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 neighboring 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 Observances and sacrifice of faith; The cimeter, 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
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 Savior, and my Judge.
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. Ay, 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,
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!
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 hers, 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 nights, - this flesh, this blood, this life,
Hath been commenced, the which, from this day | Of Orras, from that sacred land it bears
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
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
among the neighboring hills, To her poor country. For she said, that Heaven,
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 cross'd, where through the
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,
When clogg'd with bodies, Chrysus scarce could force
And virgins in the beauty of their spring, And youthful mothers, doting, like herself,
With ever-anxious love. She breathed through all Its bloody stream along? Witiza's sons,
That zeal and that devoted faithfulness,
Which to the invader's threats and promises Turn'd a deaf ear alike; which in the head
Bad offspring of a stock accurs'd, I know, Have put the turban on their recreant heads. Where are your own Cantabrian Lords? I ween,
And flood of prosperous fortune check'd his Eudon, and Pedro, and Pelayo now
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,
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.
And on their household hearths, and by their beds They scann'd his countenance, but not a trace 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! 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,
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 Ye bear the palm That thou hast pass'd thy days in solitude, Replied the Abbot, or thou wouldst 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 fathers' 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 apostasy
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 misspent; 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,
Were all, and to be unbaptized might serve,- But I waste breath upon a wretch like this; Pelayo is the only hope of Spain,
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 who survived that eight-days' obstinate fight, All proud distinctions which commingling blood
And time's long course have fail'd to efface; and | And light discourse: the talk which now went
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.
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 hast 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 awful 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 succor 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 mayst raise The fallen, and comfort those that are in need, And bring salvation to the penitent. Now, brother, go thy way: the peace of God Be with thee, and his blessing prosper us!
BETWEEN St. Felix and the regal seat Of Abdalaziz, 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 fragrant flame. That flame no longer, as in other times, Lit up the countenance of easy mirth
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 sat 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 clinching, 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 sat 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 Mussulmen, in their career, Would ne'er have overleap'd 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.
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
| 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 forever 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,
His blank and senseless eyeballs? Spain saw this, Who in her blessing would have given and found
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 horned 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.
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 ambers, 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 Ay! they said, A comfort which the world can neither give Nor take away. - Roderick inquired no more; He breathed a silent prayer in gratitude,
These were Witiza's hateful progeny; And in an evil hour the unhappy King Had spared the viperous brood. With that they Then wrapt his cloak around him, and lay down
Where he might weep unseen.
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 show 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 How far domestic wrongs and discontent Had wrought upon the King!- Hereat the old With careful collocation its dear form,
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
So might the waters, like a crystal shrine,
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