Preserve it from pollution. Kneeling then,
O'er the memorial of redeeming love

He bent, and mingled with the fount his tears,
And pour'd his spirit to the Crucified.

A Moor came by, and seeing him, exclaim'd,
Ah, Kaffer! worshipper of wood and stone,
God's curse confound thee! And as Roderick
turn'd

His face, the miscreant spurn'd him with his foot
Between the eyes. The indignant King arose,
And fell'd him to the ground. But then the Moor
Drew forth his dagger, rising as he cried,
What! darest thou, thou infidel and slave,
Strike a believer? and he aim'd a blow [arm,
At Roderick's breast. But Roderick caught his
And closed, and wrench'd the dagger from his
hold,-

Such timely strength did those emaciate limbs
From indignation draw, and in his neck
With mortal stroke he drove the avenging steel
Hilt deep. Then, as the thirsty sand drank in
The expiring miscreant's blood, he look'd around
In sudden apprehension, lest the Moors
Had seen them; but Siverian was in sight,
The only traveller, and he smote his mule,
And hasten'd up. Ah, brother! said the old man,
Thine is a spirit of the ancient mould!
And would to God a thousand men like thee
Had fought at Roderick's side on that last day
When treason overpower'd him! Now, alas!
A manly Gothic heart doth ill accord

With these unhappy times. Come, let us hide
This carrion, while the favoring hour permits.

So saying, he alighted. Soon they scoop'd
Amid loose-lying sand a hasty grave,
And levell'd over it the easy soil.
Father, said Roderick, as they journey'd on,
Let this thing be a seal and sacrament

Of truth between us. Wherefore should there be
Concealment between two right Gothic hearts
In evil days like ours? What thou hast seen
Is but the first fruit of the sacrifice,
Which on this injured and polluted soil,
As on a bloody altar, I have sworn
To offer to insulted Heaven for Spain,
Her vengeance and her expiation. This
Was but a hasty act, by sudden wrong
Provoked but I am bound for Cordoba,
On weighty mission from Visonia sent,
To breathe into Pelayo's ear a voice
Of spirit-stirring power, which like the trump
Of the Archangel, shall awake dead Spain.
The northern mountaineers are unsubdued;
They call upon Pelayo for their chief;
Odoar and Urban tell him that the hour
Is come. Thou, too, I ween, old man, art charged,
With no light errand, or thou wouldst not now
Have left the ruins of thy master's house.

Who art thou? cried Siverian, as he search'd The wan and wither'd features of the King. Thy face is of a stranger; but thy voice Disturbs me like a dream.

The shame that threats his house. The renegade
Numacian, he who, for the infidels,
Oppresses Gegio, insolently wooes
His sister. Moulded in a wicked womb,
The unworthy Guisla hath inherited
Her mother's leprous taint; and, willingly,
She to the circumcised and upstart slave,
Disdaining all admonishment, gives ear.
The Lady Gaudiosa sees in this,

With the quick foresight of maternal care,
The impending danger to her husband's house,
Knowing his generous spirit ne'er will brook
The base alliance. Guisla lewdly sets
His will at nought; but that vile renegade,
From hatred, and from avarice, and from fear,
Will seek the extinction of Pelayo's line.
This, too, my venerable mistress sees;
Wherefore these valiant and high-minded dames
Send me to Cordoba; that, if the Prince
Cannot, by timely interdiction, stop
The irrevocable act of infamy,

He may, at least, to his own safety look,
Being timely warn'd.

Thy mistress sojourns then
With Gaudiosa, in Pelayo's hall?
Said Roderick. 'Tis her natural home, rejoin'd
Siverian Chindasuintho's royal race

Have ever shared one lot of weal or woe;
And she who hath beheld her own fair shoot,
The goodly summit of that ancient tree,
Struck by Heaven's bolt, seeks shelter now beneath
The only branch of its majestic stem

That still survives the storm.

