conflict hath arisen
  Lord of the ascendant!
                        Rightly would’st thou say
  Were there no world but this! the Goth replied.
  The happiest child of earth that e’er was mark’d
  To be the minion of prosperity,
  Richest in corporal gifts and wealth of mind,
  Honour and fame attending him abroad,
  Peace and all dear domestic joys at home,
  And sunshine till the evening of his days
  Closed in without a cloud, ... even such a man
  Would from the gloom and horror of his heart
  Confirm thy fatal thought, were this world all,
  Oh! who could bear the haunting mystery,
  If death and retribution did not solve
  The riddle, and to heavenliest harmony
  Reduce the seeming chaos!... Here we see
  The water at its well-head; clear it is,
  Not more transpicuous the invisible air;
  Pure as an infant’s thoughts; and here to life
  And good directed all its uses serve.
  The herb grows greener on its brink; sweet flowers
  Bend o’er the stream that feeds their freshened roots;
  The red-breast loves it for his wintry haunts;
  And when the buds begin to open forth,
  Builds near it with his mate their brooding nest;
  The thirsty stag with widening nostrils there
  Invigorated draws his copious draught;
  And there amid its flags the wild-boar stands,
  Nor suffering wrong nor meditating hurt.
  Through woodlands wild and solitary fields
  Unsullied thus it holds its bounteous course;
  But when it reaches the resorts of men,
  The service of the city there defiles
  The tainted stream; corrupt and foul it flows
  Through loathsome banks and o’er a bed impure,
  Till in the sea, the appointed end to which
  Through all its way it hastens, ’tis received,
  And, losing all pollution, mingles there
  In the wide world of waters. So is it
  With the great stream of things, if all were seen;
  Good the beginning, good the end shall be,
  And transitory evil only make
  The good end happier. Ages pass away,
  Thrones fall, and nations disappear, and worlds
  Grow old and go to wreck; the soul alone
  Endures, and what she chuseth for herself,
  The arbiter of her own destiny
  That only shall be permanent.
                                But guilt,
  And all our suffering? said the Count. The Goth
  Replied, Repentance taketh sin away,
  Death remedies the rest.... Soothed by the strain
  Of such discourse, Julian was silent then,
  And sate contemplating. Florinda too
  Was calm’d: If sore experience may be thought
  To teach the uses of adversity,
  She said, alas! who better learn’d than I
  In that sad school! Methinks if ye would know
  How visitations of calamity
  Affect the pious soul, ’tis shown ye there!
  Look yonder at that cloud, which through the sky
  Sailing alone, doth cross in her career
  The rolling Moon! I watch’d it as it came,
  And deem’d the deep opake would blot her beams
  But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs
  In folds of wavey silver round, and clothes
  The orb with richer beauties than her own,
  Then passing, leaves her in her light serene.

    Thus having said, the pious sufferer sate,
  Beholding with fix’d eyes that lovely orb,
  Till quiet tears confused in dizzy light
  The broken moonbeams. They too by the toil
  Of spirit, as by travail of the day
  Subdued, were silent, yielding to the hour.
  The silver cloud diffusing slowly past,
  And now into its airy elements
  Resolved is gone; while through the azure depth
  Alone in heaven the glorious Moon pursues
  Her course appointed, with indifferent beams
  Shining upon the silent hills around,
  And the dark tents of that unholy host,
  Who, all unconscious of impending fate,
  Take their last slumber there. The camp is still;
  The fires have mouldered, and the breeze which stirs
  The soft and snowy embers, just lays bare
  At times a red and evanescent light,
  Or for a moment wakes a feeble flame.
  They by the fountain hear the stream below,
  Whose murmurs, as the wind arose or fell,
  Fuller or fainter reach the ear attuned.
  And now the nightingale, not distant far,
  Began her solitary song; and pour’d
  To the cold moon a richer, stronger strain
  Than that with which the lyric lark salutes
  The new-born day. Her deep and thrilling song
  Seem’d with its piercing melody to reach
  The soul, and in mysterious unison
  Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love.
  Their hearts were open to the healing power
  Of nature; and the splendour of the night,
  The flow of waters, and that sweetest lay
  Came to them like a copious evening dew
  Falling on vernal herbs which thirst for rain.




XXII.

THE MOORISH COUNCIL.


  Thus they beside the fountain sate, of food
  And rest forgetful, when a messenger
  Summon’d Count Julian to the Leader’s tent.
  In council there at that late hour he found
  The assembled Chiefs, on sudden tidings call’d
  Of unexpected weight from Cordoba.
  Jealous that Abdalazis had assumed
  A regal state, affecting in his court
  The forms of Gothic sovereignty, the Moors,
  Whom artful spirits of ambitious mould
  Stirr’d up, had risen against him in revolt:
  And he who late had in the Caliph’s name
  Ruled from the Ocean to the Pyrenees,
  A mutilate and headless carcase now,
  From pitying hands received beside the road
  A hasty grave, scarce hidden there from dogs
  And ravens, nor from wintry rains secure.
  She, too, who in the wreck of Spain preserved
  Her queenly rank, the wife of Roderick first,
  Of Abdalazis after, and to both
  Alike unhappy, shared the ruin now
  Her counsels had brought on; for she had led
  The infatuate Moor, in dangerous vauntery,
  To these aspiring forms, ... so should he gain
  Respect and honour from the Musselmen,
  She said, and that the obedience of the Goths
  Follow’d the sceptre. In an evil hour
  She gave the counsel, and in evil hour
  He lent a willing ear; the popular rage
  Fell on them both; and they to whom her name
  Had been a mark for mockery and reproach,
  Shudder’d with human horror at her fate.
  Ayub was heading the wild anarchy;
  But where the cement of authority
  Is wanting, all things there are dislocate:
  The mutinous soldiery, by every cry
  Of rumour set in wild career, were driven
  By every gust of passion, setting up
  One hour, what in the impulse of the next,
  Equally unreasoning, they destroy’d: thus all
  Was in misrule where uproar gave the law,
  And ere from far Damascus they could learn
  The Caliph’s pleasure, many a moon must pass.
  What should be done? should Abulcacem march
  To Cordoba, and in the Caliph’s name
  Assume the power which to his rank in arms
  Rightly devolved, restoring thus the reign
  Of order? or pursue with quicken’d speed
  The end of this great armament, and crush
  Rebellion first, then to domestic ills
  Apply his undivided mind and force
  Victorious? What in this emergency
  Was Julian’s counsel, Abulcacem ask’d,
  Should they accomplish soon their enterprize?
  Or would the insurgent infidels prolong
  The contest, seeking by protracted war
  To weary them, and trusting in the strength
  Of these wild hills?
                      Julian replied, The Chief
  Of this revolt is wary, resolute,
  Of approved worth in war: a desperate part
  He for himself deliberately hath chosen,
  Confiding in the hereditary love
  Borne to him by these hardy mountaineers,
  A love which his own noble qualities
  Have strengthen’d so that every heart is his.
  When ye can bring them to the open proof
  Of battle, ye will find them in his cause
  Lavish of life; but well they know the strength
  Of their own fastnesses, the mountain paths
  Impervious to pursuit, the vantages
  Of rock, and pass, and woodland, and ravine;
  And hardly will ye tempt them to forego
  These natural aids wherein they put their trust
  As in their stubborn spirit, each alike
  Deem’d by themselves invincible, and so
  By Roman found and Goth ... beneath whose sway
  Slowly persuaded rather than subdued
  They came, and still through every change retain’d
  Their manners obstinate and barbarous speech.
  My counsel, therefore, is, that we secure
  With strong increase of force the adjacent posts,
  And chiefly Gegio, leaving them so mann’d
  As may abate the hope of enterprize
  Their strength being told. Time in a strife like this
  Becomes the ally of those who trust in him:
  Make then with Time your covenant. Old feuds
  May disunite the chiefs: some may be gain’d
  By fair entreaty, others by the stroke
  Of nature, or of policy, cut off.
  This was the counsel which in Cordoba
  I offer’d Abdalazis: in ill hour
  Rejecting it, he sent upon this war
  His father’s faithful friend! Dark are the ways
  Of destiny! had I been at his side
  Old Muza would not now have mourn’d his age
  Left childless, nor had Ayub dared defy
  The Caliph’s represented power. The case
  Calls for thine instant presence, with the weight
  Of thy legitimate authority.

    Julian said Orpas, turning from beneath
  His turban to the Count a crafty eye,
  Thy daughter is return’d; doth she not bring
  Some tidings of the movements of the foe?
  The Count replied, When child and parent meet
  First reconciled from discontents which wrung
  The hearts of both, ill should their converse be
  Of warlike matters! There hath been no time
  For such enquiries, neither should I think
  To ask her touching that for which I know
  She hath neither eye nor thought.
                                    There was a time
  Orpas with smile malignant thus replied,
  When in the progress of the Caliph’s arms
  Count Julian’s daughter had an interest
  Which touch’d her nearly! But her turn is served,
  And hatred of Prince Orpas may beget
  Indifference to the cause. Yet Destiny
  Still guideth to the service of the faith
  The wayward heart of woman; for as one
  Delivered Roderick to the avenging sword,
  So hath another at this hour betray’d
  Pelayo to his fall. His sister came
  At nightfall to my tent a fugitive.
  She tells me that on learning our approach
  The rebel to a cavern in the hills
  Had sent his wife and children, and with them
  Those of his followers, thinking there conceal’d
  They might be safe. She, moved, by injuries
  Which stung her spirit, on the way escaped,
  And for revenge will guide us. In reward
  She asks her brother’s forfeiture of lands
  In marriage with Numacian: something too
  Touching his life, that for her services
  It might be spared, she said; ... an after-thought
  To salve decorum, and if conscience wake
  Serve as a sop: but when the sword shall smite
  Pelayo and his dangerous race, I ween
  That a thin kerchief will dry all the tears
  The Lady Guisla sheds!
                        ’Tis the old taint!
  Said Julian mournfully; from her mother’s womb
  She brought the inbred wickedness which now
  In ripe infection blossoms. Woman, woman,
  Still to the Goths art thou the instrument
  Of overthrow; thy virtue and thy vice
  Fatal alike to them!
                      Say rather, cried
  The insidious renegade, that Allah thus
  By woman punisheth the idolatry
  Of those who raise a woman to the rank
  Of godhead, calling on their Mary’s name
  With senseless prayers. In vain shall they invoke
  Her trusted succour now! like silly birds
  By fear betray’d, they fly into the toils;
  And this Pelayo, who in lengthen’d war
  Baffling our force, has thought perhaps to reign
  Prince of the Mountains, when we hold his wife
  And offspring at our mercy, must himself
  Come to the lure.
                    Enough, the Leader said;
  This unexpected work of favouring Fate
  Opens an easy way to our desires,
  And renders farther counsel needless now.
  Great is the Prophet whose protecting power
  Goes with the faithful forth! the rebels’ days
  Are number’d; Allah hath deliver’d them
  Into our hands!
                  So saying he arose;
  The Chiefs withdrew, Orpas alone remain’d
  Obedient to his indicated will.
  The event, said Abulcacem, hath approved
  Thy judgement in all points; his daughter comes
  At the first summons, even as thou saidst;
  Her errand with the insurgents done, she brings
  Their well-concerted project back, a safe
  And unexpected messenger; ... the Moor,
  The shallow Moor, ... must see and not perceive;
  Must hear and understand not; yea must bear,
  Poor easy fool, to serve their after mirth,
  A part in his own undoing! But just Heaven
  With this unlook’d-for incident hath marr’d
  Their complots, and the sword shall cut this web
  Of treason.
              Well, the renegade replied,
  Thou knowest Count Julian’s spirit, quick in wiles,
  In act audacious. Baffled now, he thinks
  Either by instant warning to apprize
  The rebels of their danger, or preserve
  The hostages when fallen into our power,
  Till secret craft contrive, or open force
  Win their enlargement. Haply too he dreams
  Of Cordoba, the avenger and the friend
  Of Abdalazis, in that cause to arm
  Moor against Moor, preparing for himself
  The victory o’er the enfeebled conquerors.
  Success in treason hath embolden’d him,
  And power but serves him for fresh treachery, false
  To Roderick first, and to the Caliph now.

    The guilt, said Abulcacem, is confirm’d,
  The sentence past; all that is now required
  Is to strike sure and safely. He hath with him
  A veteran force devoted to his will,
  Whom to provoke were perilous; nor less
  Of peril lies there in delay: what course
  Between these equal dangers should we steer?

    They have been train’d beneath him in the wars
  Of Africa, the renegade replied;
  Men are they who, from their youth up, have found
  Their occupation and their joy in arms;
  Indifferent to the cause for which they fight,
  But faithful to their leader, who hath won
  By licence largely given, yet temper’d still
  With exercise of firm authority,
  Their whole devotion. Vainly should we seek
  By proof of Julian’s guilt to pacify
  Such martial spirits, unto whom all creeds
  And countries are alike; but take away
  The head, and forthwith their fidelity
  Goes at the market price. The act must be
  Sudden and secret; poison is too slow.
  Thus it may best be done; the Mountaineers,
  Doubtless, ere long will rouse us with some spur
  Of sudden enterprise: at such a time
  A trusty minister approaching him
  May smite him, so that all shall think the spear
  Comes from the hostile troops.
                                Right counsellor!
  Cried Abulcacem, thou shalt have his lands,
  The proper meed of thy fidelity:
  His daughter thou may’st take or leave. Go now
  And find a faithful instrument to put
  Our purpose in effect!... And when ’tis done,
  The Moor, as Orpas from the tent withdrew,
  Muttering pursued, ... look for a like reward
  Thyself! that restless head of wickedness
  In the grave will brood no treasons. Other babes
  Scream when the Devil, as they spring to life,
  Infects them with his touch; but thou didst stretch
  Thine arms to meet him, and like mother’s milk
  Suck the congenial evil! Thou hast tried
  Both laws, and were there aught to gain, wouldst prove
  A third as readily; but when thy sins
  Are weigh’d, ’twill be against an empty scale,
  And neither Prophet will avail thee then!




XXIII.

THE VALE OF COVADONGA.


  The camp is stirring, and ere day hath dawn’d
  The tents are struck. Early they rise whom hope
  Awakens, and they travel fast with whom
  She goes companion of the way. By noon
  Hath Abulcacem in his speed attain’d
  The vale of Cangas. Well the trusty scouts
  Observe his march, and fleet as mountain roes,
  From post to post with instantaneous speed
  The warning bear: none else is nigh; the vale
  Hath been deserted, and Pelayo’s hall
  Is open to the foe, who on the tower
  Hoist their white signal-flag. In Sella’s stream
  The misbelieving multitudes perform,
  With hot and hasty hand, their noontide rite,
  Then hurryingly repeat the Impostor’s prayer.
  Here they divide; the Chieftain halts with half
  The host, retaining Julian and his men,
  Whom where the valley widen’d he disposed,
  Liable to first attack, that so the deed
  Of murder plann’d with Orpas might be done.
  The other force the Moor Alcahman led,
  Whom Guisla guided up Pionia’s stream
  Eastward to Soto. Ibrahim went with him,
  Proud of Granada’s snowy heights subdued,
  And boasting of his skill in mountain war;
  Yet sure he deem’d an easier victory
  Awaited him this day. Little, quoth he,
  Weens the vain Mountaineer who puts his trust
  In dens and rocky fastnesses, how close
  Destruction is at hand! Belike he thinks
  The Humma’s happy wings have shadow’d him,
  And therefore Fate with royalty must crown
  His chosen head! Pity the scymitar
  With its rude edge so soon should interrupt
  The pleasant dream!
                      There can be no escape
  For those who in the cave seek shelter, cried
  Alcahman; yield they must, or from their holes
  Like bees we smoke them out. The Chief perhaps
  May reign awhile King of the wolves and bears,
  Till his own subjects hunt him down, or kites
  And crows divide what hunger may have left
  Upon his ghastly limbs. Happier for him
  That destiny should this day to our hands
  Deliver him; short would be his sufferings then;
  And we right joyfully should in one hour
  Behold our work accomplish’d, and his race
  Extinct.
          Thus these in mockery and in thoughts
  Of bloody triumph, to the future blind,
  Indulged the scornful vein; nor deem’d that they
  Whom to the sword’s unsparing edge they doom’d,
  Even then in joyful expectation pray’d
  To Heaven for their approach, and at their post
  Prepared, were trembling with excess of hope.
  Here in these mountain straits the Mountaineer
  Had felt his country’s strength insuperable;
  Here he had pray’d to see the Musselman
  With all his myriads; therefore had he look’d
  To Covadonga as a sanctuary
  Apt for concealment, easy of defence;
  And Guisla’s flight, though to his heart it sent
  A pang more poignant for their mother’s sake,
  Yet did it further in its consequence
  His hope and project, surer than decoy
  Well-laid, or best-concerted stratagem.
  That sullen and revengeful mind, he knew,
  Would follow to the extremity of guilt
  Its long fore-purposed shame: the toils were laid,
  And she who by the Musselmen full sure
  Thought on her kindred her revenge to wreak,
  Led the Moors in.
                    Count Pedro and his son
  Were hovering with the main Asturian force
  In the wider vale to watch occasion there,
  And with hot onset when the alarm began
  Pursue the vantage. In the fated straits
  Of Deva had the King disposed the rest:
  Amid the hanging woods, and on the cliffs,
  A long mile’s length on either side its bed,
  They lay. The lever and the axe and saw
  Had skilfully been plied; and trees and stones,
  A dread artillery, ranged on crag and shelf
  And steep descent, were ready at the word
  Precipitate to roll resistless down.
  The faithful maiden not more wistfully
  Looks for the day that brings her lover home; ...
  Scarce more impatiently the horse endures
  The rein, when loud and shrill the hunter’s horn
  Rings in his joyous ears, than at their post
  The Mountaineers await their certain prey;
  Yet mindful of their Prince’s order, oft
  And solemnly enforced, with eagerness
  Subdued by minds well-master’d, they expect
  The appointed signal.
                        Hand must not be raised,
  Foot stirr’d, nor voice be utter’d, said the Chief,
  Till the word pass: impatience would mar all.
  God hath deliver’d over to your hands
  His enemies and ours, so we but use
  The occasion wisely. Not till the word pass
  From man to man transmitted, “In the name
  “Of God, for Spain and Vengeance!” let a hand
  Be lifted; on obedience all depends,
  Their march below with noise of horse and foot
  And haply with the clang of instruments,
  Might drown all other signal, this is sure;
  But wait it calmly; it will not be given
  Till the whole line hath enter’d in the toils.
  Comrades, be patient, so shall none escape
  Who once set foot within these straits of death.
  Thus had Pelayo on the Mountaineers
  With frequent and impressive charge enforced
  The needful exhortation. This alone
  He doubted, that the Musselmen might see
  The perils of the vale, and warily
  Forbear to enter. But they thought to find,
  As Guisla told, the main Asturian force
  Seeking concealment there, no other aid
  Soliciting from these their native hills;
  And that the babes and women having fallen
  In thraldom, they would lay their weapons down,
  And supplicate forgiveness for their sake.
  Nor did the Moors perceive in what a strait
  They enter’d; for the morn had risen o’ercast,
  And when the Sun had reach’d the height of heaven,
  Dimly his pale and beamless orb was seen
  Moving through mist. A soft and gentle rain,
  Scarce heavier than the summer’s evening dew,
  Descended, ... through so still an atmosphere,
  That every leaf upon the moveless trees
  Was studded o’er with rain-drops, bright and full,
  None falling till from its own weight o’erswoln
  The motion came.
                  Low on the mountain side
  The fleecey vapour hung, and in its veil
  With all their dreadful preparations wrapt
  The Mountaineers; ... in breathless hope they lay,
  Some blessing God in silence for the power
  This day vouchsafed; others with fervency
  Of prayer and vow invoked the Mother-Maid,
  Beseeching her that in this favouring hour
  She would be strongly with them. From below
  Meantime distinct they heard the passing tramp
  Of horse and foot, continuous as the sound
  Of Deva’s stream, and barbarous tongues commixt
  With laughter, and with frequent shouts, ... for all
  Exultant came, expecting sure success;
  Blind wretches, over whom the ruin hung!

    They say, quoth one, that though the Prophet’s soul
  Doth with the black-eyed Houris bathe in bliss,
  Life hath not left his body, which bears up
  By its miraculous power the holy tomb,
  And holds it at Medina in the air
  Buoyant between the temple’s floor and roof:
  And there the Angels fly to him with news
  From East, West, North, and South, of what befalls
  His faithful people. If when he shall hear
  The tale of this day’s work, he should for joy
  Forget that he is dead, and walk abroad, ...
  It were as good a miracle as when
  He sliced the moon! Sir Angel hear me now,
  Whoe’er thou be’st who art about to speed
  From Spain to Araby! when thou hast got
  The Prophet’s ear, be sure thou tellest him
  How bravely Ghauleb did his part to-day,
  And with what special reverence he alone
  Desired thee to commend him to his grace!...
  Fie on thee, scoffer that thou art! replied
  His comrade; thou wilt never leave these gibes
  Till some commission’d arrow through the teeth
  Shall nail the offending tongue. Hast thou not heard
  How when our clay is leaven’d first with life,
  The ministering Angel brings it from that spot
  Whereon ’tis written in the eternal book
  That soul and body must their parting take,
  And earth to earth return? How knowest thou
  But that the Spirit who compounded thee,
  To distant Syria from this very vale
  Bore thy component dust, and Azrael here
  Awaits thee at this hour?... Little thought he
  Who spake, that in that valley at that hour
  One death awaited both!
                          Thus they pursued
  Toward the cave their inauspicious way.
  Weak childhood there and ineffective age
  In the chambers of the rock were placed secure;
  But of the women, all whom with the babes
  Maternal care detain’d not, were aloft
  To aid in the destruction; by the side
  Of fathers, brethren, husbands, station’d there
  They watch and pray. Pelayo in the cave
  With the venerable primate took his post.
  Ranged on the rising cliffs on either hand,
  Vigilant sentinels with eye intent
  Observe his movements, when to take the word
  And pass it forward. He in arms complete
  Stands in the portal: a stern majesty
  Reign’d in his countenance severe that hour,
  And in his eye a deep and dreadful joy
  Shone, as advancing up the vale he saw
  The Moorish banners. God hath blinded them!
  He said; the measure of their crimes is full!
  O Vale of Deva, famous shalt thou be
  From this day forth for ever; and to these
  Thy springs shall unborn generations come
  In pilgrimage, and hallow with their prayers
  The cradle of their native monarchy!

    There was a stirring in the air, the sun
  Prevail’d, and gradually the brightening mist
  Began to rise and melt. A jutting crag
  Upon the right projected o’er the stream,
  Not farther from the cave than a strong hand
  Expert, with deadly aim, might cast the spear.
  Or a strong voice, pitch’d to full compass, make
  Its clear articulation heard distinct.
  A venturous dalesman, once ascending there
  To rob the eagle’s nest, had fallen, and hung
  Among the heather, wonderously preserved:
  Therefore had he with pious gratitude
  Placed on that overhanging brow a Cross,
  Tall as the mast of some light fisher’s skiff,
  And from the vale conspicuous. As the Moors
  Advanced, the Chieftain in the van was seen
  Known by his arms, and from the crag a voice
  Pronounced his name, ... Alcahman! hoa, look up,
  Alcahman! As the floating mist drew up,
  It had divided there, and open’d round
  The Cross; part clinging to the rock beneath,
  Hovering and waving part in fleecey folds,
  A canopy of silver light condensed
  To shape and substance. In the midst there stood
  A female form, one hand upon the Cross,
  The other raised in menacing act; below
  Loose flow’d her raiment, but her breast was arm’d,
  And helmeted her head. The Moor turn’d pale,
  For on the walls of Auria he had seen
  That well-known figure, and had well believed
  She rested with the dead. What, hoa! she cried,
  Alcahman! In the name of all who fell
  At Auria in the massacre, this hour
  I summon thee before the throne of God
  To answer for the innocent blood! This hour,
  Moor, Miscreant, Murderer, Child of Hell, this hour
  I summon thee to judgement!... In the name
  Of God! for Spain and Vengeance!
                                  Thus she closed
  Her speech; for taking from the Primate’s hand
  That oaken cross which at the sacring rites
  Had served for crosier, at the cavern’s mouth
  Pelayo lifted it and gave the word.
  From voice to voice on either side it pass’d
  With rapid repetition, ... In the name
  Of God! for Spain and Vengeance! and forthwith
  On either side along the whole defile
  The Asturians shouting in the name of God,
  Set the whole ruin loose! huge trunks and stones,
  And loosen’d crags, down down they roll’d with rush
  And bound, and thundering force. Such was the fall
  As when some city by the labouring earth
  Heaved from its strong foundations is cast down,
  And all its dwellings, towers, and palaces,
  In one wide desolation prostrated.
  From end to end of that long strait, the crash
  Was heard continuous, and commixt with sounds
  More dreadful, shrieks of horror and despair,
  And death, ... the wild and agonizing cry
  Of that whole host in one destruction whelm’d.
  Vain was all valour there, all martial skill;
  The valiant arm is helpless now; the feet
  Swift in the race avail not now to save;
  They perish, all their thousands perish there, ...
  Horsemen and infantry they perish all, ...
  The outward armour and the bones within
  Broken and bruised and crush’d. Echo prolong’d
  The long uproar: a silence then ensued,
  Through which the sound of Deva’s stream was heard,
  A lonely voice of waters, wild and sweet;
  The lingering groan, the faintly-utter’d prayer,
  The louder curses of despairing death,
  Ascended not so high. Down from the cave
  Pelayo hastes, the Asturians hasten down,
  Fierce and immitigable down they speed
  On all sides, and along the vale of blood
  The avenging sword did mercy’s work that hour.




XXIV.

RODERICK AND COUNT JULIAN.


  Thou hast been busy, Death! this day, and yet
  But half thy work is done; the Gates of Hell
  Are throng’d, yet twice ten thousand spirits more,
  Who from their warm and healthful tenements
  Fear no divorce, must ere the sun go down
  Enter the world of woe! the Gate of Heaven
  Is open too, and Angels round the throne
  Of Mercy on their golden harps this day
  Shall sing the triumphs of Redeeming Love.

    There was a Church at Cangas dedicate
  To that Apostle unto whom his Lord
  Had given the keys; a humble edifice,
  Whose rude and time-worn structure suited well
  That vale among the mountains. Its low roof
  With stone plants and with moss was overgrown,
  Short fern, and richer weeds which from the eaves
  Hung their long tresses down. White lichens clothed
  The sides, save where the ivy spread, which bower’d
  The porch, and clustering round the pointed wall,
  Wherein two bells, each open to the wind,
  Hung side by side, threaded with hairy shoots
  The double nich; and climbing to the cross,
  Wreathed it and half conceal’d its sacred form
  With bushy tufts luxuriant. Here in the font, ...
  Borne hither with rejoicing and with prayers
  Of all the happy land who saw in him
  The lineage of their ancient Chiefs renew’d, ...
  The Prince had been immersed: and here within
  An oaken galilee, now black with age,
  His old Iberian ancestors were laid.

    Two stately oaks stood nigh, in the full growth
  Of many a century. They had flourish’d there
  Before the Gothic sword was felt in Spain,
  And when the ancient sceptre of the Goths
  Was broken, there they flourish’d still. Their boughs
  Mingled on high, and stretching wide around,
  Form’d a deep shade, beneath which canopy
  Upon the ground Count Julian’s board was spread,
  For to his daughter he had left his tent
  Pitch’d for her use hard by. He at the board
  Sate with his trusted Captains, Gunderick,
  Felix and Miro, Theudered and Paul,
  Basil and Cottila, and Virimar,
  Men through all fortunes faithful to their Lord,
  And to that old and tried fidelity,
  By personal love and honour held in ties
  Strong as religious bonds. As there they sate,
  In the distant vale a rising dust was seen,
  And frequent flash of steel, ... the flying fight
  Of men who, by a fiery foe pursued,
  Put forth their coursers at full speed, to reach
  The aid in which they trust. Up sprung the Chiefs,
  And hastily taking helm and shield, and spear,
  Sped to their post.
                      Amid the chesnut groves
  On Sella’s side, Alphonso had in charge
  To watch the foe; a prowling band came nigh,
  Whom with the ardour of impetuous youth
  He charged and followed them in close pursuit:
  Quick succours join’d them; and the strife grew hot,
  Ere Pedro hastening to bring off his son,
  Or Julian and his Captains, ... bent alike
  That hour to abstain from combat, (for by this
  Full sure they deem’d Alcahman had secured
  The easy means of certain victory,) ...
  Could reach the spot. Both thus in their intent
  According, somewhat had they now allay’d
  The fury of the fight, though still spears flew,
  And strokes of sword and mace were interchanged,
  When passing through the troop a Moor came up
  On errand from the Chief, to Julian sent;
  A fatal errand fatally perform’d
  For Julian, for the Chief, and for himself,
  And all that host of Musselmen he brought;
  For while with well-dissembled words he lured
  The warrior’s ear, the dexterous ruffian mark’d
  The favouring moment and unguarded place,
  And plunged a javelin in his side. The Count,
  Fell, but in falling called to Cottila,
  Treachery! the Moor! the Moor!... He too on whom
  He call’d had seen the blow from whence it came,
  And seized the murderer. Miscreant! he exclaim’d,
  Who set thee on? The Musselman, who saw
  His secret purpose baffled, undismayed,
  Replies, What I have done is authorized;
  To punish treachery and prevent worse ill
  Orpas and Abulcacem sent me here;
  The service of the Caliph and the Faith
  Required the blow.
                    The Prophet and the Fiend
  Reward thee then! cried Cottila; meantime
  Take thou from me thy proper earthly meed;
  Villain!... and lifting as he spake the sword,
  He smote him on the neck: the trenchant blade
  Through vein and artery pass’d and yielding bone
  And on the shoulder, as the assassin dropt,
  His head half-severed fell. The curse of God
  Fall on the Caliph and the Faith and thee!
  Stamping for anguish, Cottila pursued;
  African dogs, thus is it ye requite
  Our services?... But dearly shall ye pay
  For this day’s work!... O Fellow-soldiers, here,
  Stretching his hands toward the host, he cried,
  Behold your noble leader basely slain!
  He who for twenty years hath led us forth
  To war, and brought us home with victory,
  Here he lies foully murdered, ... by the Moors, ...
  Those whom he trusted, whom he served so well!
  Our turn is next! but neither will we wait
  Idly, nor tamely fall!
                        Amid the grief,
  Tumult, and rage, of those who gather’d round,
  When Julian could be heard, I have yet life,
  He said, for vengeance. Virimar, speed thou
  To yonder Mountaineers, and tell their Chiefs
  That Julian’s veteran army joins this day
  Pelayo’s standard! The command devolves
  On Gunderick. Fellow-soldiers, who so well
  Redress’d the wrongs of your old General,
  Ye will not let his death go unrevenged!...
  Tears then were seen on many an iron cheek,
  And groans were heard from many a resolute heart,
  And vows with imprecations mix’d went forth,
  And curses check’d by sobs. Bear me apart,
  Said Julian, with a faint and painful voice,
  And let me see my daughter ere I die.

    Scarce had he spoken when the pitying throng
  Divide before her. Eagerly she came;
  A deep and fearful lustre in her eye,
  A look of settled woe, ... pale, deadly pale,
  Yet to no lamentations giving way,
  Nor tears nor groans; ... within her breaking heart
  She bore the grief, and kneeling solemnly
  Beside him, raised her aweful hands to heaven,
  And cried, Lord God! be with him in this hour
  Two things have I to think of, O my child,
  Vengeance and thee; said Julian. For the first
  I have provided: what remains of life
  As best may comfort thee may so be best
  Employ’d; let me be borne within the church,
  And thou, with that good man who follows thee,
  Attend me there.
                  Thus when Florinda heard
  Her father speak, a gleam of heavenly joy
  Shone through the anguish of her countenance.
  O gracious God, she cried, my prayers are heard;
  Now let me die!... They raised him from the earth;
  He, knitting as they lifted him his brow,
  Drew in through open lips and teeth firm-closed
  His painful breath, and on the lance laid hand,
  Lest its long shaft should shake the mortal wound.
  Gently his men with slow and steady step
  Their suffering burthen bore, and in the Church
  Before the altar laid him down, his head
  Upon Florinda’s knees.... Now, friends, said he,
  Farewell. I ever hoped to meet my death
  Among ye, like a soldier, ... but not thus!
  Go join the Asturians; and in after years,
  When of your old commander ye shall talk,
  How well he loved his followers, what he was
  In battle, and how basely he was slain,
  Let not the tale its fit completion lack,
  But say how bravely was his death revenged.
  Vengeance! in that good word doth Julian make
  His testament; your faithful swords must give
  The will its full performance. Leave me now,
  I have done with worldly things. Comrades, farewell,
  And love my memory!
                      They with copious tears
  Of burning anger, grief exasperating
  Their rage, and fury giving force to grief,
  Hasten’d to form their ranks against the Moors.
  Julian meantime toward the altar turn’d
  His languid eyes: That Image, is it not
  St. Peter, he inquired, he who denied
  His Lord and was forgiven?... Roderick rejoin’d,
  It is the Apostle; and may that same Lord,
  O Julian, to thy soul’s salvation bless
  The seasonable thought!
                          The dying Count
  Then fix’d upon the Goth his earnest eyes,
  No time, said he, is this for bravery,
  As little for dissemblance. I would fain
  Die in the faith wherein my fathers died,
  Whereto they pledged me in mine infancy....
  A soldier’s habits, he pursued, have steel’d
  My spirit, and perhaps I do not fear
  This passage as I ought. But if to feel
  That I have sinn’d, and from my soul renounce
  The Impostor’s faith, which never in that soul
  Obtain’d a place, ... if at the Saviour’s feet,
  Laden with guilt, to cast myself and cry,
  Lord, I believe! help thou my unbelief!...
  If this in the sincerity of death
  Sufficeth, ... Father, let me from thy lips
  Receive the assurances with which the Church
  Doth bless the dying Christian.
                                  Roderick raised
  His eyes to Heaven, and crossing on his breast
  His open palms, Mysterious are thy ways
  And merciful, O gracious Lord! he cried,
  Who to this end hast thus been pleased to lead
  My wandering steps! O Father, this thy son
  Hath sinn’d and gone astray: but hast not Thou
  Said, When the sinner from his evil ways
  Turneth, that he shall save his soul alive,
  And Angels at the sight rejoice in Heaven?
  Therefore do I, in thy most holy name,
  Into thy family receive again
  Him who was lost, and in that name absolve
  The Penitent.... So saying on the head
  Of Julian solemnly he laid his hands.
  Then to the altar tremblingly he turn’d,
  And took the bread, and breaking it, pursued,
  Julian! receive from me the Bread of Life!
  In silence reverently the Count partook
  The reconciling rite, and to his lips
  Roderick then held the consecrated cup.

    Me too! exclaim’d Florinda, who till then
  Had listen’d speechlessly; Thou Man of God,
  I also must partake! The Lord hath heard
  My prayers! one sacrament, ... one hour, ... one grave, ...
  One resurrection!
                    That dread office done,
  Count Julian with amazement saw the Priest
  Kneel down before him. By the sacrament
  Which we have here partaken, Roderick cried,
  In this most aweful moment; by that hope, ...
  That holy faith which comforts thee in death,
  Grant thy forgiveness, Julian, ere thou diest!
  Behold the man who most hath injured thee!
  Roderick, the wretched Goth, the guilty cause
  Of all thy guilt, ... the unworthy instrument
  Of thy redemption, ... kneels before thee here,
  And prays to be forgiven!
                            Roderick! exclaim’d
  The dying Count, ... Roderick!... and from the floor
  With violent effort half he raised himself;
  The spear hung heavy in his side, and pain
  And weakness overcame him, that he fell
  Back on his daughter’s lap. O Death, cried he, ...
  Passing his hand across his cold damp brow, ...
  Thou tamest the strong limb, and conquerest
  The stubborn heart! But yesterday I said
  One Heaven could not contain mine enemy
  And me: and now I lift my dying voice
  To say, Forgive me, Lord, as I forgive
  Him who hath done the wrong!... He closed his eyes
  A moment; then with sudden impulse cried, ...
  Roderick, thy wife is dead, ... the Church hath power
  To free thee from thy vows, ... the broken heart
  Might yet be heal’d, the wrong redress’d, the throne
  Rebuilt by that same hand which pull’d it down,
  And these cursed Africans.... Oh for a month
  Of that waste life which millions misbestow!...
  His voice was passionate, and in his eye
  With glowing animation while he spake
  The vehement spirit shone: its effort soon
  Was past, and painfully with feeble breath
  In slow and difficult utterance he pursued, ...
  Vain hope, if all the evil was ordain’d,
  And this wide wreck the will and work of Heaven,
  We but the poor occasion! Death will make
  All clear, and joining us in better worlds,
  Complete our union there! Do for me now
  One friendly office more: ... draw forth the spear,
  And free me from this pain!... Receive his soul,
  Saviour! exclaim’d the Goth, as he perform’d
  The fatal service. Julian cried, O friend!...
  True friend!... and gave to him his dying hand.
  Then said he to Florinda, I go first,
  Thou followest!... kiss me, child!... and now good night!
  When from her father’s body she arose,
  Her cheek was flush’d, and in her eyes there beam’d
  A wilder brightness. On the Goth she gazed
  While underneath the emotions of that hour
  Exhausted life gave way. O God! she said,
  Lifting her hands, thou hast restored me all, ...
  All ... in one hour!... and round his neck she threw
  Her arms and cried, My Roderick! mine in Heaven!
  Groaning, he claspt her close, and in that act
  And agony her happy spirit fled.




XXV.

RODERICK IN BATTLE.


  Eight thousand men had to Asturias march’d
  Beneath Count Julian’s banner; the remains
  Of that brave army which in Africa
  So well against the Musselman made head,
  Till sense of injuries insupportable,
  And raging thirst of vengeance, overthrew
  Their leader’s noble spirit. To revenge
  His quarrel, twice that number left their bones,
  Slain in unnatural battle, on the field
  Of Xeres, when the sceptre from the Goths
  By righteous Heaven was reft. Others had fallen
  Consumed in sieges, alway by the Moor
  To the front of war opposed. The policy,
  With whatsoever show of honour cloak’d,
  Was gross, and this surviving band had oft
  At their carousals, of the flagrant wrong,
  Held such discourse as stirs the mounting blood,
  The common danger with one discontent
  Affecting chiefs and men. Nor had the bonds
  Of rooted discipline and faith attach’d,
  Thus long restrain’d them, had they not known well
  That Julian in their just resentment shared,
  And fix’d their hopes on him. Slight impulse now
  Sufficed to make these fiery martialists
  Break forth in open fury; and though first
  Count Pedro listen’d with suspicious ear
  To Julian’s dying errand, deeming it
  Some new decoy of treason, ... when he found
  A second legate follow’d Virimar,
  And then a third, and saw the turbulence
  Of the camp, and how against the Moors in haste
  They form’d their lines, he knew that Providence
  This hour had for his country interposed,
  And in such faith advanced to use the aid
  Thus wondrously ordain’d. The eager Chiefs
  Hasten to greet him, Cottila and Paul,
  Basil and Miro, Theudered, Gunderick,
  Felix, and all who held authority;
  The zealous services of their brave host
  They proffer’d, and besought him instantly
  To lead against the African their force
  Combined, and in good hour assail a foe
  Divided, nor for such attack prepared.

    While thus they communed, Roderick from the church
  Came forth, and seeing Pedro, bent his way
  Toward them. Sirs, said he, the Count is dead;
  He died a Christian, reconciled to Heaven,
  In faith; and when his daughter had received
  His dying breath, her spirit too took flight.
  One sacrament, one death, united them;
  And I beseech ye, ye who from the work
  Of blood which lies before us may return, ...
  If, as I think, it should not be my fate ...
  That in one grave with Christian ceremonies
  Ye lay them side by side. In Heaven I ween
  They are met through mercy: ... ill befall the man
  Who should in death divide them!... Then he turn’d
  His speech to Pedro in an under voice;
  The King, said he, I know with noble mind
  Will judge of the departed; Christian-like
  He died, and with a manly penitence:
  They who condemn him most should call to mind
  How grievous was the wrong which madden’d him;
  Be that remember’d in his history,
  And let no shame be offer’d his remains.

