THAT awful silence still endured, when one,
Who to the northern entrance of the vale
Had turned his casual eye, exclaimed, The Moors!-
For from the forest verge a troop were seen
Hastening toward Pedro's hall. Their forward speed
Was checked when they beheld his banner spread,
And saw his ordered spears in prompt array
Marshalled to meet their coming. But the pride
Of power and insolence of long command
Pricked 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 spurred his steed, Allah is great!
Mahommed is his prophet! he exclaimed,
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 transfixed;
Then leaving in his breast the mortal shaft,
Past

on, and breaking through the turban'd files
Opened a path. Pelayo, who that day
Fought in the ranks afoot, for other war
Yet unequipped, pursued and smote the foe,
But ever on Alphonso at his side

Retained 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 weened
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.
Scattered before the impetuous Mountaineers,
Buckler and spear and scymitar they dropt,

As in precipitate rout 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 turned toward him with malignant rage,
And saying, Infidel! thou shalt not live
To join their triumph! aimed against his neck
The moony falchion's point. His comrade raised
A hasty hand and turned its edge aside,
Yet so that o'er the shoulder glancing down
It scarred him as it past. 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 conqueror
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 overlooked 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 appeared and undisturbed,
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 obeyed
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 turned, their veins full-swoln, their sinews strung
For battle still, their hearts unsatisfied;

Their swords were dropping still with Moorish gore,
And where they wiped their reeking brows, the stain
Of Moorish blood was left. But when they came
Where Pedro, with Alphonso at his side,
Stood to behold their coming, then they prest,
All emulous, with gratulation round,
Extolling for his deeds that day displayed

The noble boy. Oh! when had Heaven, they said,
With such especial favour manifest
Illustrated a first essay in arms!

They blest the father from whose loins he sprung,
The mother at whose happy breast he fed;
And prayed 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 checked,
For Eudon and the Moor were led 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 quailed Count Eudon's heart, and made his limbs
Quiver, were of his own unworthiness,

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-mouthed,
Count Pedro half represt a mournful smile,
Wherein compassion seemed to mitigate

His deep contempt. Methinks, said he, the Moor
Might with more reason look himself to find
An intercessor, than be called upon

To play the pleader's part. Didst thou then save
The Baron from thy comrades?

Rejoined the Count, be vain. Say farther now,

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 rage,
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 loosened and disjointed the whole frame
Of social order, and she calls not now
For service with the voice 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

force

In Gegio, and if others like yourselves

Are in the field!

The African replied, We came from Gegio, ordered 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; and 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

Fixed 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 weighed 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 destroyed,-
Our towns subdued,—our country overrun,—
The people to the yoke of their new Lords
Resigned in peace-Can I not mediate?—
Were it not better through my agency

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 thinkest that beneath his horses' 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 nearest tree
Thy recreant bones shall rattle in the wind,
When the crows have left them bare.

As thus he spake,

Count Eudon heard and trembled: every joint
Was loosened, every fibre of his flesh

Thrilled, 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 essayed reply,
Compassionately Pedro interposed.

Go, Baron, to the castle, said the Count;
There let thy wound be looked 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 turned, and saying, All-too-long, O Prince,
Hath this unlooked-for conflict held thee here,-
He bade his gallant men begin their march.

Flushed 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 travelled on;
Renewing then at early dawn their way,
They held their unremitting course from morn
Till latest eve, such urgent cause impelled;
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.

COUNT, said Pelayo, Nature hath assigned
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 doomed 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 fall'n, 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 flashed on Sella's rippling stream;

Now gleamed 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,
Vanished in nearer vision, high-wrought hope
Departing, left the spirit palled 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 glittered 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 returned
Victorious, for at every saddle-bow

A gory head was hung, 37 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 disturbed, the affrighted martins flew,
And uttering notes of terror short and shrill,
Amid the yellow glare and lurid smoke
Wheeled 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 snatched 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 displayed:
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 overpowered 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 possessed 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 inquire
Where Gaudiosa was, his children where,
Who called them to the field, who captained them;
And how these women, thus with arms and death
Environed, 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 unlooked for. With dismay
She recognized her brother, dreaded now
More than he once was dear; her countenance
Was turned 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 constrained,
With which she coldly drest her features, ill
Concealed 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 mailed;

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 or 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 marked, so passion-worn was there,
That it recalled 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 remembered, touched 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 deemed
Rusilla at that moment that the child,
For whom her supplications day and night
Were offered, breathed the living air. Her heart
Was calm; her placid countenance, though grief
Deeper than time had left its traces there,
Retained its dignity serene; yet when
Siverian, pressing through the people, kissed
Her reverend hand, some quiet tears ran down.
As she approached the Prince, the crowd made way

Respectful. The maternal smile which bore
Her greeting, from Pelayo's heart almost
Dispelled its boding. What he would have asked
She knew, and bending from her palfrey down,
Told him that they for whom he looked 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 scattered 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 awfully
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 quenched,
Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth

Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,

Draw on with elevating influence

Toward eternity the attempered mind.

Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands,

And to the Virgin Mother silently
Breathes forth her hymn of praise.

The mountaineers

Before the castle, round their mouldering fires,
Lie on the hearth outstretched. 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 undisturbed repose, alike

Of corporal powers and inward faculty.
Wakeful the while he lay, yet more by hope

Than grief or anxious thoughts possessed,—though grief
For Guisla's guilt, which freshened 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

A woman thus possessed? 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
Bebeld 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 remembered 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 lingered, but it seemed more long
To Roderick's aching heart. He too had watched
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 resigned! 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 gathered 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 followed 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 approached, and bending, on his breast
He crossed his humble arms. Rusilla rose
In reverence to the priestly character,38
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 poured

A curse upon my poor unhappy child.
O Father Maccabee, this is a hard world,
And hasty in its judgments! 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 traitrous 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 looked on,
That when the actual point of trial came,
Torpid and numbed it found him: cold he grew,
And as the vital spirits to the heart
Retreated, o'er his withered countenance,
Deathy and damp, a whiter paleness spread.
Unmoved the while the inward feeling seemed,
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 veuerable Lady, he replied,

If aught may comfort that unhappy soul,
It must be thy compassion, and thy prayers.
She whom he most hath wronged, 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 equalled his! full well I know his heart,
Vehement in all things. He would on himself
Have wreaked such penance as had reached the height

Of fleshly suffering,-yea, which being told

With its portentous rigour should have made
The memory of his fault, o'erpowered and lost

In shuddering pity and astonishment,

Fade like a feebler horror. Otherwise