Of all the Gothic baronage, the Moors
Watch'd with regard of wary policy, -
Knowing his powerful name, his noble mind,
And how in him the old Iberian blood,
Of royal and remotest ancestry,
From undisputed source flow'd undefiled;
His mother's after-guilt attainting not
The claim legitimate he derived from her,
Her first-born in her time of innocence.
He, too, of Chindasuintho's regal line
Sole remnant now, drew after him the love
Of all true Goths, uniting in himself

Thus, by this double right, the general heart
Of Spain. For this the renegado crew,
Wretches in whom their conscious guilt and fear
Engender'd cruelest hatred, still advised
The extinction of Pelayo's house; but most
The apostate Prelate, in iniquity
Witiza's genuine brother as in blood,
Orpas, pursued his life. He never ceased
With busy zeal, true traitor, to infuse
His deadly rancor in the Moorish chief;
Their only danger, ever he observed,
Was from Pelayo; root his lineage out,
The Caliph's empire then would be secure,
And universal Spain, all hope of change
Being lost, receive the Prophet's conquering law.
Then did the Arch-villain urge the Moor at once
To cut off future peril, telling him
Death was a trusty keeper, and that none
E'er broke the prison of the grave. But here
Keen malice overshot its mark; the Moor,
Who from the plunder of their native land
Had bought the recreant crew that join'd his arms,
Or cheaplier with their own possessions bribed
Their sordid souls, saw through the flimsy show
Of policy wherewith they sought to cloak
Old enmity and selfish aims: he scorn'd
To let their private purposes incline
His counsels, and believing Spain subdued,
Smiled, in the pride of power and victory,
Disdainful at the thought of further strife.
Howbeit he held Pelayo at his court,
And told him that, until his countrymen
Submissively should lay their weapons down,
He from his children and paternal hearth
Apart must dwell; nor hope to see again
His native mountains and their vales beloved,
Till all the Asturian and Cantabrian hills
Had bow'd before the Caliph; Cordoba
Must be his nightly prison till that hour
This night, by special favor from the Moor
Ask'd and vouchsafed he past without the walls,
Keeping his yearly vigil; on this night,
Therefore, the princely Spaniard could not fly,
Being thus in strongest bonds by honor held;
Nor would he by his own escape expose
To stricter bondage, or belike to death,
Count Pedro's son. The ancient enmity
Of rival houses from Pelayo's heart
Had, like a thing forgotten, past away;
He pitied child and parent, separated
By the stern mandate of unfeeling power,
And almost with a father's eyes beheld
The boy, his fellow in captivity.

With hope, and fear, and grief, and shame, disturb'd,
And sad remembrance, and the shadowy light
Of days before him, thronging as in dreams,
Whose quick succession fill'd and overpower'd
Awhile the unresisting faculty,

Could, in the calm of troubled thoughts subdued,
Seek in his heart for counsel, his first care
Was for the boy; how best they might evade
The Moor, and renegade's more watchful eye;
And leaving in some unsuspicious guise
The city, through what unfrequented track
Safeliest pursue with speed their dangerous way.
Consumed in cares like these, the fleeting hours
Went by. The lamps and tapers now grew pale,
And through the eastern window slanting fell
The roseate ray of morn. Within those walls
Returning day restored no cheerful sounds
Or joyous motions of awakening life;
But in the stream of light the speckled motes,
As if in mimicry of insect play,
Floated with mazy movement. Sloping down
Over the altar pass'd the pillar'd beam,
And rested on the sinful woman's grave
As if it enter'd there, a light from Heaven.
So be it! cried Pelayo, even so!

As in a momentary interval,

When thought expelling thought, had left his mind
Open and passive to the influxes

Of outward sense, his vacant eye was there, -
So be it, Heavenly Father, even so!
Thus may thy vivifying goodness shed
Forgiveness there; for let not thou the groans
Of dying penitence, nor my bitter prayers
Before thy mercy-seat, be heard in vain!