Thus they pursued Their journey, each from other gathering store For thought, with many a silent interval Of mournful meditation, till they saw The temples and the towers of Cordoba Shining majestic in the light of eve. Before them, Betis roll'd his glittering stream, In many a silvery winding traced afar

Amid the ample plain. Behind the walls

And stately piles, which crown'd its margin, rich
With olives, and with sunny slope of vines,
And many a lovely hamlet interspersed,
Whose citron bowers were once the abode of peace,
Height above height, receding hills were seen
Imbued with evening hues; and over all
The summits of the dark sierra rose,
Lifting their heads amid the silent sky.
The traveller who, with a heart at ease,
Had seen the goodly vision, would have loved
To linger, seeking with insatiate sight
To treasure up its image, deep impress'd,
A joy for years to come. O Cordoba,

Exclaim'd the old man, how princely are thy towers,
How fair thy vales, thy hills how beautiful!
The sun who sheds on thee his parting smiles
Sees not in all his wide career a scene
Lovelier, nor more exuberantly blest

By bounteous earth and heaven. The very gales
Of Eden waft not from the immortal bowers
Odors to sense more exquisite, than these
Which, breathing from thy groves and gardens,

now

Recall in me such thoughts of bitterness.

The time has been when happy was their lot Who had their birthright here; but happy now Are they who to thy bosom are gone home, Because they feel not in their graves the feet That trample upon Spain. 'Tis well that age Hath made me like a child, that I can weep: My heart would else have broken, overcharged, And I, false servant, should lie down to rest Before my work is done.

Hard by their path,
A little way without the walls, there stood
An edifice, whereto, as by a spell,
Siverian's heart was drawn. Brother, quoth he,
'Tis like the urgency of our return

Will brook of no retardment; and this spot
It were a sin if I should pass, and leave
Unvisited. Beseech you turn with me,
The while I offer up one duteous prayer.

A temple to that Saint he rear'd, who first,
As old tradition tells, proclaim'd to Spain
The gospel-tidings; and in health and youth,
There mindful of mortality, he saw
His sepulchre prepared. Witiza took
For his adulterous leman and himself
The stately pile: but to that sepulchre,
When from captivity and darkness death
Enlarged him, was Theodofred consign'd;
For that unhappy woman, wasting then
Beneath a mortal malady, at heart
Was smitten, and the Tyrant at her prayer
This poor and tardy restitution made.
Soon the repentant sinner follow'd him;
And calling on Pelayo ere she died,

For his own wrongs, and for his father's death,
Implored forgiveness of her absent child, —
If it were possible he could forgive
Crimes black as hers, she said. And by the pangs
Of her remorse,--by her last agonies, -
The unutterable horrors of her death, -
And by the blood of Jesus on the cross
For sinners given, did she beseech his prayers
In aid of her most miserable soul.

Thus mingling sudden shrieks with hopeless vows,
And uttering franticly Pelayo's name,
And crying out for mercy in despair,

Here had she made her dreadful end, and here
Her wretched body was deposited.

That presence seem'd to desecrate the place:
Thenceforth the usurper shunn'd it with the heart
Of conscious guilt; nor could Rusilla bear
These groves and bowers, which, like funereal
shades,

Oppress'd her with their monumental forms:

One day of bitter and severe delight,

When Roderick came for vengeance, she endured, And then forever left her bridal halls.

Oh, when I last beheld yon princely pile,
Exclaim'd Siverian, with what other thoughts
Full, and elate of spirit, did I pass

Its joyous gates! The weedery which through
The interstices of those neglected courts
Uncheck'd had flourish'd long, and seeded there,
Was trampled then and bruised beneath the feet
Of thronging crowds. Here, drawn in fair array,
The faithful vassals of my master's house,
Their javelins sparkling to the morning sun,
Spread their triumphant banners; high-plumed
helms

Rose o'er the martial ranks, and prancing steeds
Made answer to the trumpet's stirring voice;
While yonder towers shook the dull silence off
Which long to their deserted walls had clung,
And with redoubling echoes swell'd the shout
That hail'd victorious Roderick. Louder rose
The acclamation, when the dust was seen
Rising beneath his chariot-wheels far off;
But nearer as the youthful hero came,
All sounds of all the multitude were hush'd,
And from the thousands and ten thousands here,
Whom Cordoba and Hispalis sent forth,
Yea, whom all Bætica, all Spain pour'd out
To greet his triumph, not a whisper rose

them,

Such expectation held them motionless.
Conqueror and King he came ; but with no joy
Of conquest, and no pride of sovereignty
That day display'd; for at his father's grave
Did Roderick come to offer up his vow

