My unsuspecting heart; nor me alone,
But him, before whom, shining as he shone
With whatsog'er is noble, whatsoe'er
Is lovely, whatsoever good and great,
I was as dust and ashes,-but him, alas!
This glorious being, this exalted Prince,
Even him, with all his royalty of soul,
Did this ill-omened, this accursed 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 incurred
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 unhapy 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 discases him, frail worm!
And the slight bias of untoward chance
Makes his best virtues 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 strengthened in its growth,
Till the beloved presence was 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,
Alloyed and lowered 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 blest his home and crowned our wedded loves.
Too often did that sinful thought recur,
Too feebly the temptation was repelled.

Sec, Father, I have probed my inmost soul;
Have searched 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 condemned.
One eve, as in the bowers which overhang
The glen where Tagus rolls between his rocks 30
I roamed alone, alone I met the King.

His countenance was troubled, and his speech
Like that of one whose tongue to light discourse
At fits constrained, betrays a heart disturbed:

I too, albeit unconscious of his thoughts,

With anxious looks revealed what wandering words
In vain essayed 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 abashed. 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 endeared,

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 prest upon my lips a guilty kiss,—
Alas! more guilty received than given.
Passive and yielding, and yet self-reproached,
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 impassioned 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 choked her speech. But Roderick sate the while
Covering his face with both his hands close prest,
His head bowed 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 revealed
To my awakening soul her guilt and shame;
And in those agonies with which remorse,
Wrestling with weakness and with cherished sin,
Doth triumph o'er the lacerated heart,
That night-that miserable night-I vowed,
A virgin dedicate, to pass my life

Immured; and, like redeemed Magdalen, 31

Or that Egyptian penitent, 32 whose tears
Fretted the rock and moistened round her cave
The thirsty desert, so to mourn my fall.
The struggle ending thus, the victory
Thus, as I thought, accomplished, 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! 33 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 kindly warmth his suit, like one whose life
Hung on the issue: I dissembled not
My cruel self-reproaches, uor my grief,
Yet desperately maintained the rash resolve;
Till in the passionate argument he grew
Incensed, inflamed, and maddened or possessed,-
For Hell too surely at that hour prevailed,
And with such subtile toils enveloped him,
That even in the extremity of guilt
No guilt he purported, but rather meant

An amplest recompense of life-long love

For transitory wrong, which fate perverse,
Thus madly he deceived himself, compelled,
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 mastered me,
And in my agony I curst the man

Whom I loved best.

Dost thou recall that curse?

Cried Roderick, in a deep and inward voice,
Still with his head depressed, and covering still
His countenance. Recall it? she exclaimed;
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 the! On his fame
The Ethiop dye, fixed ineffaceably,
For ever will abide; so it must be,

So should be; 't is his rightful punishment;
And if to the full measure of his fault

The punishment hath fallen, the more our hope
That through the blood of Jesus he may find
His sins forgiven him.

Pausing then, he raised

said he,

flis hand, and pointed where Siverian lay
Stretched on the heath. To that old man,
And to the mother of the unhappy Goth,
Tell, if it please thee, not what thou hast poured
Into my secret ear, but that the child

For whom they mourn with anguish unallayed,
Sinned not from vicious will, or heart corrupt,
But fell by fatal circumstance betrayed.
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?
Ile 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 exclaimed;
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 wronged 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 wronged 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' wild 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 beads 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,
'T is not the spur of lofty enterprise
That with unequal throbbing hurries now
The unquiet heart, now makes it sink dismay'd:
"T is 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 longed-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 unbeard;
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 marked 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

Returned to tell the symbols of good hope,
And they pricked forward joyfully. Ere long,
l'erceptible 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 shrieked
For joy, and smote his steed and galloped 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,
Entreats 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 drew 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 theu for this most desperate enterprise

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
Walked with the sons of Judah in the fire,
And from the lion's den drew Daniel forth
Unhurt, will save him,-if it be his will.

Just as he spake the astonished 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, exclaimed,
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 knowest 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 delivered 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 enterprise, 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 filled me, now that seeing I believe,
Doth give of happy end to righteous cause
presage, not presumptuous, but assured.

A

Then looking to his men, he cried, Bring forth
The armour which in Wamba's wars 34 I wore-
Alphonso's heart leapt at the auspicious words.
Count Pedro marked 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 exultingly 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 stretched
His infant hands toward it eagerly,
Where gleaming to the central fire it hung
High in the hall; and many a time had wished
With boyish ardour, that the day were come

No season this for old solemnities,

For wassailry and sport;-the bath, the bed, 35
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,36
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 flushed 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 received
The sword; he girt it round the youth, and drew
And placed it in his hand; unsheathing then
His own good falchion, with its burnished blade
He touched Alphonso's neck, and with a kiss
Gave him his rank in arms.

Thus long the crowd
Had looked intently on, in silence hushed;
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

of

The youthful, from the

eye age

drew tears.

The uproar died away, when, standing forth,
Roderick with lifted hand besought a pause
For speech, and moved toward 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 and purify the sons of Spain; prove

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 unlooked-for interposal, and the Count
Bends toward Alphonso his approving head.
The youth obedient loosened 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 accurst,
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!

Through every heart the rapid feeling ran,—
For us! they answered 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 crost their fervent arms, and with bent head
Inclined toward that awful 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,