And thou, poor soul, who, from the dolorous house
Of weeping and of pain, dost look to me
To shorten and assuage thy penal term,
Pardon me that these hours in other thoughts
And other duties than this garb, this night
Enjoin, should thus have past! Our mother-land
Exacted of my heart the sacrifice;
And many a vigil must thy son perform
Henceforth in woods and mountain fastnesses,
And tented fields, outwatching for her sake
The starry host, and ready for the work
Of day, before the sun begins his course.

The noble Mountaincer, concluding then With silent prayer the service of the night, Went forth. Without the porch, awaiting him,

Thus, as he spake, a livelier glow o'erspread His cheek, and starting tears again suffused The brightening lustre of his eyes. The Prince Regarded him a inoment steadfastly, As if in quick resolve; then, looking round On every side with keen and rapid glance, Drew him within the church. Alphonso's heart Throbb'd with a joyful boding as he mark'd The calmness of Pelayo's countenance Kindle with solemn thoughts, expressing now High purposes of resolute hope. He gazed All eagerly to hear what most he wish'd. If, said the Prince, thy dream were verified, And I indeed were in the field in arms For Spain, wouldst thou be at Pelayo's side?If I should break these bonds, and fly to rear Our country's banner on our native hills, Wouldst thou, Alphonso, share my dangerous flight?

Replied the impatient boy; and laying hand
Upon the altar, on his knee he bent,
Looking towards Pelayo with such joy
Of reverential love, as if a God
Were present to receive the eager vow.
Nay, quoth Pelayo: what hast thou to do
With oaths? Bright emanation as thou art,
It were a wrong to thy unsullied soul,
A sin to nature, were I to require
Promise or vow from thee! Enough for me
That thy heart answers to the stirring call.
Alphonso, follow thou in happy faith
Alway the indwelling voice that counsels thee;
And then, let fall the issue as it may,
Shall all thy paths be in the light of Heaven,
The peace of Heaven be with thee in all hours.

How then, exclaim'd the boy, shall I discharge The burden of this happiness, how ease My overflowing soul?— Oh gracious God, Shall I behold my mother's face again, My father's hall, my native hills and vales, And hear the voices of their streams again,And free as I was born amid those scenes

Beloved, maintain my country's freedom there, —
Or, failing in the sacred enterprise,
Die as becomes a Spaniard? - Saying thus,
He lifted up his hands and eyes toward
The image of the Crucified, and cried,

O Thou who didst with thy most precious blood
Redeem us, Jesu! help us while we seek
Earthly redemption from this yoke of shame,
And misbelief, and death.

The noble boy Then rose, and would have knelt again to clasp Pelayo's knees, and kiss his hand in act Of homage; but the Prince, preventing this, Bent over him in fatherly embrace,

And breathed a fervent blessing on his head.

IX. FLORINDA.

THERE sat a woman like a supplicant,
Muffled and cloak'd, before Pelayo's gate,
Awaiting when he should return that morn.
She rose at his approach, and bow'd her head,
And, with a low and trembling utterance,
Besought him to vouchsafe her speech within
In privacy. And when they were alone,
And the doors closed, she knelt and clasp'd his

knees,

Saying, A boon! a boon! This night, O Prince,
Hast thou kept vigil for thy mother's soul:
For her soul's sake, and for the soul of him
Whom once, in happier days, of all mankind
Thou heldest for thy chosen bosom friend,
Oh, for the sake of his poor suffering soul,
Refuse me not!

How should I dare refuse,
Being thus adjured? he answer'd. Thy request
Is granted, woman, - be it what it may,
So it be lawful, and within the bounds
Of possible achievement: -aught unfit
Thou wouldst not with these adjurations seek.
But who thou art, I marvel, that dost touch
Upon that string, and ask in Roderick's name!
She bared her face, and, looking up, replied,
Florinda!- Shrinking then, with both her hands
She hid herself, and bow'd her head abased
Upon her knee, - as one who, if the grave
Had oped beneath her, would have thrown herself,
Even like a lover, in the arms of Death.