    As Pedro would have answer’d, a loud cry
  Of menacing imprecation from the troops
  Arose; for Orpas, by the Moorish Chief
  Sent to allay the storm his villainy
  Had stirr’d, came hastening on a milk-white steed,
  And at safe distance having check’d the rein,
  Beckon’d for parley. ’Twas Orelio
  On which he rode, Roderick’s own battle-horse,
  Who from his master’s hand had wont to feed,
  And with a glad docility obey
  His voice familiar. At the sight the Goth
  Started, and indignation to his soul
  Brought back the thoughts and feelings of old times.
  Suffer me, Count, he cried, to answer him,
  And hold these back the while! Thus having said,
  He waited no reply, but as he was,
  Bareheaded, in his weeds, and all unarm’d,
  Advanced toward the renegade. Sir Priest,
  Quoth Orpas as he came, I hold no talk
  With thee; my errand is with Gunderick
  And the Captains of the host, to whom I bring
  Such liberal offers and clear proof....
                                        The Goth,
  Breaking with scornful voice his speech, exclaim’d,
  What, could no steed but Roderick’s serve thy turn?
  I should have thought some sleek and sober mule
  Long train’d in shackles to procession pace,
  More suited to my lord of Seville’s use
  Than this good war-horse, ... he who never bore
  A villain, until Orpas cross’d his back!...
  Wretch! cried the astonish’d renegade, and stoopt,
  Foaming with anger, from the saddle-bow
  To reach his weapon. Ere the hasty hand
  Trembling in passion could perform its will,
  Roderick had seized the reins. How now, he cried,
  Orelio! old companion, ... my good horse, ...
  Off with this recreant burthen!... And with that
  He raised his hand, and rear’d and back’d the steed,
  To that remember’d voice and arm of power
  Obedient. Down the helpless traitor fell
  Violently thrown, and Roderick over him
  Thrice led with just and unrelenting hand
  The trampling hoofs. Go join Witiza now,
  Where he lies howling, the avenger cried,
  And tell him Roderick sent thee!
                                  At that sight,
  Count Julian’s soldiers and the Asturian host
  Set up a shout, a joyful shout, which rung
  Wide through the welkin. Their exulting cry
  With louder acclamation was renew’d,
  When from the expiring miscreant’s neck they saw
  That Roderick took the shield, and round his own
  Hung it, and vaulted in the seat. My horse!
  My noble horse! he cried, with flattering hand
  Patting his high-arch’d neck! the renegade,
  I thank him for’t, hath kept thee daintily!
  Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still,
  Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse,
  Once more thou bearest to the field thy Lord,
  He who so oft hath fed and cherish’d thee,
  He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen,
  Thou wert by all men honour’d. Once again
  Thou hast thy proper master! Do thy part
  As thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously,
  My beautiful Orelio, ... to the last ...
  The happiest of his fields!... Then he drew forth
  The scymitar, and waving it aloft,
  Rode toward the troops; its unaccustom’d shape
  Disliked him; Renegade in all things! cried
  The Goth, and cast it from him; to the Chiefs
  Then said, If I have done ye service here,
  Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword!
  The trustiest blade that e’er in Bilbilis
  Was dipt, would not to-day be misbestowed
  On this right hand!... Go some one, Gunderick cried,
  And bring Count Julian’s sword. Whoe’er thou art,
  The worth which thou hast shown avenging him
  Entitles thee to wear it. But thou goest
  For battle unequipp’d; ... haste there and strip
  Yon villain of his armour!
                            Late he spake,
  So fast the Moors came on. It matters not,
  Replied the Goth; there’s many a mountaineer,
  Who in no better armour cased this day
  Than his wonted leathern gipion, will be found
  In the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch’d
  The unguarded life he ventures.... Taking then
  Count Julian’s sword, he fitted round his wrist
  The chain, and eyeing the elaborate steel
  With stern regard of joy, The African
  Under unhappy stars was born, he cried,
  Who tastes thy edge!... Make ready for the charge!
  They come ... they come!... On, brethren, to the field!...
  The word is Vengeance!
                        Vengeance was the word;
  From man to man, and rank to rank it pass’d,
  By every heart enforced, by every voice
  Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe.
  The enemy in shriller sounds return’d
  Their Akbar and the Prophet’s trusted name.
  The horsemen lower’d their spears, the infantry
  Deliberately with slow and steady step
  Advanced; the bow-strings twang’d, and arrows hiss’d,
  And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts
  Met in the shock of battle, horse and man
  Conflicting; shield struck shield, and sword and mace
  And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung;
  Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged,
  And many a spirit from its mortal hold
  Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the Chiefs
  Of Julian’s army in that hour support
  Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there
  Enhanced his former praise; and by his side,
  Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife,
  Alphonso through the host of infidels
  Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death.
  But there was worst confusion and uproar,
  There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud
  Of his recover’d Lord, Orelio plunged
  Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet
  The living and the dead. Where’er he turns
  The Moors divide and fly. What man is this,
  Appall’d they say, who to the front of war
  Bareheaded offers thus his naked life?
  Replete with power he is, and terrible,
  Like some destroying Angel! Sure his lips
  Have drank of Kaf’s dark fountain, and he comes
  Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly!
  They said, this is no human foe!... Nor less
  Of wonder fill’d the Spaniards when they saw
  How flight and terror went before his way,
  And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one,
  With what command and knightly ease he sits
  The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side
  His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power
  Bestrode with such command and majesty
  That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day
  Is death’s black banner, shaking from its folds
  Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mould
  Is he who in that garb of peace affronts
  Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns!
  Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some Saint
  Revisits earth!
                  Aye, cries another, Heaven
  Hath ever with especial bounty blest
  Above all other lands its favour’d Spain;
  Chusing her children forth from all mankind
  For its peculiar people, as of yore
  Abraham’s ungrateful race beneath the Law.
  Who knows not how on that most holy night
  When peace on Earth by Angels was proclaim’d,
  The light which o’er the fields of Bethlehem shone,
  Irradiated whole Spain? not just display’d,
  As to the Shepherds, and again withdrawn;
  All the long winter hours from eve till morn
  Her forests and her mountains and her plains,
  Her hills and valleys were embathed in light,
  A light which came not from the sun or moon
  Or stars, by secondary powers dispensed,
  But from the fountain-springs, the Light of Light
  Effluent. And wherefore should we not believe
  That this may be some Saint or Angel, charged
  To lead us to miraculous victory?
  Hath not the Virgin Mother oftentimes
  Descending, clothed in glory, sanctified
  With feet adorable our happy soil?...
  Mark’d ye not, said another, how he cast
  In wrath the unhallow’d scymitar away,
  And called for Christian weapon? Oh be sure
  This is the aid of Heaven! On, comrades, on!
  A miracle to-day is wrought for Spain!
  Victory and Vengeance! Hew the miscreants down,
  And spare not! hew them down in sacrifice!
  God is with us! his Saints are in the field!
  Victory! miraculous Victory!
                              Thus they
  Inflamed with wild belief the keen desire
  Of vengeance on their enemies abhorr’d,
  The Moorish chief, meantime, o’erlooked the fight
  From an eminence, and cursed the renegade
  Whose counsels sorting to such ill effect
  Had brought this danger on. Lo, from the East
  Comes fresh alarm! a few poor fugitives
  Well-nigh with fear exanimate came up,
  From Covadonga flying, and the rear
  Of that destruction, scarce with breath to tell
  Their dreadful tale. When Abulcacem heard,
  Stricken with horror, like a man bereft
  Of sense, he stood. O Prophet, he exclaim’d,
  A hard and cruel fortune hast thou brought
  This day upon thy servant! Must I then
  Here with disgrace and ruin close a life
  Of glorious deeds? But how should man resist
  Fate’s irreversible decrees, or why
  Murmur at what must be? They who survive
  May mourn the evil which this day begins:
  My part will soon be done!... Grief then gave way
  To rage, and cursing Guisla, he pursued,
  Oh that that treacherous woman were but here!
  It were a consolation to give her
  The evil death she merits!
                            That reward
  She hath had, a Moor replied. For when we reach’d
  The entrance of the vale, it was her choice
  There in the farthest dwellings to be left,
  Lest she should see her brother’s face; but thence
  We found her flying at the overthrow,
  And visiting the treason on her head,
  Pierced her with wounds.... Poor vengeance for a host
  Destroyed! said Abulcacem in his soul.
  Howbeit, resolving to the last to do
  His office, he roused up his spirit. Go,
  Strike off Count Eudon’s head! he cried; the fear
  Which brought him to our camp will bring him else
  In arms against us now; For Sisibert
  And Ebba, he continued thus in thought,
  Their uncle’s fate for ever bars all plots
  Of treason on their part; no hope have they
  Of safety but with us. He call’d them then
  With chosen troops to join him in the front
  Of battle, that by bravely making head,
  Retreat might now be won. Then fiercer raged
  The conflict, and more frequent cries of death,
  Mingling with imprecations and with prayers,
  Rose through the din of war.
                              By this the blood
  Which Deva down her fatal channel pour’d,
  Purpling Pionia’s course, had reach’d and stain’d
  The wider stream of Sella. Soon far off
  The frequent glance of spears and gleam of arms
  Were seen, which sparkled to the westering orb,
  Where down the vale, impatient to complete
  The glorious work so well that day begun,
  Pelayo led his troops. On foot they came,
  Chieftains and men alike; the Oaken Cross
  Triumphant borne on high, precedes their march,
  And broad and bright the argent banner shone.
  Roderick, who dealing death from side to side,
  Had through the Moorish army now made way,
  Beheld it flash, and judging well what aid
  Approach’d, with sudden impulse that way rode,
  To tell of what had pass’d, ... lest in the strife
  They should engage with Julian’s men, and mar
  The mighty consummation. One ran on
  To meet him fleet of foot, and having given
  His tale to this swift messenger, the Goth
  Halted awhile to let Orelio breathe.
  Siverian, quoth Pelayo, if mine eyes
  Deceive me not, yon horse, whose reeking sides
  Are red with slaughter, is the same on whom
  The apostate Orpas in his vauntery
  Wont to parade the streets of Cordoba.
  But thou shouldst know him best; regard him well:
  Is’t not Orelio?
                  Either it is he,
  The old man replied, or one so like to him,
  Whom all thought matchless, that similitude
  Would be the greater wonder. But behold,
  What man is he who in that disarray
  Doth with such power and majesty bestride
  The noble steed, as if he felt himself
  In his own proper seat? Look how he leans
  To cherish him; and how the gallant horse
  Curves up his stately neck, and bends his head,
  As if again to court that gentle touch,
  And answer to the voice which praises him.
  Can it be Maccabee? rejoin’d the King,
  Or are the secret wishes of my soul
  Indeed fulfill’d, and hath the grave given up
  Its dead?... So saying, on the old man he turn’d
  Eyes full of wide astonishment, which told
  The incipient thought that for incredible
  He spake no farther. But enough had pass’d,
  For old Siverian started at the words
  Like one who sees a spectre, and exclaim’d,
  Blind that I was to know him not till now!
  My Master, O my Master!
                          He meantime
  With easy pace moved on to meet their march.
  King, to Pelayo he began, this day
  By means scarce less than miracle, thy throne
  Is stablish’d, and the wrongs of Spain revenged.
  Orpas the accursed, upon yonder field
  Lies ready for the ravens. By the Moors
  Treacherously slain, Count Julian will be found
  Before Saint Peter’s altar; unto him
  Grace was vouchsafed; and by that holy power
  Which at Visonia from the Primate’s hand
  Of his own proper act to me was given,
  Unworthy as I am, ... yet sure I think
  Not without mystery, as the event hath shown, ...
  Did I accept Count Julian’s penitence,
  And reconcile the dying man to Heaven.
  Beside him hath his daughter fallen asleep;
  Deal honourably with his remains, and let
  One grave with Christian rites receive them both.
  Is it not written that as the Tree falls
  So it shall lie?
                  In this and all things else,
  Pelayo answer’d, looking wistfully
  Upon the Goth, thy pleasure shall be done.
  Then Roderick saw that he was known, and turn’d
  His head away in silence. But the old man
  Laid hold upon his bridle, and look’d up
  In his master’s face, weeping and silently.
  Thereat the Goth with fervent pressure took
  His hand, and bending down toward him, said,
  My good Siverian, go not thou this day
  To war! I charge thee keep thyself from harm!
  Thou art past the age for battles, and with whom
  Hereafter should thy mistress talk of me
  If thou wert gone?... Thou seest I am unarm’d;
  Thus disarray’d as thou beholdest me,
  Clean through yon miscreant army have I cut
  My way unhurt; but being once by Heaven
  Preserved, I would not perish with the guilt
  Of having wilfully provoked my death.
  Give me thy helmet and thy cuirass!... nay, ...
  Thou wert not wont to let me ask in vain,
  Nor to gainsay me when my will was known!
  To thee methinks I should be still the King.

    Thus saying, they withdrew a little way
  Within the trees. Roderick alighted there,
  And in the old man’s armour dight himself.
  Dost thou not marvel by what wonderous chance,
  Said he, Orelio to his master’s hand
  Hath been restored? I found the renegade
  Of Seville on his back, and hurl’d him down
  Headlong to the earth. The noble animal
  Rejoicingly obey’d my hand to shake
  His recreant burthen off, and trample out
  The life which once I spared in evil hour.
  Now let me meet Witiza’s viperous sons
  In yonder field, and then I may go rest
  In peace, ... my work is done!
                                And nobly done!
  Exclaim’d the old man. Oh! thou art greater now
  Than in that glorious hour of victory
  When grovelling in the dust Witiza lay,
  The prisoner of thy hand!... Roderick replied,
  O good Siverian, happier victory
  Thy son hath now achieved, ... the victory
  Over the world, his sins and his despair.
  If on the field my body should be found,
  See it, I charge thee, laid in Julian’s grave,
  And let no idle ear be told for whom
  Thou mournest. Thou wilt use Orelio
  As doth beseem the steed which hath so oft
  Carried a King to battle; ... he hath done
  Good service for his rightful Lord to-day,
  And better yet must do. Siverian, now
  Farewell! I think we shall not meet again,
  Till it be in that world where never change
  Is known, and they who love shall part no more.
  Commend me to my mother’s prayers, and say
  That never man enjoy’d a heavenlier peace
  Than Roderick at this hour. O faithful friend,
  How dear thou art to me these tears may tell!

    With that he fell upon the old man’s neck;
  Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins,
  And soon rejoin’d the host. On, comrades, on!
  Victory and Vengeance! he exclaim’d, and took
  The lead on that good charger, he alone
  Horsed for the onset. They with one consent
  Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry,
  Victory and Vengeance! and the hills and rocks
  Caught the prophetic shout and roll’d it round.
  Count Pedro’s people heard amid the heat
  Of battle, and return’d the glad acclaim.
  The astonish’d Musselmen, on all sides charged,
  Hear that tremendous cry; yet manfully
  They stood, and every where with gallant front
  Opposed in fair array the shock of war.
  Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms,
  And knowing that no safety could be found,
  Save from their own right hands. No former day
  Of all his long career had seen their chief
  Approved so well; nor had Witiza’s sons
  Ever before this hour achieved in fight
  Such feats of resolute valour. Sisibert
  Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot,
  And twice essay’d beneath his horse’s feet
  To thrust him down. Twice did the Prince evade
  The shock, and twice upon his shield received
  The fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more,
  Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief,
  Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth!
  Go meet thy death from any hand but mine.
  He said, and turn’d aside. Fitliest from me!
  Exclaim’d a dreadful voice, as through the throng
  Orelio forced his way; fitliest from me
  Receive the rightful death too long withheld!
  ’Tis Roderick strikes the blow! And as he spake,
  Upon the traitor’s shoulder fierce he drove
  The weapon, well-bestow’d. He in the seat
  Totter’d and fell. The Avenger hasten’d on
  In search of Ebba; and in the heat of fight
  Rejoicing and forgetful of all else,
  Set up his cry as he was wont in youth,
  Roderick the Goth!... his war-cry known so well.
  Pelayo eagerly took up the word,
  And shouted out his kinsman’s name beloved,
  Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
  Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;
  Urban repeated it, and through his ranks
  Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field
  Of his great victory, when Witiza fell,
  With louder acclamations had that name
  Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.
  The unreflecting throng, who yesterday,
  If it had pass’d their lips, would with a curse
  Have clogg’d it, echoed it as if it came
  From some celestial voice in the air, reveal’d
  To be the certain pledge of all their hopes.
  Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
  Roderick and Vengeance! O’er the field it spread,
  All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;
  Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;
  And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on,
  Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and smote,
  And overthrew, and scatter’d, and destroy’d,
  And trampled down; and still at every blow
  Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth,
  Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
  Roderick and Vengeance!
                          Thus he made his way,
  Smiting and slaying through the astonish’d ranks,
  Till he beheld, where on a fiery barb,
  Ebba, performing well a soldier’s part,
  Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows.
  With mutual rage they met. The renegade
  Displays a scymitar, the splendid gift
  Of Walid from Damascus sent; its hilt
  Emboss’d with gems, its blade of perfect steel,
  Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sun
  With dazzling splendour, flash’d. The Goth objects
  His shield, and on its rim received the edge
  Driven from its aim aside, and of its force
  Diminish’d. Many a frustrate stroke was dealt
  On either part, and many a foin and thrust
  Aim’d and rebated; many a deadly blow
  Straight, or reverse, delivered and repell’d.
  Roderick at length with better speed hath reach’d
  The apostate’s turban, and through all its folds
  The true Cantabrian weapon making way
  Attain’d his forehead. Wretch! the avenger cried,
  It comes from Roderick’s hand! Roderick the Goth,
  Who spared, who trusted thee, and was betray’d!
  Go tell thy father now how thou hast sped
  With all thy treasons! Saying thus he seized
  The miserable, who, blinded now with blood,
  Reel’d in the saddle; and with sidelong step
  Backing Orelio, drew him to the ground.
  He shrieking, as beneath the horse’s feet
  He fell, forgot his late-learnt creed, and call’d
  On Mary’s name. The dreadful Goth pass’d on,
  Still plunging through the thickest war, and still
  Scattering, where’er he turn’d, the affrighted ranks.

    O who could tell what deeds were wrought that day,
  Or who endure to hear the tale of rage,
  Hatred, and madness, and despair, and fear,
  Horror, and wounds, and agony, and death,
  The cries, the blasphemies, the shrieks, and groans,
  And prayers, which mingled with the din of arms
  In one wild uproar of terrific sounds;
  While over all predominant was heard,
  Reiterate from the conquerors o’er the field,
  Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
  Roderick and Vengeance!... Woe for Africa!
  Woe for the circumcised! Woe for the faith
  Of the lying Ishmaelite that hour! The Chiefs
  Have fallen; the Moors, confused and captainless,
  And panic-stricken, vainly seek to escape
  The inevitable fate. Turn where they will,
  Strong in his cause, rejoicing in success,
  Insatiate at the banquet of revenge,
  The enemy is there; look where they will,
  Death hath environed their devoted ranks;
  Fly where they will, the avenger and the sword
  Await them, ... wretches! whom the righteous arm
  Hath overtaken!... Join’d in bonds of faith
  Accurs’d, the most flagitious of mankind
  From all parts met are here; the apostate Greek,
  The vicious Syrian, and the sullen Copt,
  The Persian cruel and corrupt of soul,
  The Arabian robber, and the prowling sons
  Of Africa, who from their thirsty sands
  Pray that the locusts on the peopled plain
  May settle and prepare their way. Conjoin’d
  Beneath an impious faith, which sanctifies
  To them all deeds of wickedness and blood, ...
  Yea, and halloos them on, ... here are they met
  To be conjoin’d in punishment this hour.
  For plunder, violation, massacre,
  All hideous, all unutterable things,
  The righteous, the immitigable sword
  Exacts due vengeance now! the cry of blood
  Is heard, the measure of their crimes is full;
  Such mercy as the Moor at Auria gave,
  Such mercy hath he found this dreadful hour!

    The evening darken’d, but the avenging sword
  Turn’d not away its edge till night had closed
  Upon the field of blood. The Chieftains then
  Blew the recall, and from their perfect work
  Return’d rejoicing, all but he for whom
  All look’d with most expectance. He full sure
  Had thought upon that field to find his end
  Desired, and with Florinda in the grave
  Rest, in indissoluble union join’d.
  But still where through the press of war he went
  Half-arm’d, and like a lover seeking death,
  The arrows past him by to right and left,
  The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar
  Glanced from his helmet; he, when he beheld
  The rout complete, saw that the shield of Heaven
  Had been extended over him once more,
  And bowed before its will. Upon the banks
  Of Sella was Orelio found, his legs
  And flanks incarnadined, his poitral smeared
  With froth and foam and gore, his silver mane
  Sprinkled with blood, which hung on every hair,
  Aspersed like dew-drops; trembling there he stood
  From the toil of battle, and at times sent forth
  His tremulous voice far echoing loud and shrill,
  A frequent anxious cry, with which he seem’d
  To call the master whom he loved so well,
  And who had thus again forsaken him.
  Siverian’s helm and cuirass on the grass
  Lay near; and Julian’s sword, its hilt and chain
  Clotted with blood; but where was he whose hand
  Had wielded it so well that glorious day?...

    Days, months, and years, and generations pass’d,
  And centuries held their course, before, far off
  Within a hermitage near Viseu’s walls
  A humble tomb was found, which bore inscribed
  In ancient characters King Roderick’s name.




NOTES.


  _Count Julian called the invaders._—I. p. 1.

The story of Count Julian and his daughter has been treated as a fable by
some authors, because it is not mentioned by the three writers who lived
nearest the time. But those writers state the mere fact of the conquest
of Spain as briefly as possible, without entering into particulars of any
kind; and the best Spanish historians and antiquaries are persuaded that
there is no cause for disbelieving the uniform and concurrent tradition
of both Moors and Christians.

For the purposes of poetry, it is immaterial whether the story be true
or false. I have represented the Count as a man both sinned against and
sinning, and equally to be commiserated and condemned. The author of the
Tragedy of Count Julian has contemplated his character in a grander point
of view, and represented him as a man self-justified in bringing an army
of foreign auxiliaries to assist him in delivering his country from a
tyrant, and foreseeing, when it is too late to recede, the evils which he
is thus bringing upon her.

  Not victory that o’ershadows him, sees he!
  No airy and light passion stirs abroad
  To ruffle or to sooth him; all are quell’d
  Beneath a mightier, sterner stress of mind:
  Wakeful he sits, and lonely and unmoved,
  Beyond the arrows, views, or shouts of men:
  As oftentimes an eagle, when the sun
  Throws o’er the varying earth his early ray,
  Stands solitary, stands immoveable
  Upon some highest cliff, and rolls his eye,
  Clear, constant, unobservant, unabased,
  In the cold light, above the dews of morn.

                                                        _Act 5. Scene 2._

Parts of this tragedy are as fine in their kind as any thing which can be
found in the whole compass of English poetry.

Juan de Mena places Count Julian with Orpas, the renegado Archbishop of
Seville, in the deepest pit of hell.

  _No buenamente te puedo callar
    Orpas maldito, ni a ti Julian,
    Pues soys en el valle mas hondo de afan,
  Que no se redime jamas por llorar:
  Qual ya crueza vos pudo indignar
    A vender un dia las tierras y leyes
    De Espana, las quales pujança de reyes
  En años a tantos no pudo cobrar._

                                                                Copla 91.

A Portugueze poet, Andre da Sylva Mascarenhas, is more indulgent to the
Count, and seems to consider it as a mark of degeneracy in his own times,
that the same crime would no longer provoke the same vengeance. His
catalogue of women who have become famous by the evil of which they have
been the occasion, begins with Eve, and ends with Anne Boleyn.

  _Louvar se pode ao Conde o sentimento
    Da offensa da sua honestidade,
  Se o nam vituperara co cruento
    Disbarate da Hispana Christandade;
  Se hoje ouvera stupros cento e cento
    Nesta nossa infeliz lasciva idade,
  Non se perdera nam a forte Espanha,
  Que o crime frequentado nam se estranha._

  _Por mulheres porem se tem perdido
    Muitos reynos da outra e desta vida;
  Por Eva se perdeo o Ceo sobido,
    Por Helena a Asia esclarecida;
  Por Cleopatra o Egypto foi vencido,
    Assiria por Semiramis perdida,
  Por Cava se perdeo a forte Espanha,
  E por Anna Bolena a Gram Bretanha._

                                             Destruiçam de Espanha, p. 9.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Inhuman priests with unoffending blood
  Had stain’d their country._—I. p. 1.

Never has any country been so cursed by the spirit of persecution as
Spain. Under the Heathen Emperors it had its full share of suffering, and
the first fatal precedent of appealing to the secular power to punish
heresy with death, occurred in Spain. Then came the Arian controversy.
There was as much bigotry, as much rancour, as little of the spirit of
Christianity, and as much intolerance, on one part as on the other: but
the successful party were better politicians, and more expert in the
management of miracles.

Near to the city of Osen, or Ossel, there was a famous Catholic church,
and a more famous baptistery, which was in the form of a cross. On holy
Thursday in every year, the bishop, the clergy, and the people assembled
there, saw that the baptistery was empty, and enjoyed a marvellous
fragrance which differed from that of any, or all, flowers and spices,
for it was an odour which came as the vesper of the divine virtue that
was about to manifest itself: Then they fastened the doors of the church
and sealed them. On Easter Eve the doors were opened, the baptistery
was found full of water, and all the children born within the preceding
twelve months were baptized. Theudisclo, an Arian king, set his seal also
upon the doors for two successive years, and set a guard there. Still
the miraculous baptistery was filled. The third year he suspected pipes,
and ordered a trench to be dug round the building; but before the day
of trial arrived, he was murdered, as opportunely as Arius himself. The
trench was dry, but the workmen did not dig deep enough, and the miracle
was continued. When the victory of the Catholic party was complete, it
was no longer necessary to keep it up. The same baptistery was employed
to convince the Spaniards of their error in keeping Easter. In Brito’s
time, a few ruins called Oscla, were shown near the river Cambria; the
broken baptistery was then called the Bath, and some wild superstitions
which the peasantry related bore traces of the original legend. The
trick was not uncommon; it was practised in Sicily and in other places.
The story, however, is of some value, as showing that baptism was
administered[2] only once a year, (except in cases of danger,) that
immersion was the manner, and that infants were baptized.

Arianism seems to have lingered in Spain long after its defeat. The names
Pelayo (Pelagius), and Arias, certainly appear to indicate a cherished
heresy, and Brito[3] must have felt this when he deduced the former name
from Saint Pelayo of the tenth century; for how came the Saint by it, and
how could Brito have forgotten the founder of the Spanish monarchy?

In the latter half of the eleventh century, the Count of Barcelona, Ramon
Berenguer, _Cap de estopa_, as he was called, for his bushy head, made
war upon some Christians who are said to have turned Arians, and took the
castles into which they retired.[4] By the number of their castles, which
he gave to those chiefs who assisted him in conquering them, they appear
to have been numerous. It is not improbable that those people were really
what they are called; for Arian has never been, like Manichæan, a term
ignorantly and indiscriminately given to heretics of all descriptions;
and there is no heresy which would be so well understood in Spain, and so
likely to have revived there.

The feelings of the triumphant party toward their opponents, are well
marked by the manner in which St. Isidore speaks of the death of the
Emperor Valens. _Thraciam ferro incendiisque depopulantur, deletoque
Romanorum exercitu ipsum Valentem jaculo vulneratum, in quadam villa
fugientem succenderunt, ut merito ipse ab eis vivus temporali cremaretur
incendio, qui tam pulchras animas ignibus æternis[5] tradiderat._ If
the truth of this opinion should be doubted, there is a good Athanasian
miracle in the Chronicon[6] of S. Isidore and Melitus, to prove it. A
certain Arian, by name Olympius, being in the bath, blasphemed the Holy
Trinity, and, behold! being struck by an angel with three fiery darts, he
was visibly consumed.

With regard to the Arians, the Catholics only did to the others as the
others would have done to them; but the persecution of the Jews was
equally unprovoked and inhuman. They are said to have betrayed many
towns to the Moors; and it would be strange indeed if they had not,
by every means in their power, assisted in overthrowing a government
under which they were miserably oppressed. St. Isidore has a memorable
passage relating to their cruel persecution and compulsory conversion
under Sisebut; _Qui initio regni Judæos ad Fidem Christianam permovens
æmulationem quidem habuit, sed non secundum scientiam: potestate enim
compulit, ques provocare fidei ratione oportuit. Sed sicut est scriptum
sive per occasionem sive per veritatem, Christus annuntiatur, in hoc
gaudeo et gaudebo._—S. Isidor. Christ. Goth. Espana Sagrada, 6. 502.

The Moorish conquest procured for them an interval of repose, till the
Inquisition was established, and by its damnable acts put all former
horrors out of remembrance. When Toledo was recovered from the Moors
by Alonso VI., the Jews of that city waited upon the conqueror, and
assured him that they were part of the ten tribes whom Nebuchadnezzar had
transported into Spain; not the descendants of the Jerusalem Jews who
had crucified Christ. Their ancestors, they said, were entirely innocent
of the crucifixion; for when Caiaphas the high-priest had written to the
Toledan synagogues to ask their advice respecting the person who called
himself the Messiah, and whether he should be slain, the Toledan Jews
returned for answer, that in their judgement the prophecies seemed to be
fulfilled in this person, and, therefore, he ought not by any means to
be put to death. This reply they produced in the original Hebrew, and in
Arabic, as it had been translated by command of King Galifre. Alonso gave
ear to the story, had the letter rendered into Latin and Castilian, and
deposited it among the archives of Toledo. The latter version is thus
printed by Sandoval:—

    _Levi Archisinagogo, et Samuel, et Joseph, homes bonos del
    Aljama de Toledo, a Eleazar Muyd gran Sacerdote, e a Samuel
    Canud, y Anas, y Cayphas, homes bonos de la Aljama de la Terra
    Santa, Salud en el Dios de Israel._

    _Azarias voso home, Maeso en ley nos aduxo las cartas que vos
    nos embiavades, por las quales nos faziades saber cuemo passava
    la facienda del Propheta Nazaret, que diz que facie muchas
    sennas. Colo por esta vila, non ha mucho, un cierto Samuel, fil
    de Amacias, et fablo nusco, et reconto muchas bondades deste
    home, que ye, que es home homildoso et manso, que fabla con los
    laçeriados, que faz a todos bien, e que faciendole a el mal, el
    non faz mal a ninguem; et que es home fuerte con superbos et
    homes malos, et que vos malamente teniades enemiga con ele, por
    quanto en faz el descubria vosos pecados, ca por quanto facia
    esto, le aviades mala voluntad. Et perquirimos deste home,
    en que año, o mes o dia, avia nacido: et que nos lo dixesse:
    falamos que el dia de la sua Natividade foron vistos en estas
    partes tres soles muelle a muelle, fizieron soldemente un sol;
    et cuemo nosos padres cataron esta senna, asmados dixeron que
    cedo el Messias naceria, et que por aventura era ja nacido.
    Catad hermanos si por aventura ha ja venido et non le ayades
    acatado. Relataba tambien el susodicho home, que el suo pay
    le recontava, que ciertos Magos, homes de mucha sapiencia, en
    la sua Natividade legaron a tierra santa, perquiriendo logar
    donde el niño sancto era nacido; y que Herodes voso Rey se
    asmo, et diposito junto a homes sabios de sua vila, e perquirio
    donde nasceria el Infante, por quien perquirian Magos, et le
    respondieron, en Betlem de Juda, segun que Micheas depergino
    profeto. Et que dixeron aqueles Magos, que una estrella de
    gran craredad, de luenne aduxo a tierra santa: catad non sea
    esta quela profezia, cataran Reyes, et andaran en craridad de
    la sua Natividade. Otrosi, catad non persigades al que forades
    tenudos mucho honrar et recibir de bon talante. Mais fazed lo
    que tuvieres por bien aguisada; nos vos dezimos que nin por
    consejo, nin por noso alvedrio veniremos en consentimiento de
    la sua morte. Ca, si nos esto fiziessemos, logo seria nuesco,
    que la profezia que diz, congregaronse de consuno contra el
    Sennor, et contra el suo Messias. E damos vos este consejo,
    maguera sodes homes de muyta sapença, que tengades grande
    aficamento sobre tamana fazienda, porque el Dios de Israel
    enojado con vasco, non destruya casa segunda de voso segundo
    templo. Ca sepades cierto, cedo ha de ser destruyda; et por
    esta rason nosos antepassados, que salieron de captiverio de
    Babylonia, siendo suo Capitane yrro, que embio Rey Cyro, et
    aduxo nusco muytas riqueças que tollo de Babylonia el año de
    sesenta et nueve de captividade, et foron recebidos en Toledo
    de Gentiles que y moravan, et edificaron una grande Aljama, et
    non quisieron bolver a Jerusalem otra vegada a edificar Temple,
    aviendo ser destruido otra vegada. De Toledo catorze dias del
    mes Nisan, Era de Cesar diez y ocho, y de Augusto Octaviano
    setenta y uno._—Sandoval, 71.

Had Alonso been as zealous as some of his Gothic predecessors, or his
most Catholic successors, he might have found a fair pretext in this
letter for ordering all the Jews of Toledo to the font, unless they would
show cause why they should adhere to the opinion of Caiaphas and the
Jerusalem Jews, rather than to that of their own ancestors.

General Vallancy believes that the Spanish Jews were brought into the
Peninsula by Nebuchadnezzar, and admits these Toledans as authority. He
quotes Count de Gebelin, and refers to Strabo and Ezekiel. The proof from
Ezekiel rests upon the word Orb, Earb, Warb, or Gharb; which is made into
Algarve!

A Jew in Tirante el Blanco (p. 2. c. 74. f. 243.) explains the
difference between the different races of Jews. They are three, he says.
One the progeny of those who took counsel for the death of Christ; and
they were known by this, that they were in continual motion, hands and
feet, and never could rest; neither could their spirit ever be still, and
they had very little shame. The second were the descendants of those who
put in execution and assisted at the various parts of the sufferings and
death of Christ, and they never could look any man in the face, nor could
they, without great difficulty, ever look up to heaven. The third were
the children of David, who did all they could to prevent the death of
Christ, and shut themselves up in the temple that they might not witness
it. These are affable, good men, who love their neighbours; a quiet
peaceable race, who can look any where.

Thomas Tamaio de Vargas, the editor of the spurious Luitprand, says, that
not only many Hebrew words are mixed with the old Spanish, but that,
_prô dolor!_ the black and stinking Jewish blood had been mingled with
the most pure blood of the Spaniards. (p. 96.) They were very anxious,
he says, to intermarry, and spoil the pure blood. And he adds, that
the Spaniards call them _putos_, quia _putant_. “But,” says Sir Thomas
Browne, “that an unsavoury odour is gentilitious, or national to the
Jews, we cannot well concede. And if, (according to good relations,)
where they may freely speak it, they forbear not to boast that there
are at present many thousand Jews in Spain, France, and England, and
some dispensed withal even to the degree of priesthood, it is a matter
very considerable, and could they be smelled out, would much advantage
not only the church of Christ, but also the coffers of princes.—The
ground that begat or propagated this assertion might be the distasteful
averseness of the Christian from the Jew upon the villainy of that fact,
which made them abominable, and ‘stink in the nostrils of all men.’
Which real practice and metaphorical expression did after proceed into
a literal construction, but was a fraudulent illation; for such an evil
savour their father Jacob acknowledged in himself, when he said his
sons had made him stink in the land, that is, to be abominable unto
the inhabitants thereof.—Another cause is urged by Campegius, and much
received by Christians; that this ill savour is a curse derived upon them
by Christ, and stands as a badge or brand of a generation that crucified
their _Salvator_. But this is a conceit without all warrant, and an easy
way to take off dispute in what point of obscurity soever.” _Vulgar
Errors_, Book iv. ch. 10.

The Mahommedans also hold a like opinion of the unsavouriness of the
Jews, and account for it by this legend which is given by Sale. “Some of
the children of Israel abandoned their dwellings because of a pestilence,
or, as others say, to avoid serving in a religious war; but as they fled,
God struck them all dead in a certain valley. About eight days or more
after, when their bodies were corrupted, the Prophet Ezekiel happening
to pass that way, at the sight wept; whereupon God said to him, ‘Call
to them, O Ezekiel, and I will restore them to life.’ And accordingly,
on the prophet’s call, they all arose, and lived several years after;
but they retained the colour and stench of dead corpses as long as they
lived, and the clothes they wore were changed as black as pitch, which
qualities they transmitted to their posterity.”

One of our own travellers[7] tells us of a curious practical application
of this belief in Barbary. “The Moors of Tangier,” he says, “when they
want rain, and have prayed in vain for it, set the Jews to work, saying,
that though God would not grant it to the prayers of the faithful, he
would to the Jews, in order to be rid of their stink.” Ludicrous as
this is, South has a passage concerning the Jews, which is little more
reasonable, in one of his sermons. “The truth is,” he says, “they were
all along a cross, odd, untoward sort of people, and such as God seems to
have chosen, and (as the Prophets sometimes phrase it) to have espoused
to himself, upon the very same account that Socrates espoused Xantippe,
only for her extreme ill conditions, above all that he could possibly
find or pick out of that sex: and so the fittest argument both to
exercise and declare his admirable patience to the world.”—Vol. i. 421.

       *       *       *       *       *

                              _A yoke
  Of iron servitude oppress’d and gall’d
  The children of the soil._—I. p. 1.

Of the condition of slaves under the Spanish Wisigoths, I have given an
account in the Introduction of the Chronicle of the Cid. This also, like
the persecution of the Jews, must greatly have facilitated the Moorish
conquest. Another facilitating cause was, that notwithstanding their
frequent civil disturbances, they had in great measure ceased to be a
warlike people. The many laws in the Fuero Juzgo, for compelling men to
military service, prove this. These laws are full of complaints that the
people would avoid the service if they could. Habits of settled life
seem throughout Europe to have effeminated the northern conquerors, till
the Normans renovated the race, and the institutions of chivalry and the
crusades produced a new era.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Thou, Calpe, sawest 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._—I. p. 2.

Gibel-al-Tarif, the mountain Tarif, is the received etymology of
Gibraltar: Ben Hazel, a Granadan Moor, says expressly, that the mountain
derived its name from this general. Its former appellations may be seen
in the _Historia de Gibraltar_, by Don Ignacio Lopez de Ayala. The
derivation of the word Calpe is not known: Florian de Ocampo identifies
it with the English word _golloping_, in a passage which may amuse
the Spanish scholar. “_La segunda nombradia fue llamarle Calpe, cuya
razon, segun dicen algunos, procedio de que los Andaluces ancianos en
su lengua vieja solian llamar Calepas y Calpes a qualesquier cosas
enhiestas y levantadas, agora fuesen peñascos, o pizarras, o maderos,
o piedras menores, como lo significamos en los diez y ocho capitulos
precedentes: y dicen que con estar alli junto de Gibraltar sobre sus
marinas el risco, que ya dixe muy encumbrado y enhiesto, qual hoy dia
parece, lo llamaban Calpes aquellos Andaluces pasados: y por su respecto
la mesma poblacion vino tambien a tener despues aquel proprio nombre. No
faltan otras personas que siguiendo las Escrituras Griegas pongan esta
razon del nombre Calpes mucho diversamente, diciendo, que quando los
cosarios Argonautas desembarcaron en España, cerca del estrecho, segun
ya lo declaramos, el tiempo que hacian sus exercicios arriba dichos,
de saltos y luchas, y musicas acordadas, bien asi como los pastores
Españoles comarcanos recibian contentamientos grande, mirado las tales
desenvolturas y ligerezas, no menos aquellos Griegos recien venidos
notaban algunos juegos, dudo que trabajosos y dificiles, que los mesmos
pastores obraban entre si para su recreacion y deporte; particularmente
consideraran un regocijo de caballos, donde ciertos dias aplazados venian
todos a se juntar como para cosa de gran pundonor._

“_El qual regocijo hacian desta manera. Tomaban yeguas en pelo, quanto
mas corredoras y ligeras podian haber, y puestos ellos encima desnudos
sin alguna ropa, ataban en las quixadas barbicachos de rama, torcidos
y majados a manera de freno, con que salian del puesto dos a dos a
la par corriendo lo mas que sus yeguas podian, para llegar a cierta
senal de pizarras enhiestas o de maderos hincados y levantados en fin
de la carrera. Venidos al medio trecho de su corrida saltaban de las
yeguas en tierra, no las parando ni deteniendo: y asi trabados por el
barbicacho, corrian tambien ellos á pie, sin las dexar, puesto que mas
furia llevasen: porque si las dexaban ó se desprendian dellas, y no
sustentaban el freno continuamente, hasta ser pasada la carrera, perdian
la reputation y las apuestas, quedando tan amenguados y vencidos,
quanto quedaria triunfante quien primero llegase con su yegua para
tomar la presa que tenian en el fin de la carrera sobre las pizarras o
maderos hincados. Quando saltaban de sus yeguas, dicen que les iban
hablando porque no se detuviesen, voceandoles y diciendoles a menudo
palabras animosos y dulces: llamabanles pies hermosas, generosas en el
correr, casta real, hembras preciosas, acrecentadoras de sus honras, y
mas otras razones muchas con que las tenian vezadas, a no se parar ni
perder el impetu comenzado: de manera que los tropeles en este punto,
los pundonores y regocijos de correr, y de no mostrar floxedad era cosa
mucho de notar, asi por la parte de los hombres, como por parte de las
yeguas. A los Griegos Argonautas les parecio juego tan varonil que muchas
veces lo probaron tambien ellos a revuelta de los Espanoles, como quiera
que jamas pudieron tener aquella vigilancia ni ligereza, ni reciura
que tenian estos otros para durar con sus yeguas. Y dado que las tales
yeguas corriesen harto furiosas, y les ensenasen muchos dias antes a
seguir estas parejas, quanto mejor entendian a la verdad, ni las de los
unos, ni las de los otros corrian tanto despues que saltaban dellas,
como quando los traian encima: y asi las palabras que los Griegos en
aquella sazon puestos a pie hablaban eran tambien al mesmo proposito
conformes a las de los Andaluces Españoles en su lengua, provincial,
nombrandolas Calopes, Calopes, Calopes a la contina, que fue palabra
Griega, compuesta de dos vocablos: uno Calos, que significa cosa hermosa,
ligera y agraciada: otro Pus, que quiere decir pie, como que las llamasen
pies agraciados, o pies desenvueltos y ligeros: y por abreviar mas el
vocablo, para que sus yeguas lo pudiesen mas presto sentir, acortabanlo
con una letra menos en el medio, y en lugar de nombrarlas Calopes, les
deciam Calpes, que significa lo mesmo Calopes: la qual palabra me parece
dura todavia hasta nuestro siglo presente, donde pocas letras mudadas,
por decir Calopes o Calpes, lo pronunciamos Galopes, quando los caballos
y yeguas, o qualesquier otros animales, no corren a todo poder sino trote
largo seguido. Vino desto que las mesmas fiestas y manera del juego se
nombraron Calpes: dado que para conmigo bastara saber la victoria deste
juego consistir en ligereza de pies, y por eso solo deberse llamar
Calopes a Calpe, sin anadir lo que hablaban a las yeguas, pues aquello
primero comprehende bastantemente la razon deste vocablo. Pero si todavia
fue cierto que les decian aquellas palabras quando corrian sus parejas,
ninguna cosa daña dexarlas aquí puestas._”—Coronica General de Espana, c.
38.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Famine and Pestilence had wasted them._—I. p. 3.