Of vengeance well perform'd. Three coal-black steeds

Drew on his ivory chariot: by his side,
Still wrapt in mourning for the long-deceased,
Rusilla sat; a deeper paleness blanch'd
Her faded countenance, but in her eye
The light of her majestic nature shone.
Bound, and expecting at their hands the death
So well deserved, Witiza follow'd them;
Aghast and trembling, first he gazed around,
Wildly from side to side; then from the face
Of universal execration shrunk,

Hanging his wretched head abased; and poor
Of spirit, with unmanly tears deplored
His fortune, not his crimes. With bolder front,
Confiding in his priestly character,

Came Orpas next; and then the spurious race
Whom in unhappy hour Favila's wife
Brought forth for Spain. O mercy ill bestow'd,
When Roderick, in compassion for their youth,
And for Pelayo's sake, forbore to crush
The brood of vipers!

Err perchance he might,
Replied the Goth, suppressing, as he spake,
All outward signs of pain, though every word
Went like a dagger to his bleeding heart; —
But sure, I ween, that error is not placed
Among his sins. Old man, thou mayst regret
The mercy ill deserved, and worse return'd,
But not for this wouldst thou reproach the King!

Reproach him? cried Siverian; - I reproach
My child, my noble boy, - whom every tongue
Bless'd at that hour, — whose love fill'd every heart
With joy, and every eye with joyful tears!
My brave, my beautiful, my generous boy!
Brave, beautiful, and generous as he was,
Never so brave, so beautiful, so great
As then,- not even on that glorious day,
When on the field of victory, elevate

Amid the thousands who acclaim'd him King,
Firm on the shield above their heads upraised,
Erect he stood, and waved his bloody sword-
Why dost thou shake thy head as if in doubt?
I do not dream, nor fable! Ten short years
Have scarcely past away, since all within
The Pyrenean hills, and the three seas
Which girdled Spain, echoed in one response
The acclamation from that field of fight-
Or doth aught ail thee, that thy body quakes
And shudders thus?

'Tis but a chill, replied The King, in passing from the open air Under the shadow of this thick-set grove.

Oh! if this scene awoke in thee such thoughts As swell my bosom here, the old man pursued, Sunshine, or shade, and all things from without,

-

Only but ten short years, - and all so changed!

Ten little years since in yon court he check'd
His fiery steeds. The steeds obey'd his hand,
The whirling wheels stood still, and when he

leap'd

Upon the pavement, the whole people heard,
In their deep silence, open-ear'd, the sound.
With slower movement from the ivory seat
Rusilla rose, her arm, as down she stepp'd,
Extended to her son's supporting hand;
Not for default of firm or agile strength,
But that the feeling of that solemn hour
Subdued her then, and tears bedimm'd her sight.
Howbeit when to her husband's grave she came,
On the sepulchral stone she bow'd her head
Awhile; then rose collectedly, and fix'd
Upon the scene her calm and steady eye.
Roderick, oh, when did valor wear a form
So beautiful, so noble, so august?

Or vengeance, when did it put on before
A character so awful, so divine?
Roderick stood up, and reaching to the tomb
His hands, my hero cried, Theodofred!
Father! I stand before thee once again,
According to thy prayer, when kneeling down
Between thy knees I took my last farewell;
And vow'd by all thy sufferings, all thy wrongs,
And by my mother's days and nights of woe,
Her silent anguish, and the grief which then
Even from thee she did not seek to hide,
That, if our cruel parting should avail
To save me from the Tyrant's jealous guilt,
Surely should my avenging sword fulfil
Whate'er he omen'd. Oh that time, I cried,
Would give the strength of manhood to this arm,
| Already would it find a manly heart
To guide it to its purpose! And I swore
Never again to see my father's face,
Nor ask my mother's blessing, till I brought,
Dead or in chains, the Tyrant to thy feet.
Boy as I was, before all Saints in Heaven,
And highest God, whose justice slumbereth not,
I made the vow. According to thy prayer,
In all things, O my father, is that vow
Perform'd, alas, too well! for thou didst pray,
While, looking up, I felt the burning tears
Which from thy sightless sockets stream'd, drop
down, -

That to thy grave, and not thy living feet,
The oppressor might be led. Behold him there,
Father! Theodofred! no longer now

In darkness, from thy heavenly seat look down,
And see before thy grave thine enemy
In bonds, awaiting judgment at my hand!