The African hath conquer'd for himself;
But Orpas coveteth Count Julian's lands,
And claims to have the covenant perform'd.
Friendless, and worse than fatherless, I come
To thee for succor. Send me secretly,—
For well I know all faithful hearts must be
At thy devotion, — with a trusty guide
To guard me on the way, that I may reach
Some Christian land, where Christian rites are free,
And there discharge a vow, alas! too long,
Too fatally delay'd. Aid me in this
For Roderick's sake, Pelayo! and thy name
Shall be remember'd in my latest prayer.

Be comforted! the Prince replied; but when He spake of comfort, twice did he break off The idle words, feeling that earth had none For grief so irremediable as hers.

At length he took her hand, and pressing it,
And forcing through involuntary tears

A mournful smile affectionate, he said,
Say not that thou art friendless while I live!

A temple of this ruin'd tabernacle,

Wherein redeeming God doth not disdair.

To let his presence shine. And I could bear
To see the turban on my father's brow,
Sorrow beyond all sorrows, shame of shames,-
Yet to be borne, while I with tears of blood,
And throes of agony, in his behalf
Implore and wrestle with offended Heaven.
This I have borne resign'd: but other ills,
And worse, assail me now; the which to bear,
If to avoid be possible, would draw
Damnation down. Orpas, the perjured Priest,
The apostate Orpas, claims me for his bride.
Obdurate as he is, the wretch profanes
My sacred woe, and wooes me to his bed,
The thing I am, - the living death thou seest!

Count Julian, she replied, hath none but me, And it hath, therefore, been his heart's desire To see his ancient line by me preserved. This was their covenant when, in fatal hour For Spain, and for themselves, in traitorous bond Of union they combined. My father, stung To madness, only thought of how to make His vengeance sure; the Prelate, calm and cool, When he renounced his outward faith in Christ, Indulged at once his hatred of the King, His inbred wickedness, and a haughty hope, Versed as he was in treasons, to direct The invaders by his secret policy, And at their head, aided by Julian's power, Reign as a Moor upon that throne to which The priestly order else had barr'd his way.

Thy sorrows, nor have ask'd in fitter hour
What for my country's honor, for my rank,
My faith, and sacred knighthood, I am bound
In duty to perform; which not to do

Would show me undeserving of the names

Of Goth, Prince, Christian, even of Man. This

day,

Lady, prepare to take thy lot with me,

And soon as evening closes meet me here. Duties bring blessings with them, and I hold Thy coming for a happy augury,

In this most awful crisis of my fate.

X.

RODERICK AND FLORINDA.

WITH Sword and breastplate, under rustic weeds
Conceal'd, at dusk Pelayo pass'd the gate,
Florinda following near, disguised alike.
Two peasants on their mules they seem'd, at eve
Returning from the town.
Not distant far,
Alphonso by the appointed orange-grove,
With anxious eye and agitated heart,
Watch'd for the Prince's coming. Eagerly
At every foot-fall through the gloom he strain'd
His sight, nor did he recognize him when
The Chieftain thus accompanied drew nigh;
And when the expected signal called him on,
Doubting this female presence, half in fear
Obey'd the call. Pelayo too perceived
The boy was not alone; he not for that
Delay'd the summons, but lest need should be,
Laying hand upon his sword, toward him bent
In act soliciting speech, and low of voice
Inquired, if friend or foe. Forgive me, cried
Alphonso, that I did not tell thee this,
Full as I was of happiness, before.
'Tis Hoya, servant of my father's house,
Unto whose dutiful care and love, when sent

To this vile bondage, I was given in charge.
How could I look upon my father's face,
If I had in my joy deserted him,

Who was to me found faithful? - Right! replied
The Prince; and viewing him with silent joy,
Blessed the Mother, in his heart he said,
Who gave thee birth! but sure of womankind
Most blessed she whose hand her happy stars
Shall link with thine! and with that thought the
form

Of Hermesind, his daughter, to his soul
Came in her beauty.