In the reign of Egica, Witiza’s father,—_plaga inguinalis
immisericorditer illabitur_. (Isid. Pacensis.) And for two years before
the Moorish invasion,—_habia habido continua hambre y pestilencia en
Espana, con que se habian debilitado mucho los cuerpos, sin lo que el
ocio las habia enflaquecido_.—Morales, 12. 69. 5.

St. Isidore, in his History of the Goths, distinctly describes the
Northern Lights among the signs that announced the wars of Attila.
“_Multa eodem tempore cœli et terræ signa præcesserunt, quorum prodigiis
tam crudele bellum significaretur. Nam, assiduis terræ motibus factis, a
parte Orientis Luna fuscata est, a solis occasu stella cometes apparuit,
atque ingenti magnitudine aliquandiu fulsit._ Ab aquilonis plaga cœlum
rubens, sicut ignis aut sanguis, effectus est, permistis perigneum
ruborem lineis clarioribus in speciem hastarum rutilantium deformatis.
_Nec mirum, ut in tam ingenti cæsorum strage, divinitus tam multa
signorum demonstraretur ostensio._”—España Sagrada, t. vi. 491.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _And worst of enemies, their Sins were arm’d
  Against them._—I. p. 3.

The following description of the state of the Christian world when the
Saracens began their conquests, is taken from a singular manuscript,
“wherein the history of the Cruisades and of all the Mahommedan emperors
from A. D. 558, to A. D. 1588, is gathered out of the Chronikes of
William Archbishop of Tyreus, the protoscribe of Palestine, of Basilius
Jhohannes Heraldus, and sundry others, and reduced into a poem epike by
Robert Barret, 1610.” The author was an old soldier, whose language is a
compound of Josuah Sylvester and King Cambyses, with a strong relish of
Ancient Pistol.

    Now in this sin-flood age not only in East
  Did the impious imps the faithful persecute,
  But like affliction them pursued in West,
  And in all parts the good trod under foot;
  For Faith in some was cold, from others fled,
  And fear of God dislodged out human hearts;
  Astrea flown to skies, and in her stead
  Iniquity enthronized; in all parts
  Violence had vogue, and on sathanized earth
  Fraud, Mischief, Murder martialled the camp;
  Sweet Virtue fled the field: Hope, out of breath;
  And Vice, all-stainer, every soul did stamp;
  So that it seem’d World drew to’s evening tide,
  Nought else expecting but Christ’s second coming;
  For Charity was cold on every side,
  And Truth and Trust were gone from earth a-mumming.
  All things confused ran, so that it seemed
  The World return would to his chaos old;
  Princes the path of justice not esteemed,
  Headlong with prince ran people young and old.
  All sainct confederations infringed,
  And for light cause would prince with prince enquarrel;
  Countries bestreamed with blood, with fire besinged,
  All set to each, all murders sorts unbarrelled.
  No wight his own could own; ’twas current coin
  Each man to strip, provided he were rich.
  The church sacriledged, choir made cot for swine,
  And zealous ministers were made to scritche.
  Robbing was made fair purchase, murder manhood,
  And none secure by land ne sea could pass;
  The humble heartless, ireful hearts ran wood,
  Esteemed most who mischief most could dress
  All lubrick lusts shamelese without comptroll
  Ran full career; each would a rider be;
  And Heaven’s friend, all sainct Continency,
  Was banished quite: Lasciviousness did roll,
  Frugality, healthful Sobriety
  No place could find; all parts enquartered were
  With Bacchus-brutes and Satyres-luxury.
  All lawless games bore sway, with blasphemes roare,
  ’Twixt Clerk and Laick difference was none,
  Disguized all, phantastick out of norme;
  But as the Prophet says, as Priests do run,
  So run the people, peevish in disform.
  The Bishops graded once, dumb dogs become,
  Their heads sin vyncting, flocks abandon soon;
  Princes applauders, person-acceptors,
  The good’s debarrers and the bad’s abetters;
  Fleshly all, all filthy simonized,
  Preferring profit ’fore the Eternal’s praise.
  The church enschismed, court all atheized,
  The commons kankred, all all in distrayes;
  The plotting politician’s pate admired,
  Their skill consisting in preventions scull,
  Pathicks preferred, Cyprin ware desired,
  Ocean of mischiefs flowing moon-tide full:
  So that it seem’d that all flesh desperately
  Like wolf-scared sheep were plunged headlong down
  In pit of hell: puddled all pestfully
  The court, church, commons, province, city, town;
  All haggards; none reclaimed once could be,
  Ne by the word, the word ’bused by organs bad,
  Ne yet by signs that spotted chrystal sky,
  Ne other prodigies, presages sad,
  Neither gust shakings of this settled globe;
  Neither sharpe pencil of war, famine, pest,
  Could once one ray engrave in steeled breast,
  Or Christians cause their sin-jagged robe disrobe.

    Thus stood the sad state of that sin-stain’d time,
  And Christians of this our all-zeal cold time,
  Let us now par’llel that time with our time,
  Our parallel’d time will parallel that time,
  Then triple-sainct, thou just geometer true,
  Our time not parallel by thy justice line,
  But with thy mercy’s paralleling brow,
  Reform our crimeful Angles by grace thine.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Eight summer days, from morn till latest eve,
  The fatal fight endured._—I. p. 3.

  _Ocho veces la lampara febea
    Salio alumbrando el mundo, y ocho veces
  La negra sombra de la noche fea
    De la luna alteró las blancas teces;
  Y tantos dias la mortal pelea,
    El sol y las estrellas por jueces,
  En España duro, sin durar ella
    Mas en su libertad, que en fenecella._

                                       Balbuena, El Bernardo, t. ii. 275.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Roderick’s royal car._—I. p. 3.

“Roderike, the first day after the battayle, observing the auncient
guise of his countrey, came into the fielde apparailled in a gowne of
beaten golde, having also on his head a crown of gold, and golden shoes,
and all his other apparaile set with rich pearles and precious stones,
ryding in a horse-litter of ivorie, drawne by two goodly horses; which
order the Goths used alwayes in battailes for this consideration, that
the souldiours, well knowing their king could not escape away by flight
from them, shuld be assured that there was none other way but either to
die togither in that place, or else to winne the victorie; for it had
bene a thing most shamefull and reproachful to forsake their prince and
anoynted soveraigne. Which custome and maner many free confederate cities
of Italie folowing, trimmed and adorned for the warres a certain chayre
of estate, called _Carocio_, wherein were set the penons and ensigns
of all the confederates; this chayre, in battaile, was drawn by many
oxen, wherby the whole hoast was given to understand that they could not
with any honesty flie, by reason of the slow pace and unweldinesse of
those heavie beasts.”—_A Notable Historie of the Saracens, drawen out of
Augustine Curio, and sundry other good Authours. By Thomas Newton, 1575._

  _En ruedas de marfil, envuelto en sedas,
  De oro la frente orlada, y mas dispuesto
  Al triunfo y al festin que a la pelea,
  El sucesor indigno de Alarico
  Llevo tras si la maldicion eterna.
  Ah! yo la vi: la lid por siete dias
  Duro, mas no fue lid, fue una sangrienta
  Carniceria: huyeron los cobardes
  Los traidores vendieron sus banderas,
  Los fuertes, los leales perecieron._—QUINTANA.

The author of the chivalrous Chronicle of King Don Rodrigo gives a
singular description of this car, upon the authority of his pretended
original Eleastras; for he, “seeing that calamities went on increasing,
and that the destruction of the Goths was at hand, thought that if things
were to end as they had begun, it would be a marvel if there should be
in Spain any king or lord of the lineage of the Goths after the death of
King Don Rodrigo; and therefore it imported much that he should leave
behind him a remembrance of the customs of the Gothic kings, and of the
manner in which they were wont to enter into battle and how they went to
war. And he says, that the king used to go in a car made after a strange
fashion. The wheels of this car were made of the bones of elephants, and
the axle-tree was of fine silver, and the perch was of fine gold. It was
drawn by two horses, who were of great size and gentle; and upon the car
there was pitched a tent, so large that it covered the whole car, and it
was of fine cloth of gold, upon which were wrought all the great feats
in arms which had been achieved until that time; and the pillar of the
tent was of gold, and many stones of great value were set in it, which
sent forth such splendour, that by night there was no need of any other
light therein. And the car and the horses bore the same adornments as the
king, and these were full of pearls the largest which could be found. And
in the middle of the car there was a seat placed against the pillar of
the tent; and this seat was of great price, insomuch that the value of
it cannot be summed up, so many and so great were the stones which were
set in it; and it was wrought so subtly, and of such rare workmanship,
that they who saw it marvelled thereat. And upon this seat the king was
seated, being lifted up so high that all in the host, little or great,
might behold him. And in this manner it was appointed that the king
should go to war. And round about the car there were to go a thousand
knights, who had all been knighted by the hand of the king, all armed;
and in the day of battle they were to be on foot round about the car;
and all plighted homage to the king not to depart from it in any manner
whatsoever, and that they would rather receive their death there, than
go from their place beside the car. And the king had his crown upon his
head. And in this guise all the kings of the Goths, who had been lords of
Spain, were to go to battle; and this custom they had all observed till
the King Don Rodrigo; but he, because of the great grief which he had in
his heart, would never ascend the car, neither did he go in it into the
battle.”—Part i. c. 215.

  _Entrò Rodrigo en la batalla fiera,
    Armado en blanco de un arnes dorado,
  El yelmo coronado de una esfera
    Que en luzes vence al circulo estrellado:
  En unas ricas andas, ô litera
    Que al hijo de Climene despeñado
  Engañaran mejor que el carro de oro
  De ygual peligro, y de mayor tesoro._

  _La purpura real las armas cubre,
    El grave rostro en magestad le baña,
  El ceptro por quien era le descubre
    Rodrigo ultimo Godo Rey de Espana:
  Mas de la suerte que en lluvioso Otubre
    Lo verde que le veste ya compaña,
  Desnuda al olmo blanco, rompe y quita
  Vulturno ayrado que al invierno incita._

  _Caen las hojas sobre el agua clara
    Que le bañava el pie, y el ornamento
  Del tronco imita nuestra edad que para
    En su primero humilde fundamento:
  Desierta queda la frondosa vara,
    Sigue la rama, en remolino, al viento,
  Que la aparta del arbol, que saltea
  Su blanca, verde, y palida librea._

  _Assi Rodrigo el miserable dia
    Ultimo de esta guerra desdichada,
  Quedo en el campo, donde ya tenia
    La magestad del ombro derribada:
  Alli la rota purpura yazia
    Teñida en sangre, y en sudor vañada,
  Alli el verde laurel, y el ceptro de oro,
  Siendo el arbol su cuerpo, el viento el Moro._

                      LOPE DE VEGA. Jerusalen Conquistada, l. vi. f. 136.

       *       *       *       *       *

                              _That helm
  Whose horns, amid the thickest of the fray
  Eminent, had mark’d his presence._—I. p. 3.

Morales describes this horned helmet from a coin. “_Tiene de la una parte
su rostro, harto diferente de los que en las otras Monedas de estas Reyes
parecen. Tiene manera de estar armado, y salenle por cima de la celada
unas puntas como cuernos pequeños y derechos por ambos lados, que lo
hacen estraño y espantable._” Florez has given this coin in his _Medallas
de Espana_, from the only one which was known to be in existence, and
which was then in the collection of the Infante D. Gabriel. It was struck
at Egitania, the present Idana, and, like all the coins of the Visigoth
kings, is of the rudest kind. The lines which Morales describes are
sufficiently apparent, and if they are not intended for horns, it is
impossible to guess what else they may have been meant to represent.

“These Gothic coins,” says P. D. Jeronymo Contador de Argote, “have a
thousand barbarisms, as well in their letters as in other circumstances.
They mingle Greek characters with Latin ones; and in what regards the
relief or figure, nothing can be more dissimilar than the representation
to the thing which it is intended to represent. I will relate what
happened to me with one, however much D. Egidio de Albornos de Macedo
may reprehend me for it in his _Parecer Anathomico_. Valerio Pinto de
Sa, an honourable citizen of Braga, of whom, in various parts of these
Memoirs, I have made well-deserved mention, and of whose friendship I
have been proud ever since I have been in that city, gave me, some six
or seven years ago, a gold coin of King Leovigildo, who was the first of
the Gothic kings of Spain that coined money, for till then both Goths and
Sueves used the Roman. I examined it leisurely, and what I clearly saw
was a cross on the one side upon some steps, and some ill-shaped letters
around it; and on the reverse something, I knew not what: It seemed to me
like a tree, or a stake which shot out some branches: Round about were
some letters, more distinct; I could not, however, ascertain what they
signified. It happened about that time that I had the honour of a visit
from the most illustrious Sr. D. Francisco de Almeida, then a most worthy
Academician of the Royal Academy, and at present a most deserving and
eminent Principal of the Holy Patriarchal Church. He saw this coin, and
he also was puzzled by the side which represented what I called a tree.
He asked me to lend it him, that he might examine it more at leisure.
He took it away, and after some days returned it, saying, that he had
examined it with a microscope, and that what I had taken for a stake was
without question the portrait of King Leovigildo. I confess that I was
not yet entirely satisfied: however, I showed it afterwards to divers
persons, all of whom said they knew not what the said figure could be;
but when I desired them to see if it could be this portrait, they all
agreed that it was. This undeceived me, and by looking at the coin in
every possible light, at last I came to see it also, and acknowledge the
truth with the rest. And afterwards I found in the Dialogues of Antonio
Agostinho, treating of these Gothic coins, that there are some of such
rude workmanship, that where a face should be represented, some represent
a pitcher, and others an urn.”—_Memorias de Braga_, t. iii. p. lix.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _He bade the river bear the name of Joy._—I. p. 3.

Guadalete had been thus interpreted to Florez. (Espana Sagrada, t. 9. p
53.) Earlier writers had asserted (but without proof), that the Ancients
called it Lethe, and the Moors added to these names their word for river.
Lope de Vega alludes to this opinion:

  _Siempre lamentable Guadalete
    Que llevo tanta sangre al mar de España,
  Si por olvido se llamava el Lete
    Trueque este nombre la vitoria estraña,
  Y llamase memoria deste dia
  En que España perdio la que tenia._

  _Que por donde à la mar entrava apenas
    Diferenciando el agua, ya se via
  Con roxo humor de las sangrientas venas
    Por donde le cortava y dividia:
  Gran tiempo conservaron sus arenas
  (Y pienso que ha llegado a la edad mia)
  Reliquias del estrago y piedras echas
  Armas, hierros de lanza y de flechas._

                                  Jerusalen Conquistada, l. vi. ff. 136.

The date of the battle is given with grandiloquous circumstantiality by
Miguel de Barrios.

  _Salio la tercer alva del tonante
    Noviembre, con vestido nebuloso,
  sobre el alado bruto que al brillante
    carro, saca del pielago espumoso;
  y en el frio Escorpion casa rotante
    del fiero Marte, el Astro luminoso
  al son que compasso sus plantas sueltas
  dio setecientas y catorze bueltas._

                                               Coro de las Musas, p. 100.

He states the chronology of Pelayo’s accession in the same taste.

  _Era el pontificado del Segundo
    Gregorio; Emperador Leon Tercero
  del docto Griego; y del Persiano inmundo,
    Zuleyman Miramamolin guerrero;
  y de Daphne el amante rubicundo
    surcava el mar del fulgido Carnero
  sietecientas y diez y ocho vezes,
  dexando el puerto de los aureos Pesces._

                                                Coro de las Musas p. 102.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The arrows pass’d him by to right and left._—I. p. 3.

The French jesuits relate of one of their converts in Canada a Huron,
by name Jean Armand Andeouarahen, that once _estant en guerre eschauffé
au combat, il s’enfonça si avant dans les darts et les flêches des
ennemis, qu’il fut abandonné des siens dans le plus fort de la meslée.
Ce fut alors qu’il se recommenda plus particulièrement à Dieu: il sentit
pour lors un secours si présent, que du depuis, appuyé sur cette mesme
confiance, il est toûjours le premier et le plus avant dans les périls,
et jamais ne pâlit, pour quelque danger qu’il envisage. Je voyois,
disoit-il, comme une gresle de flêches venir fondre sur moy; je n’avois
point d’autre bouclier pour les arrester, que la croyance seule que Dieu
disposant de ma vie, il en feroit selon sa volonté._ Chose étrange!
les flêches s’écartoient à mes deux costez, ainsi, disoit-il, que fait
l’eau lors qu’elle rencontre la pointe d’un vaisseau qui va contre
marée.—_Relation de la N. France_, 1642, p. 129.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _He found himself on Ana’s banks,
  Fast by the Caulian schools._—I. p. 6.

The site of this monastery, which was one of the most flourishing
seminaries of that age, is believed to have been two leagues from Merida,
upon the Guadiana, where the Ermida, or Chapel of Cubillana, stands at
present, or was standing a few years ago. The legend, from which I have
taken such circumstances as might easily have happened, and as suited my
plan, was invented by a race of men who, in the talent of invention, have
left all poets and romancers far behind them. Florez refers to Brito for
it, and excuses himself from relating it, because it is not necessary to
his[8] subject;—in reality he neither believed the story, nor chose to
express his objections to it. His disbelief was probably founded upon
the suspicious character of Brito, who was not at that time so decidedly
condemned by his countrymen as he is at present. I give the legend from
this veracious Cistercian. Most of his other fabrications have been
exploded, but this has given rise to a popular and fashionable idolatry,
which still maintains its ground.

“The monk did not venture to leave him alone in that disconsolate state,
and taking him apart, besought him by the passion of Jesus Christ to
consent that they twain should go together, and save a venerable image
of the Virgin Mary our Lady, which in that convent flourished with great
miracles, and had been brought from the city of Nazareth by a Greek
monk, called Cyriac, at such time as a heresy in the parts of the East
arose against the use and veneration of images; and with it a relic of
the Apostle St. Bartholomew, and another of St. Bras, which were kept
in an ivory coffer, for it would be a great sacrilege to leave them
exposed to the ill-treatment of barbarians, who, according to public
fame, left neither temple nor sacred place which they did not profane,
casting the images into the fire, and dragging them at their horses’s
tails for a greater opprobrium to the baptized people. The King, seeing
himself thus conjured by the passion of our Redeemer Jesus Christ, in
whom alone he had consolation and hope of remedy, and considering the
piety of the thing in which he was chosen for companion, let himself
be overcome by his entreaties; and taking in his arms the little image
of our Lady, and Romano the coffer with the relics, and some provision
for the journey, they struck into the middle of Portugal, having their
faces alway towards the west, and seeking the coast of the ocean sea,
because in those times it was a land more solitary, and less frequented
by people, where they thought the Moors would not reach so soon, because,
as there were no countries to conquer in those parts, there was no
occasion which should lead them thither. Twenty-and-six days the two
companions travelled without touching at any inhabited place, and after
enduring many difficulties in crossing mountains and fording rivers, they
had sight of the ocean sea on the 22d of November, being the day of the
Virgin Martyr St. Cecilia; and as if in that place they should have an
end of their labours, they took some comfort, and gave thanks to God,
for that he had saved them from the hand of their enemies. The place
which they reached is in the _Coutos_ of Alcobaça, near to where we now
see the town of Pederneira, on the eastern side of which there rises,
in the midst of certain sands, a hill of rock and firm land, somewhat
prolonged from north to south, so lofty and well proportioned that it
seemeth miraculously placed in that site being surrounded on all sides
with plains covered with sand, without height or rock to which it appears
connected. And forasmuch as the manner thereof draws to it the eyes of
whosoever beholds this work of nature, the king and the monk desired
to ascend the height of it, to see whether it would afford a place for
them in which to pass their lives. They found there a little hermitage
with a holy crucifix, and no other signs of man, save only a plain tomb,
without writing or epitaph to declare whose it might be. The situation
of the place, which, ascending to a notable height, gives a prospect by
sea and by land as far as the eyes can reach, and the sudden sight of the
crucifix, caused in the mind of the king such excitement and so great
consolation, that embracing the foot of the cross, he lay there melting
away in rivers of tears, not now of grief for the kingdoms and dominions
which he had lost, but of consolation in seeing that in exchange the
crucified Jesus himself had in this solitary mountain offered himself to
him, in whose company he resolved to pass the remainder of his life; and
this he declared to the monk, who, to content him, and also because he
saw that the place was convenient for contemplation, approved the king’s
resolve, and abode there with him some days; during which perceiving some
inconvenience in living upon the summit of the mountain, from whence it
was necessary to descend with much labour, whenever they would drink,
or seek for herbs and fruits for their food; and moreover understanding
that it was the king’s desire to remain there alone, that he might vent
himself in tears and exclamations, which he made oftentimes before the
image of Christ, he went with his consent to a place little more than a
mile from the mountain, which being on the one side smooth and of easy
approach, hangs on the other over the sea with so huge a precipice that
it is two hundred fathoms in perpendicular height, from the top of the
rock to the water. There, between two great rocks, each of which projects
over the sea, hanging suspended from the height in such a form, that they
seem to threaten destruction to him who sees them from the beach, Romano
found a little cave, made naturally in the cliff, which he enlarged with
some walls of loose stone, built up with his own hands, and having thus
made a sort of hermitage, he placed therein the image of the Virgin
Mary of Nazareth, which he had brought from the Caulinean convent, and
which being small, and of a dark colour, with the infant Jesus in its
arms, hath in the countenance a certain perfection, with a modesty so
remarkable, that at first sight it presents something miraculous; and
having been known and venerated so great a number of years, during many
of which it was in a place which did not protect it from the injuries of
weather, it hath never been painted, neither hath it been found necessary
to renew it. The situation of this hermitage was, and is now, within
sight of the mountain where the king dwelt; and though the memorials from
whence I am deriving the circumstances of these events do not specify
it, it is to be believed that they often saw each other, and held such
divine communion as their mode of life and the holiness of the place
required; especially considering the great temptations of the Devil
which the king suffered at the beginning of his penitence, for which the
counsels and instructions of the monk would be necessary, and the aid of
his prayers, and the presence of the relics of St. Bartholomew, which
miraculously saved him many times from various illusions of the enemy.
And in these our days there are seen upon the top of the mountain, in the
living rock, certain human footsteps, and others of a different form,
which the common people, without knowing the person, affirm to be the
footsteps of St. Bartholomew and the Devil, who was there defeated and
his illusions confounded by the saint, coming in aid of a devout man who
called upon him in the force of his tribulation. This must have been the
king, (though the common people know it not,) whom the saint thus visibly
aided, and he chose that for a memorial of this aid, and of the power
which God has given him over the evil spirits, these marks should remain
impressed upon the living rock. And the ancient name of the mountain
being Seano, it was changed into that of the Apostle, and is called at
present St. Bartholomew’s; and the hermitage which remains upon the top
of it is under the invocation of the same saint and of St. Bras, which
must have arisen from the relics of these two saints that Romano brought
with him and left with the king for his consolation, when he withdrew
with the image of Our Lady to the place of which we have spoken, where he
lived little more than a year; and then knowing the time of his death,
he communicated it to the king, beseeching him that, in requital for
the love with which he had accompanied him, he would remember to pray
to God for his soul, and would give his body to the earth, from which
it had sprung; and that having to depart from that land, he would leave
there the image and the relics, in such manner as he should dispose them
before he died. With that Romano departed to enjoy the reward deserved
by his labours, leaving the king with fresh occasion of grief for want
of so good a companion. Of what more passed in this place, and of the
temptations and tribulations which he endured till the end of his life,
there is no authentic historian, nor memorial which should certify them,
more than some relations mingled with fabulous tales in the ancient
Chronicle of King Don Rodrigo, where, among the truths which are taken
from the Moor Rasis, there are many things notoriously impossible; such
as the journey which the king took, being guided by a white cloud till
he came near Viseo; and the penance in which he ended his life there,
inclosing himself alive in a certain tomb with a serpent which he had
bred for that purpose. But as these are things difficult to believe, we
will pass them over in silence, leaving to the judgement of the curious
the credit which an ancient picture deserves, still existing near
Viseo, in the church of St. Michael, over the tomb of the said King Don
Roderick, in which is seen a serpent painted with two heads; and in the
tomb itself, which is of wrought stone, a round hole, through which they
say that the snake entered. That which is certain of all this is, as our
historians relate, that the king came to this place, and in the hermitage
of St. Michael, which we now see near Visco, ended his days in great
penance, no man knowing the manner thereof; neither was there any other
memorial clearer than that in process of time a writing was found upon
a certain tomb in this church with these words; HIC REQVIESCIT RUDERICUS
ULTIMUS REX GOTHORUM, Here rests Roderick, the last King of the Goths.
I remember to have seen these very words written in black upon an arch
of the wall, which is over the tomb of the king, although the Archbishop
Don Rodrigo, and they who follow him, give a longer inscription, not
observing that all which he has added are his own curses and imprecations
upon Count Don Julian, (as Ambrosio de Morales has properly remarked,
following the Bishop of Salamanca and others,) and not parts of the
same inscription, as they make them. The church in which is the tomb of
the king is at present very small, and of great antiquity, especially
the first chapel, joined to which on either side is a cell of the same
length, but narrow, and dark also, having no more light than what enters
through a little window opening to the east. In one of these cells (that
which is on the south side) it is said that a certain hermit dwelt, by
whose advice the king governed himself in the course of his penance; and
at this time his grave is shown close to the walls of the chapel, on the
Epistle side. In the other cell (which is on the north) the king passed
his life, paying now, in the straitness of that place, for the largeness
of his palaces, and the liberties of his former life, whereby he had
offended his Creator. And in the wall of the chapel which answers to the
Gospel side, there remains a sort of arch, in which the tomb is seen,
wherein are his bones; and it is devoutly visited by the natives, who
believe that through his means the Lord does miracles there upon persons
afflicted with agues and other like maladies. Under the said arch, in
the part answering to it in the inside of the cell, I saw painted on the
wall the hermit and the king, with the serpent with two heads, and I
read the letters which are given above, all defaced by time, and bearing
marks of great antiquity, yet so that they could distinctly be seen.
The tomb is flat and made of a single stone, in which a man’s body can
scarcely find room. When I saw it it was open, the stone which had served
to cover it not being there, neither the bones of the king, which they
told me had been carried into Castille some years before, but in what
manner they knew not, nor by whose order; neither could I discover, by
all the enquiries which I made among the old people of that city, who had
reason to be acquainted with a thing of so much importance, if it were as
certain as some of them affirmed it to be.”—BRITO, _Monarchia Lusitania_,
P. ii. l. 7. c. 3.

“The great venerableness of the Image of our Lady of Nazareth which
the king left hidden in the very place where Romano in his lifetime
had placed it, and the continual miracle which she showed formerly,
and still shows,” induced F. Bernardo de Brito to continue the history
of this Image, which, no doubt, he did the more willingly because he
bears a part in it himself. In the days of Affonso Henriquez, the first
king of Portugal, this part of the country was governed by D. Fuas
Roupinho, a knight famous in the Portugueze chronicles, who resided in
the castle at Porto de Mos. This Dom Fuas “when he saw the land secure
from enemies, used often to go out hunting among the sands and thickets
between the town and the sea, where, in those days, there used to be
great store of game, and even now, though the land is so populous, there
is still some; and as he followed this exercise, the proper pastime of
noble and spirited men, and came sometimes to the seashore, he came upon
that remarkable rock, which being level on the side of the north, and
on a line with the flat country, ends towards the south in a precipice
over the waves of the sea, of a prodigious height, causing the greater
admiration to him who, going over the plain country without finding
any irregularity, finds himself, when least expecting it, suddenly on
the summit of such a height. And as he was curiously regarding this
natural wonder, he perceived between the two biggest cliffs which stand
out from the ground and project over the sea, a sort of house built of
loose stones, which, from its form and antiquity, made him go himself
to examine it; and descending by the chasm between the two rocks, he
entered into a low cavern, where, upon a little altar, he saw the
venerable Image of the Virgin Mary of Nazareth, being of such perfection
and modesty as are found in very few images of that size. The catholic
knight venerated it with all submission, and would have removed it to
his castle of Porto de Mos, to have it held in more veneration, but that
he feared to offend it if he should move it from a habitation where
it had abode for so many years. This consideration made him leave it
for the present in the same place and manner in which he found it; and
although he visited it afterwards when in course of the chase he came
to those parts, nevertheless he never took in hand to improve the poor
hermitage in which it was, nor would he have done it, if the Virgin had
not saved him from a notorious danger of death, which, peradventure, God
permitted, as a punishment for his negligence, and in this manner to make
the virtue of the Holy Image manifest to the world. It was thus, that
going to his ordinary exercise of the chase, in the month of September,
in the year of Christ 1182, and on the 14th of the month, being the day
on which the church celebrates the festival of the Exaltation of the
Cross upon the which Christ redeemed the human race, as the day rose
thick with clouds, which ordinarily arise from the sea, and the country
round about could not be seen by reason of the clouds, save for a little
space, it befell that the dogs put up a stag, (if indeed it were one,)
and Dom Fuas pressing his horse in pursuit, without fear of any danger,
because he thought it was all plain ground, and the mist hindered him
from seeing where he was, found himself upon the very edge of the rock
on the precipice, two hundred fathoms above the sea, at a moment when it
was no longer in his power to turn the reins, nor could he do any thing
more than invoke the succours of the Virgin Mary, whose image was in that
place; and she succoured him in such a manner, that less than two palms
from the edge of the rock, on a long and narrow point thereof, the horse
stopt as if it had been made of stone, the marks of his hoofs remaining
in proof of the miracle imprinted in the living rock, such as at this
day they are seen by all strangers and persons on pilgrimage, who go to
visit the Image of Our Lady; and it is a notable thing, and deserving
of serious consideration, to see that in the midst of this rock, upon
which the miracle happened, and on the side towards the east, and in a
part where, because it is suspended in the air, it is not possible that
any human being could reach, Nature herself has impressed a cross as if
nailed to the hardness of the rock, as though she had sanctified that
cliff therewith, and marked it with that holy sign, to be the theatre in
which the miraculous circumstance was to be celebrated; which, by reason
that it took place on the day of the Exaltation of the Cross, seemed as
if it showed the honour and glory which should from thence redound to the
Lord who redeemed us thereon. Dom Fuas seeing himself delivered from so
great danger, and knowing from whence the grace had come to him, went to
the little hermitage, where, with that great devotion which the presence
of the miracle occasioned, he gave infinite thanks to Our Lady, accusing
himself before her of having neglected to repair the house, and promising
all the amends which his possibility permitted. His huntsmen afterwards
arrived, following the track of the horse, and knowing the marvel which
had occurred, they prostrated themselves before the Image of Our Lady,
adding with their astonishment to the devotion of Dom Fuas, who, hearing
that the stag had not been seen, and that the dogs had found no track
of him in any part, though one had been represented before him to draw
him on, understood that it was an illusion of the Devil, seeking by that
means to make him perish miserably. All these considerations enhanced the
greatness of the miracle, and the obligations of Dom Fuas, who, tarrying
there some days, made workmen come from Leyria and Porto de Mos, to make
another hermitage, in which the Lady should be more venerated; and as
they were demolishing the first, they found placed between the stones of
the altar a little box of ivory, and within it relicks of St. Bras, St.
Bartholomew, and other saints, with a parchment, wherein a relation was
given of how, and at what time those relicks and the image were brought
there, according as has been aforesaid. A vaulted chapel was soon made,
after a good form for times so ancient, over the very place where the
Lady had been; and to the end that it might be seen from all sides, they
left it open with four arches, which in process of time were closed, to
prevent the damage which the rains and storms did within the chapel, and
in this manner it remains in our days. The Lady remained in her place,
being soon known and visited by the faithful, who flocked there upon the
fame of her appearance: the valiant and holy king D. Affonso Henriquez,
being one of the first whom Dom Fuas advised of what had happened, and
he, accompanied with the great persons of his court, and with his son, D.
Sancho, came to visit the Image of the Lady, and see with his own eyes
the marks of so rare a miracle as that which had taken place; and with
his consent, D. Fuas made a donation to the Lady of a certain quantity
of land round about, which was at that time a wild thicket, and for the
greater part is so still, being well nigh all wild sands incapable of
giving fruit, and would produce nothing more than heath and some wild
pine-trees. And because it establishes the truth of all that I have said,
and relates in its own manner the history of the Image of the Lady, I
will place it here in the form in which I saw it in the Record Room
at Alcobaça, preserving throughout the Latin and the barbarism of its
composition; which is as follows:—

    “_Sub nomine Patris, nec non et ejus prolis, in unius potentia
    Deitatis, incipit carta donationis, necnon et devotionis, quam
    ego Fuas Ropinho tenens Porto de Mos, et terram de Albardos
    usque Leirenam, et Turres Veteres, facio Ecclesiæ Santæ Mariæ
    de Nazareth, quæ de pauco tempore surgit fundata super mare,
    ubi de sæculis antiquis jacebat, inter lapides et spinas
    multas, de tota illa terra quæ jacet inter flumina quæ venit
    per Alcoubaz, et aquam nuncupatam de furaturio, et dividitur de
    isto modo: de illa foz de flumine Alcobaz, quomodo vadit per
    aquas bellas, deinde inter mare et mata de Patayas usque, finir
    in ipso furaturio, quam ego obtinui de rege Alfonso, et per
    suum consensum facio præsentem seriem ad prædictam Ecclesiam
    Beatæ Mariæ Virginis, quam feci supra mare, ut in sæculis
    perpetuis memorentur mirabilia Dei, et sit notum omnibus
    hominibus, quomodo a morte fuerim salvatus per pietatem Dei et
    Beatæ Mariæ quam vocant de Nazaret, tali sucesu. Cum manerem
    in castro Porto de Mos, et inde veniebam ad ocidendos venatos,
    per Melvam et matam de Patayas usque ad mare, supra quam inveni
    furnam, et parvam domunculam inter arbustas et vepres, in
    qua erat una Imago Virginis Mariæ, et veneravimus illam, et
    abivimus inde; veni deinde xviii kal. Octobris, circa dictum
    locum, cum magna obscuratione nebulæ sparza super totam terram,
    et invenimus venatum, tres quem fui in meo equo, usque venirem
    ad esbarrondadeiro supra mare, quod cadit ajuso sine mensura
    hominis et pavet visus si cernit furnam cadentem ad aquas.
    Pavi ego miser peccator, et venit ad remembrancam de imagine
    ibi posita, et magna voce dixi, SANCTA MARIA VAL. Benedicta
    sit illa in mulieribus, quia meum equum sicut si esset lapis
    fecit stare, pedibus fixis in lapide, et erat jam vazatus
    extra terram in punta de saxo super mare. Descendi de equo, et
    veni ad locum ubi erat imago, et ploravi et gratias feci, et
    venerunt monteiros et viderunt, et laudaverunt Deum et Beatam
    Mariam; Misi homines per Leirenam et Porto de Mos, et per loca
    vicina, ut venirent Alvanires, et facerent ecclesiam bono opere
    operatam de fornice et lapide, et jam laudetur Deus finita est.
    Nos vero non sciebamus unde esset, et unde venisset ista imago;
    sed ecce cum destruebatur altare per Alvanires, inventa est
    arcula de ebore antiquo, et in illa uno envoltorio in quo erant
    ossa aliquorum sanctorum, et cartula cum hac inscriptione:
    Hic sunt reliquiæ Sanctorum Blasii et Bartholomei Apostoli,
    quas detulit a Monasterio Cauliniana Romanus monachus, simul
    cum venerabili Imagine Virginis Mariæ de Nazareth, quæ olim
    in Nazareth Civitate Gallileæ multis miraculis claruerat, et
    inde asportata per Græcum monachum nomine Cyriacum, Gothorum
    Regum tempore, in prædicto monasterio per multum temporis
    manserat, quo usque Hispania à Mauris debelata, et Rex
    Rodericus superatus in prælio, solus, lacrymabilis, abjectus,
    et pene defficiens pervenit ad præfatum monasterium Cauliniana,
    ibique a prædicto Romano pœnitentiæ et Eucharistiæ Sacramentis
    susceptis, pariter cum illo, cum imagine, et reliquiis ad
    Seanum montem pervenerunt 10 kal. Decemb. in quo rex solus per
    annum integrum permansit, in Ecclesia ibi inventa cum Christi
    crucifixi imagine, et ignoto sepulchro. Romanus vero cum hac
    Sacra Virginis effigie inter duo ista saxa, usque ad extremum
    vitæ permansit; et ne futuris temporibus aliquem ignorantia
    teneat, hæc cum reliquiis sacris in hac extremæ orbis parte
    recondimus. Deus ista omnia a Maurorum manibus servet. Amen. De
    his lectis et a Presbyteris apertis satis multum sumus gavisi,
    quia nomen de sanctis reliquiis, et de Virgine scivimus, et
    ut memorentur per semper in ista serie testamenti scribere
    fecimus. Do igitur prædictam hæreditatem pro reparatione
    prefatæ Ecclesiæ cum pascuis, et aquis, de monte in fonte,
    ingressibus et regressibus, quantum a prestitum hominis est,
    et illam in melhiorato foro aliquis potest habere per se. Ne
    igitur aliquis homo de nostris vel de estraneis hoc factum
    nostrum ad irrumpendum veniat, quod si tentaverit peche ad
    dominum terræ trecentos marabitinos, et carta nihilominus in
    suo robore permaneat, et insuper sedeat excommunicatus et cum
    Juda proditore pænas luat damnatorum. Facta series testamenti
    vi Idus Decemb. era M,CLXX, Alfonsus Portugaliæ Rex confirm.
    Sancius Rex confirm. Regina Dona Tarasia confirm. Petrus
    Fernandez, regis Sancii dapifer confirm. Menendus Gunsalui,
    ejusdem signifer confirm. Donus Joannes Fernandez curiæ regis
    maiordomus confirm. Donus Julianus Cancellarius regis confirm.
    Martinus Gonsalui Pretor Colimbriæ confirm. Petrus Omariz
    Capellanus regis confirm. Menendus Abbas confirm. Theotonius
    conf. Fernandus Nuniz, testis. Egeas Nuniz, testis. Dn Telo,
    testis. Petrus Nuniz, testis. Fernandus Vermundi, testis.
    Lucianus Præsbyter notavit._”

This deed, which establishes all the principal facts that I have related,
did not take effect, because the lands of which it disposed were already
part of the _Coutos_ of Alcobaça, which King Don Affonso had given some
years before to our father St. Bernard; and Dom Fuas compensated for them
with certain properties near Pombal, as is proved by another writing
annexed to the former, but which I forbear to insert, as appertaining
little to the thread of my history: and resuming the course thereof, you
must know, that the image of the Virgin Mary of Nazareth remained in the
chapel which Dom Fuas made for it, till the year of Christ, 1377, in the
which, King Dom Fernando of Portugal founded for it the house in which it
now is, having been enlarged and beautified by Queen Dona Lianor, wife of
King Dom Joam II., and surrounded with porticoes by King Dom Manoel. And
now in our times a chapel (_Capela mor_) of good fabric has been built,
with voluntary contributions, and the rents of the brotherhood; and in
the old hermitage founded by Dom Fuas I., with the help of some devout
persons, had another chapel opened under ground, in order to discover the
very rock and cavern in which the Holy Image had been hidden so great a
number of years; there is a descent to it by eight or ten steps, and a
notable consolation it is to those who consider the great antiquity of
that sanctuary. And for that the memory of things so remarkable ought not
to be lost, I composed an inscription briefly recounting the whole: and
Dr. Ruy Lourenço, who was then Provedor of the Comarca of Leyria, and
visitor of the said church for the king, ordered it to be engraven in
marble. It is as follows:—

    “_Sacra Virginis Mariæ veneranda Imago, a Monasterio Cauliniana
    prope Emeritam, quo Gothorum tempore, a Nazareth translata,
    miraculis claruerat, in generali Hispaniæ clade, Ann. Dni.
    DCCXIIII. a Romano monacho, comite, ut fertur, Roderico Rege,
    ad hanc extremam orbis partem adducitur, in qua dum unus
    moritur, alter proficiscitur, per CCCCLXIX. annos inter duo
    hæc prærupta saxa sub parvo delituit tugurio: deinde a Fua
    Ropinio, Portus Molarum duce, anno Domini MCLXXXII, (ut ipse
    in donatione testatur) inventa, dum incaute agitato equo
    fugacem, fictumque forte, insequitur cervum, ad ultimumque
    immanis hujus præcipitii cuneum, jam jam ruiturus accedit,
    nomine Virginis invocato, a ruina, et mortis faucibus ereptus,
    hoc ei prius dedicat sacellum; tandem a Ferdinando Portugaliæ
    Rege, ad majus aliud templum, quod ipse a fundamentis erexerat
    tranfertur. Ann. Domini MCCCLXXVII. Virgini et perpetuitati. D.
    D. F. B. D. B. ex voto._”

From these things, taken as faithfully as I possibly could from the deed
of gift and from history, we see clearly the great antiquity of this
sanctuary, since it is 893 years since the Image of the Lady was brought
to the place where it now is; and although we do not know the exact year
in which it was brought from Nazareth, it is certain at least that it was
before King Recaredo, who began to reign in the year of Christ 586; so
that it is 1021 years, a little more or less, since it came to Spain; and
as it came then, as one well known, and celebrated for miracles in the
parts of the East, it may well be understood that this is one of the most
famous and ancient Images, and nearest to the times of the apostles, that
the world at present possesses.—_Brito Monarchia Lusitana_, p. 2. l. 7.
c. 4.

