Bearing no name, nor other monument.
They saw his coming; and their whirring wings
Where better could they rest than here, where faith, Upon the height had sometimes fann'd his cheek, And secret penitence, and happiest death, As if, being thus alone, humanity Had bless'd the spot, and brought good Angels Had lost its rank, and the prerogative down, Of man were done away.
Where better could the wanderers rest than here? To see brute nature scorn him, and renounce
TWELVE months they sojourn'd in their solitude, And then beneath the burden of old age Romano sunk. No brethren were there here To spread the sackcloth, and with ashes strow 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 labor'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 burden 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 sat 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
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 clinch 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.
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 ingulf'd! At length, as life, when it hath lain long time Oppress'd 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, Clasp'd 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 gulf. 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 bless'd 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,
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 breastplate; in her shield display'd, Erect a lion ramp'd; her helmed head
Rose like the Berecynthian Goddess crown'd
Tracking the way with blood; there, day by day, With towers, and in her dreadful hand the sword
Red as a firebrand 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.
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 Forever lost, cut off with all the weight Of unrepented sin upon his head,
Sin which had weigh'd a nation down - what joy To know that righteous Heaven had in its wrath Remember'd mercy, and she yet might meet The child whom she had borne, redeem'd, in bliss! The sudden impulse of such thoughts confirm'd That unacknowledged purpose, which till now Vainly had sought its end. He girt his loins, Laid holiest Mary's image in a cleft
Of the rock, where, shelter'd from the elements, It might abide till happier days came on, From all defilement safe; pour'd his last prayer Upon Romano's grave, and kiss'd the earth Which cover'd his remains, and wept as if At long leave-taking, then began his way.
'Twas now the earliest morning; soon the Sun, Rising above Albardos, pour'd his light Amid the forest, and with ray aslant Entering its depth, illumed the branchless pines, Brighten'd their bark, tinged with a redder hue Its rusty stains, and cast along the floor Long lines of shadow, where they rose erect Like pillars of the temple. With slow foot Roderick pursued his way; for penitence, Remorse which gave no respite, and the long And painful conflict of his troubled soul,
Had worn him down. Now, brighter thoughts
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 crier stood, and with his sonorous voice Fill'd the delicious vale where Lena winds Through groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight
Of turban, girdle, robe, and cimeter,
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 hagged mien, and countenance like one
Crazed or bewilder'd. All who met him turn'd, And wonder'd as he pass'd. One stopp'd 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 suppress'd: the Mussulman 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
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 stopp'd 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 press'd, 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,
Of Priest, and Monk, and Bishop meekly toil'd, - Would fain have died, so death could bring with it So had the insulting Arian given command. Those stately palaces and rich domains
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
Convent, and town, and towers, which shall become Seem'd to reproach their dwellers; stately piles The cradle of that famous monarchy!
Yet undecay'd, the mighty monuments
What joy might these prophetic scenes have 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 cross'd 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 bestrown, Helmet and turban, cimeter 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 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 havock 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, Heap'd 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 armed warrior, on his breast An infant, over whom his arms were cross'd. There, with firm eye and steady countenance, Unfaltering, she address'd 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 blessed 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 Judgment-seat; Then laid them on her eyes, and, leaning on, Bent o'er the open sepulchre.
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 show 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. 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 Accurs'd for pity look, such pity find
As ravenous wolves show the defenceless flock. My husband at my feet had fallen; my babe, - Spare me that thought, O God! — and then 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;
« 前へ次へ » |