Soon, by devious tracks,
They turn'd aside. The favoring moon arose,
To guide them on their flight through upland paths
Remote from frequentage, and dales retired,
Forest and mountain glen. Before their feet
The fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade,
Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their

way;

The timorous blackbird, starting at their step,
Fled from the thicket with shrill note of fear;
And far below them in the peopled dell,
When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased,
The distant watch-dog's voice at times was heard,
Answering the nearer wolf. All through the night
Among the hills they travell'd silently;

Till when the stars were setting, at what hour
The breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheld
Within a lonely grove the expected fire,
Where Roderick and his comrade anxiously
Look'd for the appointed meeting. Halting there,
They from the burden and the bit relieved
Their patient bearers, and around the fire
Partook of needful food and grateful rest.

Bright rose the flame replenish'd; it illumed
The cork-tree's furrow'd rind, its rifts, and swells,
And redder scars, and where its aged boughs
O'erbower'd the travellers, cast upon the leaves
A floating, gray, unrealizing gleam.
Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heath
Lay carelessly dispread, in happy dreams
Of home; his faithful Hoya slept beside.
Years and fatigue to old Siverian brought
Easy oblivion; and the Prince himself,
Yielding to weary nature's gentle will,
Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sat
Beholding Roderick with fix'd eyes intent,
Yet unregardant of the countenance

Whereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb'd,
Collecting fortitude for what she yearn'd,
Yet trembled to perform. Her steady look
Disturb'd the Goth, albeit he little ween'd
What agony awaited him that hour.
Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was now
Half-hidden, and the lustre of her eye
Extinct; nor did her voice awaken in him
One startling recollection when she spake,
So altered were its tones.

Father, she said,
All thankful as I am to leave behind
The unhappy walls of Cordoba, not less
Of consolation doth my heart receive

Then said she, Here thou seest
One who is known too fatally for all,-
The daughter of Count Julian. - Well it was
For Roderick that no eye beheld him now;
From head to foot a sharper pang than death
Thrill'd him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke,
Ceased from its functions: his breath fail'd, and
when

The power of life, recovering, set its springs
Again in action, cold and clammy sweat
Starting at every pore suffused his frame.
Their presence help'd him to subdue himself;
For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallen
Before Florinda prostrate on the earth,
And in that mutual agony belike

Both souls had taken flight. She mark'd him not;
For having told her name, she bow'd her head,
Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven,
While, as a penitent, she wrought herself
To
open to his eye her hidden wounds.

Father, at length she said, all tongues amid
This general ruin shed their bitterness
On Roderick, load his memory with reproach,
And with their curses persecute his soul.—
Why shouldst thou tell me this? exclaim'd the
Goth,

From his cold forehead wiping, as he spake,
The death-like moisture; -why of Roderick's

guilt

Tell me? Or thinkest thou I know it not?
Alas! who hath not heard the hideous tale

Of Roderick's shame! Babes learn it from their nurses,

And children, by their mothers unreproved,
Link their first execrations to his name.
Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy,
That, like Iscariot's, through all time shall last,
Reeking and fresh forever!

There she cried,
Drawing her body backward where she knelt,
And stretching forth her arms with head up-
raised, -

There! it pursues me still!-I came to thee,
Father, for comfort, and thou heapest fire
Upon my head. But hear me patiently,
And let me undeceive thee; self-abased,
Not to arraign another, do I come ;-

1 come a self-accuser, self-condemn'd
To take upon myself the pain deserved;
For I have drank the cup of bitterness,

And having drank therein of heavenly grace,
I must not put away the cup of shame.