This legend cannot have been invented before Emanuel’s reign, for Duarte
Galavam says nothing of it in his Chronicle of Affonso Henriquez, though
he relates the exploits and death of D. Fuas Roupinho. I believe there is
no earlier authority for it than Bernardo de Brito himself. It is one of
many articles of the same kind from the great manufactory of Alcobaça,
and is at this day as firmly believed by the people of Portugal as any
article of the Christian faith. How indeed should they fail to believe
it? I have a print, it is one of the most popular devotional prints in
Portugal, which represents the miracle. The diabolical stag is flying
down the precipice, and looking back with a wicked turn of the head,
in hopes of seeing Dom Fuas follow him; the horse is rearing up with
his hind feet upon the brink of the precipice; the knight has dropt his
hunting-spear, his cocked hat is falling behind him, and an exclamation
to the Virgin is coming out of his mouth. The Virgin with a crown upon
her head, and the Babe with a crown upon his, at her breast, appear in
the sky amidst clouds of glory. _N. S. de Nazaré_, is written above this
precious print, and this more precious information below it,—_O. Emo.
Snr. Cardeal Patriarcha concede 50 dias de Indulgᵃ. a qm. rezar huma have
Ma. diante desta Image._ His Eminency the Cardinal Patriarch grants fifty
days indulgence to whosoever shall say an Ave-Maria before this Image.
The print is included, and plenty of Ave-Marias are said before it in
full faith, for this _Nossa Senhora de Nazaré_ is in high vogue. Before
the French invasion, this famous Image used annually to be escorted by
the Court to Cape Espichel. In 1796 I happened to be upon the Tagus
at the time of her embarkation at Belem. She was carried in a sort of
sedan-chair, of which the fashion resembled that of the Lord Mayor’s
coach; a processional gun-boat preceded the Image and the Court, and I
was literally caught in a shower of rockets, if any of which had fallen
upon the heretical heads of me and my companion, it would not improbably
have been considered as a new miracle, wrought by the wonder-working
Senhora.

In July 1808, the French, under General Thomières, robbed this church of
Our Lady of Nazareth; their booty, in jewels and plate, was estimated
at more than 200,000 cruzados. Jose Accursio das Neves, the Portugueze
historian of those disastrous times, expresses his surprise that no means
should have been taken by those who had the care of these treasures, for
securing them in time. Care, however, seems to have been taken of the
Great Diana of the Temple, for though it is stated that they destroyed or
injured several images, no mention is made of any insult or damage having
been offered to this. They sacked the town and set fire to it, but it
escaped with the loss of only thirteen or fourteen houses; the suburb or
village, on the beach, was less fortunate: there only four houses of more
than 300 remained unconsumed, and all the boats and fishing-nets were
destroyed.—_Historia da Invasam, &c._, t. 4. p. 85.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Spreading his hands and lifting up his face, &c._—I. p. 8.

My friend Walter Scott’s _Vision of Don Roderick_ supplies a singular
contrast to the picture which is represented in this passage. I have
great pleasure in quoting the stanzas; if the contrast had been
intentional, it could not have been more complete.

  But, far within, Toledo’s Prelate lent
    An ear of fearful wonder to the King;
  The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent,
    So long that sad confession witnessing:
  For Roderick told of many a hidden thing,
    Such as are lothly utter’d to the air,
  When Fear, Remorse, and Shame, the bosom wring,
    And Guilt his secret burthen cannot bear,
  And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair.

  Full on the Prelate’s face, and silver hair,
    The stream of failing light was feebly roll’d;
  But Roderick’s visage, though his head was bare,
    Was shadow’d by his hand and mantle’s fold,
  While of his hidden soul the sins he told,
    Proud Alaric’s descendant could not brook,
  That mortal man his bearing should behold,
    Or boast that he had seen, when conscience shook,
  Fear tame a monarch’s brow, remorse a warrior’s look.

This part of the story is thus nakedly stated by Dr. Andre da Sylva
Mascarenhas, in a long narrative poem with this title,—_A destruiçam de
Espanha, Restauraçam Summaria de mesma_.

  _Achouse o pobre Rey em Cauliniana Mosteiro junto ao rio Guadiana._

  _Eram os frades fugidos do Mosteiro
    Com receos dos Barbaros malvados,
  De bruços esteve el Rey hum dia inteiro
    Na Igreja, chorando seus peccados:
  Hum Monge veo alli por derradeiro
    A conhecer quem era, ouvindo os brados
  Que o disfarçado Rey aos ares dava,
  Este Monge Romano se chamava._

  _Perguntoulhe quem era, e donde vinha,
    Por ver no pobre traje gram portento;
  El Rey lhe respondeo como convinha
    Sem declarar seu posto, ou seu intento;
  Pediulhe confissam, e o Monge asinha
    Lha concedeo e o Santo Sacramento
  Era força que el Rey na confissam
    Lhe declarasse o posto e a tencam._

  _Como entendeo o bom Religioso
    Que aquelle era seu Rey que por estranhas
  Terras andava roto e lacrimoso,
    Mil ays tirou das intimas entranhas:
  Lançouselhe aos pes, e com piedoso
    Affecto o induziu e varias manhas,
  O quizesse tambem levar consigo
  Por socio no desterro e no perigo._—P. 27.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The fourth week of their painful pilgrimage._—I. p. 10.

  _Dias vinte e sete na passagem
    Gastaram, desviandosse do humano
  Trato, e maos encontros que este mundo
  Tras sempre a quem busca o bem profundo._

                                           Destruiçam de Espanha, p. 279.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Some new austerity, unheard of yet
  In Syrian fields of glory, or the sands
  Of holiest Egypt._—II. p. 17.

Egypt has been, from the earliest ages, the theatre of the most abject
and absurd superstitions, and very little benefit was produced by
a conversion which exchanged crocodiles and monkies for monks and
mountebanks. The first monastery is said to have been established in
that country by St. Anthony the Great, towards the close of the third
century. He who rests in solitude, said the saint, is saved from three
conflicts,—from the war of hearing, and of speech, and of sight; and
he has only to maintain the struggle against his own heart. (_Acta
Sanctorum_, t. ii. p. 143.) Indolence was not the only virtue which he
and his disciples introduced into the catalogue of Christian perfections.
S. Eufraxia entered a convent consisting of an hundred and thirty nuns,
not one of whom had ever washed her feet; the very mention of the bath
was an abomination to them.—(_Acta Sanctorum, March 13._) St. Macarius
had renounced most of the decencies of life; but he returned one day to
his convent, humbled and mortified, exclaiming,—I am not yet a monk,
but I have seen monks! for he had met two of these wretches stark
naked.—_Acta Sanctorum_, i. p. 107.

The principles which these madmen established were, that every indulgence
is sinful; that whatever is gratifying to the body, must be injurious
to the soul; that in proportion as man inflicts torments upon himself,
he pleases his Creator; that the ties of natural affection wean the
heart from God; and that every social duty must be abandoned by him who
would be perfect. The doctrine of two principles has never produced such
practical evils in any other system as in the Romish. Manes, indeed,
attributes all evil to the equal power of the Evil Principle, (that power
being only for a time,) but some of the corrupted forms of Christianity
actually exclude a good one!

There is a curious passage in the Bibliotheca Orientalis of Assemanus,
in which the deserts are supposed to have been originally intended
for the use of these saints, compensating for their sterility by the
abundant crop of virtues which they were to produce! _In illâ vero soli
vastitate, quæ procul a Nili ripis quaquaversus latissime protenditur,
non urbes, non domicilia, non agri, non arbores, sed desertum, arena,
feræ; non tamen hanc terræ partem (ut Eucherii verbis utar) inutilem
et inhonoratam dimisit Deus, quum in primordiis rerum omnia in
sapientiâ faceret, et singula quæque futuris usibus apta distingueret;
sed cuncta non magis præsentis magnificentiâ, quam futuri præscientiâ
creans, venturis, ut arbitror, Sanctis Eremum paravit. Credo, his illam
locupletem fructibus voluit, et pro indulgentioris naturæ vice, hanc
Sanctorum dare fœcundiam, ut sic pinguescerent fines deserti: Et quum
irrigaret de superioribus suis montes, abundaret quoque multiplicata
fruge convalles locorumque damna supplicet, quum habitationem sterilem
habitatore ditaret._

“If the ways of religion,” says South, “are ways of pleasantness, such
as are not ways of pleasantness, are not truly and properly ways of
religion. Upon which ground it is easy to see what judgement is to be
passed upon all those affected, uncommanded, absurd austerities, so much
prized and exercised by some of the Romish profession. Pilgrimages,
going barefoot, hair-shirts and whips, with other such gospel-artillery,
are their only helps to devotion; things never enjoined, either by
the prophets under the Jewish, or by the apostles under the Christian
economy, who yet surely understood the proper and the most efficacious
instruments of piety, as well as any confessor or friar of all the order
of St. Francis, or any casuist whatsoever.

“It seems that with them a man sometimes cannot be a penitent unless he
also turns vagabond, and foots it to Jerusalem, or wanders over this or
that part of the world to visit the shrines of such or such a pretended
saint, though perhaps in his life ten times more ridiculous than
themselves. Thus, that which was Cain’s error, is become their religion.
He that thinks to expiate a sin by going barefoot, only makes one folly
the atonement for another. Paul, indeed, was scourged and beaten by the
Jews, but we never read that he beat or scourged himself; and if they
think that his _keeping under of his body_ imports so much, they must
first prove that the body cannot be kept under by a virtuous mind, and
that the mind cannot be made virtuous but by a scourge, and consequently
that thongs and whip-cord are means of grace, and things necessary to
salvation. The truth is, if men’s religion lies no deeper than their
skin, it is possible that they may scourge themselves into very great
improvements.

“But they will find that bodily exercise touches not the soul, and that
neither pride, nor lust, nor covetousness, was ever mortified by corporal
discipline; ’tis not the back, but the heart that must bleed for sin;
and, consequently, that in their whole course they are like men out of
their way; let them lash on never so fast, they are not at all the nearer
to their journey’s end; and howsoever they deceive themselves and others,
they may as well expect to bring a cart as a soul to Heaven by such
means.”—_Sermons_, vol. i. p. 34.

       *       *       *       *       *

                  _In those weeds
  Which never from the hour when to the grave
  She follow’d her dear lord Theodofred,
  Rusilla laid aside._—II. p. 18.

_Vide nuper ipse in Hispaniis constitutis et admiratus sum antiquum
hunc morem, ab Hispanis adhuc omnibus observari; mortuâ quippe uxore
maritus, mortuo marito conjux, mortuis filiis patres, mortuis patribus
filii, defunctis quibuslibet cognatis cognati, extinctis, quodlibet
casu amicis amici, statim arma deponunt, sericas vestes, peregrinarum
pellium tegmina abjiciunt, totumque penitus multi colorem, ac pretiosum
habitum abdicantes, nigris tantum vilibusque indumentis se contegunt.
Sic crinibus propriis sic jumentorum suorum caudis decurtatis, seque et
ipsa atro prorsus colore denigrant. Talibus luctui dolorisve insignibus,
subtractos charissimos deflent, et integri ad minus spatium anni, in tali
mærore publica lege consumant._—Petri Venerabilis Epist. quoted in Yepes,
t. vii. ff. 21.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Her eyeless husband._—II. p. 18.

Witiza put out the eyes of Theodofred, _inhabilitandole para la
monarchia_, says Ferraras. This was the common mode of incapacitating a
rival for the throne.

  _Un Conde de Gallicia que fuera valiado,
  Pelayo avie nombre, ome fo desforzado,
  Perdio la vision, andaba embargado,
  Ca ome que non vede, non debie seer nado._

                                          Gonzalo de Berceo. S. Dom. 388.

The history of Europe during the dark ages abounds with examples of
_exoculation_, as it was called by those writers who endeavoured, towards
the middle of the 17th century, to introduce the style-ornate into our
prose after it had been banished from poetry. In the East, the practice
is still continued. When Alboquerque took possession of Ormuz, he sent to
Portugal fifteen of its former kings, whom he found there, each of whom,
in his turn, had been deposed and blinded!

In the semi-barbarous stage of society, any kind of personal blemish
seems to have been considered as disqualifying a prince from the
succession, like the law of the Nazarenes. Yorwerth, the son of Owen
Gwynedh, was set aside in Wales because of his broken nose; Count Oliba,
in Barcelona, because he could never speak till he had stamped with his
foot three times like a goat. _Aquest Oliba frare del Conte en Grifa no
era a dret de sos membras. Car lo dit Oliba james no podia parlar, si
primer no donas colps ab lo peu en terra quart o sinc vegades, axi comsi
fos cabra; e per aquesta raho li fou imposat lo nom, dient li Olibra
Cabreta, e per aquest accident lo dit Oliba perde la successio del frare
en lo Comtat de Barcelona, e fou donat lo dit Comtat o en Borrell, Comte
de Urgell, qui era son cosin germa._—Père Tomich, c. xxviii. ff. 20.

In the treaty between our Henry V. and Charles VI. of France, by which
Henry was appointed King of France after Charles’s decease, it was
decreed that the French should “swear to become liege men and vassals to
our said son King Henry, and obey him as the true King of France, and
without any opposition or dispute shall receive him as such, and never
pay obedience to any other as king or regent of France, but to our said
son King Henry, unless our said son should lose life or _limb_, or be
attacked by a _mortal disease_, or suffer diminution in person, state,
honour[9], or goods.”

Lope de Vega alludes to the blindness of Theodofred in his Jerusalem
Conquistada:—

  _Criavase con otras bellas damas
  Florinda bella,——
  Esta miro Rodrigo desdichado,
    Ay si como su padre fuera ciego!
  Saco sus ojos Witisa ayrado,
    Fuera mejor los de Rodrigo luego:
  Gozara España el timbre coronado
    De sus castillos en mayor sossiego
  Que le dio Leovigildo, y no se viera
  Estampa de Africano en su ribera._

                                                          L. vi. ff. 131.

A remarkable instance of the inconvenient manner in which the _b_ and
the _v_ are indiscriminately used by the Spaniards, occurs here in the
original edition. The _w_ not being used in that language, it would
naturally be represented by _vv_; and here, the printer, using most
unluckily his typographical licence, has made the word _Vbitisa_.

“The Spaniards,” says that late worthy Jo. Sandford, some time fellow of
Magdalane college, in Oxford, (in his Spanish Grammar, 1632) “do with
a kind of wantonness so confound the sound of _b_ with _v_, that it is
hard to determine when and in what words it should retain its own power
of a labial letter, which gave just cause of laughter at that Spaniard
who, being in conversation with a French lady, and minding to commend
her children for fair, said unto her, using the Spanish liberty in
pronouncing the French,—_Madame, vous avez des veaux enfans_, telling her
that she had calves to her children, instead of saying, _beaux enfans_,
fair children. Neither can I well justify him who wrote _veneficio_ for
_beneficio_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

            _Conimbrica, whose ruined towers
  Bore record of the fierce Alani’s wrath._—III. p. 24.

The Roman Conimbrica stood about two leagues from the present Coimbra,
on the site of Condeyxa Velha. Ataces, king of the Alanes, won it from
the Sueves, and, in revenge for its obstinate resistance, dispeopled
it, making all its inhabitants, without distinction of persons, work at
the foundation of Coimbra where it now stands. Hermenerico, the king
of the Sueves, attacked him while thus employed, but was defeated and
pursued to the Douro; peace was then made, and Sindasunda, daughter of
the conquered, given in marriage to the conqueror. In memory of the
pacification thus effected, Ataces bore upon his banners a damsel in a
tower, with a dragon vert on one side, and a lion rouge on the other,
the bearings of himself and his marriage-father; and this device being
sculptured upon the towers of Coimbra, still remains as the city arms.
Two letters of Arisbert, bishop of Porto, to Samerius, archdeacon of
Braga, which are preserved at Alcobaça, relate these events as the news
of the day,—that is, if the authority of Alcobaçan records, and of
Bernardo de Brito can be admitted.—_Mon. Lus._ 26. 3.

Ataces was an Arian, and therefore made the Catholic bishops and priests
work at his new city, but his queen converted him.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Mumadona._—III. p. 25.

Gasper Estaço has shown that this is the name of the foundress of
Guimaraens, and that it is not, as some writers had supposed, erroneously
thus written, because the words Muma and Dona followed each other in the
deeds of gift wherein it is preserved; the name being frequently found
with its title affixed thus, Dma Mumadna.

       *       *       *       *       *

                  ——_the banks
  Of Lima, through whose groves in after years,
  Mournful yet sweet, Diogo’s amorous lute
  Prolong’d its tuneful echoes_.—III. p. 27.

Diogo Bernardes, one of the best of the Portugueze poets, was born on
the banks of the Lima, and passionately fond of its scenery. Some of
his sonnets will bear comparison with the best poems of their kind.
There is a charge of plagiarism against him for having printed several
of Camoens’s sonnets as his own; to obtain any proofs upon this subject
would be very difficult; this, however, is certain, that his own
undisputed productions resemble them so closely in unaffected tenderness,
and in sweetness of diction, that the whole appear like the works of one
author.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Auria itself is now but one wide tomb
  For all its habitants._—III. p. 29.

The present Orense. The Moors entirely destroyed it; _depopulavit usque
ad solum_, are the words of one of the old brief chronicles. In 832,
Alonzo el Casto found it too completely ruined to be restored.—_Espana
Sagrada_, xvii. p. 48.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _That consecrated pile amid the wild,
  Which sainted Fructuoso in his zeal
  Rear’d to St. Felix, on Visonia’s banks._—IV. p. 38.

Of this saint, and the curious institutions which he formed, and the
beautiful track of country in which they were placed, I have given an
account in the third edition of Letters from Spain and Portugal, vol. i.
p. 103.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Sacaru ... 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._—IV. p. 43.

This tale, which is repeated by Bleda, rests on no better authority than
that of Abulcacim[10], which may, however, be admitted, so far as to show
that it was a prevalent opinion in his time.

Antonio Galvam, in his _Tratado dos Descobrimentos Antigos e Modernos_,
relates a current, and manifestly fabulous story, which has been supposed
to refer to Sacaru, and the companions of his emigration. “They say,”
he says, “that at this time, A. D. 1447, a Portugueze ship sailing out
of the Straits of Gibraltar, was carried by a storm much farther to the
west than she had intended, and came to an island where there were seven
cities, and where our language was spoken; and the people asked whether
the Moors still occupied Spain, from whence they had fled after the loss
of King Don Rodrigo. The contramaster of the ship said, that he brought
away a little sand from the island, and sold it to a goldsmith in Lisbon,
who extracted from it a good quantity of gold. It is said that the
Infante D. Pedro, who governed at that time, ordered these things to be
written in the Casa do Tombo. And some will have it that these lands and
islands at which the Portugueze touched, were those which are now called
the Antilhas and New Spain.” (P. 24.)

This Antilia, or Island of the Seven Cities, is laid down in Martin
Behaim’s map; the story was soon improved by giving seven bishops to the
seven cities: and Galvam has been accused by Hornius of having invented
it to give his countrymen the honour of having discovered the West
Indies! Now it is evident that Antonio Galvam relates the story as if he
did not believe it,—_contam_—they relate,—and, _diz_, it is said,—never
affirming the fact, nor making any inference from it, but merely stating
it as a report: and it is certain, which perhaps Hornius did not know,
that there never lived a man of purer integrity than Antonio Galvam;
a man whose history is disgraceful, not to his country, but to the
government under which he lived, and whose uniform and unsullied virtue
entitles him to rank among the best men that have ever done honour to
human nature.

The writers who repeat this story of the Seven Islands and their bishops,
have also been pleased to find traces of Sacaru in the new world, for
which the imaginary resemblances to Christianity which were found in
Yucatan and other places, serve them as proofs.—_Gregorio Garcia_,
_Origen de los Indios_, l. iv. c. 20.

The work of Abulcacim, in which the story first appears, has been roundly
asserted to be the forgery of the translator, Miguel de Luna. The
Portugueze academician, Contador de Argote, speaking of this romantic
history, acquits him of the fraud, which has with little reflection been
laid to his charge. Pedraça, he says, in the Grandezas de Granada, and
Rodrigo Caro, in the Grandezas de Sevilla, both affirm that the original
Arabic exists in the Escurial, and Escolano asserts the same, although
Nicholas Antonio says that the catalogues of that library do not make
mention of any such book. If Luna had forged it, it would not have had
many of those blunders which are observed in it; nor is there any reason
for imputing such a fraud to Luna, a man well skilled in Arabic, and
of good reputation. What I suspect is, that the book was composed by a
Granadan Moor, and the reason which induces me to form this opinion is,
the minuteness with which he describes the conquest which Tarif made of
those parts of the kingdom of Granada, of the Alpuxarras and the Serra
Neveda, pointing out the etymologies of the names of places, and other
circumstances, which any one who reads with attention will observe. As
to the time in which the composer of this amusing romance flourished, it
was certainly after the reign of Bedeci Aben Habuz, who governed, and was
Lord of Granada about the year 1013, as Marmol relates, after the Arabian
writers; and the reason which I have for this assertion is, that in the
romance of Abulcacim the story is told which gave occasion to the said
Bedeci Aben Habuz to set up in Granada that famous vane, which represents
a knight upon horseback in bronze, with a spear in the right hand, and a
club in the left, and these words in Arabic,—Bedeci Aben Habuz says, that
in this manner Andalusia must be kept! the figure moves with every wind,
and veers about from one end to another.—_Memorias de Braga_, t. iii. p.
120.

In the fabulous Chronicle of D. Rodrigo, Sacarus, as he is there called,
is a conspicuous personage; but the tale of his emigration was not then
current, and the author kills him before the Moors appear upon the stage.
He seems to have designed him as a representation of perfect generosity.

       *       *       *       *       *

                        _All too long,
  Here in their own inheritance, the sons
  Of Spain have groan’d beneath a foreign yoke._—IV. p. 43.

There had been a law to prohibit intermarriages between the Goths and
Romans; this law Recesuintho annulled[11] observing in his edict, that
the people ought in no slight degree to rejoice at the repeal. It is
curious that the distinction should have existed so long; but it is found
also in a law of Wamba’s, and doubtless must have continued till both
names were lost together in the general wreck. The vile principle was
laid down in the laws of the Wisigoths, that such as the root is, such
ought the branch to be,—_gran confusion es de linage, quando el fiyo non
semeya al padre, que aquelo ques de la raiz, deba ser en a cima_, and
upon this principle a law was made to keep the children of slaves, slaves
also.

“Many men well versed in history,” says Contador de Argote, (Memorias de
Braga, 3. 273.) “think, and think rightly, that this was a civil war,
and that the monarchy was divided into two factions, of which the least
powerful availed itself of the Arabs as auxiliaries; and that these
auxiliaries made themselves masters, and easily effected their intent by
means of the divisions in the country.”

“The natives of Spain,” says Joam de Barros, “never bore much love to the
Goths, who were strangers and comelings, and when they came had no right
there, for the whole belonged to the Roman empire. It is believed that
the greater part of those whom the Moors slew were Goths, and it is said
that, on one side and on the other, in the course of two years there were
slain by the sword seven hundred thousand men. The Christians who escaped
chose that the name of Goths should be lost: and though some Castillians
complain that the race should be extinguished, saying with Don Jorge
Manrique,

  _Pues la sangre de los Godos
    y el linage y la nobleza
      tan crecida,
    por quantas vias y modos
      se sume su grande alteza
        en esta vida_,

I must say that I see no good foundation for this; for they were a proud
nation and barbarous, and were a long time heretics of the sects of
Arius and Eutychius and Pelagius, and can be praised as nothing except
as warriors, who were so greedy for dominion, that wherever they reached
they laid every thing bare like locusts, and therefore the emperor ceded
to them this country. The people who dwelt in it before were a better
race, always praised and feared and respected by the Romans, loyal
and faithful and true and reasonable: and if the Goths afterwards were
worthy of any estimation they became so here: for as plants lose their
bitterness and improve by being planted and translated into a good soil
(as is said of peaches), so does a good land change its inhabitants, and
of rustic and barbarous make them polished and virtuous.

“The Moors did not say that they came against the Christians, but against
the Goths, who had usurped Spain; and it appears that to the people of
the land it mattered little whether they were under Goths or Moors; or
indeed it might not be too much to say that they preferred the Moors, not
only because all new things and changes would be pleasing, but because
they were exasperated against the Goths for what they had done against
the Christians, (_i. e._ the Catholicks,) and for the bad government of
King Witiza.”

“You are not to think,” says the Chronicler, “that Count Don Julian and
the Bishop Don Orpas came of the lineage of the Goths, but of the lineage
of the Cæsars, and therefore they were not grieved that the good lineage
should be destroyed.”—_Chr. del K. D. Rodrigo_, p. i. c. 248.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Favila._—V. p. 48.

Barrios, taking a punster’s licence in orthography, plays upon the name
of Pelayo’s father:—

      ——_del gran Favila (que centella
    significa) Pelayo, marcial llama,
  restauro el Leones reyno con aquella
    luz que alcanzo la victoriosa rama_.

                                               Coro de las Musas, p. 102.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The Queen too, Egilona,—
  Was she not married to the enemy,
  The Moor, the Misbeliever?_—V. p. 50.

For this fact there is the unquestionable testimony of Isidorus Pacensis.
_Per idem tempus in Æra 735, anno imperii ejus 9. Arabum 97. Abdalaziz
omnem Hispaniam per tres annos sub censuario jugo pacificans, cum Hispali
divitiis et honorum fascibus cum Regina Hispaniæ in conjugio copulata,
filias Regum ac Principum pellicatas, et imprudenter distractas æstuaret,
seditione suorum facta, orationi instans, consilio Ajub, occiditur;
atque eo Hispaniam retinente, mense impleto, Alahor in regno Hesperiæ
per principalia jussa succedit, cui de morte Abdallaziz ita edicitur. ut
quasi consilio Egilonis Regiæ conjugis quondam Ruderici regis, quam sibi
sociaberat, jugum Arabicum a sua cervice conaretur avertere, et regnum in
vasum Hiberiæ sibimet retemptare._—Espana Sagrada, t. viii. 302.

Florez relates the story in the words of the old translation of an Arabic
original imputed to Rasis. “When Belazin, the son of Muza, remained for
Lord of Spain, and had ordered his affairs right well, they told him
tidings of Ulaca, who had been the wife of King D. Rodrigo, that she was
a right worthy dame, and right beautiful, and of a great lineage, and
that she was a native of Africa; whereupon he sent for her, and ordered
that beasts should be given her, and much property, and men-servants and
maid-servants, and all things that she could require, till she could
come to him. And they brought her unto him, and when he saw her, he was
well pleased with her, and said, Ulaca, tell me of thy affairs, and
conceal nothing from me; for thou knowest I may do with thee according
to my will, being my captive. And when she heard this, it increased the
grief which she had in her heart, and her sorrow was such, that she had
well nigh fallen dead to the ground, and she replied weeping and said,
Baron, what wouldst thou know more of my affairs? For doth not all the
world know, that I, a young damsel, being married with King D. Rodrigo,
was with him Lady of Spain, and dwelt in honour and in all pleasure,
more than I deserved; and therefore it was God’s will that they should
endure no longer. And now I am in dishonour greater than ever was dame
of such high state: For I am plundered, and have not a single palm of
inheritance; and I am a captive, and brought into bondage. I also have
been mistress of all the land that I behold. Therefore, Sir, have pity
upon my misfortunes; and in respect of the great lineage which you know
to be mine, suffer not that wrong or violence be offered me by any one;
and, Sir, if it be your grace you will ransom me. There are men I know
who would take compassion on me, and give you for me a great sum. And
Belazin said to her, Be certain that so long as I live, you shall never
go from my house. And Ulaca said, What then, Sir, would you do with me?
and Belazin said, I will that you should remain in my house, and there
you shall be free from all wretchedness, with my other wives. And she
said, In an evil day was I born, if it is to be true that I have been
wife of the honoured king of Spain, and now have to live in a stranger’s
house as the concubine and captive of another! And I swear unto God,
whose pleasure it is to dismay me thus, that I will rather seek my own
death as soon as I can; for I will endure no more misery, seeing that by
death I can escape it. And when Belazin saw that she thus lamented, he
said to her, Good dame, think not that we have concubines, but by our
law we may have seven wives, if we can maintain them, and therefore you
shall be my wife, like each of the others; and all things which your
law requires that a man should do for his wife, will I do for you; and
therefore you have no cause to lament; and be sure that I will do you
much honour, and will make all who love me serve and honour you, and you
shall be mistress of all my wives. To this she made answer and said, Sir,
offer me no violence concerning my law, but let me live as a Christian:
And to this Belazin was nothing loth and he granted it, and his marriage
was performed with her according to the law of the Moors; and every day
he liked her more, and did her such honour that greater could not be.
And it befell that Belazin being one day with Ulaca, she said to him,
Sir, do not think it ill if I tell you of a thing in which you do not act
as if you knew the custom. And he said, Wherein is it that I err? Sir,
said she, because you have no crown, for no one was ever confirmed in
Spain, except he had a crown upon his head. He said, This which you say
is nothing, for we have it not of our lineage, neither is it our custom
to wear a crown. She said, many good reasons are there why a crown is
of use, and it would injure you nothing, but be well for you, and when
you should wear your crown upon your head, God would know you and others
also by it: And she said, You would look full comely with it, and it
would be great nobleness to you, and be right fitting, and you should
wear in it certain stones, which will be good for you, and avail you.
And in a short time afterwards Belazin went to dwell at Seville, and he
carried Ulaca with him, and she took of her gold, and of her pearls, and
of her precious stones, which she had many and good, and made him the
noblest crown that ever was seen by man, and gave it him, and bade him
take it, and place it where it should be well kept; and Ulaca, as she
was a woman of understanding and prudence, ordered her affairs as well
as Belazin, so that he loved her much, and did great honour to her, and
did many of those things which she desired; so that he was well pleased
with the Christians, and did them much good, and showed favour unto
them.”—_Memorias de las Reynas Catholicas_, 1. p. 28.

The issue of this was fatal to Abdalaziz. In Albucacim’s history, it is
said that he was converted by this Christian wife, and for that reason
put to death by his father. Others have supposed that by means of her
influence he was endeavouring to make himself King of Spain, independent
of the Caliph. A characteristic circumstance is added. Egilona was very
desirous to convert her husband, and that she might at least obtain from
him some mark of outward respect for her images, made the door of the
apartment in which she kept them, so low, that he could not enter without
bowing.—_Bleda_, p. 214.

  _Deixam a Abdalaziz, que de Bellona
    Mamara o leite, por Rector da Hesperia;
  Este caza co a inclyta Egilona,
    Mulher de Dom Rodrigo, (o gram miseria!)
  Tomou Coroa de ouro, e a Matrona
    Lhe deu para a tomar larga materia,
  Foi notado à misera raynha
  Cazarse com hum Mouro tarn asinha._

                                           Destruiçam de Espanha, p. 237.

The Character of this Queen is beautifully conceived by the author of
Count Julian:—

  Beaming with virtue inaccessible
  Stood Egilona; for her lord she lived,
  And for the heavens that raised her sphere so high:
  All thoughts were on her—all beside her own.
  Negligent as the blossoms of the field,
  Arrayed in candour and simplicity,
  Before her path she heard the streams of joy
  Murmur her name in all their cadences,
  Saw them in every scene, in light, in shade,
  Reflect her image; but acknowledged them
  Hers most complete when flowing from her most.
  All things in want of her, herself of none,
  Pomp and dominion lay beneath her feet
  Unfelt and unregarded: now behold
  The earthly passions war against the heavenly!
  Pride against love; ambition and revenge
  Against devotion and compliancy—
  Her glorious beams adversity hath blunted,
  And coming nearer to our quiet view,
  The original clay of coarse mortality
  Hardens and flaws around her.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _One day of bitter and severe delight._—VI. p. 60.

I have ventured to borrow this expression from the tragedy of Count
Julian. Nothing can be finer than the passage in which it occurs.

  _Abdalazis._ Thou lovest still thy country?

  _Julian._ Abdalazis,
            All men with human feelings love their country.
            Not the high-born or wealthy man alone,
            Who looks upon his children, each one led
            By its gay hand-maid, from the high alcove,
            And hears them once a-day; not only he
            Who hath forgotten, when his guest inquires
            The name of some far village all his own;
            Whose rivers bound the province, and whose hills
            Touch the last cloud upon the level sky:
            No; better men still better love their country.
            ’Tis the old mansion of their earliest friends,
            The chapel of their first and best devotions;
            When violence, or perfidy, invades,
            Or when unworthy lords hold wassail there,
            And wiser heads are drooping round its moats,
            At last they fix their steady and stiff eye
            There, there alone—stand while the trumpet blows,
            And view the hostile flames above its towers
            Spire, with a bitter and severe delight.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Restoring in thy native line, O Prince,
  The sceptre to the Spaniard._—VII. p. 71.

This was a favourite opinion of Garibays, himself a Biscayan, but he has
little better proof for it than the fact, that Gothic names disappeared
with Roderick, and that Pelayo and his successors drew their nomenclature
from a different stock. He says, indeed, that ancient writings are not
wanting to support his opinion. Some rude commentator has written against
this assertion in the margin of my copy, _miente Garibay_; and I am
afraid the commentator is the truer man of the two.

There is a fabulous tale of Pelayo’s birth, which, like many other
tales of no better authority, has legends and relics to support it. The
story, according to Dr. D. Christoval Lozano, in his history of Los
Reyes Nuevos de Toledo, is this. Luz, niece to Egilona, and sister of
Roderick, dwelt at Toledo, in the palace of King Egica. Duke Favila, her
father’s brother, fell in love with her, and came from his residence in
Cantabria to ask her in marriage, expecting to find no other obstacle
than the dispensable one of consanguinity. But it so happened, that
the King was wooing Luz to become his concubine; her refusal made him
jealous, as he could not conceive that it proceeded from any cause
except love for another, and as his temper and power were not to be
provoked without danger, Favila dared not openly make his suit. He and
his mistress therefore met in private, and plighted their vows before an
image of the Virgin. The consequences soon became apparent,—the more so,
because, as Dr Lozano assures us, there were at that time no fashions
to conceal such things,—_Y mas que en aquella era no se avian inventado
los guarda-infantes_. The king observed the alteration in her shape, and
placed spies upon her, meaning to destroy the child and punish the mother
with the rigour of the law, death by fire being the punishment for such
an offence. Luz was well aware of the danger. She trusted her _Camarera_
and one servant: They made an ark: She herself, as soon as the infant was
born, threw water in his face, and baptised him by the name of Pelayo: a
writing was placed with him in the ark, requesting that whoever should
find it would breed up the boy with care, for he was of good lineage.
Money enough was added to support him for eight years, and the ark was
then launched upon the Tagus, where it floated down the stream all night,
all day, and all the following night. On the second morning it grounded
near Alcantara, and was found by Grafeses, who happened to be Luz’s
uncle. The king’s suspicion being confirmed by the sudden alteration in
the lady’s appearance, he used every means to detect her, but without
avail; he even ordered all children to be examined who had been born
in or around Toledo within three months, and full enquiry to be made
into the circumstances of their births: To the astonishment of later
historians, 35,000 of that age were found, and not one among them of
suspicious extraction. The tale proceeds in the ordinary form of romance.
The lady is accused of incontinence, and to be burnt, unless a champion
defeats her accuser. Favila of course undertakes her defence, and of
course is victorious. A second battle follows with the same success, and
fresh combats would have followed, if a hermit had not brought the king
to repentance. Grafeses in due time discovers the secret, and restores
the child to his parents.

This fabulous chronicle seems to be the oldest written source of this
story, but some such tradition had probably long been current. The ark
was shown at Alcantara, in the convent of St. Benito, and a description
of it, with reasons why its authenticity should be admitted, may be found
in _Francisco de Pisa’s Description de Toledo_, l. iii. c. i.

       *       *       *       *       *

              _And in thy name,
  Accept the Crown of Thorns she proffers me._—VII. p. 72.

Godfrey was actually crowned with thorns in Jerusalem,—a circumstance
which has given rise to a curious question in heraldry,—thus curiously
stated and commented by Robert Barret, in that part of his long poem
which relates to this Prince:—

  [Sidenote: To free man from Hell.]

    A Prince religious, if ever any,
  Considering the age wherein he lived,
  Vice-hater great, endued with virtues many,
  True humilized, void of mundane pride;
  For though he now created were great king,
  Yet would he not as royal pomp requires,
  Encrowned be with crownet glistering
  Of gold and gems to mundains vain desires;
  But with a pricking, pricking crown of thorn,
  Bearing thereto a Christian reverence,
  Sith Heaven’s King, man’s-Redeemer, did not scorn
  To wear such crown within that city’s fence,
  When as, cross-loden, humblely he went,
  All cowring under burden of that wood,
  To pay the pain of man’s due punishment,
  And free from Pluto’s bands Prometheus brood.

  [Sidenote: The foolishness of Heralds.]

    By reas’n of Godfrey’s great humility
  Refusing golden-crownets dignity,
  Some blundering in world-witted heraldry,
  Not knowing how t’ distinguish vertues trye,
  Do question make this Christian king to set
  In catalogue of gold-diademed kings;
  Regarding glitter of the external jet,
  And not true garnish of th’ internal things;
  Th’ internal virtues, soul’s sweet ornaments,
  So pleasing to th’ Eternal’s sacred eyes,
  In angels chore consorting sweet concents
  Of heavenly harmony ’bove christal skies.
  But we, _è contra_, him not only deem
  A Christian king, but perfect Christian king,
  A christal fanal, lamping light divine
  To after-comer kings, world emp’rizing.
  For he, religious prince, did not despise
  The Heaven-sent gift to be anointed king,
  But disesteem’d the mundane pompous guise
  Tickling the hearts of princes monarching.

  [Sidenote: Annotacion.]

