Of Moorish blood,—that sword, whose hungry
edge,

Through the fair course of all his glorious life,
From that auspicious day, was fed so well.
Cheap was the victory now for Spain achieved;
For the first fervor of their zeal inspired

The Mountaineers, the presence of their Chiefs,
The sight of all dear objects, all dear ties,

Of Moorish gore was left. But when they came
Where Pedro, with Alphonso at his side,
Stood to behold their coming, then they press'd,

All emulous, with gratulation round,

Extolling, for his deeds that day display'd,
The noble boy. Oh! when had Heaven, they said,
With such especial favor manifest
Illustrated a first essay in arms!

The air they breathed, the soil whereon they trod, They bless'd the father from whose loins he sprung,
Duty, devotion, faith, and hope, and joy.
And little had the misbelievers ween'd

In such impetuous onset to receive

A greeting deadly as their own intent;
Victims they thought to find, not men prepared
And eager for the fight; their confidence
Therefore gave way to wonder, and dismay
Effected what astonishment began.
Scatter'd before the impetuous Mountaineers,
Buckler, and spear, and cimeter they dropp'd,
As in precipitate rout they fled before

The mother at whose happy breast he fed ;

And pray'd that their young hero's fields might be
Many, and all like this.

Thus they indulged
The honest heart, exuberant of love,
When that loquacious joy at once was check'd,
For Eudon and the Moor were brought before
Count Pedro. Both came fearfully and pale,
But with a different fear: the African
Felt, at this crisis of his destiny,
Such apprehension as without reproach

The Asturian sword: the vales, and hills, and Might blanch a soldier's cheek, when life and death rocks,

Hang on another's will, and helplessly

Received their blood, and where they fell the He must abide the issue. But the thoughts

wolves

At evening found them.

From the fight apart
Two Africans had stood, who held in charge
Count Eudon. When they saw their countrymen
Falter, give way, and fly before the foe,
One turn'd toward him with malignant rage,
And saying, Infidel! thou shalt not live
To join their triumph! aim'd against his neck
The moony falchion's point. His comrade raised
A hasty hand, and turn'd its edge aside,
Yet so that o'er the shoulder glancing down,
It scarr'd him as it pass'd. The murderous Moor,
Not tarrying to secure his vengeance, fled;
While he of milder mood, at Eudon's feet
Fell and embraced his knees. The mountaineer
Who found them thus, withheld at Eudon's voice
His wrathful hand, and led them to his Lord.

Count Pedro, and Alphonso, and the Prince
Stood on a little rocky eminence
Which overlook'd the vale. Pedro had put
His helmet off, and with sonorous horn

Blew the recall; for well he knew what thoughts,
Calm as the Prince appear'd and undisturb'd,
Lay underneath his silent fortitude;
And how at this eventful juncture speed
Imported more than vengeance. Thrice he sent
The long-resounding signal forth, which rung
From hill to hill, reëchoing far and wide.
Slow and unwillingly his men obey'd
The swelling horn's reiterated call;

Repining that a single foe escaped

The retribution of that righteous hour.

With lingering step reluctant from the chase
They turn'd, their veins full-swollen, their sin-

ews strung

For battle still, their hearts unsatisfied;

Which quail'd Count Eudon's heart, and made his

limbs

Quiver, were of his own unworthiness,
Old enmity, and that he stood in power
Of hated and hereditary foes.

I came not with them willingly! he cried,
Addressing Pedro and the Prince at once,
Rolling from each to each his restless eyes
Aghast, the Moor can tell I had no choice;
They forced me from my castle :- in the fight
They would have slain me:- see, I bleed! The
Moor

Can witness that a Moorish cimeter

Inflicted this: - he saved me from worse hurt:-
I did not come in arms: - - he knows it all;-
Speak, man, and let the truth be known to clear
My innocence!

Thus as he ceased, with fear
And rapid utterance, panting open-mouth'd,
Count Pedro half repress'd a mournful smile,
Wherein compassion seem'd to mitigate
His deep contempt. Methinks, said he, the Moor
Might with more reason look himself to find
An intercessor, than be call'd upon
To play the pleader's part. Didst thou then save
The Baron from thy comrades?

Let my Lord
Show mercy to me, said the Mussulman,
As I am free from falsehood. We were left,
I and another, holding him in charge;
My fellow would have slain him when he saw
How the fight fared; I turn'd the cimeter
Aside, and trust that life will be the meed
For life by me preserved.

Nor shall thy trust,
Rejoin'd the Count, be vain. Say further now,
From whence ye came; -your orders, what;
what force

Their swords were dropping still with Moorish In Gegio; and if others like yourselves blood,

And where they wiped their reeking brows, the

stain

Are in the field.