In supplication, - Mercy! he exclaim'd, Chains, dungeons, darkness,—any thing death!

I did not touch his life.

Roderick replied,

His hour, whenever it had come, had found
A soul prepared: he lived in peace with Heaven;
And life prolong'd for him, was bliss delay'd.
But life, in pain, and darkness, and despair,
For thee, all leprous as thou art with crimes,
Is mercy. Take him hence, and let him see
The light of day no more!

Such Roderick was
When last I saw these courts, his theatre
Of glory;-such when last I visited
My master's grave! Ten years have hardly held
Their course, ten little years-break, break, old
heart-

Oh, why art thou so tough?

As thus he spake, They reach'd the church. The door before his hand

Gave way; both blinded with their tears, they went
Straight to the tomb; and there Siverian knelt,
And bow'd his face upon the sepulchre,
Weeping aloud; while Roderick, overpower'd,
And calling upon earth to cover him,

Threw himself prostrate on his father's grave.

"Twas not in vain that on her absent son,
Pelayo's mother, from the bed of death,
Call'd for forgiveness, and in agony
Besought his prayers; all guilty as she was,
Sure he had not been human, if that cry

Had fail'd to pierce him. When he heard the tale,
He bless'd the messenger, even while his speech
Was faltering, while from head to foot he shook
With icy feelings from his inmost heart
Effused. It changed the nature of his woe,
Making the burden more endurable :
The life-long sorrow that remain'd, became
A healing and a chastening grief, and brought
His soul, in close communion, nearer Heaven.
For he had been her first-born, and the love
Which at her breast he drew, and from her smiles,
And from her voice of tenderness imbibed,
Gave such unnatural horror to her crimes,
That when the thought came over him, it seem'd
As if the milk which with his infant life

He kept his vigils; and when Roderick's sword
Subdued Witiza, and the land was free,
Duly upon her grave he offer'd up

His yearly sacrifice of agony

And prayer. This was the night, and he it was
Who now before Siverian and the King
Stood up in sackcloth.

The old man, from fear
Recovering and from wonder, knew him first.
It is the Prince! he cried, and bending down,
Embraced his knees. The action and the word
Awaken'd Roderick; he shook off the load
Of struggling thoughts, which, pressing on his
heart,

Held him like one entranced; yet, all untaught
To bend before the face of man, confused
Awhile he stood, forgetful of his part.
But when Siverian cried, My Lord, my Lord,
Now God be praised that I have found thee thus,
My Lord and Prince, Spain's only hope and mine!
Then Roderick, echoing him, exclaim'd, My Lord,
And Prince, Pelayo! - and approaching near,
He bent his knee obeisant: but his head

Earthward inclined; while the old man, looking up
From his low gesture to Pelayo's face,
Wept at beholding him for grief and joy.

They are as thou couldst wish, the old man replied,

Wert thou but lord of thine own house again,
And Spain were Spain once more. A tale of ill
I bear, but one that touches not the heart
Like what thy tears forebode. The renegade
Numacian wooes thy sister, and she lends
To the vile slave, unworthily, her ear:
The Lady Gaudiosa hath in vain.
Warn'd her of all the evils which await
A union thus accurs'd: she sets at nought
Her faith, her lineage, and thy certain wrath.

Pelayo, hearing him, remain'd awhile Silent; then turning to his mother's grave, — O thou poor dust, hath then the infectious taint Survived thy dread remorse, that it should run In Guisla's veins? he cried; -- I should have heard This shameful sorrow any where but here? — Humble thyself, proud heart; thou, gracious Heaven,

Be merciful!-it is the original flaw,

Born to our sad inheritance of sin

And death! He smote his forehead as he spake,
And from his head the ashes fell, like snow
Shaken from some dry beech-leaves, when a bird
Lights on the bending spray. A little while
In silence, rather than in thought, he stood
Passive beneath the sorrow: turning then,
And what doth Gaudiosa counsel me?