    Potentates regard this heaven-aspiring Prince,
  Not priding, as up proves his dignity;
  High throned kings aspect the starred fence
  Of this true map of true kings royalty;
  Not Nembrothizing in cloud-kissing towers,
  Not Semiramizing in prides palaces,
  Not Neronizing in all sanguine hours,
  Not Heliogabalizing in lusts lees;
  But Joshuadizing in his Christian camp,
  And Judithizing in his Salem’s seat,
  And Davidizing in his Sion’s stamp,
  And Solomonizing in all sacred heat.

       *       *       *       *       *

            _Outwatching for her sake
  The starry host, and ready for the work
  Of day before the sun begins his course._—VIII. p. 78.

Garci Fernandez Manrique surprised the Moors so often during the night,
that he was called Garci Madrugi,—an appellation of the same import as
Peep-of-day-boy. He founded the convent of St. Salvador de Palacios de
Benagel for Benedictine nuns, and when he called up his merry men, used
to say, Up, sirs, and fight, for my nuns are up and praying; _Levantaos
Señores à pelear, que mis monjas son levantadas a rezar_.—_Pruebas de la
Hist. de la Casa de Lara_, p. 42.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Hermesind._—X. p. 88.

Mariana derives the name of Hermesinda from the reverence in which
Hermenegild was held in Spain,—a prince who has been sainted for having
renounced the Homooisian creed, and raised a civil war against his father
in favour of the Homoousian one. It is not a little curious when the fate
of D. Carlos is remembered, that his name should have been inserted in
the Kalendar, at the solicitation of Philip II.! From the same source
Mariana derives the names Hermenisinda, Armengol, Ermengaud, Hermegildez,
and Hermildez. But here, as Brito has done with Pelayo, he seems to
forget that the name was current before it was borne by the Saint, and
the derivations from it as numerous. Its root may be found in Herman,
whose German name will prevail over the latinized Arminius.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The glen where Tagus rolls between his rocks._—X. p. 95.

The story of the Enchanted Tower at Toledo is well known to every English
reader. It neither accorded with the character of my poem to introduce
the fiction, nor would it have been prudent to have touched upon it after
Walter Scott. The account of the Archbishop Rodrego, and of Abulcacim,
may be found in his notes. What follows here is translated from the
fabulous chronicle of King Don Rodrigo.

“And there came to him the keepers of the house which was in Toledo,
which they called Pleasure with Pain, the Perfect Guard, the secret
of that which is to come; and it was called also by another name, the
Honour of God. And these keepers came before the king, and said unto
him, Sire, since God hath done thee such good, and such favour as that
thou shouldest be king of all Spain, we come to require of thee that
thou wouldst go to Toledo, and put thy lock upon the house which we are
appointed to keep. And the king demanded of them what house was that, and
wherefore he should put upon it his lock. And they said unto him, Sire,
we will willingly tell thee that thou mayest know. Sire, true it is, that
when Hercules the Strong came into Spain, he made in it many marvellous
things in those places where he understood that they might best remain;
and thus when he was in Toledo he understood well that that city would
be one of the best in Spain; and saw that the kings who should be Lords
of Spain, would have more pleasure to continue dwelling therein than in
any other part; and seeing that things would come after many ways, some
contrariwise to others, it pleased him to leave many enchantments made,
to the end that after his death his power and wisdom might by them be
known. And he made in Toledo a house, after the manner which we shall
now describe, with great mastership, so that we have not heard tell of
any other such: The which is made after this guise. There are four lions
of metal under the foundation of this house: and so large are they that
a man sitting upon a great horse on the one side, and another in like
manner upon the other, cannot see each other, so large are the lions.
And the house is upon them, and it is entirely round, and so lofty that
there is not a man in the world who can throw a stone to the top: And
many have attempted this, but they never could. And there is not a man
of this age who can tell you by what manner this house was made, neither
whose understanding can reach to say in what manner it is worked within.
But of that which we have seen without, we have to tell thee. Certes in
the whole house there is no stone bigger than the hand of a man, and the
most of them are of jasper and marble, so clear and shining that they
seem to be crystal. They are of so many colours that we do not think
there are two stones in it of the same colour; and so cunningly are they
joined one with another, that if it were not for the many colours, you
would not believe but that the whole house was made of one entire stone.
And the stones are placed in such manner one by another, that seeing
them you may know all the things of the battles aforepast, and of great
feats. And this is not by pictures, but the colour of the stones, and the
great art of joining one with the other, make it appear thus. And sans
doubt he who should wish to know the truth of the great deeds of arms
which have been wrought in the world, might by means of that house know
it. See now in what manner Hercules was wise and fortunate, and right
valiant, and acquainted with the things which were to come. And when he
was Lord of Spain, he made it after this guise, which we have related
unto you. And he commanded that neither King nor Lord of Spain who might
come after him, should seek to know that which was within; but that every
one instead should put a lock upon the doors thereof, even as he himself
did, for he first put on a lock, and fastened it with his key. And after
him there has been no King nor Lord in Spain, who has thought it good
to go from his bidding; but every one as he came put on each his lock,
according to that which Hercules appointed. And now that we have told
thee the manner of the house, and that which we know concerning it, we
require of thee that thou shouldest go thither, and put on thy lock on
the gates thereof, even as all the kings have done who have reigned in
Spain until this time. And the King Don Rodrigo hearing the marvellous
things of this house, and desiring to know what there was within, and
moreover being a man of a great heart, wished to know of all things how
they were and for what guise. He made answer, that no such lock would
he put upon that house, and that by all means he would know what there
was within. And they said unto him, Sire, you will not do that which has
never been done in Spain; be pleased therefore to observe that which
the other kings have observed. And the king said unto them, Leave off
now, and I will appoint the soonest that may be how I may go to see this
house, and then I will do that which shall seem good. And he would give
them no other reply. And when they saw that he would give them no other
reply, they dared not persist farther, and they dispeeded themselves of
him, and went their way.

“Now it came to pass that the King Don Rodrigo called to mind how he had
been required to put a lock upon the doors of the house which was in
Toledo, and he resolved to carry into effect that unto which his heart
inclined him. And one day he gathered together all the greatest knights
of Spain, who were there with him, and went to see this house, and he
saw that it was more marvellous than those who were its keepers had told
him, and as he was thus beholding it, he said, Friends, I will by all
means see what there is in this house which Hercules made. And when the
great Lords who were with him heard this, they began to say unto him that
he ought not to do this; for there was no reason why he should do that
which never king nor Cæsar, that had been Lord of Spain since Hercules,
had done until that time. And the king said unto them, Friends, in this
house there is nothing but what may be seen. I am well sure that the
enchantments cannot hinder me, and this being so, I have nothing to fear.
And the knights said, Do that, sir, which you think good, but this is not
done by our counsel. And when he saw that they were all of a different
accord from that which he wished to do, he said, Now gainsay me as you
will, for let what will happen I shall not forbear to do my pleasure.
And forthwith he went to the doors, and ordered all the locks to be
opened; and this was a great labour, for so many were the keys and the
locks, that if they had not seen it, it would have been a great thing to
believe. And after they were unlocked, the king pushed the door with his
hand, and he went in, and the chief persons who were there with him, as
many as he pleased, and they found a hall made in a square, being as wide
on one part as on the other, and in it there was a bed richly furnished,
and there was laid in that bed the statue of a man, exceeding great, and
armed at all points, and he had the one arm stretched out, and a writing
in his hand. And when the king and those who were with him saw this bed,
and the man who was laid in it, they marvelled what it might be, and they
said, Certes, that bed was one of the wonders of Hercules and of his
enchantments. And when they saw the writing which he held in his hand,
they showed it to the king, and the king went to him, and took it from
his hand, and opened it and read it, and it said thus, Audacious one,
thou who shalt read this writing, mark well what thou art, and how great
evil through thee shall come to pass, for even as Spain was peopled and
conquered by me, so by thee shall it be depopulated and lost. And I say
unto thee, that I was Hercules the strong, he who conquered the greater
part of the world, and all Spain; and I slew Geryon the Great, who was
Lord thereof; and I alone subdued all these lands of Spain, and conquered
many nations, and brave knights, and never any one could conquer me, save
only Death. Look well to what thou doest, for from this world thou wilt
carry with thee nothing but the good which thou hast done.

“And when the king had read the writing he was troubled, and he wished
then that he had not begun this thing. Howbeit he made semblance as if
it touched him not, and said that no man was powerful enough to know
that which is to come, except the true God. And all the knights who
were present were much troubled because of what the writing said; and
having seen this they went to behold another apartment, which was so
marvellous, that no man can relate how marvellous it was. The colours
which were therein were four. The one part of the apartment was white
as snow; and the other, which was over-against it, was more black than
pitch; and another part was green as a fine emerald, and that which was
over-against it was redder than fresh blood; and the whole apartment was
bright and more lucid than crystal, and it was so beautiful, and the
colour thereof so fine, that it seemed as if each of the sides were made
of a single stone, and all who were there present said that there was not
more than a single stone in each, and that there was no joining of one
stone with another, for every side of the whole four appeared to be one
solid slab; and they all said, that never in the world had such a work
as this elsewhere been made, and that it must be held for a remarkable
thing, and for one of the wonders of the world. And in all the apartments
there was no beam, nor any work of wood, neither within nor without; and
as the floor thereof was flat, so also was the ceiling. Above these were
windows, and so many, that they gave a great light, so that all which
was within might be seen as clearly as that which was without. And when
they had seen the apartment how it was made, they found in it nothing
but one pillar, and that not very large, and round, and of the height of
a man of mean stature: and there was a door in it right cunningly made,
and upon it was a little writing in Greek letters, which said, Hercules
made this house in the year of Adam three hundred and six. And when the
king had read these letters, and understood that which they said, he
opened the door, and when it was opened they found Hebrew letters which
said, This house is one of the wonders of Hercules; and when they had
read these letters they saw a niche made in that pillar, in which was a
coffer of silver, right subtly wrought, and after a strange manner, and
it was gilded, and covered with many precious stones, and of great price,
and it was fastened with a lock of mother-of-pearl. And this was made in
such a manner that it was a strange thing, and there were cut upon it
Greek letters which said, It cannot be but that the king, in whose time
this coffer shall be opened, shall see wonders before his death: thus
said Hercules the Lord of Greece and of Spain, who knew some of those
things which are to come. And when the king understood this, he said,
Within this coffer lies that which I seek to know, and which Hercules
has so strongly forbidden to be known. And he took the lock and broke
it with his hands, for there was no other who durst break it: and when
the lock was broken, and the coffer open, they found nothing within,
except a white cloth folded between two pieces of copper; and he took
it and opened it, and found Moors pourtrayed therein with turbans, and
banners in their hands and with their swords round their necks, and their
bows behind them at the saddle-bow, and over these figures were letters
which said, When this cloth shall be opened, and these figures seen, men
apparelled like them shall conquer Spain and shall be Lords thereof.

“When the King Don Rodrigo saw this he was troubled at heart, and all
the knights who were with him. And they said unto him, Now, sir, you
may see what has befallen you, because you would not listen to those
who counselled you not to pry into so great a thing, and because you
despised the kings who were before you, who all observed the commands of
Hercules, and ordered them to be observed, but you would not do this.
And he had greater trouble in his heart than he had ever before felt;
howbeit he began to comfort them all, and said to them, God forbid that
all this which we have seen should come to pass. Nevertheless, I say,
that if things must be according as they are here declared, I could not
set aside that which hath been ordained, and, therefore, it appears that
I am he by whom this house was to be opened, and that for me it was
reserved. And seeing it is done, there is no reason that we should grieve
for that which cannot be prevented, if it must needs come. And let come
what may, with all my power I will strive against that which Hercules has
foretold, even till I take my death in resisting it: and if you will all
do in like manner, I doubt whether the whole world can take from us our
power. But if by God it hath been appointed, no strength and no art can
avail against his Almighty power, but that all things must be fulfilled
even as to him seemeth good. In this guise they went out of the house,
and he charged them all that they should tell no man of what they had
seen there, and ordered the doors to be fastened in the same manner as
before. And they had hardly finished fastening them, when they beheld an
eagle fall right down from the sky, as if it had descended from Heaven,
carrying a burning fire-brand, which it laid upon the top of the house,
and began to fan it with its wings: and the fire-brand with the motion
of the air began to blaze, and the house was kindled and burnt as if
it had been made of rosin; so strong and mighty were the flames and so
high did they blaze up, that it was a great marvel, and it burnt so long
that there did not remain the sign of a single stone, and all was burnt
into ashes. And after a while there came a great flight of birds small
and black, who hovered over the ashes, and they were so many, that with
the fanning of their wings, all the ashes were stirred up, and rose into
the air, and were scattered over the whole of Spain; and many of those
persons upon whom the ashes fell, appeared as if they had been besmeared
with blood. All this happened in a day, and many said afterwards, that
all those persons upon whom those ashes fell, died in battle when Spain
was conquered and lost; and this was the first sign of the destruction of
Spain.”—_Chronica del Rey D. Rodrigo_, Part I. c. 28. 30.

“_Y siendo verdad lo que escriven nuestros Chronistas, y el Alcayde
Tarif, las letras que en este Palacio fueron halladas, no se ha de
entender que fueron puestas por Hercules en su fundacion, ni por algun
nigromantico, como algunos piensan, pues solo Dios sabe las cosas por
venir, y aquellos aquien el es servido revelarlas: bien puede ser que
fuessen puestas por alguna santa persona aquien nuestro Señor lo oviesse
revelado y mandado; como revelo el castigo que avia de suceder del
diluvio general en tiempo de Noe, que fue pregonero de la justicia de
Dios; y el de las ciudades de Sodoma y Gomorra a Abraham._”—Fran. de
Pisa, Descr. de Toledo, l. 2. c. 31.

The Spanish ballad upon the subject, fine as the subject is, is flat as a
flounder:—

  _De los nobilissimos Godos
  que en Castilla avian reynado
  Rodrigo rey no el postrero
  de los reyes que han passado:
  en cuyo tiempo los Moros
  todo Espana avian ganado,
  sino fuera las Asturias
  que defendio Don Pelayo
  En Toledo esta Rodrigo
  al comienço del reynado;
  vinole gran voluntad
  de ver lo que esta cerrado
  en la torre que esta alli,
  antigua de muchos años.
  En esta torre los reyes
  cada uno hecho un canado,
  porque lo ordenara ansi
  Hercules el afamado,
  que gano primero a España
  de Gerion gran tirano.
  Creyo el rey que avia en la torre
  gran thesoro alli guardado;
  la torre fue luego abierta
  y quitados los canados;
  no ay en ella cosa alguna,
  sola una caxa han hallado.
  El rey la mandara abrir;
  un paño dentro se ha hallado,
  con unas letras latinas
  que dizen en Castellano,
  Quando aquestas cerraduras
  que cierran estos canados,
  fueren abiertas y visto
  lo en el paño debuxado,
  España sera perdida,
  y toda ella asolada;
  ganaran la gente estrana
  como aqui est an figurados,
  los rostros muy denegridos,
  los braços arremangados,
  muchas colores vestidas,
  en las cabecas tocados,
  alçadas traeran sus señas
  en cavallos cavalgando,
  largas lanças en sus manos,
  con espadas en su lado.
  Alarabes se diran,
  y de aquesta tierra estraños;
  perderase toda España,
  que nada no aura fincado.
  El rey con sus ricos hombres
  todos se avian espantado,
  quando vieron las figuras
  y letras que hemos contado;
  buelven a cerrar la torre,
  quedo el rey muy angustiado._

     Romances nuevamente sacados por Lorenço de Sepulveda, ff. 160. 1564.

Juan Yague de Salas relates a singular part of this miracle, which I have
not seen recorded any where but in his very rare and curious poem:—

  _Cantò como rompidos los candados
  De la lobrega cueva, y despedidas
  De sus senos obscuros vozes tristes
  No bien articuladas, si a remiendos,
  Repetidas adentro por el ayre,
  Y una mas bronca se escucho que dize,
  Desdichado Rey Ro (y acaba digo,
  Quedando la R submersa entre piçarras)
  La Coro perderas, y el Man, y el Ce,
  No dixo el na, ni el do, ni el tro, no dixo;
  Almenos no se oyo, si bien oyose
  Por lascivo tirano, y por sobervio,
  Que ya permite el cielo que el de Meca
  Castigue por tu causa el Reyno Godo,
  Por solo que lo riges con mal modo._

                                            Los Amantes de Teruel, p. 29.

The _Chronica General del Rey Don Alfonso_ gives a singular account of
the first inhabitant of this fatal spot:—

“There was a king who had to name Rocas; he was of the east country from
Edom, wherein was Paradise, and for the love of wisdom he forsook his
kingdom, and went about the world seeking knowledge. And in a country
between the east and the north he found seventy pillars; thirty were of
brass, thirty of marble, and they lay upon the ground, and upon them was
written all knowledge and the nature of things. These Rocas translated,
and carried with him the book in which he had translated them, by which
he did marvels. He came to Troy when the people under Laomedon were
building the city, and seeing them he laughed. They asked him why, and
he replied, that if they knew what was to happen, they would cease from
their work. Then they took him and led him before Laomedon, and Laomedon
asked him for why he had spoken these words, and Rocas answered, that
he had spoken truth, for the people should be put to the sword, and the
city be destroyed by fire. Wherefore the Trojans would have slain him,
but Laomedon, judging that he spake from folly, put him in prison to see
if he would repent. He, fearful of death, by his art sent a sleep upon
the guards, and filed off his irons, and went his way. And he came to the
seven hills by the Tyber, and there upon a stone he wrote the letters
Roma, and Romulus found them, and gave them as a name to his city,
because they bore a resemblance to his own.

“Then went King Rocas westward, and he entered Spain, and went round
it and through it, till coming to the spot where Toledo stands, he
discovered that it was the central place of the country, and that one
day a city should there be built, and there he found a cave into which
he entered. There lay in it a huge dragon, and Rocas in fear besought
the dragon not to hurt him, for they were both creatures of God. And
the dragon took such love towards him, that he always brought him part
of his food from the chase, and they dwelt together in the cave. One
day an honourable man of that land, by name Tartus, was hunting in that
mountain, and he found a bear, and the bear fled into the cave, and Rocas
in fear addressed him as he had done the dragon, and the bear quietly lay
down, and Rocas fondled his head, and Tartus following, saw Rocas how his
beard was long, and his body covered with hair, and he thought it was a
wild man, and fitted an arrow to his bow, and drew the string. Then Rocas
besought him in the name of God not to slay him, and obtained security
for himself and the bear under his protection. And when Tartus heard how
he was a king, he invited him to leave that den and return with him, and
he would give him his only daughter in marriage, and leave him all that
he had. By this the dragon returned. Tartus was alarmed, and would have
fled, but Rocas interfered, and the dragon threw down half an ox, for he
had devoured the rest, and asked the stranger to stop and eat. Tartus
declined the invitation, for he must be gone. Then said Rocas to the
dragon, My friend, I must now leave you, for we have sojourned together
long enough. So he departed, and married, and had two sons, and for love
of the dragon he built a tower over the cave, and dwelt there. After
his death, one of his sons built another, and King Pirros added more
building, and this was the beginning of Toledo.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Redeemed Magdalen._—X. p. 97.

Lardner published a letter to Jonas Hanway, showing why houses for the
reception of penitent harlots ought not to be called Magdalen Houses;
Mary Magdalen not being the sinner recorded in the 7th chapter of Luke,
but a woman of distinction and excellent character, who laboured under
some bodily infirmity, which our Lord miraculously healed.

In the Shibboleth of Jean Despagne, is an article thus entitled: _De
Marie Magdelaine laquelle faussement on dit avoir este femme de mauvaise
vie: Le tort que luy font les Theologiens pour la plus part en leurs
sermons, en leurs livres; et specialement la Bible Angloise en l’Argument
du 7ᵉ chap. de S. Luc_.

“The injury,” says this Hugonot divine, “which the Romish church does to
another Mary, the sister of Lazarus, has been sufficiently confuted by
the orthodox. It has been ignorantly believed that this Mary, and another
who was of Magdala, and the sinner who is spoken of in the 7th of Luke,
are the same person, confounding the three in one. We have justified one
of the three, to wit, her of Bethany, the sister of Lazarus; but her of
Magdala we still defame, as if that Magdalen were the sinner of whom St.
Luke speaks.

“Nothing is more common in the mouth of the vulgar than the wicked
life of the Magdalen. The preachers who wish to confess souls that are
afflicted with horror at their sins, represent to them this woman as one
of the most immodest and dissolute that ever existed, to whom, however,
God has shown mercy. And, upon this same prejudice, which is altogether
imaginary, has been founded a reason why the Son of God having been
raised from the dead, appeared to Mary Magdalen before any other person;
for, say they, it is because she had greater need of consolation, having
been a greater sinner than the others.—He who wrote the Practice of
Piety places her with the greatest offenders, even with Manasses, one of
the wickedest of men: and to authorise this error the more, it has been
inserted in the Bible itself. For the argument to the 7th of Luke in the
English version says, that the woman whose sins were in greater number
than those of others,—the woman, who till then had lived a wicked and
infamous life, was Mary Magdalen. But, _1st_, The text gives no name to
this sinner: Where then has it been found? Which of the Evangelists, or
what other authentic writing, has taught us the proper name or surname of
the woman? For she who poured an ointment upon Christ (Matth. xxvi. John,
xii.) was not this sinner, nor Mary Magdalen, but a sister of Lazarus.
All these circumstances show that they are two different stories, two
divers actions, performed at divers times, in divers places, and by
divers persons. _2dly_, Where do we find that Mary Magdalen ever anointed
the feet of our Saviour? _3dly_, Where do we find that Mary Magdalen
had been a woman of evil life? The gospel tells us that she had been
tormented with seven devils or evil spirits, an affliction which might
happen to the holiest person in the world: But we do not see even the
shadow of a word there which marks her with infamy. Why then do we still
adhere to an invention not only fabulous, but injurious to the memory of
a woman illustrious in piety? We ought as well to beware of bearing false
witness against the dead as against the living.

“It is remarkable that neither the sinner (Luke, vii.) nor the adultress
who is spoken of in the 8th of John, are named in the sacred history, any
more than the thief who was converted on the cross. There are particular
reasons, beyond a doubt, and we may in part conjecture them, why the Holy
Spirit has abstained from relating the names of these great sinners,
although converted. It is not then for us to impose them; still less to
appropriate them to persons whom the Scripture does not accuse of any
enormous sins.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  _That Egyptian penitent._—X. p. 97.

St. Mary the Egyptian. This is one of those religious romances which may
probably have been written to edify the people without any intention of
deceiving them. Some parts of the legend are beautifully conceived. An
English Romanist has versified it in eight books, under the title of the
Triumph of the Cross, or Penitent of Egypt. Birmingham, 1776. He had
the advantage of believing his story,—which ought to have acted like
inspiration.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The dreadful tale!_—X. p. 97.

  _Amava el Rey la desigual Florinda
    En ser gentil, y desdeñosa dama,
  Que quiere amor, que quando un Rey se rinda
    Desdenes puedan resistir su llama.
  No fue de Grecia mas hermosa y linda
    La que le dio por su desdicha fama,
  Ni desde el Sagitario a Cynosura
  Se vio en tanto rigor tanta hermosura._

  _Creciò el amor como el desden crecia;
    Enojose el poder; la resistencia
  Se fue aumentando, pero no podia
    Sufrir un Rey sujeta competencia:
  Estendiose à furor la cortesia,
    Los terminos passo de la paciencia,
  Haziendo los mayores desengaños
  Las horas meses, y los meses años._

  _Cansado ya Rodrigo de que fuesse
    Teorica el amor, y intentos vanos,
  Sin que demostracion alguna huviesse,
    Puso su gusto en pratica de manos:
  Pues quien de tanto amor no le tuviesse
    Con los medios mas faciles y humanos,
  Como tendria entonces sufrimiento
  De injusta fuerça en el riqor violento?_

  _Ansias, congojas, lagrimas y vozes,
    Amenazas, amores, fuerça, injuria,
  Pruevan, pelean, llegan, dan ferozes
    Al que ama, rabia, al que aborrece, furia:
  Discurren los pronosticos velozes,
    Que ofrece el pensamiento aquien injuria;
  Rodrigo teme, y ama, y fuerça, y ella
  Quanto mas se resiste, està mas bella._

  _Ya viste de jazmines el desmayo
    Las eludas mexillas siempre hermosas,
  Ya la verguença del clavel de Mayo,
    Alexandrinas, y purpureas rosas:
  Rodrigo ya como encendido rayo,
    Que no respeta las sagradas cosas,
  Ni se ahoga en sus lagrimas, ni mueve
  Porque se abrasse, o se convierta en nieve._

  _Rindiose al fin la femenil flaqueza
    Al varonil valor y atrevimiento;
  Quedò sin lustre la mayor belleza
    Que es de una casta Virgen ornamento:
  Siguio à la injusta furia la tibieza.
    Apareciose el arrepentimiento,
  Que viene como sombra del pecado,
  Principios del castigo del culpado._

  _Fue con Rodrigo este mortal disgusto,
    Y quedò con Florinda la vengança,
  Que le propuso el echo mas injusto
    Que de muger nuestra memoria alcança:
  Dizese que no ver en el Rey gusto,
    Sino de tanto amor tanta mudança
  Fue la ocasion, que la muger gozada
  Mas siente aborrecida que forçada._

                                    Jerusalen Conquistada, l. 6. ff. 132.

Lope de Vega quotes scripture in proof of the opinion expressed in this
last couplet. 2 Kings, ch. xiii.

Old Barret tells the story as Ancient Pistol would have done:—

    “In Ulit’s time there regalized in Spain
  One Roderick, king from the Gothians race’t;
  Into whose secret heart with silent strain
  Instretcht the ’sturber of hart pudike chast,
  Him enamouravizing of a piece,
  A piece by Nature quaintly symmetrized,
  Enfayred with beauty as Helen fair of Greece:
  Count Julian’s daughter of bed-wedlockized,
  Ycleaped Caba; who in court surshined
  The rest, as Hesperus the dimmed stars.
  This piece the king in his Love’s-closet shrined,
  Survicting her by wile, gold, gems, or forced jars.”

It is thus related in the fabulous Chronicle:—“_Despues que el Rey ovo
descubierto su coraçon a la Cava, no era dia que la no requiriesse una
vez o dos, y ella se defendia con buena razon: empero al cabo como el Rey
no pensava cosa como en esto, un dia en la siesta embio con un donzel
suyo por la Cava; y ella vino a su mandado; y como en essa hora no avia
en toda su camara otro ninguno sino ellos todos tres, el cumplio con
ella todo lo que puso. Empero tanto sabed que si ella quisiera dar bozes
que bien fuera oyda de la reyna, mas callosse con lo que el Rey quiso
fazer_.”—P. 1. c. 172.

In this fabulous Chronicle Roderick’s fall is represented as the work of
his stars:—“_Y aunque a las vezes pensava el gran yerro en que tocava,
y en la maldad que su coraçon avia cometido, tanto era el ardor que
tenia que lo olvidava todo, y esto acarreava la malandança que le avia
de venir, y la destruycion de Espana que avia de aver comienço para se
hazer; y quiero vos dezir que su constelacion no podia escusar que esto
no passasse assi; y ya Dios lo avia dexado en su discrecion; y el por
cosa que fuesse on se podia arredrar que no topasse en ello._”—P. 1. c.
164.

“Certes,” says the fabulous Chronicler, “he was a Lord of greater bounty
than ever had been seen before his time.—He used to say, that if all the
world were his, he would rather lose it than one friend; for the world
was a thing, which if it were lost, might be recovered; but a friend
once lost could never be recovered for all the treasure in the world.
And because he was thus bountiful, all those of Spain were likewise; and
they had the fame of being the most liberal men in the world, especially
those of the lineage of the Goths. Never a thing was asked at his hands,
whether great or small, to which he could say no; and never king nor
other great lord asked aid of him that he denied, but gave them of his
treasures and of his people as much as they needed. And doubt not, but
that if fortune had not ordered that in his time the lineage of the Goths
should be cut off, and Spain destroyed, there was no king or emperor whom
he would not have brought into subjection; and if the whole world ought
to be placed in the power of one man, (speaking of worldly things,) there
never was, nor will be, a man deserving to possess it, save he alone. But
as envy is the beginning of all evil, and saw how great was the goodness
of this king, she never rested till she had brought about that things
should be utterly reversed, even till she had destroyed him. Oh what
great damage to the world will it be when God shall consent that so much
bounty, and courage, and frankness, and loyalty should be destroyed for
ever! All nations ought to clad themselves in wretched weeds one day in
the week to mourn for the flower of the world, and especially ought the
people of Spain to make such mourning.”—_Chronica del Rey Don Rodrigo_,
p. 1. c. 55.

And again, when the last battle is approaching, he praises the king:—“_Y
el Rey era el mas esforçado hombre de coraçon que nunca se oyo dezir: y
el mas franco de todo lo que podia aver; y preciava mas cobrar amigos
que no quanto tesoro pudiesse estar en su reyno, hasta el dia que creyo
el consejo del traydor del conde Don Julian; y a maravilla era buen
cavallero que al tiempo que el no era rey, no se hallava cavallero que a
la su bondad se ygualasse, y tanto sabed que sino por estas malandanças
que le vinieron, nunca cavallero al mundo de tales condiciones fue; que
nunca a el vino chico ni grande que del se partiesse despagado a culpa
suya_.”—P. 1. c. 213.

The manner in which Florinda calls upon her father to revenge her is
curiously expressed by Lope de Vega:—

  _Al escrivirle tiemblan pluma y mano,
    Llega el agravio, la piedad retira,
  Pues quanto escrive la vengança, tanto
  Quiere borrar de la verguença el llanto.
  No son menos las letras que soldados,
    Los ringlones yleras y esquadrones,
  Que al son de los suspiros van formados
    Haciendo las distancias las diciones:
  Los mayores caracteres, armados
    Navios, tiendas, maquinas, pendones;
  Los puntos, los incisos, los acentos
  Capitanes, Alferez y Sargentos._

  _Breve processo escrive, aunque el sucesso
    Significar quexosa determina,
  Pero en tan breve causa, en tal processo
    La perdicion de España se fulmina._

                                    Jerusalen Conquistada, l. 6. ff. 138.

I remember but one of the old poets who has spoken with compassion of
Florinda: It is the Portugueze Bras Garcia Mascarenhas, a writer who,
with many odd things in his poem, has some fine ones.

  _Refresca em Covilham a gente aflita,
  Nam se sabe que nome entam a honrava;
  Muyto deposis foy Cava Julia dita,
  Por nascer nella a desditada Cava.
  Nam a deslustra, antes a acredita
  Filha que a honra mais que hum Rey presava;
  Hespanha culpe a força sem desculpa,
  Nam culpe a bella, que nam teve culpa._

                                      Viriato Tragico, Canto ii. St. 118.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Wamba’s wars._—XII. p. 110.

In the valuable history of this king by a contemporary writer, the
following character of the French is given:—

“_Hujus igitur gloriosis temporibus, Galliarum terra altrix perfidiæ
infami denotatur elogio, quæ utique inæstimabili infidelitatis febre
vexata, genita a se infidelium depasceret membra. Quid enim non in illa
crudele vel lubricum? ubi conjuratorum conciliabulum, perfidiæ signum,
obscœnitas operum, fraus negotiorum, vænale judicium, et quod pejus
his omnibus est, contra ipsum Salvatorem nostrum et Dominum, Judæorum
blasphemantium prostibulum habebatur. Hæc enim terra suo, ut ita dixerim,
partu, perditionis suæ sibimet præparavit excidium, et ex ventris sui
generatione viperea eversionis suæ nutrivit decipulam. Etenim dum multo
jam tempore his febrium diversitatibus ageretur, subito in ea unius
nefandi capitis prolapsione turbo infidelitatis adsurgit, et conscensio
perfidiæ per unum ad plurimos transit._”—S. Julian, Hist. Wambæ, §
5.—Espana Sagrada, 6. 544.

       *       *       *       *       *

                    _The bath, the bed,
  The vigil._—XII. p. 111.

The Partidas have some curious matter upon this subject.

“Cleanliness makes things appear well to those who behold them, even
as propriety makes them seemly, each in its way. And therefore the
ancients held it good that knights should be made cleanly. For even as
they ought to have cleanliness within them in their manners and customs,
so ought they to have it without in their garments, and in the arms
which they wear. For albeit their business is hard and cruel, being
to strike and to slay; yet notwithstanding they may not so far forego
their natural inclinations, as not to be pleased with fair and goodly
things, especially when they wear them. For on one part they give joy and
delight, and on the other make them fearlessly perform feats of arms,
because they are aware that by them they are known, and that because of
them men take more heed to what they do. Therefore, for this reason,
cleanliness and propriety do not diminish the hardihood and cruelty which
they ought to have. Moreover, as is aforesaid, that which appears without
is the signification of what they have in their inclinations within. And
therefore the ancients ordained that the squire, who is of noble lineage,
should keep vigil the day before he receives knighthood. And after
mid-day the squires shall bathe him, and wash his head with their hands,
and lay him in the goodliest bed that may be. And there the knights shall
draw on his hose, and clothe him with the best garments that can be had.
And when the cleansing of the body has been performed, they shall do as
much to the soul, taking him to the church, where he is to labour in
watching and beseeching mercy of God, that he will forgive him his sins,
and guide him so that he may demean himself well in that order which
he is about to receive; to the end that he may defend his law, and do
all other things according as it behoveth him, and that he would be his
defender and keeper in all dangers and in all difficulties. And he ought
to bear in mind how God is powerful above all things, and can show his
power in them when he listeth, and especially in affairs of arms. For in
his hand are life and death, to give and to take away, and to make the
weak strong, and the strong weak. And when he is making this prayer, he
must be with his knees bent, and all the rest of the time on foot, as
long as he can bear it. For the vigil of knights was not ordained to be a
sport, nor for any thing else, except that they, and those who go there,
should pray to God to protect them, and direct them in the right way, and
support them, as men who are entering upon the way of death.”—_Part. ii.
Tit. 21. Ley 13._

“When the vigil is over, as soon as it is day, he ought first to hear
mass, and pray God to direct all his feats to his service. And afterwards
he who is to knight him shall come and ask him, if he would receive the
order of knighthood; and if he answereth yea, then shall it be asked him,
if he will maintain it as it ought to be maintained; and when he shall
have promised to do this, that knight shall fasten on his spurs, or order
some other knight to fasten them on, according to what manner of man he
may be, and the rank which he holdeth. And this they do to signify, that
as a knight putteth spurs on the right and on the left, to make his horse
gallop straight forward, even so he ought to let his actions be straight
forward, swerving on neither side. And then shall his sword be girt on
over his _brial_.—Formerly it was ordained that when noble men were made
knights, they should be armed at all points, as if they were about to
do battle. But it was not held good that their heads should be covered,
for they who cover their heads do so for two reasons: the one to hide
something there which hath an ill look, and for that reason they may well
cover them with any fair and becoming covering. The other reason is, when
a man hath done some unseemly thing of which he is ashamed. And this in
no wise becometh noble knights. For when they are about to receive so
noble and so honourable a thing as knighthood, it is not fitting that
they should enter into it with any evil shame, neither with fear. And
when they shall have girded on his sword, they shall draw it from out the
scabbard, and place it in his right hand, and make him swear these three
things: first, That he shall not fear to die for his faith, if need be;
secondly, For his natural Lord; thirdly, For his country; and when he
hath sworn this, then shall the blow on the neck be given him, in order
that these things aforesaid may come into his mind, saying, God guard him
to his service, and let him perform all that he hath promised; and after
this, he who hath conferred the order upon him, shall kiss him, in token
of the faith and peace and brotherhood which ought to be observed among
knights. And the same ought all the knights to do who are in that place,
not only at that time, but whenever they shall meet with him during that
whole year.”—_Part. ii. Tit. 21. Ley 14._

“The gilt spurs which the knights put on have many significations; for
the gold, which is so greatly esteemed, he puts upon his feet, denoting
thereby, that the knight shall not for gold commit any malignity or
treason, or like deed, that would detract from the honour of knighthood.
The spurs are sharp, that they may quicken the speed of the horse; and
this signifies that the knight ought to spur and prick on the people, and
make them virtuous; for one knight with his virtues is sufficient to make
many people virtuous, and on the other hand, he ought to prick a perverse
people to make them fearful.”—_Tirante il Blanco_, p. 1. C. 19. ff. 44.

The Hermit reads to Tirante a chapter from the _Arbor de battaglie_
explaining the origin of knighthood. The world, it is there said, was
corrupted, when God, to the intent that he might be loved, honoured,
served, and feared once more, chose out from every thousand men one who
was more amiable, more affable, more wise, more loyal, more strong, more
noble-minded, more virtuous, and of better customs than all the others:
And then he sought among all beasts for that which was the goodliest, and
the swiftest, and which could bear the greatest fatigue, and might be
convenient for the service of man; and he chose the horse, and gave him
to this man who was chosen from the thousand; and for this reason he was
called _cavallero_, because the best animal was thus joined to the most
noble man. And when Romulus founded Rome, he chose out a thousand young
men to be knights, and _furno nominati militi porche mille furono fatti
in un tempo cavalleri_.—P. 1. C. 14. ff. 40.

The custom which some kings had of knighting themselves is censured by
the Partidas.—P. ii. T. 21. L. 11. It is there said, that there must be
one to give, and another to receive the order. And a knight can no more
knight, than a priest can ordain himself.

“When the Infante Hernando of Castile was chosen king of Aragon, he
knighted himself on his coronation day:—_De que tots los Barons nobles ho
tengeren una gran maravella com el matex se feu cavaller, qui segons los
dessus dits deyen nenguno pot esser cavaller, sino dones nos fa cavaller
de ma de cavaller qui hage lorde de cavalleria_.”—Tomich. C. 47. ff. 68.

“The qualifications for a knight, cavallero, or horse-soldier, in the
barbarous stage of society, were three: _1st_, That he should be able
to endure fatigue, hardship, and privations. _2dly_, That he should
have been used to strike, that his blows might be the more deadly.
_3dly_, That he should be bloody-minded, and rob, hack, and destroy the
enemy without compunction. The persons, therefore, who were preferred,
were mountaineers, accustomed to hunting,—carpenters, blacksmiths,
stone-cutters, and butchers. But it being found that such persons would
sometimes run away, it was then discovered that they who were chosen for
cavaliers ought to have a natural sense of shame. And for this reason it
was appointed that they should be men of family.”—_Partida, ii. T. 21. L.
2. Vegetius, l. 1. c. 7._

The privileges of knighthood were at one time so great, that if the goods
of a knight were liable to seizure, they could not be seized where he
or his wife were present, nor even where his cloak or shield was to be
found.—_Part. ii. Tit. 21. Ley 23._

       *       *       *       *       *

              _The coated scales of steel
  Which o’er the tunic to his knees depend._—XII. p. 111.

Canciani (T. 3. p. 34.) gives a representation of Roland from the
porch of the Cathedral at Verona, which is supposed to have been built
about the beginning of the ninth century. The figure is identified
by the inscription on the sword, ... _Du-rin-dar-da_. The _lorica_,
which Canciani explains, _Vestica bellica maculis ferreis contexta_,
is illustrated by this figure. It is a coat or frock of _scale_-mail
reaching to the knees, and with half sleeves. The only hand which appears
is unarmed, as far as the elbow. The right leg also is unarmed, the other
leg and foot are in the same sort of armour as the coat. The end of a
loose garment appears under the mail. The shield reaches from the chin to
the middle of the leg, it is broad enough at the top to cover the breast
and shoulder, and slopes gradually off to the form of a long oval.

       *       *       *       *       *

        _At every saddle-bow
  A gory head was hung._—XIV. p. 127.

This picture frequently occurs in the Spanish Chronicles. Sigurd the
elder, Earl of Orkney, owed his death to a like custom. “Suddenly
clapping spurs to his horse, as he was returning home in triumph,
bearing, like each of his followers, one of these bloody spoils, a large
front tooth in the mouth of the head which hung dangling by his side, cut
the calf of his leg,—the wound mortified, and he died.—The Earl must
have been bare-legged.”—_Torfæus, quoted in Edmonston’s View of the
Zetland Islands_, vol. i. p. 33.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _In reverence to the priestly character._—XV. p. 135.

“At the synod of Mascou, laymen were enjoined to do honour to the
honourable clergy by humbly bowing the head, and uncovering it, if they
were both on horseback, and by alighting also if the clergyman were
a-foot.”—_Pierre de Marca._ _Hist. de Bearn_, l. i. ch. 18. § 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Whom not the spoils of Atabalipa
  Could satisfy insatiate._—XVI. p. 142.

Hernando de Soto,—the history of whose expedition to Florida by the Inca
Garcilaso, is one of the most delightful books in the Spanish language.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Nor wicker storehouse for the autumnal grain._—XVI. p. 144.

