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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

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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!

IV.

THE MONASTERY OF ST. FELIX.

THUS long had Roderick heard her powerful words
In silence, awed before her; but his heart
Was fill'd the while with swelling sympathy,
And now with impulse not to be restrain'd
The feeling overpower'd him. Hear me too,
Auria, and Spain, and Heaven! he cried; and thou
Who risest thus above mortality,

Sufferer and patriot, saint and heroine,
The servant and the chosen of the Lord,-
For surely such thou art, - receive in me
The first-fruits of thy calling. Kneeling then,
And placing, as he spake, his hand in 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,

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Hath been commenced, the which, from this day | Of Orras, from that sacred land it bears

forth,

Permits no breathing-time, and knows no end
Till in this land the last invader bow
His neck beneath the exterminating sword.

Said I not rightly? Adosinda cried;
The will which goads me on is not mine own;
'Tis from on high,—yea, verily of Heaven!
But who art thou who hast profess'd with me,
My first sworn brother in the appointed rule?
Tell me thy name.

Ask any thing but that!
The fallen King replied. My name was lost
When from the Goths the sceptre pass'd away.
The nation will arise regenerate;
Strong in her second youth, and beautiful,
And like a spirit which hath shaken off
The clog of dull mortality, shall Spain
Arise in glory. But for my good name
No resurrection is appointed here.

Let it be blotted out on earth: in Heaven
There shall be written with it penitence,

And grace, and saving faith, and such good deeds
Wrought in atonement as my soul this day
Hath sworn to offer up.

Then be thy name,
She answer'd, Maccabee, from this day forth;
For this day art thou born again; and like
Those brethren of old times, whose holy names
Live in the memory of all noble hearts
For love and admiration, ever young,
So for our native country, for her hearths
And altars, for her cradles and her graves,
Hast thou thyself devoted. Let us now
Each to our work

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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.

[vale

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

course,

Repell'd him from the walls, and when at length
His overpowering numbers forced their way,
Even in that uttermost extremity
Unyielding, still from street to street, from house
To house, from floor to floor, maintain'd the fight;
Till by their altars falling, in their doors,

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,

Only Pelayo.

If, as we believe,

Said Urban then, the hand of Heaven is here,
And dreadful though they be, yet for wise end
Of good, these visitations do its work;
And dimly as our mortal sight may scan
The future, yet methinks my soul descries
How in Pelayo should the purposes
Of Heaven be best accomplish'd. All too long,
Here in their own inheritance, the sons
Of Spain have groan'd beneath a foreign yoke,
Punic and Roman, Kelt, and Goth, and Greek:
This latter tempest comes to sweep away

All 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

now

Perchance it is the will of Fate to rear

Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne, Restoring in Pelayo's native line

The sceptre to the Spaniard.

Go thou, then,

And seek Pelayo at the Conqueror's Court.
Tell him the mountaineers are unsubdued;
The precious time they needed hath been gain'd
By Auria's sacrifice, and all they ask

Is him to guide them on. In Odoar's name
And Urban's, tell him that the hour is come.

Then, pausing for a moment, he pursued:The rule which thou hast taken on thyself Toledo ratifies: 'tis meet for Spain, And as the will divine, to be received, Observed, and spread abroad. Come hither thou, Who for thyself 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!

V.

RODERICK AND SIVERIAN.

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

round

Was of the grief that press'd on every heart;
Of Spain subdued; the sceptre of the Goths
Broken; their nation and their name effaced;
Slaughter and mourning, which had left no house
Unvisited; and shame, which set its mark
On every Spaniard's face. One who had seen
His sons fall bravely at his side, bewail'd

The unhappy chance which, rescuing him from death,

Left him the last of all his family;

Yet he rejoiced to think that none who drew
Their blood from him remain'd to wear the yoke,
Be at the miscreant's beck, and propagate

A breed of slaves to serve them. Here 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.

Touch not on that,

Shrinking with inward shiverings at the thought,
The penitent exclaim'd. Oh, if thou lovest
The soul of Roderick, touch not on that deed!
God, in his mercy, may forgive it him,
But human tongue must never speak his name
Without reproach and utter infamy,
For that abhorred act. Even thou-But here
Siverian taking up the word, brake off,
Unwittingly, the incautious speech. Even I,
Quoth he, who nursed him in his father's hall,—
Even I can only for that deed of shame
Offer in agony my secret prayers.

But Spain hath witness'd other crimes as foul:
Have we not seen Favila's shameless wife,
Throned in Witiza's ivory car, parade
Our towns with regal pageantry, and bid
The murderous tyrant in her husband's blood
Dip his adulterous hand? Did we not see
Pelayo, by that bloody king's pursuit,
And that unnatural mother, from the land
With open outcry, like an outlaw'd thief,
Hunted? And saw ye not Theodofred,

As through the streets I guided his dark steps,
Roll mournfully toward the noon-day sun

| 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

talk'd

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

man,

[say

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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