He ask'd the old man; for she hath ever been
My wise and faithful counsellor. He replied,
The Lady Gaudiosa bade me say

She sees the danger which on every part

Besets her husband's house. Here she had ceased;

But when my noble Mistress gave in charge,
How I should tell thee that in evil times
The bravest counsels ever are the best,
Then that high-minded Lady thus rejoin'd: —
Whatever be my Lord's resolve, he knows
I bear a mind prepared.

Brave spirits! cried
Pelayo, worthy to remove all stain
Of weakness from their sex! I should be less
Than man, if, drawing strength where others find
Their hearts most open to assault of fear,

I quail'd at danger. Never be it said

Of Spain, that in the hour of her distress

Her women were as heroes, but her men Perform'd the woman's part.

Roderick at that

Look'd up, and taking up the word, exclaim'd,
O Prince, in better days the pride of Spain,
And prostrate as she lies, her surest hope,
Hear now my tale. The fire which seem'd extinct
Hath risen revigorate: a living spark
From Auria's ashes, by a woman's hand
Preserved and quicken'd, kindles far and wide
The beacon-flame o'er all the Asturian hills.
There hath a vow been offer'd up, which binds
Us and our children's children to the work
Of holy hatred. In the name of Spain
That vow hath been pronounced, and register'd
Above, to be the bond whereby we stand
For condemnation or acceptance. Heaven
Received the irrevocable vow, and Earth
Must witness its fulfilment; Earth and Heaven
Call upon thee, Pelayo! Upon thee
The spirits of thy royal ancestors
Look down expectant; unto thee, from fields
Laid waste, and hamlets burnt, and cities sack'd,
The blood of infancy and helpless age
Cries out; thy native mountains call for thee,
Echoing from all their armed sons thy name.
And deem not thou that hot impatience goads
Thy countrymen to counsels immature.
Odoar and Urban from Visonia's banks
Send me, their sworn and trusted messenger,
To summon thee, and tell thee in their name
That now the hour is come: For sure it seems,
Thus saith the Primate, Heaven's high will to rear
Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne,
Restoring in thy native line, O Prince,
The sceptre to the Spaniard. Worthy son
Of that most ancient and heroic race,
Which with unweariable endurance still

Hath striven against its mightier enemies,
Roman or Carthaginian, Greek or Goth;
So often by superior arms oppress'd,
More often by superior arts beguiled;
Yet, amid all its sufferings, all the waste
Of sword and fire remorselessly employ'd,
Unconquer'd and unconquerable still; —
Son of that injured and illustrious stock,
Stand forward thou, draw forth the sword of Spain,
Restore them to their rights, too long withheld,
And place upon thy brow the Spanish crown.

When Roderick ceased, the princely Moun

taineer

Gazed on the passionate orator awhile,

With eyes intently fix'd, and thoughtful brow;
Then turning to the altar, he let fall

The sackcloth robe, which late, with folded arms,
Against his heart was press'd; and stretching forth
His hands toward the crucifix, exclaim'd,
My God and my Redeemer! where but here,
Before thy awful presence, in this garb,
With penitential ashes thus bestrown,
Could I so fitly answer to the call

Of Spain, and for her sake, and in thy name,
Accept the Crown of Thorns she proffers me?

And where but here, said Roderick in his heart, Could I so properly, with humbled knee And willing soul, confirm my forfeiture? The action follow'd on that secret thought: He knelt, and took Pelayo's hand, and cried, First of the Spaniards, let me with this kiss| Do homage to thee here, my Lord and King! With voice unchanged and steady countenance He spake; but when Siverian follow'd him, The old man trembled as his lips pronounced The faltering vow; and rising he exclaim'd, God grant thee, O my Prince, a better fate Than thy poor kinsman's, who in happier days Received thy homage here! Grief choked his