“Morales (8. 23. 3.), speaking of the Asturians, mentions with wonder
their chairs, furniture, and granaries of basket-work, ... _las sillas y
otras cosas de servicio recias y firmas que hacen entretexidas de mimbres
y varas de avellano. Y aun a me no me espantaba en aquella tierra tanto
esto como ver los graneros, que ellos llaman los horreos, fabricados
desta misma obra de varas entretexidas, y tan tapidas y de tanta firmeza,
que sufren gran carga como buenas paredes._”

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Covadonga._—XVI. p. 146.

The valley of Covadonga is thus described by the Conde de Saldueña;—and
the description is a fair specimen of his poem;—

  _Yace de Asturias, donde el Sol infante
    Sus montes con primeras luces baña,
  De Covadonga el sitio, que triunfante
    Cuna fue en que nacio la insigne España
  Vierte en el Sela liquidos cristales
    Con Buena y Deba, que de la montaña
  Deben la vida a la fragosa copa,
  A quien la antiguedad llamò de Europa._

  _Aqui la juventud de un bello llano
    Compite à flores, luces de la esphera;
  Y burlando el Invierno y el Verano
    Eterna vive en el la Primavera:
  Sobre sus glebas se derrama ufano
    El prodigioso cuerno de la Fiera
  De Amaltea, y aromas, y colores
  Confunden los matices con olores._

  _Robustos troncos, con pobladas ramas
    Vuelven el sitio rustica Alameda,
  Y del Sol no permiten a las llamas
    Lo espeso penetrar de la Arboleda:
  Pierden sus rayos las ardientes famas,
    Pues la frondosidad opuesta veda
  La luz al dia, y denso verde muro
  Crepusculo le viste al ayre puro._

  _Sigeiendo la ribera de Peonia
    Al Oriente Estival, y algo inclinado
  A la parte que mira al medio dia,
    Otro valle se vè mas dilatado:
  A la derecha de esta selva umbria
    Reynazo corre, que precipitado
  Va à dar à Bueña en liquidos abrazos
  Su pobre vena en cristalinos lazos._

  _Sin passar de Reynazo el successivo
    Curso, dexando presto su torrente,
  Con el cristal se encuentra fugitivo
    De Deba, a quien la Cueba dio la fuente:
  La admiracion aqui raro motivo
    Vè, formando la senda su corriente,
  Pues lo estrecho del sitio peñascoso
  Hace camino del licor undoso._

  _Hecho serpiente Deva del camino
    En circulo se enrosca tortuoso,
  Vomitando veneno cristalino
    En el liquido aljofar proceloso:
  En las orillas con vivaz destino,
    En tosigo se vuelve, que espumoso
  Inficiona lethal al pie ligero,
  Quando le pisa incanto el passagero._

  _Ya de este valle cierran las campañas,
    Creciendo de sus riscos la estatura,
  Desmesuradas tanto las montanas
    Que ofuscan ya del Sol la lumbre pura
  Son rusticos los lados, las entrañas
    Del valle visten siempre la hermosura
  Fronsidad el ayre, y de colores
  El suelo texe alfombra de primores._

  _Aunque los montes con espesas breñas
    El lado al sitio forman horroroso,
  Y contra su verdor desnudas peñas
    Compiten de lo llano lo frondoso;
  Pintados pajarillos dulces senas
    Al son del agua en trino sonoroso
  De ignorados idiomas en su canto
  Dan con arpados picos dulce encanto._

  _Lo ultimo de este valle la alta sierra
    De Covadonga ocupa, donde fuerte
  Se expone el Heroe al juego de la guerra,
    Sin temor negro ocaso de la suerte:
  Los que animosos este sitio encierra
    El ceño despreciando de la muerte,
  Su pecho encienden en la altiva llama
  Que no cabra en las trompas de la Fama._

  _De Diba en ella la preciosa fuente
    Al llano brota arroyos de cristales,
  Donde en pequena balsa su corriente
    Se detiene en suspensos manantiales
  Despues se precipita su torrente
    Quanto sus ondas enfreno neutrales,
  Con sonoroso ruido de la peña
  El curso de sus aguas se despeña._

  _Cierra todo este valle esta robusta
    Peña, donde la Cueva està divina,
  Que amenaza tajada a ser injusta
    Del breve llano formidable ruina:
  Parece quiere ser con saña adusta
    Seco padron, y fiera se destina
  A erigirse epitafio peñascoso,
  Sepultando su horror el sitio hermoso._

  _De piedra viva tan tremenda altura
    Que la vista al mirarla se estremece;
  Vasta grena se viste, y la hermosura
    De la fertilidad seca aborrece:
  Es tan desmesurada su estatura
    Que estrecha el ayre, y barbara parece
  Que quiere que la sirvan de Cimera
  Las fulminantes luces de la Esphera._

  _Como a dos picas en la peña dura
    Construye en circo una abertura rara,
  De una pica de alto, y dos de anchura,
    Rica de sombras su mansion avara:
  Ventana, ò boca de la cueva obscura
    Donde el Sol no dispensa su luz clara,
  Tan corta, que su centro tenebroso
  Aun no admite crepusculo dudoso._

  _En este sitio puez, donde compite
    La rustiquez con las pintadas flores,
  Puez la pelada sierra no permite
    A la vista, sino es yertos horrores:
  Por el contrario el llano que en si admite
    De los bellos matices los primores,
  Efecto siendo de naturaleza
  La union en lo fealdad, y la belleza._

  _A tiorba de cristal las dulces aves
    Corresponden en trinos amorosos,
  Vertiendo en blando son tonos suaves
    Ecos los ayres beben harmoniosos:
  Enmudecen su canto quando graves
    Bemoles gorgeando mas preciosos,
  Es maestro à la barbara Capilla
  El Ruyseñor, plumada maravilla._

  _Elige este distrito la Divina
    Providencia à lo grave de la hazaña,
  Pues aqui su justicia determina
    La monarquia fabricar de España:
  A las cortas reliquias, que à la ruina
    Reservò su piedad, enciende en saña
  Religiosa, que à Imperio sin regunda
  Abra futura llave Nuevo Mundo._

                                                     El Pelayo, Cant. ix.

Christoval de Mesa also describes the scene.

        _Acercandose mas, oye el sonido
  Del agua, con un manso y sordo ruydo,
  El qual era de quatro claras fuentes
    Que estavan de la ermita en las esquinas,
  Cuyas puras de plata aguas corrientes
    Mostro la blanca Luna cristalinas;
  Y corriendo por partes diferentes
    Eran de grande maravilla dignas,
  Y en qualquiera de todas por su parte
  Naturaleza se esmero con arte._

  _La una mana de una viva pena,
    Y qual si tambien fuera el agua viva,
  Parte la bana, y parte se despeña
    Con rapida corriente fugitiva:
  Despues distinto un largo arroyo enseña
    Que por diversas partes se derriba,
  Con diferente curso en vario modo,
  Hasta que a donde nace buelve todo._

  _Otra, que alta descubre ancho Orizonte,
    Como agraviada del lugar segundo
  Sustenta un monstruo que parece un monte,
    Qual Atlante que tiene en peso el mundo:
  Y como suele el caudaloso Oronte
    Dar el ancho tributo al mar profundo,
  Assi se arroja con furiosas ondas,
  Por las partes mas baxas y mas hondas._

  _Sale bramando la tercera fuente,
    Como un mar, y despues por el arena
  Va con tan mansa y placida corriente
    Tan grata y sossegada, y tan serena,
  Que a las fieras, ganados, peces, gente,
    Puede aplacar la sed, menguar la pena,
  Y da despues la buelta, y forma el cuerno
  De la Luna, imitando el curso eterno._

  _Nace la quarta de una gran caverna,
    Y siguiendo su prospera derrota
  Parece que por arte se govierna,
    Segun va destilando gota a gota:
  No vido antigua edad, edad moderna
    En region muy propinqua, o muy remota,
  Fuente tan peregrina, obra tan nueva,
  En gruta artificiosa, o tosca cueva._

                                  Restauracion de Espana, Lib. 2. ff. 27.

Morales has given a minute description both of the scenery and
antiquities of this memorable place. The Conde de Saldueña evidently had
it before him. I also am greatly indebted to this faithful and excellent
author.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The timid hare soon learns that she may trust
  The solitary penitent, and birds
  Will light upon the hermit’s harmless hand._—XVII. p. 154.

  _Con mil mortificaciones
    Sus passiones crucifican,
    Porque ellas de todo mueran
    Porque el alma solo viva.
  Hazen por huyr al ocio
    Cestos, y espuertas texidas
    De las hojas de las palmas
    Que alli crecen sin medida.
  Los arboles, y las plantas
    Porque a su gusto los sirvan
    Para esto vergas offrecen,
    De las mas tiernas que crian.
  Tambien de corcho hazen vasos
    Cuentas, Cruzes, y baxillas,
    Cuyo modo artificioso.
    El oro, y la plata embidian,
  Este los cilicios texe,
    Aquel haze disciplinas,
    El otro las calaveras
    En tosco palo esculpidas.
  Uno a sombra del aliso,
    Con la escritura divina
    Misticos sentidos saca
    De sus literales minas.
  Otro junto de la fuente
    Que murmura en dulce risa
    Mira en los libros las obras
    De los santos Eremitas.
  Qual cerca del arroyuelo
    Que saltando corre aprissa,
    Discurre como a la muerte
    Corre sin parar la vida.
  Qual con un Christe abraçado
    Besandole las heridas,
    Herido de sus dolores
    A sus pies llora, y suspira.
  Qual en las flores que al campo
    Entre esmeraldas matizan,
    Las grandezas soberanas
    Del immenso autor medita.
  Qual subida en las piçarras
    Que plata, y perlas distilan,
    Con lagrimas acrecienta
    Su corriente cristalina.
  Qual a las fieras convoca,
    Las aves llama, y combida
    A que al criador de todo
    Alaben agradecidas.
  Qual immoble todo el cuerpo,
    Con las acciones perdidas,
    Tiene arrebatada el alma
    Alla donde amando anima.
  Y de aquel extasi quando
    Parece que resuscita,
    Dize con razon que muere
    Porque no perdio lo vida.
  La fuerça de amor a vezes
    Sueño, y reposo los quita,
    Y saliendo de su estancia
    Buscan del Cielo la vista.
  Quando serena la noche
    Clara se descubre Cynthia,
    Bordando de azul, y plata
    El postrer mobil que pisa;
  Quando al oro de su hermano
    No puede tener embidia,
    Que llena del que le presta
    Haze de la noche dia;
  Del baculo acompañado
    El amante Anachorita
    Solo por las soledades
    Solitarios pasos guia.
  Y parando entre el silencio
    Las claras estrellas mira
    Que le deleitan por obra
    De la potencia divina.
  En altas bozes alaba
    Sin tener quien se lo impida
    Al amador soberano
    Cuya gracia solicita.
  Contempla sus perfeciones,
    Sus grandezas soleniza,
    Sus misericordias canta,
    Sus excelencias publica.
  La noche atenta entre tanto
    Callando porque el prosiga,
    Cruxen los vezinos ramos,
    Y blando el viento respira.
  Gimen las aves nocturnas
    Por hazerle compania,
    Suenan las fuentes, y arroyos,
    Retumban las penas frias.
  Todo ayuda al solitario,
    Mientras con el alma fixa
    En sus queridos amores
    Contemplandolos se alivia._

                                                     Soledades de Busaco.

Fuller, the Worthy, has a beautiful passage in his Church History
concerning “Primitive Monks with their Piety and Painfulness.”—“When
the furnace of persecution in the infancy of christianity was grown so
hot, that most cities, towns, and populous places were visited with that
epidemical disease, many pious men fled into deserts, there to live with
more safety, and serve God with less disturbance. No wild humour to make
themselves miserable, and to choose and court their own calamity, put
them on this project, much less any superstitious opinion of transcendant
sanctity in a solitary life, made them willingly to leave their former
habitations. For whereas all men by their birth are indebted to their
country, there to stay and discharge all civil relations, it had been
dishonesty in them like bankrupts to run away into the wilderness to
defraud their country, their creditor, except some violent occasion
(such as persecution was) forced them thereunto; and this was the first
original of monks in the world, so called from μόνος, because living
alone by themselves.

“Here they in the deserts hoped to find rocks and stocks, yea beasts
themselves, more kind than men had been to them. What would hide and
heat, cover and keep warm, served them for clothes, not placing (as
their successors in after ages) any holiness in their habit, folded up
in the affected fashion thereof. As for their food, the grass was their
cloth, the ground their table, herbs and roots their diet, wild fruits
and berries their dainties, hunger their sauce, their nails their knives,
their hands their cups, the next well their wine-cellar; but what their
bill of fare wanted in cheer it had in grace, their life being constantly
spent in prayer, reading, musing, and such like pious employments. They
turned solitariness itself into society; and cleaving themselves asunder
by the divine art of meditation, did make of one, two or more, opposing,
answering, moderating in their own bosoms, and busy in themselves with
variety of heavenly recreations. It would do one good even but to think
of their goodness, and at the rebound and second hand to meditate upon
their meditations. For if ever poverty was to be envied it was here. And
I appeal to the moderate men of these times, whether in the height of
these woeful wars, they have not sometimes wisht (not out of passionate
distemper, but serious recollection of themselves) some such private
place to retire unto, where, out of the noise of this clamorous world,
they might have reposed themselves, and served God with more quiet.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  _None but that heavenly Father, who alone
  Beholds the struggles of the heart, alone
  Sees and rewards the secret sacrifice._—XVIII. p. 163.

  _Meu amor faça em Deos seu fundamento
  Em Deos, que so conhece e so estima
  A nobreza e o valor de hum pensamento._

                                               Fernam Alvares do Oriente.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Sindered._—XVIII. p. 163.

“_Per idem tempus divinæ memoriæ Sinderedus urbis Regiæ Metropolitanus
Episcopus sanctimoniæ studio claret; atque longævos et merito honorabiles
viros quos in suprafata sibi commissa Ecclesia repetit, non secundum
scientiam zelo sanctitatis stimulat, atque instinctu jam dicti Witizæ
Principis eos sub ejus tempore convexare non cessat; qui et post
modicum incursus Arabum expavescens, non ut pastor, sed ut mercenarius,
Christi oves contra decreta majorum deserens, Romanæ patriæ sese
adventat._”—Isid. Pacensis, Espana Sagrada, T. 8. p. 298.

“_E assi como el Arçobispo fue cierto de la mala andança partio de
Cordova; y nunca cesso de andar dia ni noche fasta que llego a Toledo;
y no embargante que el era hombre de buena vida, no se quiso mostrar
por tal como deviera ser, y sufrir antes martyrio por amor de Jesu
Christo y esforçar los suyos, porque se defendiessen, y que las gentes no
desamparassen la tierra; ca su intencion fue de ser confessor antes que
martyr._”—Cor. del K. D. Rodrigo, p. 2. C. 48.

       *       *       *       *       *

            _While the Church
  Keeps in her annals the deserter’s name,
  But from the service which with daily zeal
  Devout her ancient prelacy recalls,
  Blots it, unworthy to partake her prayers._—XVIII. p. 163.

“_Je ne serois pas en grande peine_,” says Pierre de Marca, “_de
rechercher les noms des Evesques des Bearn, si la saincte et louable
pratique des anciens Peres d’inserer dans les Diptyches, et cayers
sacrés de chascune Eglise, les noms des Evesques orthodoxes, et qui
estoient decedés dans la communion de l’Eglise Catholique, eust este
continuée jusqu’aux derniers siècles. Et je pourrois me servir en cette
rencontre du moyen que l’Empereur Justinian et le cinquiesme Concile
General employerent, pour sçavoir si Theodore Evesque de Mopsuestie
estoit reconnu apres sa mort pour Evesque de l’Eglise qu’il avoit
possedée durant sa vie. Car ils ordonnerent a l’Evesque et au Clergé de
cette ville, de revoir les Diptyches de leur Eglise, et de rapporter
fidellement ce qu’ils y trouveroient. Ce qu’ayant exécuté diligemment,
ils firent rapport qu’apres avoir fueilleté quatre divers cayers en
parchemin, qui estoient leurs Diptyches, ils y avoient trouvé le nom de
tous les Evesques de ce siege; horsmis qu’en la place de Theodore, avoit
esté substitué le nom de Cyrille, qui estoit le Patriarche d’Alexandrie;
lequel présidant au Concile d’Ephese avoit condamné l’heresie de
Nestorius et de Theodore de Mopsuestie. D’ou il apert que les noms de
tous les Evesques depuis l’origine et l’establissement de chascune
des Eglises estoient enregistrés dans les cayers que l’on appelloit
Diptyches, et que l’on les recitoit nom par nom en leur lieu, pendant la
celebration de la Liturgie, tant pour tesmoigner la continuation de la
communion avec les Evesques decedés, que l’on avoit euë avec euxmesmes
vivans, qu’afin de procurer par les prieres publiques, et par l’efficace
du Sacrifice non sanglant, en la celebration du quel ils estoient
recommendés a Dieu, suivant l’ordonnance des Apostres, un grand profit,
soulagement, et refraichissement pour leurs ames, comme enseignent
Cyrille de Hierusalem, Chrysostome, et Epiphane._”—Histoire de Bearn, l.
4. c. 9. § 1.

“Some time before they made oblation for the dead, it was usual in some
ages to recite the names of such eminent bishops, or saints, or martyrs,
as were particularly to be mentioned in this part of the service. To this
purpose they had certain books, which they called their Holy Books, and
commonly their _Diptychs_, from their being folded together, wherein the
names of such persons were written, that the deacon might rehearse them
as occasion required in the time of divine service. Cardinal Bona and
Schelstrate make three sorts of these _Diptychs_; one wherein the names
of bishops only were written, and more particularly such bishops as had
been governors of that particular church: a second, wherein the names of
the living were written, who were eminent and conspicuous either for any
office and dignity, or some benefaction and good work, whereby they had
deserved well of the church; in this rank were the patriarchs and bishops
of great sees, and the bishop and clergy of that particular church:
together with the emperors and magistrates, and others most conspicuous
among the people; the third was the book containing the names of such as
were deceased in catholic communion.—These therefore were of use, partly
to preserve the memory of such eminent men as were dead in the communion
of the church, and partly to make honourable mention of such general
councils as had established the chief articles of the faith: and to erase
the names either of men or councils out of these _Diptychs_, was the same
thing as to declare that they were heterodox, and such as they thought
unworthy to hold communion with, as criminals, or some way deviating from
the faith. Upon this account St. Cyprian ordered the name of Geminius
Victor to be left out among those that were commemorated at the holy
table, because he had broken the rules of the church. And Evagrius
observes of Theodorus bishop of Mopsuestia, that his name was struck
out of the Holy Books, that is, the _Diptychs_, upon the account of his
heretical opinions, after death. And St. Austin, speaking of Cæcilian,
Bishop of Carthage, whom the Donatists falsely accused of being ordained
by _Traditores_, or men who had delivered up the Bible to be burned in
the times of persecution, tells them that if they could make good any
real charge against him, they would no longer name him among the rest
of the bishops, whom they believed to be faithful and innocent, at the
altar.”—_Bingham_, b. 15. ch. 3. sect. 17.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Orary._—XVIII. p. 164.

“The Council of Laodicea has two canons concerning the little habit
called the _Orarium_, which was a scarf or tippet to be worn upon the
shoulders; and might be used by bishops, presbyters, and deacons, but
not by subdeacons, singers, or readers, who are expressly debarred the
use of it in that council.—The first council of Braga speaks of the
_tunica_ and the _orarium_ as both belonging to deacons. And the third
council of Braga orders priests to wear the _orarium_ on both shoulders
when they ministered at the altar. By which we learn that the _tunica_
or _surplice_ was common to all the clergy, the _orarium_ on the left
shoulder proper to deacons, and on both shoulders the distinguishing
badge of priests.—The fourth council of Toledo is most particular
in these distinctions. For in one canon it says, that if a bishop,
presbyter, or deacon, be unjustly degraded, and be found innocent by a
synod, yet they shall not be what they were before, unless they receive
the degrees they had lost from the hands of the bishops before the
altar. If he be a bishop, he must receive his _orarium_, his ring, and
his staff: if a presbyter, his _orarium_ and _planeta_: if a deacon,
his _orarium_ and _alba_. And in another canon, that the deacon shall
wear but one _orarium_, and that upon his left shoulder, wherewith he
is to give the signal of prayers to the people. Where we may observe
also the reason of the name _orarium_ in the ecclesiastical sense _ab
orando_, from praying, though in common acceptation it signifies no more
than an handkerchief to wipe the face, and so comes _ab ore_, in which
signification it is sometimes used by St. Ambrose and St. Austin, as well
as by the old Roman authors. But here we take it in the ecclesiastical
sense for a sacred habit appropriated to bishops, priests, and deacons,
in the solemnities of divine service, in which sense it appears to have
been a habit distinct from that of civil and common use, by all the
authorities that have been mentioned.”—_Bingham_, b. 13. c. 8. sect. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

          _Nor wore he mitre here,
  Precious or auriphrygiate._—XVIII. p. 164.

_“Mitræ usus antiquissimus est, et ejus triplex est species: una quæ
pretiosa dicitur, quia gemmis et lapidibus pretiosis, vel laminis aureis,
vel argenteis contexta esse solet; altera auriphrygiata sine gemmis, et
sine laminis aureis vel argenteis; sed vel aliquibus parvis margaritis
composita, vel ex serico albo auro intermisto, vel ex tela aurea simplici
sine laminis et margaritis; tertia, quæ simplex vocatur, sine auro,
ex simplici sirico Damasceno, vel alio, aut etiam linea, ex tela alba
confecta, rubeis laciniis seu frangiis et vittis pendentibus. Pretiosa
utitur Episcopus in solemnioribus festis, et generaliter quandocumque
in officio dicitur hymnus ~Te Deum laudamus, &c.~ et in missa ~Gloria
in excelsis Deo~. Nihilominus in eisdem festis etiam auriphrygiata uti
poterit, sed potius ad commoditatem quam ex necessitate; ne scilicet
Episcopus nimis gravetur, si in toto officio pretiosa utatur: propterea
usu receptum est, tam in Vesperis, quam in Missis, ut pretiosa utatur
Episcopus in principio et in fine Vesperarum et Missarum solemnium,
ac eundo ad Ecclesiam et redeundo ab ea; et quando lavat manus et dat
benedictionem solemnem. Intermedio autem spatio loco pretiosæ accipit
auriphrygiatam.—Auriphrygiata mitra utitur Episcopus ab Adventu Domini
usque ad festum Nativitatis, excepta Dominica tertia Adventus, in qua
dicitur Introitus ~Gaudete, &c.~ ideoque in signum lætitiæ utitur tunc
pretiosa. Item a Septuagesima usque ad feriam quartam majoris hebdomadæ
inclusivè, excepta Dominica quarta Quadragesimæ, in qua dicitur
Introitus ~Lætare, &c.~ Item in omnibus vigiliis, quæ jejunantur, et in
omnibus quatuor temporibus; in Rogationibus, Litaniis et processionibus,
quæ ex causa penitentiæ fiunt; in festo Innocentium, nisi veniat in
Dominica; et benedictionibus, et consecrationibus, quæ private aguntur.
Quibus quidem temporibus abstinet, Episcopus a mitra pretiosa. Poterit
tamen Episcopus dum utitur auriphrygiata, uti etiam simplici eodem modo
et forma, prout de pretiosa et auriphrygiata dictum est. Simplici vero
mitra utitur Episcopus feria sexta in Parasceve, et in officiis et Missis
defunctorum._”—Cæremoniale Episcoporum, l. 1. c. 17.

       *       *       *       *       *

                _The pall
  Of wool undyed, which on the Apostle’s tomb
  Gregory had laid._—XVIII. p. 164.

“By the way, the pall is a pontifical vestment, considerable for the
matter, making, and mysteries thereof. For the matter, it is made of
lamb’s wooll and superstition. I say of lamb’s wooll, as it comes from
the sheep’s back, without any other artificiall colour, spun, say some,
by a peculiar order of nunnes, first cast into the tombe of St. Peter,
taken from his body, say others, surely most sacred if from both; and
superstitiously adorned with little black crosses. For the form thereof;
the breadth exceeded not three fingers, one of our bachelours’ lambskin
hoods in Cambridge would make three of them, having two labells hanging
down before and behind, which the archbishops onely, when going to the
altar, put about their necks, above their other pontificall ornaments.
Three mysteries were couched therein. _First_, Humility, which beautifies
the clergy above all their costly copes. _Secondly_, Innocency, to
imitate lamb-like simplicitie. And, _Thirdly_, Industry, to follow him
who fetched his wandering sheep home on his shoulders. But to speak
plainly, the mystery of mysteries in the pall was, that the archbishops
receiving it shewed therein their dependence on Rome; and a mote in
this manner ceremoniously taken was a sufficient acknowledgement of
their subjection. And as it owned Rome’s power, so in after ages it
increased their profit. For, though now such palls were freely given
to archbishops, whose places in Britain for the present were rather
cumbersome than commodious, having little more than their paines for
their labour; yet in after ages the archbishop of Canterburie’s pall was
sold for five thousand florenes, so that the pope might well have the
golden fleece if he could sell all his lamb’s wooll at that rate. Onely
let me add, that the author of Canterbury-book stiles this pall _Tanquam
grande Christi Sacramentum_. It is well _tanquam_ came in to help it, or
else we should have had eight sacraments.”—_Fuller’s Church History_,
page 71.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The relics and the written works of Saints,
  Toledo’s choicest treasure, prized beyond
  All wealth, their living and their dead remains;
  These to the mountain fastnesses he bore
  Of unsubdued Cantabria, there deposed,
  One day to be the boast of yet unbuilt
  Oviedo, and the dear idolatry
  Of multitudes unborn._—XVIII. p. 163.

“Among those,” says Morales, “who then passed from Toledo to Asturias,
was the archbishop of Toledo, named Urban.—He, with a holy foresight,
collected the sacred relics which he could, and the most precious books
of his own church and of others, determining to carry them all to the
Asturias, in order that the holy relics might not be profaned or treated
with little reverence by the infidels; and that the books of the Holy
Scriptures, and of the ecclesiastical offices, and the works of our holy
doctors, might not be lost.—And although many relics are mentioned which
the archbishop then carried from Toledo, especial mention is made of a
holy ark full of many and most remarkable relics, which through divers
chances and dangers, had been brought from Jerusalem to Toledo, and of
which all that is fitting shall be related in its place, if it please
God that this history should proceed. It is also expressly said, that
the cope which Our Lady gave to St. Ildefonso, was then carried to the
Asturias with the other relics; and being so capital a relic, it was a
worthy thing to write of it thus particularly. Of the sacred books which
were saved at that time, there are specified the Holy Scriptures, the
Councils, the works of St. Isidore, and St. Ildefonso, and of St. Julian
the archbishop of Toledo. And as there is at this day in the church of
Oviedo that holy ark, together with many others of the relics which were
then removed, so do I verily believe that there are in the library of
that church three or four books of those which were then brought from
Toledo. I am led to this belief by seeing that they are written in a form
of Gothic letters, which being compared with writings six hundred years
old, are without doubt much older, and of characters so different, that
they may well be attributed to the times of the Goths. One is the volume
of the Councils, another is a _Santoral_, another contains the books
of St. Isidore _de Naturis Rerum_, with other works of other authors.
And there are also some leaves of a Bible.—To put these sacred relics
in greater security, and avoid the danger of the Moors, they hid them
in a cave, and in a sort of deep pit therein, two leagues from the city
of Oviedo, (which was not at that time built,) in a mountain, which was
for this reason called Montesacro. It is now by a slight corruption
called Monsagro; and the people of that country hold the cave in great
veneration, and a great romery, or pilgrimage, is made on St. Magdalen’s
day.”—_Morales_, l. 12. c. 71.

The place where the relics were deposited is curiously described in the
Romantic Chronicle. “He found that in this land of Asturias there was a
sierra, full great, and high, the which had only two entrances, after
this manner. On the one entrance there was a great river, which was to be
passed seven times, and in none of those seven places was it fordable at
any time, except in the month of July. And after the river had been crost
seven times, there was an ascent of a long league up a high mountain,
which is full of many great trees and great thickets, wherein are many
wild beasts, such as bears and boars and wolves, and there is a pass
there between two rocks, which ten men might defend against the whole
world, and this is the one entrance. The other is, that you must ascend
this great mountain, by a path of two full leagues in length, on the
one side having always the river, and the way so narrow, that one man
must go before another, and one man can defend the path in such manner,
that no arbalist, nor engine of other kind, nor any other thing, can
hurt him, not if the whole world were to come against him. And if any
one were to stumble upon this path, he would fall more than two thousand
fathoms, down over rocks into the river, which lies at such a depth that
the water appears blacker than pitch. And upon that mountain there is a
good spring, and a plain where there are good meadows, and room enough to
raise grain for eight or ten persons for a year; and the snow is always
there for company, enduring from one year to another. And upon that
mountain the archbishop made two churches, one to the honour of St. Mary
Magdalen, and the other to the honour of St. Michael, and there he placed
all these reliques, where he had no fear that any should take them; and
for the honour of these relics, the archbishop consecrated the whole
mountain, and appointed good guard over the sacred relics, and left there
three men of good life, who were willing to remain there, serving God,
and doing penance for their sins.”—P. 2. c. 48.

Of the _Camara Santa_, Morales has given a curious account in his
Journal; the substance, with other remarkable circumstances, he
afterwards thus inserted in his great history:—

“The other church (or chapel) which King Alonso el Casto ordered to be
built on the south side of the Iglesia Mayor (or cathedral), was with
the advocation of the Glorious Archangel St. Michael. And in order that
he might elevate it, he placed under it another church of the Virgin and
Martyr St. Leocadia, somewhat low, and vaulted with a strong arch, to
support the great weight which was to be laid upon it. The king’s motive
for thus elevating this church of St. Michael, I believe certainly to
have been because of the great humidity of that land. He had determined
to place in this church the famous relics of which we shall presently
speak, and the humidity of the region is so great, that even in summer
the furniture of the houses on high ground is covered with mold. This
religious prince therefore elevated the church with becoming foresight
for reverence and better preservation of the precious treasure which
was therein to be deposited. For this reason they call it Camara, (the
chamber,) and for the many and great relics which it contains, it has
most deservedly the appellation of Holy. You ascend to it by a flight
of twenty-two steps, which begin in the cross of the Iglesia Mayor (or
cathedral), and lead to a vaulted apartment twenty feet square, where
there is an altar upon which mass is said; for within there is no altar,
neither is mass said there by reason of the reverence shewn to so great
a sanctuary; and it may be seen that K. D. Alonso intended in his plan
that there should be no altar within. In this apartment or outer chapel
is a great arched door, with a very strong fastening; it leads to another
smaller square chamber, vaulted also, with a square door, which also is
fastened with another strong fastening, and these are the fastenings and
keys which the Bishop Sampyro admires for their strength and security.

“The square door is the door of the Holy Chamber, which is in the form
of a complete church, and you descend to it by twelve steps. The body
of this church is twenty-four feet in length, and sixteen in width. Its
arched roof is of the same dimensions. The roof is most richly wrought,
and supported upon six columns of divers kinds of marble, all precious
and right beautiful, upon which the twelve apostles are sculptured, two
and two. The ground is laid with Mosaic work, with variety of columns,
representing jasper ware. The Bishop Sampyro had good reason to complain
of the darkness of this church, which has only one small window in the
upper part of the chapel; and, therefore, in this which we call the
body of the church, there are commonly three silver lamps burning, the
one in the middle larger than the other two, and many other lights are
kindled when the relics are shewn. These are kept within a grating, which
divides the chapel from the church. The chapel has two rich marbles at
the entrance; it is eighteen feet in length, and its width somewhat
less; the floor and the roof are after the same fashion as those of
the church, but it is one _estado_ lower, which in those times seems to
have been customary in Asturias and in Gallicia, the Capillas Mayores,
or principal chapels, being much lower than the body of the church. The
roof of the chapel is plain, and has painted in the middle our Saviour in
the midst of the four evangelists; and this performance is so ancient,
that it is manifestly of the age of the founder. At this iron grating
strangers are usually detained; there is a lower one within of wood, to
which persons are admitted who deserve this privilege for their dignity;
and few there be who enter farther. This church the king built to remove
to it, as accordingly he forthwith removed, the Holy Ark, the holy
bodies, and the other great relics, which, at the destruction of Spain,
were hidden in the cave and well of Monsagro, and for this cause he had
it built with so much care, and so richly, and with such security.——

“I have described the Camara Santa thus particularly, that what I may say
of the most precious relics which it contains may be the better enjoyed.
I will particularize the most principal of them, beginning with the Holy
Ark, which with great reason has deserved this name. It is in the midst
of the chapel, close to the wooden grate, so that you can only go round
it on three sides, and it is placed upon a stone pedestal, wrought with
mouldings of a palm in height. It is a vara and a half (about five feet)
in length; little less than a vara wide, and about as deep, that part
which is of silver, not including the height which the pedestal gives
it. The cover is flat, and it is covered in all parts with silver plates
of some thickness, and gilt on some places. In the front, or that side
which fronts the body of the church, it has the twelve apostles in more
than half relief, and on the sides there are histories of Our Lady in
the same silver-work. On the flat part of the cover there is a large
crucifix engraved with many other images round about it. The sides are
elaborately wrought with foliage, and the whole displays great antiquity.
The cover has round about it four lines in the silver, which, however,
are imperfect, the silver being wanting in some places. What they contain
is this, as I have copied it faithfully, with its bad Latin and other
faults:—

“_Omnis conventus populi Deo dignus catholici cognoscat, quorum inclytas
veneratur reliquias, intra pretiosissima præsentis archælatera. Hoc est
de ligno plurimum, sive de cruce Domini. De vestimentis illius, quod
per sortem divisum est. De pane delectabili unde in cena usus est. De
sindone Dominico ejus adque sudario et cruore sanctissimo. De terra
sancta quam piis calcavit tunc vestigiis. De vestimentis matris ejus
Virginis Mariæ. De lacte quoque ejus, quod multum est mirabile, His
pariter conjunctæ sunt quædam sanctorum maxime prestantes reliquiæ,
quorum prout potuimus, hæc nomina subscripsimus. Hoc est de Sancto Petro,
de Sancto Thoma, Sancti Bartolomei. De ossibus Prophetarum, de omnibus
Apostolis, et de aliis quam plurimis sanctis, quorum nomina sola Dei
scientia colligit. His omnibus egregius Rex Adefonsus humili devotione
perditus fecit hoc receptaculum, sanctorum pignoribus insignitum argento
deauratum, exterius adornatum non vilibus operibus: per quod post
ejus vitam mereatur consortium illorum in cœlestibus sanctorum jubari
precibus. Hæc quidem saluti et re_——Here a large piece of the silver is
gone.—_Novit omnis provintia in terra sine dubio._——Here there is another
great chasm.—_Manus et industria clericorum et præsulum, qui propter hoc
convenimus cum dicto Adefonso Principe, et cum germana læctissima Urraca
nomina dicta: quibus Redemptor omnium concedit indulgentiam et suorum
peccatorum veniam, per hoc sanctorum pignora Apostolorum et Sancti Justi
et Pastoris, Cosmæ et Damiani, Eulaliæ Virginis, et Maximi, Germani,
Baudili, Pantaleonis, Cypriani et Justinæ, Sebastiani, Facundi et
Primitivi, Christophori, Cucufati, Felicis, Sulpicii._

“This inscription, with its bad Latin and other defects, and by reason
of the parts that are lost, can ill be translated. Nevertheless I shall
render it, in order that it may be enjoyed by all. It says thus: Know
all the congregation of Catholic people, worthy of God, whose the famous
relics are, which they venerate within the most precious sides of this
ark. Know then that herein is great part of the wood or cross of our
Lord. Of his garment for which they cast lots. Of the blessed bread
whereof he ate at the supper. Of his linen, of the holy handkerchief (the
Sudario), and of his most holy blood. Of the holy ground which he then
trod with his holy feet. Of the garments of his mother the Virgin Mary,
and also of her milk, which is a great wonder. With these also there are
many capital relics of saints, whose names we shall write here as we can.
Saint Peter, St. Thomas, St. Bartholomew. Bones of the prophets, and of
all the Apostles, and of many other saints whose names are known only
to the wisdom of God. The noble King Don Alonso, being full of humble
devotion for all these holy relics, made this repository, adorned and
ennobled with pledges of the saints, and on the outside covered with
silver, and gilded with no little cunning. For the which may he deserve
after this life the company of these Saints in heaven, being aided by
their intercession.—These holy relics were placed here by the care and by
the hands of many clergy and prelates, who were here assembled with the
said King D. Alonso, and with his chosen sister called Donna Urraca. To
whom may the Redeemer of all grant remission and pardon of their sins,
for the reverence and rich reliquary which they made for the said relics
of the Apostles, and for those of the Saints, St. Justus and Pastor, St.
Cosme and St. Damian, St. Eulalia the Virgin, and of the Saints Maximus,
Germanus, Baudilus, Pantaleon, Cyprianus and Justina, Sebastian, Facundus
and Primitivus, Christopher, Cucufatus, Felix and Sulpicius.——

“The sum of the manner in which this Holy Ark came into Spain is this,
conformably to what is written by all our grave authors. When Cosroes
the King of Persia, in the time of the Emperor Heraclius, came upon the
Holy Land, and took the city of Jerusalem, the bishop of that city, who
was called Philip, and his clergy, with pious forethought, secreted the
Holy Ark, which from the time of the Apostles had been kept there, and
its stores augmented with new relics, which were deposited therein.
After the victory of Cosroes, the Bishop Philip, with many of his
clergy, passed into Africa, carrying with them the Holy Ark: and there
it remained some years, till the Saracens entered into that province
also, and then Fulgentius the Bishop of Ruspina, with providence like
that which had made Philip bring it to Africa, removed it into Spain.
Thus it came to the Holy Church of Toledo, and was from thence removed
to Asturias, and hidden in the cave of Monsagro: finally, King D. Alonso
el Casto removed it to the Camara Santa; and afterwards K. D. Alonso
the Great enriched it. Thus our histories write, and the same is read
in the lessons on the festival which the church of Oviedo celebrates of
the coming there of this Holy Ark, with a sermon proper for the day,
and much solemnity, the service being said on the 13th of March after
vespers, above in the church of the Camara Santa. This is a most weighty
testimony which the Holy Ark possesses of its own authenticity, and of
the genuineness of the most great treasure which it contains.—These also
are strong testimonies, that K. D. Alonso the Great should not only have
made the Ark so rich, but that this king should also have fortified
the city of Oviedo, surrounding it with walls, and making for it a
castle, and building also the castle of Gauzon upon the shore, for the
defence and security of this holy treasure, and for another end, as he
left written upon the stone of which we have elsewhere spoken. Another
testimony of great authority, is the great reverence which has been shewn
to this Holy Ark, from the time which is spoken of by Alonso the Great
in the inscription, to these our days. This is so great that no one
has dared to open it, melancholy examples being related of some daring
attempts which have been made. That which occurred in our days is not
mournful, but rather of much devotion and holy joy. The most illustrious
Señor D. Christoval de Rojas y Sandoval, who is now the most worthy
Archbishop of Seville, when he was Bishop of Oviedo, determined to open
the Holy Ark. For this, as the singular devotion and most holy zeal for
the glory of God which he has in all things, admonished him, he made such
pious preparations as the fame of so celestial a treasure shewed to be
necessary. He proclaimed solemnly a fast of forty days in his church and
through all his diocese, commanding that prayers should be made to our
Lord, beseeching him that he would be pleased with what was intended, his
Most-Illustriousness giving the example, which is very common and very
edifying in his church, in himself, and in the ministers thereof. Three
days before the Sunday on which the Ark was to be opened, he ordered
all persons to fast, and to make greater prayers with processions. When
the day arrived, he said pontifical mass, and preached, infusing with
his holy exhortations much of his own devout desires into the hearts of
the hearers. The mass being finished, clad as he was, he ascended to
the Camara Santa, with much outward solemnity, and with much fervour of
devotion internally in his heart; and having there again renewed his
humble prayers to our Lord, and quickened the ardour of that sacred
desire which had influenced him; on his knees as he was before the Holy
Ark, he took the key to open it. At the moment when he stretched out his
hand to put the key in the lock, suddenly he felt such horror and dismay,
and found himself so bereft of all power (_tan impossibilitado_) to move
it in any way, that it was impossible for him to proceed, or do any thing
but remain in that holy consternation, without having strength or ability
for more. And as if he had come there to oppose and prevent that which
purposely, and with so much desire and preparation, he had intended to
do, he desisted from his intent, and gave it up, his whole holy desire
being turned into a chill of humble shrinking and fear. Among other
things which his most Illustrious Lordship relates of what he then felt,
he says, that his hair stood up in such a manner and with such force,
that it seemed to him, as if it lifted the mitre a considerable way
from his head. Now, we all know that this famous prelate has vigour and
persevering courage for all the great things which he undertakes in the
service of our Lord; but in this manner the Holy Ark remained unopened
then, and thus I believe it will always remain fastened more surely with
veneration and reverence, and with respect of these examples, than with
the strong bolt of its lock.

“In the inscription of this Holy Ark, mention is made of the relics of
St. Baudilus, and by reason that he is a Saint very little known, it
will be proper to say something of him. This Saint is much reverenced in
Salamanca and in Zamora, and in both cities he has a parochial church,
and in Zamora they have a good part of his relics. They have so much
corrupted the name, calling him St. Boal, that the Saint is now scarcely
known by his own.

“They of the church say, that the cope of St. Ildefonso, which Our Lady
gave him, is in the Ark. This may well be believed, since our good
authors particularly relate that it was carried to Oviedo with the Holy
Ark, and with the other relics, and it does not now appear among them,
and there is much more reason to think that it has been very carefully
put away, than that it has been lost. Also they say, that when the
celestial cope was put into the Holy Ark, they took out of it the piece
of the holy Sudario, in which the head of our Redeemer was wrapped up
for his interment, as is said in the inscription of the Ark. This is
one of the most famous relics in all Christendom, and therefore it is
most richly adorned, and reverently preserved, being shown only three
times in the year with the greatest solemnity. The box in which it is
kept is wrought without of gold and azure, with beautiful mouldings and
pictures, and other ornaments of much authority. Within this there is a
square piece of wood, covered entirely with black velvet, with silver
handles, and other decorations of silver round about; in the hollow of
this square, the holy Sudario is stretched and fastened upon the velvet;
it is a thin linen cloth, three quarters long and half a vara wide, and
in many places full of the divine blood from the head of our Redeemer, in
divers forms and stains of various sizes; wherein some persons observe
marks of the divine countenance and other particularities. I did not
perceive this; but the feeling which came upon me when I looked at it is
sufficient to make me believe any thing of it; and if a wretch like me
was thus affected, what must it be with those who deserve of our Lord
greater regalements on such an occasion? It is exhibited to the people
three times in the year; on Good Friday, and on the two festivals of
the Cross in May and in September, and there is then a great concourse
from all the country, and from distant parts. This part of the cross of
the church where the Camara Santa is, is richly hung, and in the first
apartment of the Camara, a corridor is erected for this exhibition,
which is closed that day with curtains of black velvet, and a canopy
that extends over the varandas. The Bishop in his pontificals, with his
assistants and other grave persons, places himself behind the curtains
with the Holy Sudario, holding it by the silver handles, covered with
a veil. The curtains are undrawn, and the quiristers below immediately
begin the _Miserere_. The Bishop lifts the veil, and at the sight of the
Holy Sudario, another music begins of the voices of the people, deeply
affected with devotion, which verily penetrates all hearts. The Bishop
stands some time, turning the Sacred Relic to all sides, and afterwards
the veil being replaced, and the curtains redrawn, he replaces the Holy
Sudario in its box. With all these solemnities, the very Illustrious
and most Reverend Señor, M. D. Gonzalo de Solorzano, Bishop of Oviedo,
exhibited this Holy Relic on the day of Santiago, in the year of our
Redeemer 1572, in order that I might bear a more complete relation of the
whole to the King our Lord, I having at that time undertaken this sacred
journey by his command.

“Another chest, with a covering of crimson and brocade, contains a good
quantity of bones, and some pieces of a head; which, although they are
very damp, have a most sweet odour, and this all we who were present
perceived, when they were shown me, and we spoke of it as of a notable
and marvellous thing. The account which they of the church give of this
holy body is, that it is that of St. Serrano, without knowing any thing
more of it. I, considering the great dampness of the sacred bones believe
certainly that it was brought up to the Camara Santa from the church of
Leocadia, which, as it has been seen, is underneath it. And there, in
the altar, the great stone-chest is empty, in which King Alonso el Casto
enclosed many relics, as the Bishop Sampyro writes. For myself I have
always held for certain, that the body of St. Leocadia is that which is
in this rich chest. And in this opinion I am the more confirmed since the
year 1580, when such exquisite diligence has been used by our Spaniards
in the monastery of St. Gisleno, near Mons de Henao in Flanders, to
verify whether the body of St. Leocadia, which they have there, is
that of our Saint. The result has been, that it was ascertained beyond
all doubt to be the same; since an authentic writing was found of the
person who carried it thither by favour of one of our earliest kings,
and he carried it from Oviedo without dispute; because, according to my
researches, it is certain that it was there. Now I affirm, that the king
who gave part left part also; and neither is that which is there so much,
that what we saw at Oviedo might not well have been left, neither is this
so much but that which is at Mons might well have been given.

“In the church below, in a hollow made for this purpose, with grates, and
a gate well ornamented, is one of the vessels which our Redeemer Jesus
Christ filled with miraculous wine at the marriage in Galilee. It is of
white marble, of an ancient fashion, more than three feet high, and two
wide at the mouth, and contains more than six _arrobas_. And forasmuch as
it is in the wall of the church of K. Alonso el Casto, and all the work
about it is very ancient, it may be believed that the said king ordered
it to be placed there.”—_Coronica General de Espana_, l. 13. b. 40.

Morales gives an outline of this vessel in his Journal, and observes,
that if the Christians transported it by land, particular strength and
the aid of God would have been necessary to carry it so many leagues,
and move it over the rugged mountains of Europa;—but, he adds, it might
have come by water from Andalusia or Portugal, and in that case this
would have been a land journey of only four or five leagues.—In his
Journal, Morales mentions certain other relics of which the church of
Oviedo boasted, but for which he required better evidence than could be
adduced for them. Such were a portion of Tobit’s fish, and of Sampson’s
honey-comb, with other such things, which, he says, would lessen the
credit of the Ark, where, according to the Bishop of Oviedo, D. Pelayo,
and Sebastian, Bishop of Salamanca, they were deposited. Of these
precious relics he says nothing in his history, neither does he mention
a piece of Moses’s rod, a large piece of St. Bartholomew’s skin, and
the sole of St. Peter’s shoe, all which he enumerates in his Journal,
implying rather than expressing his doubts of their authenticity. As a
scrupulous and faithful antiquary, Morales was accustomed to require
evidence, and to investigate it; and for these he could find no other
testimony than tradition and antiquity, which, as presumptive proofs,
were strong corroborants of faith, but did not suffice of themselves.
The Holy Ark has all the evidence which he required, and the reverence
with which he regarded it, is curiously expressed in his Journal. “I have
now,” he says, “described the material part of the Camara Santa. The
spiritual and devout character which it derives from the sacred treasures
which it contains, and the feeling which is experienced upon entering
it, cannot be described without giving infinite thanks to our Lord, that
he has been pleased to suffer a wretch like me to enjoy it. I write this
in the church before the grating, and God knows I am as it were beside
myself with fear and reverence, and I can only beseech God to give me
strength to proceed with that for which I have no power myself.”—T. 10.
_Viage_, p. 91.

Morales, like Origen, had given in his youth a decisive proof of the
sincerity of his religious feelings, and it sometimes seems as if he
had emasculated his mind as well as his body. But with all this abject
superstition, he was a thoroughly pious and good man. His life is deeply
interesting, and his writings, besides their great historical and
antiquarian value, derive additional interest from the picture of the
author’s mind which they so frequently display. The portrait prefixed to
the last edition of his work is singularly characteristic.

       *       *       *       *       *

                  _The proud array,
  Of ermines, aureate vests, and jewelry,
  With all which Leuvigild for after kings
  Left, ostentatious of his power?_—XVIII. p. 165.

“_Postremum bellum Suevis intulit, regnumque eorum in jura gentis suæ
mirâ celeritate transmisit. Hispania magna ex parte potitus, nam antea
gens Gothorum angustis finibus arctabatur.—Fiscum quoque primus iste
locupletavit, primusque ærarium de rapinis civium, hostiumque manubiis
auxit. Primusque etiam inter suos regali veste opertus in solio resedit.
Nam ante eum et habitus et consessus communis, ut populo, ita et regibus
erat._”—S. Isidor. Hist. Goth.—Espana Sagrada, 6. 498-9.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The Sueve._—XVIII. p. 166.

As late as the age of the Philips, the Portugueze were called Sevosos
by the Castillians, as an opprobrious name. Brito says, It was the old
word Suevos continued and corrupted, and used contemptuously, because its
origin was forgotten.—_Monarchia Lusitana_, 2. 6. 4.

When the Sueves and Alans over-ran Spain they laid siege to Lisbon, and
the Saints Maxima, Julia, and Verissimus (a most undoubted personage)
being Lisbonians, were applied to by their town’s people to deliver them.
Accordingly, a sickness broke out in the besieger’s camp, and they agreed
to depart upon payment of a sum of money. Bernardo de Brito complains
that Blondus and Sabellicus, in their account of this transaction, have
been so careless as to mention the money and omit the invocation of the
Saints.—_M. Lus._ 2. 5. 23.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Lord God of Hosts, &c._—XVIII. p. 168.

The substance of these prayers will be found in the forms of coronation
observed by the Anglo-Saxons, and in the early ages of the French
monarchy. I am indebted for them to Turner’s most valuable History of
the Anglo-Saxons, and to Mr. Lingard’s Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon
Church, a work not more full of erudition than it is of Romish sophistry
and misrepresentation.

       *       *       *       *       *

      _Roderick brought
  The buckler._—XVIII. p. 169.

  _Toman, diziendo aquesto, un ancho escudo
    El Duque y Conde y hombres principales,
  De pies encima el Principe membrudo
    Lo levantan assi del suelo iguales:
  Y alçarlo en peso, quanto alçar se pudo
    De alçarlo por su Rey fueron señales,
  Real, Real, Real, diziendo todos,
  Segun costumbre antigua de los Godos._

                      Ch. de Messa. Rastauracion de Espana, l. 4. ff. 34.

       *       *       *       *       *

                        _Rejoice,
  O Leon, for thy banner is display’d._—XVIII. p. 170.

“_La primera ciudad que gaño dizen fue Leon, y desde alli se llamo Rey de
Leon, y tomo por armas un Leon roxo en campo blanco, dexando las antiguas
armas de los Godos, que eran un Leon bermejo rampante, en campo azul,
buelta la cara atras, sobre tres ondas blancas y azules._”—Fran. de Pisa.
Desc. de Toledo, l. 3. c. 2.

  _Fue la del quinto globo roxa estrella
    rayo de su valor, voz de su fama,
  y Leon de su escudo y luzimiento,
  heredado blason, Signo sangriento._

                                               Coro de las Musas, p. 102.

“_Les anciennes armes estoient parlantes, comme l’on void en celles des
Comtes de Castille, et des Rois de Leon, qui prindrent des Chateaux et
des Lions, pour signifier les noms vulgaires des Provinces, par le blason
de leurs armes; qui ne se reportent pas a l’ancienne denomination de
Castulo et de Legio, chés Pline._”—Pierre de Marca, Hist. de Bearn, l. 1.
c. 12. § 11.

“The Lion’s grinders are, _relevées de trois pointes un peu creusées
dans leur centre, dans lesquelles les speculatifs croyent voir la
figure d’une fleur de lys. Je n’ay garde de dire le contraire_,” says
P. Labat, “_il est permis a bien des gens de voir dans les nuës et
dans les charbons ardens tout ce qu’il plaît à leur imagination de s’y
representer; pourquoy ne sera-t-il pas libre de voir sur les dents
du Lion la figure des fleurs de lys? Je doute que les Espagnols en
conviennent, eux qui prennent le Lion pour les armes et le symbole
de leur monarchie; car on pourrait leur dire que c’est une marque
que sans le secours de la France, leur Lion ne seroit pas fort a
craindre._”—Afrique Occidentale, T. ii. p. 14.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _And Tagus bends his sickle round the scene
  Of Roderick’s fall._—XVIII. p. 171.

There is a place at Toledo called la Alcurnia. “_El nombre de Alcurnia
es Arabigo, que es dezir cosa de cuerno, o en forma de cuerno, lo que
Christianos llamavan foz, o hoz de Tajo. Llamase assi porque desde que
este rio passa por debaxo de la puente de Alcantara, va haziendo una
buelta y torcedura, que en una escritura antigua se llama hoz de Tajo.
Lo mesmo acontecio a Arlança cerca de Lara, de donde se llamo la hoz de
Lara, como lo nota Ambrosio de Morales; y en el Reyno de Toledo ay la hoz
de Jucar._”—Francisco de Pisa. Desc. de Toledo, l. i. c. 14.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Amid our deserts we hunt down the birds
  Of heaven, ... wings do not save them!_—XX. p. 187.

The Moors have a peculiar manner of _hunting_ the partridge. In the
plains of Akkermute and Jibbel Hidded in Shedma, they take various
kinds of dogs with them, from the greyhound to the shepherd’s dog, and
following the birds on horseback, and allowing them no time to rest, they
soon fatigue them, when they are taken by the dogs. But as the Mooselmin
eats nothing but what has had its throat cut, he takes out his knife,
and exclaiming _Bismillah_, in the name of God, cuts the throat of the
game.—_Jackson’s Morocco_, p. 121.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _A hasty grave, scarce hidden there from dogs
  And ravens, nor from wintry rains secure._—XXII. p. 204.

In composing these lines I remembered a far more beautiful passage in one
of the Eclogues of the Jesuit Bussieres:—

  _Artesius ruit ecce furens, finesque propinquos
  Insultans, stragem agricolis fugientibus infert.
  Quid facerem? matrem, ut potui, tenerumque puellum
  Raptabam, et mediis abdebam corpora silvis.
  Aspera jam frigebat hyems, frondosaque quercus
  Pro tecto et latebris ramos præbebat opacos;
  Algentem fovi matrem; fovet illa rigentem
  Infantem gremio. Sub prima crepuscula lucis
  Progredior, tectum miseris si forte pateret;
  Silvam fusus eques telis infensus habebat;
  Bona fugio, et capio compendia tuta viarum.
  Conditur atra dies; cœlo nox horrida surgit.
  Quam longis mihi nox misero producitur horis!
  Quos gemitus fletusque dedi: quam proxima votum
  Lux fuit! heu tristi lux infensissima clade!
  Currebam ad notam quercum per devia tesqua.
  Dux amor est. Annam video, puerumque jacentem
  Affixum uberibus, duræ succumbere morti.
  Ipsa parens, postquam ad vocem conversa vocantis
  In me amplexantem morientia lumina fixit,
  Eluctantem animam glaciato e corpore mittit.
  Obrigui, frigusque novum penetravit in ossa:
  Felix, si simili potuissem occumbere letho;
  Sors infesta vetat. Restabat cura sepulchri,
  Quo foderem ferrum deerat; miserabile corpus
  Frondibus obtexi, puerum nec ab ubere vulsi
  Sicut erat foliis tegitur; funusque paratur,
  Heu nimis incertum, et primis violabile ventis._

       *       *       *       *       *

  ——_their white signal-flag._—XXIII. p. 212.

A white flag, called _El Alem_, the signal, is hoisted every day at
twelve o’clock, to warn the people out of hearing, or at a great
distance, to prepare, by the necessary preliminary ablutions, to
prostrate themselves before God at the service of prayer.—_Jackson’s
Morocco_, p. 149.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The Humma’s happy wings have shadowed him._—XXIII. p. 213.

The humma is a fabulous bird: The head over which its shadow once passes
will assuredly be encircled with a crown.—_Wilkes_, _S. of India_, v. i.
p. 423.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Life hath not left his body._—XXIII. p. 217.

Among the _Prerogatives et Propriétés singulières du Prophète_, Gagnier
states that, “_Il est vivant dans son Tombeau. Il fait la prière dans ce
Tombeau à chaque fois que le Crieur en fait la proclamation, et au même
tems qu’on la recite. Il y a un Ange posté sur son Tombeau qui a le soin
de lui donner avis des Pri res que les Fidèles font pour lui._”—Vie de
Mahomet, l. vii. c. 18.

The common notion that the impostor’s tomb is suspended by means of
a loadstone is well known. Labat, in his Afrique Occidentale (T. ii.
p. 143.) mentions the lie of a Marabout, who, on his return from a
pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina, affirmed, “_que le tombeau de Mahomet
etoit porté en l’air par le moyen de certains Anges qui se relayent
d’heure en heures pour soutenir ce fardeau_.” These fables, however, are
modest in comparison with those which the Franciscans and Dominicans have
invented to magnify their founders.

       *       *       *       *       *

          _Hast thou not heard
  How when our clay is leaven’d first with life,
  The ministering Angel brings it from that spot
  Whereon ’tis written in the eternal book
  That soul and body must their parting take,
  And earth to earth return?_—XXIII. p. 217.

The Persians in their creed have a pleasant imagination concerning the
death of men. They say, that every one must come and die in the place
where the Angel took the earth of which he hath been made, thinking that
one of these spirits has the care of forming the human creature, which he
doth by mingling a little earth with the seed.—_Thevenot._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _They perish, all their thousands perish there._—XXIII. p. 220.

The battle of Covadonga is one of the great miracles of Spanish history.
It was asserted for many centuries without contradiction, and is still
believed by the people, that when the Moors attacked Pelayo in the
cave, their weapons were turned back upon themselves; that the Virgin
Mary appeared in the clouds, and that part of a mountain fell upon the
Infidels, and crushed those who were flying from the destruction. In what
manner that destruction might have been effected, was exemplified upon a
smaller scale in the Tyrol in the memorable war of 1809.

Barret sums up the story briefly, and in the true strain of Mine Ancient.

  The Sarr’cen hearing that th’ Asturianites
  Had king created, and stood on their guard,
  Sends multitudes of Mohametized knights
  To rouse them out their rocks, and force their ward.
  Pelagius, hearing of this enterprize,
  Prepares his petty power on Auseve mount;
  Alchameh comes with Zarzen multiplies,
  Meaning Pelagius’ forces to dismount.
  To blows they come: but lo; a stroke divine.
  The Iber, few, beats numbrous Sarracene,
  Two myriads with Mahomet went to dine
  In Parca’s park.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The Bread of Life._—XXIV. p. 229.

It is now admitted by the best informed of the Romish writers themselves,
that, for a thousand years, no other but common or leavened bread was
used in the Eucharist. The wafer was introduced about the eleventh
century. And as far down as the twelfth century the people were admitted
to communicate in both kinds.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _And let no shame be offer’d his remains._—XXV. p. 234.

According to the Comendador Fernan Nunez, in his Commentary upon the
_Trezientas_, the tomb of Count Julian was shown in his days about four
leagues from Huesca at a castle called Loarri, on the outside of a church
which was in the castle.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _His wonted leathern gipion._—XXV. p. 236.

The Musical Pilgrim in Purchas thus describes the Leonese:—

  Wymmen in that land use no vullen,
  But alle in lether be the wounden:
  And her hevedez wonderly ben trust,
  Standing in her forheved as a crest,
  In rould clouthez lappet alle be forn
  Like to the prikke of a N’unicorn.
  And men have doubelettez full schert,
  Bare legget and light to stert.—P. 1231.

Purchas supposes this very curious poem to have been written about 200
years before he published it, _i. e._ about 1425. It is probably much
older. In entering Castille from Elvas, the author says,

  Now into Castell schall we fare
  Over the river, the land is bare.
  Full of heath and hunger also,
  And Sarasynez Governouriz thereto.

Now Badajoz and that part of the country was finally recovered from the
Moors in the early part of the thirteenth century. Purchas perhaps judged
from the age of the manuscript, which may have been written about the
time on which he fixes, and the language modernised by the transcriber.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The light which o’er the fields of Bethlehem shone,
  Irradiated whole Spain._—XXV. p. 238.

“_Fallamos en las estorias que aquella ora que nuestro Señor Jesu Christo
nascio, seyendo media noche, aparesçio una nuve sobre España que dio tan
gran claridad, e tan gran resplandor, e tan gran calor, como el sol en
medio del dia quando va mas apoderado sobre la tierra. E departen los
sabios e dizen que se entiende por aquella que despues de Jesu Christo
vernie su mandadero a España a predicar a los gentiles la ceguedad en
que estavan, e que los alumbrarie con la fee de Jesu Chrysto, e aquesto
fue San Pablo. Otros departen que en España avie de nasçer un prinçipe
chrystiano que serie señor de todo el mundo, e valdrie mas por el todo el
linaje de los omes, bien como esclarescio toda la tierra por la claridad
de aquella nuve en quanto ella duro._”—Coronica General, ff. 71.

A more extraordinary example of the divine favour towards Spain is
triumphantly brought forward by Francisco de Pisa. “Our Lord God,” says
he, “has been pleased to preserve these kingdoms in the purity of the
Faith, like a terrestrial Paradise, by means of the Cherubim of the Holy
Office, which with its sword of fire has defended the entrance, through
the merits and patronage of the most serene Virgin Mary the Mother of
God.” “_Ha sido servido nuestro Señor Dios conservar estos reynos de
España en la entereza de la Fe, como a un Parayso terrenal, mediante el
Cherubin del Santo Officio, que con su espada de fuego les ha defendido
la entrada por los meritos y patrocinio de la serenissima Virgen Maria
Madre de Dios._”—Desc. de Toledo, L. 1. C. 25.

This passage is truly and lamentably characteristic.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _The Oaken Cross._—XXV. p. 241.

The oaken cross which Pelayo bore in battle is said to have been
preserved at Oviedo in the Camara Santa in company with that which the
angels made for Alfonso the Great, concerning which Morales delivers a
careful opinion, how much of it was made by the angels, and how much has
been human workmanship. The people of Cangas, not willing that Pelayo’s
cross should be in any thing inferior to his successors’, insist that
it fell from Heaven. Morales however says, it is more certain that the
king had it made to go out with it to battle at Covadonga. It was covered
with gold and enamel in the year 908; when Morales wrote, it was in fine
preservation, and doubtless so continued till the present generation.
Upon the top branch of the cross there was this inscription: _Susceptum
placide maneat hoc in honore Dei, quod offerunt famuli Christi Adefonsus
Princeps et Scemena Regina._ On the right arm, _Quisquis auferre hæc
donaria nostra presumpserit, fulmine divino intereat ipse._ On the left,
_Hoc opus perfectum est, concessum est Sancto Salvatori Ovetensis Sedis.
Hoc signo tuetur pius, hoc signo vincitur inimicus._ On the foot, _Et
operatum est in Castello Gauzon anno Regni nostri XVII discurrente Era
DCCCCXLVI._

“There is no other testimony,” says Morales, “that this is the cross of
King Don Pelayo, than tradition handed down from one age to another. I
wish the king had stated that it was so in his inscription, and I even
think he would not have been silent upon this point, unless he had wished
to imitate Alonso el Casto, who, in like manner, says nothing concerning
the Angels upon his cross.” This passage is very characteristic of good
old Ambrosio.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Like a mirror sparkling to the sun._—XXV. p. 247.

The Damascus blades are so highly polished, that when any one wants
to arrange his turban, he uses his scymetar for a looking-glass.—_Le
Brocquière_, p. 138.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Oh who could tell what deeds were wrought that day,
  Or who endure to hear._—XXV. p. 248.

I have nowhere seen a more curious description of a battle between
Christians and Saracens than in Barret’s manuscript:

  The forlorn Christian troops Moon’d troops encharge,
  The Mooned troops requite them with the like;
  Whilst Grecian lance cracks (thundering) Parthian targe,
  Parth’s flame-flash arrow Grecian through doth prick:
  And whilst that Median scymetar unlimbs
  The Christian knight, doth Christian curtle-axe,
  Unhead the Median horsemen; whilst here dims
  The Pagan’s goggling-eyes by Greekish axe,
  The Greek unhorsed lies by Persian push,
  And both all rageful grapple on the ground.
  And whilst the Saracen with furious rush
  The Syrian shocks, the Syrian as round
  Down shouldreth Saracen: whilst Babel blade
  Sends soul Byzantine to the starred cell,
  Byzantine pike with like-employed trade,
  Packs Babel’s spirit posting down to hell.

       *       *       *       *       *

    _Who from their thirsty sands
  Pray that the locusts on the peopled plain
  May settle and prepare their way._—XXV. p. 249.

The Saharawans, or Arabs of the Desert, rejoice to see the clouds of
locusts proceeding towards the north, anticipating therefrom a general
mortality, which they call _elkhere_, the good or the benediction; for,
after depopulating the rich plains of Barbary, it affords to them an
opportunity of emanating from their arid recesses, in the desert, to
pitch their tents in the desolated plains, or along the banks of some
river.—_Jackson’s Morocco_, p. 106.

       *       *       *       *       *

            _But where was he whose hand
  Had wielded it so well that glorious day?_—XXV. p. 250.

The account which the Romantic Chronicle gives of Roderick after his
disappearance, is in so singular a strain of fiction, that I have been
tempted to translate it. It strikingly exemplifies the doctrine of
penance, of which monastic history supplies many instances almost as
extraordinary as this fable.


Chap. 238.—_How the King Don Rodrigo left the battle and arrived at a
hermitage, and of that which befell him._

“Now when the King Don Rodrigo had escaped from the battle, he began to
go as fast as he could upon his horse along the banks of the Guadalete,
and night came on, and the horse began to fail by reason of the many
wounds which he had received; and as he went thus by the river side
deploring the great ruin which had come upon him, he knew not where he
was, and the horse got into a quagmire, and when he was in he could not
get out. And when the king saw this he alighted, and stript off all his
rich arms and the furniture thereof, and took off his crown from his
head, and threw them all into the quagmire, saying, Of earth was I made,
and even so are all my deeds like unto mud and mire. Therefore my pomp
and vanity shall be buried in this mud till it has all returned again to
earth, as I myself must do. And the vile end which I have deserved will
beseem me well, seeing that I have been the principal cause of this great
cruelty. And as he thus stript off all his rich apparel, he cast the
shoes from his feet, and went his way, and wandered on towards Portugal;
and he travelled so far that night and the day following, that he came
to a hermitage near the sea, where there was a good man who had dwelt
there serving God for full forty years; and now he was of great age, for
he was well nigh a hundred years old. And he entered into the hermitage,
and found a crucifix therein, being the image of our Lord Jesus Christ,
even as he was crucified, and for the remembrance of Him, he bent both
his knees to the ground, and claspt his hands, weeping and confessing
his sins before God, for he weened not that any man in the world saw or
heard him. And he said thus, O very Lord who by thy word hast made all
the world from nothing which it was, and hast created all things, those
which are visible to men, and those which are invisible, the heavenly as
well as the earthly, and who didst incarnate thyself that thou mightest
undergo thy passion and death, to save those who firmly put their trust
in thee, giving up thy holy ghost from thy glorified body upon the tree
of the true cross,—and who didst descend into Hell, and deliveredst thy
friends from thence, and didst regale them with the glory of Heaven; And
afterwards thy holy spirit came again into that most holy body, which
thou wast pleased to take upon thee in this world; and, manifesting
thyself for the true God which thou wert, thou didst deign to abide in
this dark world forty days with their nights, and then thou didst ascend
into thy heavenly glory, and didst enlighten with the grace of the Holy
Ghost thy beloved disciples. I beseech thee, O Lord, that thou wouldst
enlighten me, a king in tribulation, wretched and full of many sins, and
deserving all evils; let not the soul which is thine, and which cost thee
so dear, receive the evil and the desert of this abominable flesh; and
may it please thee, O Lord, after the downfall, destruction, perdition,
and desolation, which I, a miserable king, have suffered in this world,
that my disconsolate soul may not be forgotten by thee, and that all this
misery may be in satisfaction for my errors. And I earnestly beseech
thee, O Lord, that thy grace may breathe upon me, that in this world I
may make satisfaction for my sins, so that at the Great Day of Judgement
I may not be condemned to the torments of hell.

“Having said these words, weeping as though he would burst, he remained
there a long hour. And when the Hermit heard him say all this, he was
greatly astonished, and he went unto him. And when the King saw him he
was little pleased; howbeit after he had talked with him, he would rather
have found him there than have been restored again to the great honour
which he had lost; for the Hermit comforted him in such wise in this his
tribulation, that he was right well contented; and he confessed unto him,
and told him all that concerned him. And the Hermit said to him, King,
thou shalt remain in this hermitage, which is a remote place, and where
thou mayest lead thy life as long as it shall please God. And for me, on
the third day from hence, I shall pass away out of this world; and thou
shalt bury me, and thou shalt take my garments, and fulfil the time of a
year in this hermitage. Take no thought as to provision for thy support,
for every Friday thou shalt have it after the same manner as I, and thou
shalt so husband it, that it may suffice thee for the whole week; That
flesh which hath been fostered in great delight shall suffer abstinence,
lest it should grow proud; and thou shalt endure hunger and cold and
thirst in the love of our Lord, that he may have compassion upon thee.
Thy station till the hour of sleep must always be upon that rock, where
there is an oratory facing the east; and thou shalt continue the service
of God in such manner as God will direct thee to do. And take heed that
thy soul fall not into temptation. And since thou hast spoken this day of
penitence, to-morrow thou shalt communicate and receive the true body of
our Lord Jesus Christ, who will be thy protection and support against the
enemy and the persecutor. And put thou thy firm trust in the sign of the
Cross; and thus shalt thou please thy Saviour.

“Many other things the holy Hermit said, which made the King right joyful
to hear them; and there they continued till it was the hour for sleep.
And the holy Hermit shewed him his bed, and said, When I shall have left
the company, thou wilt follow the ways which I have followed, for which
our Lord will have mercy upon thee, and will extend his hand over thee,
that thou mayest persevere in good, and in his holy service. And then
they laid down and slept till it was the hour of matins, when they should
both arise. And the Hermit awoke him, for as the King had not slept for a
long time, and was moreover full weary, he would not have awaked so soon,
if the Hermit had not roused him; and they said their hours. And when it
was time the Hermit said mass, and the King heard it with great devotion,
and communicated with great contrition, and remained in prayer for the
space of two hours. And the hour for taking food came, and the Hermit
took a loaf which was made of pannick and of rye, and gave half thereof
to the King, and took for himself the other half: And they ate little
of it, as men who could not eat more, the one by reason of age, and the
other because he was not used to such fare. And thus they continued till
the third day, when the holy Hermit departed this life.”


Ch. 239.—_How the Hermit died, and the King found a writing in his hand._

“On the third day, the pious Hermit expired at the same hour which he
had said to the King, whereat the King was full sorrowful, as one who
took great consolation in the lessons which he gave. And when he had thus
deceased, the King by himself, with his hands, and with an oaken stick
which was there, made his grave. And when he was about to bury him, he
found a writing in his hand; and he took it and opened it, and found that
it contained these words.


Ch. 240.—_Of the rule of life which the Hermit left written for King Don
Rodrigo._

“O King, who through thy sins hast lost the great honour in which
thou wert placed, take heed that thy soul also come not into the same
judgement which hath fallen upon thy flesh. And receive into thy heart
the instructions that I shall give thee now, and see that thou swerve not
from them, nor abatest them a jot; for if thou observest them not, or
departest in ought from them, thou wilt bring damnation upon thy soul;
for all that thou shalt find in this writing is given thee for penance,
and thou must learn with great contrition of repentance, and with
humbleness of patience, to be content with that which God hath given thee
to suffer in this world. And that thou mayest not be deceived in case
any company should come unto thee, mark and observe this and pass in it
thy life. Thou shalt arise two hours after midnight, and say thy matins
within the hermitage. When the day breaks thou shalt go to the oratory,
and kneeling upon the ground, say the whole hours by the breviary, and
when thou hast finished them thou shalt say certain prayers of our Lord,
which thou wilt find therein. And when thou hast done this, contemplate
then upon the great power of our Lord, and upon his mercy, and also upon
the most holy passion which he suffered for mankind upon the cross, being
himself very God, and maker of all things; and how with great humility
he chose to be incarnate in a poor virgin, and not to come as a king,
but as a mediator among the nations. And contemplate also upon the poor
life which he always led in this world, to give us an example; and that
he will come at the day of judgement to judge the quick and the dead, and
give to every one the meed which he hath deserved. Then shalt thou give
sustenance to thy flesh of that bread of pannick and rye, which shall
be brought to thee every Friday in the manner that I have said; and of
other food thou shalt not eat, although it should be given or sent thee;
neither shalt thou change thy bread. And when thou hast eaten give thanks
to God, because he has let thee come to repentance; and then thou shalt
go to the oratory, and there give praise to the Virgin our Lady holy
Mary, mother of God, in such manner as shall come to thee in devotion. If
when, thou hast finished, heaviness should come upon thee, thou mayest
sleep, and when thou shalt have rested as long as is reasonable, return
thou to thy oratory, and there remain, making thy prayers always upon thy
knees, and for nothing which may befall thee depart thou from thence,
till thou hast made an end of thy prayers, whether it rain or snow, or
if a tempest should blow. And for as much as the flesh could sustain so
many mundane pleasures, so must it suffer also celestial abstinences;
two masses thou hast heard in this hermitage, and in it, it is God’s
will that thou shalt hear no more, for more would not be to his service.
And if thou observest these things, God will have compassion upon thy
deserts. And when the King had read this, he laid it upon the altar, in a
place where it would be well preserved.”


Ch. 241.—_How the Devil came in the form of a Hermit to deceive the King
Don Rodrigo._

“Now when the King had made a grave in which to bury the Hermit, the
Devil was troubled at the good course which the King had taken, and
he cast about for means how he might deceive him; and he found none so
certain as to come to him in the figure of a hermit, and keep company
with him, to turn him aside from those doctrines which the Hermit had
given him, that he might not fulfil his penitence. And the King being in
great haste to bury the body, the Devil came to him with a long white
beard, and a great hood over the eyes, and some paternosters hanging from
his girdle, and supporting himself upon a staff as though he were lame,
and could not go. And when he came where the King was he humbled himself,
and said unto him, Peace be with thee! And the King turned toward that
side from which he came, and when he saw him of so great age, he thought
that it was some holy man who knew of the death of the Hermit, and was
come to bury him; and he humbled himself, and went towards him to kiss
his hand, and the Devil would not, saying, It is not fitting that a
King should kiss the hand of a poor servant of God. And the King was
astonished at hearing himself named, and believed that this must needs be
a man of holy life, and that he spake by some revelation; nevertheless
he said, I am not a king, but a miserable sinner, for whom it had been
better never to have been born, than that so much evil should have
happened through me. And the false Hermit said to him, Think not that
thou hast so much fault as thou imaginest in what has now been done, for
even if thou hadst had no part in it, this destruction would have fallen
at this time. And since it was ordained that it should be so, the fault
is not thine; some fault thou hadst, but it was very little. And think
not that I speak this of myself; for my words are those of a spirit made
and created by the will of God, who speaks through me this and many other
things, which hereafter thou shalt know, that thou mayest see how God has
given me power that I should know all thy concerns, and counsel thee in
what manner thou shouldst live. And albeit I have more need of rest than
of labour, by reason of my age, which is far greater than my countenance
shows, yet I have disposed myself to labour for the love of thee, to
console thee in this thy persecution, knowing that this good man was
about to die. Of a truth you may believe that on this day month I was
in Rome, being there in the church of St. John de Lateran, out of which
I had never gone for thirty years, till I came now to keep thee company
according as I am commanded. Marvel not that a man of so great age and
crippled as I am, should have been able to traverse so much land in so
short time, for certes I tell thee that he who speaks in this form which
thou seest, has given me strength to go through so great a journey; and
sans doubt I feel myself as strong now as on the day when I set forth.
And the King said to him, Friend of God, I rejoice much in thy coming,
for that in my misfortunes I shall be by thee consoled and instructed in
that which must be done to fulfil my penitence; I rejoice also that this
holy Hermit here shall receive burial from the hands of a man much more
righteous than I. And the false Hermit said, Think not, King, that it is
for the service of God to give to any person a name not appertaining to
him. And this I say because I well know the life of this person, what it
was; and as thou knowest nothing of celestials, thou thinkest that as the
tongue speaketh, even such is the heart. But I tell thee the habit doth
not make the monk, and it is from such persons as these that the saying
arose which is common in the world, I would have justice, but not for
my own house. This I say to thee, because he commanded thee to perform
a penance such as never man did, the which is, that thou shouldst eat
only once a day, and that of such bread that even the shepherds’ dogs
would not eat it; and of this that thou shouldst not eat as much as
thou couldst; and appointed thee the term of a year that thou shouldst
continue in this diet. Also he commanded thee that thou shouldst not hear
mass during the time that thou abidest here, for that the two masses
which thou hast heard should suffice; look now if that doctrine be good,
which bids a man forget the holy sacrament! Certes I tell thee that only
for that which he commanded thee to observe, his soul is consigned to
a place where I would not that thine should go for all the world, if
it were in my power, with all its riches. Nevertheless, to be rid of
the ill smell which he would give, it is fit that you should bury him,
and while you do this I will go for food. And the King said, Friend of
God, do not take this trouble, but remain still, and before noon there
will come food, which will suffice for you and for me; help me now to
give burial to this good man, which will be much for the service of God,
although he may have been a sinner. And the false Hermit answered, King,
it would be less evil to roll him over these rocks into the sea; but
if not, let him lie thus upon the earth till the birds and the beasts
devour his flesh. And the King marvelled at this: nevertheless though he
believed that this false Hermit was a servant of God, he left not for
that to bury the good Hermit who there lay without life, and he began
by himself to carry him to the grave which he had made. And as he was
employed in burying him, he saw that the false Hermit went away over the
mountains at a great rate, not as one who was a cripple, but like a stout
man and a young; and he marvelled what this might mean.


Ch. 242.—_How King Don Rodrigo informed himself concerning the penance
which he was to perform, from the writing which the holy Hermit left him._

“When the King had finished burying the good servant of God, he went
to the altar, and took the writing in his hand, and read it to inform
himself well of it. And when he had read it, he saw that of a certainty
all that was said therein was for the service of God, and was of good
doctrine for his soul; and he said, that, according to the greatness of
his sins, it behoved that his penitence must be severe, if he wished
to save his soul. And then he called to mind the life which St. Mary
Magdalen endured, for which God had mercy on her. And forthwith he went
to his oratory, and began his prayers; and he remained there till it was
near noon; and he knew that he had nothing to eat, and awaited till it
should be brought him.


Ch. 243.—_How the Devil brought meat to King Don Rodrigo that he should
eat it; and he would only eat of the Hermit’s bread._

“After it was mid-day the false Hermit came with a basket upon his
shoulders, and went straight to where the King was, and he came sweating
and weary. And the King had compassion on him, howbeit he said nothing,
neither did he leave his prayers. And the false Hermit said to him,
King, make an end of thy prayers, for it is time to eat; and here I
bring food. And the King lifted up his eyes and looked toward him, and
he saw that there came into the hermitage a shepherd with a wallet upon
his back, and he thought this must be he who brought him that which he
was to eat. And so in truth it was, that that shepherd brought every
Friday four loaves of pannick and rye for the holy Hermit, upon which he
lived during the week. And as this shepherd knew not that the good man
was dead, he did no more than put his bread upon the altar, and go his
way. And the King, when he had ceased praying, rose up from the oratory,
and went to the false Hermit. And he found the four loaves, and he took
one, and brake it in the middle, and laid by the rest carefully, and he
went out of the hermitage into the portal, where there was a table full
small, and he laid a cloth upon it, and the bread which he was to eat,
and the water; and he began to bless the table, and then seated himself.
And the false Hermit noted well how he blest the table, and arose from
where he was, and went to the King, and said, King take of this poor
fare which I have brought, and which has been given me in alms. And he
took out two loaves which were full white, and a roasted partridge, and
a fowl, of which the legs were wanting; and he placed it upon the table.
And when the King saw it, his eyes were filled with tears, for he could
not but call to mind his great honour in former times, and how it was
now fallen, and that his table had never before been served like this.
And he said, addressing himself to the Lord, Praised be thy name, thou
who canst make the high low, and the low nothing. And he turned to his
bread and did eat thereof. And though he had great hunger, yet could he
scarcely eat thereof, for he had never used it till in that hermitage,
and now it seemed worse by reason of the white bread which that false
Hermit had brought. And the false Hermit, who saw that he gave no regard
neither to the bread, nor the meat which he had brought, said to the
King, Why eatest thou not of this which God has sent thee? and the King
said, I came not to this hermitage to serve God, but to do penance for
my sins, that my soul may not be lost. And the penance which is given me
in this life, I must observe for a year and not depart from it, lest it
should prove to my great hurt. And the false Hermit said, How, King, hath
it been given thee for penance, that thou shouldst let thyself die for
despair? The Gospel commands not so; contrariwise it forbids man to do
any such penance through which the body might be brought to death; for
if in killing another, he who causes the death is held for a murderer,
much more is he who killeth himself; and such thou wouldst be. And
now through despair thou wouldst let thyself die of hunger, that thou
mightest no longer live in this world, wherefore I say eat of this food
that I have brought thee some little, that thou mayest not die. And with
that he began to eat right heartily. And the King, when he beheld him,
was seized with affection to do the like, howbeit he was withheld, and
would eat nothing thereof. And as it was time when he would drink of the
water, the false Hermit said to him, that he should drink of the wine;
and the King would only taste of that water; and as he went to take of
it, the false Hermit struggled with him, but he could not prevail, and
the King did according to his rule, and departed not from it. And when
he had eaten, he began to give thanks to God. And the false Hermit, who
saw that he would have to cross himself at arising from the table, rose
up before him, as one who was about to do something; and the King heeded
it not. And when he had thus eaten, he went to the oratory, and began to
give praises to the Virgin Mary, according as the good man had commanded
him; when that traitor went to him and said, Certes this doctrine which
thou holdest is no way to serve God, for sans doubt when the stomach
is heated with food the will shall have no power to pray as it ought;
and although the tongue may say the prayers, the heart confirms them
not, being hindered by the force which nature derives from the food.
Therefore I say to thee that thou oughtest to sleep first; for whilst
thou art sleeping the food will settle, and the will will then be more
able for contemplation. Moreover, God is not pleased with prayers without
contrition, as with one who speaketh of one thing, and hath his heart
placed on another, so that he can give no faith to the words which he
beginneth. If thou wouldest be saved, O King, it behoves thee to listen
to me; and if thou wilt not believe me, I will depart and leave thee, as
one who will take no counsel, except from himself. And the King replied,
if I should see that thou confirmedst the good manner of life whereof my
soul hath need, according as it was appointed by the good man whom I have
buried, then would I follow thy way. But I see that thy life is not that
of a man of abstinence, nor of one who forsakes worldly enjoyments for
the love of God; rather it seemeth by what I see in thee that thy life is
a strengthening of worldly glory; for thou satisfiest thy flesh with good
viands as I was wont to do, when I was puffed up with the vanities of the
world. Wherefore I will in no wise follow thy way, for I see that thou
art a worldly man, who deceivest God and the world, and when it comes to
the end thou thyself wilt be deceived.


Ch. 244.—_Of what the Devil said to King Don Rodrigo to dispart him from
his penance._

“The false Hermit said to him, For what reason art thou certain that the
rule which this deceiver whom thou hast buried appointed for thee, will
be salvation for thy soul, and that what I say to thee is not of a truth?
Thou understandest me not well: I never forbade thee that thou shouldst
hear mass, as he has done; for this is one of the good things that man
may every day see his Saviour and adore him. And seeing that he forbade
thee to do this, thou mayest be certain that as he deceived his own soul,
he would deceive thine also. For at the hour when man passeth away out of
the world, he would fain that that same hour should be the end of all the
world; and thus that enemy did, for where he went, thither he would draw
thee also. Now since God hath given thee sense and reason, thou mayest
clearly understand that his counsel and doctrine are deceitful, and what
thou oughtest to do.


Ch. 245.—_Of the Reply which the King made to the Devil._

“Sans doubt, said the King, he forbade me not that I should hear mass;
but because he commanded me that I should fulfil my penance here for the
term of a year, as he knew the hour of his own death, so also he knew
that no other person who could say mass would come to this hermitage
within the year; and, therefore, he said to me, that in this hermitage I
should not hear mass, but he never forbade me from hearing it.


Ch. 246.—_Of the Reasoning which the false Hermit made to King Don
Rodrigo._

“The false Hermit said, Now thou thyself manifestest that he was not
so worthy as a man ought to be who knows that which is to come. For
according to thy words, he knew not that I should come here, who can
say mass if I please; and if there be good judgement in thee, thou wilt
understand that I must needs be nearer to God, because I know all which
he had commanded thee to do, and also how he was to die. And I can know
better in what place he is, than he who has commanded thee to observe
this rule, knew concerning himself while he was here. But this I tell
thee, that as I came to teach thee the way in which thou shouldst live,
and thou wilt not follow my directions, I will return as I came. And now
I marvel not at any thing which has befallen thee, for thou hast a right
stubborn heart; hard and painful wilt thou find the way of thy salvation,
and in vain wilt thou do all this, for it is a thing which profiteth
nothing.


Ch. 247.—_Of the Reply which King Don Rodrigo made to the false Hermit._

“Good man, said the King, all that thou shalt command me to do beyond the
rule which the holy Hermit appointed me, that will I do; that in which my
penance may be more severe, willingly will I do it. But in other manner I
will not take thy counsel; and as thou hast talked enough of this, leave
me, therefore, to my prayers. And then the King bent his knees, and began
to go on with his rule. And the false Hermit when he saw this, departed,
and returned not again for a month; and all that time the King maintained
his penance, in the manner which had been appointed him. And by reason
that he ate only of that black bread, and drank only water, his flesh
fell away, and he became such that there was not a man in the world who
would have known him. Thus he remained in the hermitage, thinking of no
other thing than to implore the mercy of God that he would pardon him.


Ch. 248.—_Of what the false Hermit said to King Don Rodrigo to dispart
him from his rule._

“King Don Rodrigo living thus, one day, between midnight and dawn,
the false Hermit came to the hermitage; and not in the same figure as
before, but appearing more youthful, so that he would not be known. And
he called at the door, and the King looked who it might be, and saw that
he was habited like a servant of God, and he opened the door forthwith.
And they saluted each other. And when they saw each other, the false
Hermit greeted the King, and demanded of him where the father was; and
the King answered, that for more than a month there had been no person
dwelling there save himself. And the false Hermit, when he heard this,
made semblance as if he were afflicted with exceeding grief, and said,
How came this to be, for it is not yet six weeks since I came here and
confessed my sins to the father who abode here, and then departed from
this hermitage to my own, which is a league from hence? And King Don
Rodrigo said, Friend, know that this Hermit is now in Paradise, as I
believe, and I buried him with my own hands: and he showed him the place
where he lay. And when he went there he began to kiss the earth of the
grave, and to make great dole and lamentation over him. And when some
half hour had past, he withdrew, making semblance as if he wished to say
his hours. And before the King had finished to say his, he came to him,
and said, Good man, will you say mass? And the King answered, that he
never said it. Then, said the false Hermit, Hear me then in penitence,
for I would confess. And the King seeing that it was for the service of
God to hear him in penitence, they seated themselves both at the foot of
the altar. And when the false Hermit spake, it appeared that he had no
sin to confess: for he began to relate many great services which he had
done to God, as well in the life which he led as in other things. And
before the King could absolve him he rose up, and asked if things were
ready for the mass. And the King said that he knew not, and bade him
look. It was now time that he should go to his oratory. And the false
Hermit asked him that he should assist him in saying mass, and then he
should hear it. And the King said, that for nothing in the world would
he leave to fulfil his penance, according as it had been appointed him:
and he went to his oratory. And the false Hermit made as if he put on the
vestments and all the ornaments, and began to say mass, to the end that
he might deceive the King, and make him cease to observe his penance,
and come to adore the mass. And he made a watery cloud arise, so that
it rained heavily where the King was. And when he saw that he could in
no ways entice him, then he went to him, and said, Good man, for that
you may be placed out of danger in cases which at all times will happen,
seeing that you are alone, I have consecrated the body of Jesus Christ,
that you may adore it every day, since you may not hear mass; and thus
you may fulfil your penance as a faithful Christian. And with that he
dispeeded himself, saying, In the coffer upon the altar you will find the
Corpus Christi: when you rise from hence go and adore it. When he had
said this, he went his way. And the King believed that what he said was
true, and held that he was a good man, and of holy life.”


Ch. 249.—_How the Holy Ghost visited King Don Rodrigo._

“Now when the King had ended his prayers, which he used to say every day
before he took his food, he saw a good man come towards him, clad in
white garments, and with a fresh countenance and a cheerful, and a cross
upon his breast. And as he arrived where the King was, he blest him; and
when the King saw him he perceived that it was a revelation of God, and
he joined his hands and placed himself on his knees upon the ground,
weeping plentifully. And the holy man said, King, who art desirous of
heavenly glory, continue the service which thou art performing for the
love of my holy name; and take heed lest the enemy overcome thee, as he
who many times hath overcome thee, whereby thou hast come to what thou
now art. And believe none of all those who may come to thee here, for
they come for no other cause but only to deceive thee, and withdraw thee
from the service which thou dost me. And always observe the rule given
thee by the holy man whom thou buriedst; for I am content with it, and
thy soul shall receive refreshment if thou observest it. Come here, and I
will show thee how the Devil thought to deceive thee, that thou mightest
adore him. Then the King arose and went, alway upon his knees, following
the Holy Spirit of God; and when he was within the hermitage, our Lord
spake and said, Depart from hence, thou cursed one, and go thy way, for
thou hast no power to deceive him who continues in my service. Get thee
to the infernal pains which are suffered by those who are in the ninth
torment! And at that hour the King plainly saw how from the ark, which
was upon the altar, there went out a foul and filthy devil, with more
than fifty tails and as many eyes, who, uttering great yells, departed
from the place. And the King was greatly dismayed at the manner in which
the false Hermit had deceived him. And the Holy Spirit of God said to
him, King, let thy hope be in my name, and I will alway be with thee,
so thou wilt not let thyself be vanquished by the enemy. Then the Holy
Spirit of God departed, and the King remained full joyful and greatly
comforted, as if he had been in celestial glory. And thus he continued
his life for nearly two months.


Ch. 250.—_How the Devil would have deceived King Don Rodrigo in the
figure of Count Don Julian._

“The King was in his oratory one Sunday toward nightfall, just as the
sun was setting, when he saw a man coming toward him, clad in such guise
as is fitting for one who follows arms. And as he looked at him, he saw
that it was the Count Don Julian who approached; and he saw that behind
him there came a great power of armed people. And the false Count, when
he drew nigh, made obeisance to him; and the King was amazed at seeing
him, for he knew him well: nevertheless he remained still. And the false
Count came to him, and would have kissed his hand, but the King would
not give it, neither would he rise up from the oratory: and the false
Count knelt upon the ground before him, and said, Sir, forasmuch as I
am he who sinned against thee like a man who is a traitor to his Lord,
and as I did it with great wrath and fury, which possessed my heart
through the strength of the Devil, our Lord God hath had compassion upon
me, and would not that I should be utterly lost, nor that Spain should
be destroyed, nor that thou, sir, shouldst be put down from thy great
honour and state, and the great lordship which thou hadst in Spain. And
he has shown me, in a revelation, how thou wert here in this hermitage
doing this great penance for thy sins. Wherefore I say to thee, that
thou shouldst do justice upon me, and take vengeance according to thy
will, as upon one who deserves it, for I acknowledge that thou wert my
lord, and also the great treason into which I have fallen. Wherefore,
sir, I pray and beseech thee by the one only God, that thou wilt take
the power of Spain, which is there awaiting thee, and that thou wilt go
forth to defend the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, and suffer not that
poor Spain, should be utterly destroyed, seeing that thou canst defend it
and protect it. And then Count Julian drew his sword, and gave it to the
King, saying, Sir, take this my sword, and with thine own hand do justice
upon me, and take such vengeance as thou pleasest; for I will suffer it
with much patience, seeing I have sinned against thee. And the King was
greatly troubled at his sight, and at his words also, and knew not what
he should do, neither what he should say. Howbeit, presently he called to
mind what the Holy Spirit of God had said to him, how he should take heed
lest the Devil should subdue him; and so he said nothing, but continued
in his prayer. And the false Count Don Julian said to him, Sir, wilt thou
not turn for the Holy Faith of Jesus Christ, which is utterly going to
destruction? rise up and defend it, for I bring thee a full great power;
and thus thou wilt serve God and recover the honour which thou hadst
lost. Rise then and go forth, and have pity upon miserable Spain, which
is about to be lost; and have compassion also upon so many people as are
perishing for want of a Lord who should defend them. Now all these words
were only meant to deceive him, for it was the Devil who had taken the
form of Count Don Julian, and not the Count himself. But the King could
no longer restrain himself from replying, and he said, Go you, Count,
and defend the land with this force which you have assembled, even as
you went to destroy it by the great treason which you committed against
me and against God. And even as you brought the men, who are enemies of
God and of his Holy Faith, and led them into Spain, so now thrust them
out and defend it; for I will neither slay you, nor assist you in it.
Leave me to myself; I am no longer for the world, for here I will do
penance for my sins. Urge me, therefore, no more with these reasons. And
the false Count Don Julian rose, and went to the great company which he
had brought there, and brought them all before the King. And the King,
when he beheld that great company of knights, saw some among them whom he
surely thought had been slain in battle. And they all said to him with
loud voices, Sir, whom wilt thou send us, that we may take him for our
King and Lord to protect and defend us, seeing that thou wilt not defend
the land, neither go with us? Wouldst thou give us thy nephew the Infant
Don Sancho? He is dead. What then wouldst thou command us that we should
do? Look to it well, sir; it is no service of God that thou shouldst let
perish so great a Christianity as is every day perishing, because thou
art here dwelling in this solitude. Look to it, for God will require an
account at thy hands: thou hadst the charge of defending them, and thou
lettest them die. And tell us what course shall we take. And when the
King heard these words he was moved to compassion: and the tears came
into his eyes, so that he could not restrain them: and he was in such
state that his thoughts failed him, and he was silent, and made no reply
to any thing that they could say. And all these companies who saw him
complained so much the more, and sent forth great cries, and made a great
tumult, and uproar, and said, O miserable King, why wilt thou not rouse
thyself for thy own sake, and for that of all thy people whom thou seest
without a Lord; and thou wilt not even speak a word to comfort them, and
tell them what they shall do. And all this while the King did nothing but
weep, and answered them never a word. And when this vile race saw that
they could not take him from thence, and that he answered them nothing,
and that they could not overcome him by whatever they might do, they
went forthwith from the mountain down into a plain, which was then made
to appear before the King, and there they drew up their battles in such
guise as the King Don Roderigo was used to darrain them. And eft-soon he
saw great multitudes of strange people, who came from the other side,
and they began a battle so fierce and so cruel, that the King thought he
had never seen one like it. And the one party put the other to the worst,
and followed after them in pursuit. And then there came messengers to the
King, telling him that his people had conquered, and had slain many of
the enemy; but the King was confounded, and as it were beside himself,
and heeded not, neither did he know what they said, and he answered
nothing. And then they all went away, and seemed to the King that the one
were pursuing the others, and this continued till the first crowing of
the cock. And the King recovered his senses: howbeit he knew not whether
it was a vision, or if it had indeed happened; but he called to mind that
he had not compleated the prayers which he made every day; and he began
them again and finished them. And when he had finished, great part of the
night was past, and he laid himself down to sleep. And then for three
months he had no other temptation.”


Ch. 251.—_How the Devil, in the Figure of La Cava, the Daughter of Count
Don Julian, sought to deceive King Don Rodrigo._

“The King was saying his prayers at the hour of vespers on a Tuesday,
when he saw people on horseback coming toward him: and as they were about
the reach of a cross-bow from him, he saw that they alighted, and that
there came toward him a woman, who was full nobly clad; and when she came
near, he knew her that she was La Cava, the daughter of Count Don Julian,
and she seemed to him more beautiful than he had ever before seen her in
his life. And when she drew nigh she humbled herself, and said, Sir, what
fortune has brought you to this wretched life in which you have so long
continued? And the King held his peace and said nothing. And that false
Cava said, Sir, it is a month since a holy man, clad in white garments,
and having a red cross upon his breast, appeared to me when I was with my
father Count Don Julian in Toledo; where he now holds the seat of the
lordship of Spain, as he who, by force of arms, has subdued the Moors,
and killed or made captives of them all. At the hour when this holy man
appeared to me I was alone in my chamber, having great sorrow in my
heart, because I had no certain news where you was, and whether your soul
continued to live in this world, or in another. And, moreover, I was full
sorrowful, because of the death of my Lady the Queen Eliaca, your wife,
who is now deceased. And for these things my heart was full sorrowful,
and in great trouble with griefs and thoughts, which came to me I know
not from whence, and I was like one bereft of his judgment. And while I
was contemplating in this state, the holy man appeared to me in such wise
as I have said, and said to me, Of what art thou taking thought? Cease
to lament, for without me thou canst do nothing certain of that which
thou desirest. But that the dominion of Spain may not pass away from the
power of the Goths, and that he who shall have it may descend from thy
seed, and be of the generation of King Don Rodrigo, it is my will that
thou shouldst know where he is, and that thou shouldst go to him, and
that he should go in unto thee, and that thou shouldst conceive of him
a son, and shalt call his name Felbersan, the which shall be such a one
that he shall reduce under his forces all the earth which is below the
firmament. Depart, therefore, from hence, and go to the place where he
is, and make no tarriance: for thus it behoveth for the service of God,
and for the weal and protection and defence of the land. And I said to
him, Sir, how can this be which you tell me, seeing that King Don Rodrigo
is dead; for his enemies slew him when they won the battle in which the
great chivalry of Spain perished. And he said to me, Cava, think not he
is dead, for he liveth, and passeth his life alone in a hermitage; of
the which thy father Count Don Julian will certify thee, for he went to
seek him there, and found him there when he overcame the Moors. He will
tell thee that he is alive, and in what place is the hermitage wherein
he abideth. And I said to him, But if King Don Rodrigo passeth his life
after this manner in the service of God, he will not approach me that I
may conceive of him this son who shall prove so good. And since it thus
pleases you, give me a sign by which I may show him that this is pleasing
to God, and that he may do this which you say, seeing so great good is to
follow from it. And, moreover, he will be brought to such weakness that
he will not be able to obey, by reason of the great abstinence to which
his body has been subjected during his continuance there. And the holy
man said to me, Care not for this, for God will give him strength; and
thou shalt say to him for a sign that he may believe thee, how I told him
that he should take heed lest the enemy deceive him, and how I bade the
Devil depart from the altar where he was in the ark instead of the Corpus
Christi, for that he should adore him. When thou tellest him this he will
believe thee, and will understand that it is by the command of God. And
when he had said these words he disappeared, so that I saw him no more;
and I remained for a full hour, being greatly comforted, because I knew
of your life, so that it seemed to me there were no other glory in this
world. And when I came to myself, I went incontinently to my father Count
Don Julian, and told him all that had befallen me with the holy man who
came in that holy vision; and I asked him if he knew aught concerning
you. And he told me how he had gone to you with all his chivalry to bid
you come out from thence to defend your country, which the enemies had
taken from you, and that you would not; but rather commended it to him
that he should undertake it, and defend the land and govern it; and that
it grieved him to think that you would not be alive, because of the great
abstinence which you imposed every day upon your flesh: nevertheless,
since it pleases our Lord that I should have a son by you, who should
be so good a man that he should recover all Spain, he would have me go
to this place, where I should find you if you were alive; and right
content would he be that there should remain of you so great good. And
I, sir King, seeing how it pleased God that this should be accomplished,
according as I have said, am come here in secret, for neither man nor
woman knoweth of this, save my father Count Don Julian; for I have told
my people who came with me to remain yonder, because I would go and
confess to a holy man who had made his abode here more than fifty years.
Now, since God is the author of this, recover yourself, and remember the
time when you told me that there was nothing in the world which you loved
so much as me, nor which you desired so greatly as to obtain a promise
of me; the which I could not give at that hour, by reason that the Queen
was living, and I knew it to be great sin. And if I come to you now, it
is by command of God, for it pleases him to send me here; and, also,
because the Queen is no longer in this present life. And because you are
so fallen away of your strength, let us go into the hermitage, or I will
order a tent to be placed here, and let us sup together, that your heart
may revive and you may fulfil the command of God.”


Ch. 252.—_How the Devil would have deceived King Don Rodrigo, if the Holy
Spirit had not visited and protected him._

“As the King heard all this his whole body began to tremble, and his soul
within him also; and all sense and power past away from him, so that he
was in a trance, and then it was revealed to him that he should take heed
against that temptation. And the false Cava, who saw him thus entranced,
made many burning torches of wax come there, by reason that it was cold,
and because that the King should derive heat; also there was a pavilion
pitched there, and a table set within it with many viands thereon, and
all the people who came with her were seen to lodge themselves far away
upon the mountain. And when he had recovered himself, he saw that the
false Cava was drest in a close-fitting kirtle, which came half way below
the knee, and she seemed to him the fairest woman that he had ever seen
in his life, and it appeared to the King that she said to him, Here, sir,
come and take your supper. And the King began again to tremble and lose
his judgment, and fell into such a state that he knew not where he was,
and it was revealed to him in that hour that he should guard against the
temptation. And when he came to himself he saw that the pavilion was
spread over his head; and seeing himself in that place, he looked for
the oratory, and perceived that it was where it used to be; and within
the pavilion he saw the false Cava, who was there with him, and that
she was standing beside a bed, which was a full rich one, and that she
began to take off her kirtle, and remained in her shift only, and with
her long hair, which reached to her feet; and she said to him, See,
sir, here in your power, that which you most desired, and which is now
awaiting you. Rejoice, then, and take heart, and do that which God has
appointed, and which will recover Spain, and recompense the losses, and
sorrows, and wrongs which you have endured. And then she turned toward
the King, for the Devil thought thus to tempt him, and make him break
the penance which he had begun; and certes I ween there was no living
man who would not right gladly have approached her. And then before
him, in his sight, she began to comb and to plait her golden locks. And
the King, seeing how beautiful she was, began to tremble all over, as
if he had been struck with palsy; and he lost his judgment again, and
became entranced, and remained thus a long while before he came again to
himself. And it was revealed to him again that he should take heed how
the Devil tempted him, and that he should have firm hope in God, and not
break the penance which the holy Hermit had appointed him. But ever when
he recovered from these trances, he forgot all which had been revealed
to him while he was entranced; and now he found that there was a large
_estrado_ placed by him, and that La Cava was lying there beside him
on some pillows, which were richly wrought in gold, undrest, as he had
seen her, and that she said to him, Come, sir, for you tarry long, and
it will soon be day-break. And the King seeing her so near him, then he
was greatly troubled, yet could he not withdraw his eyes from her: but
he called to mind how the Holy Spirit of God had bade him that he should
always confide in his name, and place his true hope in the sign of the
cross. And he clasped his hands, and lifted them towards Heaven, and
weeping bitterly, and in great contrition, he said, O Lord and very God,
Jesus Christ, deliver me from all temptation, and preserve my soul, that
it fall not into perdition. And while he was praying thus, he saw how
there came from the hermitage a great brightness, and he said, Deliver
me, Lord, from the power of the Devil, that I may not be deceived, nor
withdrawn from thy holy service. And at that hour he made the sign of the
cross upon his forehead, and blest himself; and at that hour the false
Cava fell down the rock into the sea, with such a sound as if the whole
world were falling to pieces, and with the plunge which she made the sea
dashed up so high, that where the oratory was the King was wetted with
the spray. And he remained in such astonishment, that he could not for
an hour recover himself. And when he came to himself he began to pray
with great repentance, as if he had been on the point of falling into
temptation. And the Holy Spirit of God came to him in that same manner in
which he had seen it the former time. And he fell on his face upon the
ground, and began to lament full bitterly, and to say, Lord, have mercy
upon my soul, and forsake me not among mine enemies, who would withdraw
me from thee. And the Holy Spirit said to him, O King, of little faith,
how hast thou been on the point of perishing! And the King made no reply,
for he did nothing but weep. And the Holy Spirit of God said to him,
Take heed, King, lest the Devil deceive thee, and have power over thee,
that thou shouldst not fulfil the penance which thou hast commenced,
neither save thy soul. And the King lifted up his countenance, and had
great shame to behold him. Howbeit he took courage, and said, Lord, have
mercy upon me, and let me not be tempted by the enemy, for my heart is
weak, and hath no power to defend itself against the false one: for my
judgement is clean confounded, as one who hath no virtue if he be not
aided by thy grace. Deliver me, Lord, for thy holy mercy and compassion:
my salvation cannot come through the strength of my heart, for it is
wholly full of fear, like a thing which is overcome. And the Holy Spirit
of God said to him, Take courage and fear not, for thou shalt depart from
this place sooner than thou thinkest. And when it is time I will guide
thee to the place where thou shalt do thy penance, that thy soul may
receive salvation. When thou shalt see a little white cloud appear above
thee, and that there is no other in the sky, follow after it: and in the
place where it shall stop shalt thou fulfil thy penance, according as the
chief priest in that place shall appoint it thee. And take heart, and
alway call to mind my holy name, and have true faith and constant hope
in thy Saviour. And when he had said this he departed. And the King was
greatly comforted and full of grace, as one with whom God was present in
his mercy. And he abode in the hermitage a whole year, according to his
reckoning, and twelve days more. And one day, when it was full clear,
the King looked up and saw above him the cloud of which the Holy Spirit
of God had told him; and when he saw it he was full joyful, and gave
many thanks to God. Nevertheless the King did not rise from his prayers,
neither did the cloud move from above him. And when he had finished his
prayers he looked at the cloud and saw that it moved forward.”


Ch. 253.—_How King Don Rodrigo departed from the Hermitage, and arrived
where he was to do penance._

“The King arose from the oratory and followed the cloud; and so great was
the pleasure which he had, that he cared not for food, neither remembered
it, but went after that his holy guide. And at night he saw how the
cloud, when the sun was about to set, turned to the right of the road
toward the mountains; and it went on so far, that before night had closed
it came to a hermitage, in which there was a good man for a Hermit, who
was more than ninety years of age, and there it stopt. And the King
perceived that he was to rest there, and the good man welcomed the King,
and they spake together of many things. And the King was well contented
with his speech, and saw that certes he was a servant of God. And all
that day the King had not eaten, and he was barefoot, and his raiment
tattered: and as he had not been used to travel a-foot, and with his feet
bare, his feet were swollen with blisters. And when it was an hour after
night, the Hermit gave him a loaf, full small, which was made of rye, and
there were ashes kneaded with it, and the King ate it: and when he had
eaten they said prayers. And when they had said their hours, they lay
down to sleep. And when it was midnight they arose and said their hours:
and when they had said them, the King went out of the hermitage, and saw
that the cloud did not move: and then the King understood that he had to
tarry here, or that he was to hear mass before he departed, and he asked
the Hermit to hear his confession, and the Hermit confessed him. And when
he had confessed, he said that he would communicate, and the good Hermit
saw that it was good, and he put on his vestments and said mass; and the
King heard the mass, and received the very body of our Lord Jesus Christ.
And when the King had done this, he went out to look at the cloud. And
as he went out of the hermitage he saw that the cloud began to move,
and then he dispeeded himself from the Hermit, and they embraced each
other weeping, and each entreated the other, that he would bear him in
mind, and remember him in his prayers. And when the King had dispeeded
himself, he followed after his holy guide, and the holy Hermit returned
to his hermitage. And the King Don Rodrigo, notwithstanding his feet were
swollen and full of blisters, and that in many places they were broken
and bleeding, such and so great was the joy which he felt at going on in
the course which he now held, that he endured it all as though he felt
nothing. And he went, according as it seemed to him, full six leagues,
and arrived at a convent of Black Monks, and there the cloud stopt, and
would proceed no farther. And at that convent there was an Abbot who led
an extraordinary good and holy life; and they were not there like other
monks; and he was a great friend of God and of our Lady the Virgin St.
Mary: and this Abbot took the King to his cell, and asked if he would
eat as he was wont to do, or like the other monks, and the King said,
that he would do as he should direct him. And the Abbot ordered that a
loaf should be brought of pannick and maize mixed together, and a jar of
water, and on the other side he had food placed such as the monks used;
and the King would eat only of the pannick bread, as he had been wont to
do, and he drank of the water. And when he had eaten, the Abbot asked
him if he would remain that night or not, and the King said that he knew
not, but that he would go out and see whether he were to go or to remain.
And the Abbot said that it was the hour of vespers, and that he ought
to remain; and the King went out and saw that the cloud moved, and that
it behoved him to go, and he dispeeded himself from the Abbot, and they
commended themselves each to the other in his prayers. And the Abbot saw
plainly how that cloud had guided him, and how there was no other in the
sky, and he marvelled greatly, and said, Certes this is some holy man,
and he gave thanks to God. And the King went on that evening till he came
to a church which was solitary and remote from peopled places: and there
the cloud stopt, and he abode there that night. And the King went into
the church, and found in it a lamp burning, and it rejoiced him much,
for by the light of it he said his hours as well before he should sleep
as after. And on the morrow when he had made his prayer, he went out of
the church and beheld the cloud, and saw that it moved; and he went after
it, and after two days’ journey he came to a place which where it is, or
what it is called, is not said, save that it is the place of his burial,
for such it is. And there the cloud stopt and proceeded no farther; and
it rested without the town over an ancient hermitage. And the elder of
that place incontinently knew by the Holy Spirit how King Don Rodrigo was
come there: but he knew not his name, neither who he was; and he asked
him if he meant to lead his life there, and he answered that it was to be
as God should please. And the Elder said to him, Friend, I am the Elder
of this place, for all the others, when they knew that King Don Rodrigo
and his chivalry were slain and vanquished, fled from hence for fear of
the Moors, and of the traitor Count Don Julian, and they all went to
the mountains to escape. And I remained, putting my trust in our Lord
God, and in his holy hands: for that I would rather abide that which may
befall and take my adventure here, than utterly forsake our mother holy
church; while I am able I will remain here and not forsake it, but rather
receive my death. And therefore I say, that if you are to abide here you
must provide yourself of that whereof you have need. And the King said,
Friend of God, concerning my tarriance I cannot certify you; though
surely I think that I shall abide; and if for the service of God you
will be pleased to send me every day that I remain a loaf of pannick and
water, I shall be contented therewith. And the Elder promised this, and
departed forthwith and went to his home, and sent him a loaf of pannick
and water. And the cloud remained there three days over that hermitage,
and when the three days were at an end, it was seen no more. And the
King, when he could no longer see it, understood that there he must
perform his penance, and gave many thanks to God, and was full joyful
thereat. And on the morrow the Elder came to see him, and they communed
with each other in such manner, that the King confessed to him all the
sins which he had committed during his whole life till that time, all
which he called to mind with great contrition, weeping full bitterly and
groaning for his errors and sins. And the Elder was greatly astonished,
and said, That on the third day from thence he would appoint him his
penance. And he went to his church and confessed, and addrest himself to
prayer in such guise that he neither ate nor drank, nor raised himself
from one place, weeping bitterly, and beseeching God that he would show
him what penance he should appoint the King; for after no other manner
did he think to appoint it, than such as his holy mercy and compassion
should direct. And on the third day he heard a voice which said thus,
Command King Don Rodrigo that he go to a fountain which is below his
hermitage, and he shall find there a smooth stone; and bid him lift it
up, and under it he shall find three little serpents, the one having two
heads. And bid him take that which hath two heads, and carry it away,
and place it in a jar, and nurse it secretly, so that no person in the
world shall know thereof, save only he and thou; and let him keep it till
it wax so great that it hath made three turns within the jar, and puts
its head out; and when it is of that greatness, then let him take it out,
and lay it in a tomb which is there, and lie down himself with it, naked;
and close the tomb well, that the serpent may not be able to go out; and
in this manner God is pleased that King Don Rodrigo should do penance.”


Ch. 254.—_Of the Penance which was appointed King Don Rodrigo._

“The Elder when he heard the voice was greatly amazed at so rigorous a
penance as this, and gave many thanks to God, and he went to King Don
Rodrigo, and told him the manner how he had heard the voice; and the
King was full joyful and content and pleased therewith, and gave many
thanks to our Lord, for that he should now complete his penance and
save his soul. And therewith in great joy, and shedding many tears for
pleasure, he went to the fountain as he had been directed, and found the
smooth stone. And when he had lifted it up, he found the three serpents
according as the Elder had said, and he took that which had two heads,
and he took it and put it in a great jar, such as would be a large wine
vessel, and nurst it there till it was of such bigness as the voice
had said. And when King Don Rodrigo saw that it was of this bigness he
confessed to the Elder, weeping full bitterly, demanding favour of God
that he would give him grace and strength with patience to fulfil that
penance without any temptation or trouble of soul; to the end that, the
penance being completed, it might please our Lord God to receive his
soul into his glory. And before the fifth day after the serpent was thus
big, the King and the Elder went to the tomb, and they cleansed it well
within; and the King placed himself in it naked as he was born, and the
serpent with him, and the Elder with a great lever laid the stone upon
the top. And the King besought the Elder that he would pray to our Lord
to give him grace that he might patiently endure that penance, and the
Elder promised him, and thus the King remained in his tomb, and the
serpent with him. And the Elder consoled him, saying to him many things
to the end that he might not be dismayed, neither fall into despair,
whereby he should lose the service of God. And all this was so secret
that no man knew it, save only the King and the Elder. And when it was
day-break the Elder went to the church and said mass, with many tears
and with great devotion beseeching God that he would have mercy and
compassion upon King Don Rodrigo, that with true devotion and repentance
he might complete his penance in this manner, which was for his service.
And when he had said mass, he went to the place where King Don Rodrigo
lay, and asked him how he fared, and the King answered, Well, thanks to
God, and better than he deserved, but that as yet he was just as when he
went in. And the Elder strengthened him as much as he could, telling him
that he should call to mind how he had been a sinner, and that he should
give thanks to our Lord God, for that he had visited him in this world,
and delivered him from many temptations, and had himself appointed for
him this penance; the which he should suffer and take with patience,
for soon he would be in heavenly glory. And the king said to him, that
he well knew how according to his great sins he merited a stronger
penance: but that he gave many thanks to our Lord Jesus, for that he
himself had given him this penance, which he did receive and take with
great patience; and he besought the Elder that he would continue to pray
our Lord God that he would let him fulfil it. And the Elder said to him
many good things concerning our Lord God. And the King lay there three
days, during all which time the serpent would not seize on him. And when
the third day, after that he had gone into the tomb, was completed, the
serpent rose from his side, and crept upon his belly and his breast, and
began with the one head to eat at his nature, and with the other straight
toward his heart. And at this time the Elder came to the tomb, and asked
him how he fared, and he said, Well, thanks to God, for now the serpent
had begun to eat. And the Elder asked him at what place, and he answered
at two, one right against the heart with which he had conceived all the
ills that he had done, and the other at his nature, the which had been
the cause of the great destruction of Spain. And the Elder said that God
was with him, and exhorted him that he should be of good courage, for now
all his persecutions both of the body and of the soul would have an end.
And the King ceased not always to demand help of our Lord, and to entreat
that of his holy mercy he would be pleased to forgive him. And the Elder
went to his home, and would not seat himself to eat, but retired into his
chamber, and weeping, prayed full devoutly to our Lord that he would give
strength to the King that he might complete his penance. And the serpent,
as he was dying for hunger, and moreover was large, had in one minute
eaten the nature, and began to eat at the bowels; nevertheless he did
not eat so fast, but that the King endured in that torment from an hour
before night till it was past the middle of the day. And when the serpent
broke through the web of the heart, he staid there and ate no further.
And incontinently the King gave up his spirit to our Lord, who by his
holy mercy took him into his glory. And at that hour when he expired all
the bells of the place rang of themselves as if men had rung them. Then
the Elder knew that the King was dead, and that his soul was saved.”

Thomas Newton in his “Notable History of the Saracens,” seems to imagine
that this story is allegorical. “Nowe,” he says, “whereas it is reported,
and written that he folowed a starre or a messenger of God, which
conducted and guided him in his way; it may be so, and the same hath also
happened to others; but it may as well also be understoode of a certaine
secrete starre moving and directing his will.

“And whereas they say he was put by that holy man into a cave or hole,
and a serpent with him that had two heads, which in two days’ space
gnawed all the flesh off his body from the bones; this, beyng simplie
taken and understanded, hath no likelihood of any truth. For what
sanctity, what religion, or what pietie, commandeth to kill a penitent
person, and one that seeketh comfort of hys afflicted mind by amendment
of life, with such horrible torments and straunge punishment? Wherefore
I woulde rather think it to be spoken mysticallye, and that the serpent
with two heads signifieth his sinful and gylty conscience.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  _A humble tomb was found._—XXV. p. 250.


_How Carestes found the grave of King Don Rodrigo at Viseo in Portugal._

“I, Carestes, vassal of King Don Alfonso of Leon, son-in-law of the
Knight of God, King Don Pelayo, when the said King Don Alfonso won Viseo
from the Moors who held it, found a grave in a field, upon the which were
written in Gothic letters, the words which you shall here read. This
grave was in front of a little church, without the town of Viseo, and the
superscription of the writing was thus:—


_Of the writing which was upon the grave of King Don Rodrigo._

“Here lies King Don Rodrigo, the last of the Goths. Cursed be the wrath
of the traitor Julian, for it was of long endurance, and cursed be his
anger, for it was obdurate and evil, for he was mad with rage, and
stomachful with pride, and puffed up with folly, and void of loyalty, and
unmindful of the laws, and a despiser thereof; cruel in himself, a slayer
of his lord, a destroyer of his country, a traitor to his countrymen;
bitter is his name; and it is as grief and sorrow in the mouth of him who
pronounces it; and it shall always be cursed by all that speak of him.”

That veracious chronicler Carestes then concludes his true history in
these words:—“And by this which I found written upon this grave, I am of
mind that King Don Rodrigo lies there, and because of the life which
he led in his penitence, according as ye have heard, which also was in
the same tomb written in a book of parchment, I believe without doubt
that it is true, and because of the great penance which he did, that God
was pleased to make it known in such manner as it past, for those who
hereafter shall have to rule and govern, to the end that all men may see
how soon pride is abased and humility exalted. This Chronicle is composed
in memory of the noble King Don Rodrigo; that God pardon his sins, and
that the son of the Virgin without stain, Jesus Christ, bring us to true
repentance, who liveth and reigneth for ever and ever. Amen.

                            Thanks be to God!”

I believe the Archbishop Roderick of Toledo is the earliest writer who
mentions this discovery. He died in 1247. The fact may very possibly have
been true, for there seems to have been no intention of setting up a
shrine connected with it. The Archbishop’s words are as follow:—

    “_Quid de Rege Roderico acciderit ignoratur; tamen corona,
    vestes et insignia et calciamenta auro et lapidibus adornata,
    et equus qui Orelia dicebatur, in loco tremulo juxta fluvium
    sine corpore sunt inventa. Quid autem de corpore fuerit factum
    penitus ignoratur, nisi quod modernis temporibus apud Viseum
    civitatem Portugalliæ inscriptus tumulus invenitur_, Hic jacet
    Rodericus ultimus Rex Gothorum. _Maledictus furor impius
    Juliani quia pertinax, et indignatio, quia dura; animosus
    indignatione, impetuosus furore, oblitus fidelitatis, immemor
    religionis, contemptor divinitatis, crudelis in se, homicida
    in dominum, hostis in domesticos, vastator in patriam, reus in
    omnes, memoria ejus in omni ore amarescet, et nomen ejus in
    æternum putrescet._”—Rod. Tol. f. 3. g. 19.

Lope de Vega has made this epitaph, with its accompanying reflections,
into two stanzas of Latin rhymes, which occur in the midst of one of his
long poems:—

  _Hoc jacet in sarcophago Rex ille
    Penultimas Gothorum in Hispania,
  Infelix Rodericus; viator sile,
    Ne fortè pereat tota Lusitania;
  Provocatus Cupidinis missile
    Telo, tam magnâ affectus fuit insaniâ
  Quam tota Hiberia vinculis astricta
  Testatur mæsta, lachrimatur victa._

  _Execrabilem Comitem Julianum
    Abhorreant omnes, nomine et remoto
  Patrio, appellent Erostratum Hispanum,
    Nec tantum nostri, sed in orbe toto:
  Dum current cœli sidera, vesanum
    Vociferant, testante Mauro et Gotho,
  Cesset Florindæ nomen insuave,
  Cava viator est, a Cava cave._

                                    Jerusalen Conquistada, l. 6. ff. 137.




FOOTNOTES


[1] See pages 77, 78. antè.

[2] In the seventeenth, and last council of Toledo, it was decreed that
the baptistery should be shut up, and sealed with the episcopal seal,
during the whole year, till Good Friday; on that day the bishop, in
his pontificals, was to open it with great solemnity, in token that
Christ, by his passion and resurrection, had opened the way to heaven
for mankind, as on that day the hope was opened of obtaining redemption
through the holy sacrament of baptism.—_Morales_, 12. 62. 3.

[3] Monarchia Lusitana, 2. 7. 19.

[4] Père Tomich. c. 34. ff. 26

[5] Hist. Goth. apud Florez. Espana Sagrada, t. 6. 486.

[6] Espana Sagrada, t. 6. 474.

[7] Hist. of the Captivity of Thomas Pellew, p. 257.

[8] España Sagrada, t. xiii. p. 242.

[9] Johnes’s Monstrellet, vol. v. p. 190.

[10] C. 13.

[11] Fuero Juzgo, L. 3. tit. 1. leg. 1.

                         END OF THE NINTH VOLUME.

                                 LONDON.
                          SPOTTISWOODE and SHAW,
                            New-street-Square.