The African replied,
We came from Gegio, order'd to secure

But,
Too late, their numbers, their victorious force,
Which hath already trodden in the dust

Which in this land for weakness must be paid
While evil stars prevail. And mark me, Chief!
Fear is a treacherous counsellor! I know
Thou thinkest that beneath his horses' hoofs
The Moor will trample our poor numbers down;
But join not, in contempt of us and Heaven,
His multitudes! for if thou shouldst be found
Against thy country, on the readiest tree
Those recreant bones shall rattle in the wind,
When the birds have left them bare.

As thus he spake,
Count Eudon heard and trembled: every joint
Was loosen'd, every fibre of his flesh
Thrill'd, and from every pore effused, cold sweat
Clung on his quivering limbs. Shame forced it

forth,

Envy, and inward consciousness, and fear
Predominant, which stifled in his heart
Hatred and rage. Before his livid lips
Could shape to utterance their essay'd reply,
Compassionately Pedro interposed.

Go, Baron, to the Castle, said the Count;

The sceptre of the Goths: the throne de- There let thy wound be look'd to, and consult

Terms! cried Pelayo, cutting short at once
That dastard speech, and checking, ere it grew
Too powerful for restraint, the incipient wrath
Which in indignant murmurs breathing round,
Rose like a gathering storm, learn thou what terms
Asturias, this day speaking by my voice,
Doth constitute to be the law between
Thee and thy Country. Our portentous age,
As with an earthquake's desolating force,
Hath loosen'd and disjointed the whole frame
Of social order, and she calls not now
For service with the force of sovereign will.
That which was common duty in old times,
Becomes an arduous, glorious virtue now;
And every one, as between Hell and Heaven,
In free election must be left to choose.
Asturias asks not of thee to partake

Thy better mind at leisure. Let this Moor
Attend upon thee there, and when thou wilt,
Follow thy fortunes - To Pelayo then
He turn'd, and saying, All-too-long, O Prince,
Hath this unlook'd-for conflict held thee here, -
He bade his gallant men begin their march.

Flush'd with success, and in auspicious hour,
The Mountaineers set forth. Blessings and prayers
Pursued them at their parting, and the tears
Which fell were tears of fervor, not of grief.
The sun was verging to the western slope
Of Heaven, but they till midnight travell'd on;
Renewing then at early dawn their way,
They held their unremitting course from morn
Till latest eve, such urgent cause impell'd;
And night had closed around, when to the vale
Where Sella in her ampler bed receives
Pionia's stream they came. Massive and black
Pelayo's castle there was seen; its lines
And battlements against the deep blue sky
Distinct in solid darkness visible.

No light is in the tower. Eager to know
The worst, and with that fatal certainty

The cup which we have pledged; she claims from To terminate intolerable dread,

none

The dauntless fortitude, the mind resolved,
Which only God can give ; — therefore such peace
As thou canst find where all around is war,
She leaves thee to enjoy. But think not, Count,
That because thou art weak, one valiant arm,
One generous spirit must be lost to Spain!
The vassal owes no service to the Lord
Who to his Country doth acknowledge none.
The summons which thou hast not heart to give,
I and Count Pedro over thy domains
Will send abroad; the vassals who were thine
Will fight beneath our banners, and our wants
Shall from thy lands, as from a patrimony
Which hath reverted to the common stock,
Be fed such tribute, too, as to the Moors
Thou renderest, we will take It is the price

He spurr'd his courser forward. All his fears
Too surely are fulfill'd,- for open stand

| The doors, and mournfully at times a dog
Fills with his howling the deserted hall.
A moment overcome with wretchedness,
Silent Pelayo stood! recovering then,
Lord God, resign'd he cried, thy will be done!

XIV.

THE RESCUE.

COUNT, said Pelayo, Nature hath assign'd
Two sovereign remedies for human grief;

-Religion, surest, firmest, first and best,
Strength to the weak, and to the wounded balm;
And strenuous action next. Think not I came
With unprovided heart. My noble wife,
In the last solemn words, the last farewell
With which she charged her secret messenger,
Told me that whatsoe'er was my resolve,
She bore a mind prepared. And well I know
The evil, be it what it may, hath found
In her a courage equal to the hour.
Captivity, or death, or what worse pangs,
She in her children may be doom'd to feel,
Will never make that steady soul repent
Its virtuous purpose. I, too, did not cast
My single life into the lot, but knew
These dearer pledges on the die were set;
And if the worst have fallen, I shall but bear
That in my breast, which, with transfiguring power
Of piety, makes chastening sorrow take

The form of hope, and sees, in Death, the friend
And the restoring Angel. We must rest
Perforce, and wait what tidings night may bring,
Haply of comfort. Ho, there! kindle fires,
And see if aught of hospitality

Can yet within these mournful walls be found!

Sent forth with one accord the glad reply,
Friends and Asturians. Onward moved the
lights, —

The people knew their lord.

Then what a shout

Rung through the valley! From their clay-built nests,

Beneath the overbrowing battlements,

Now first disturb'd, the affrighted martins flew,
And uttering notes of terror short and shrill,
Amid the yellow glare and lurid smoke
Wheel'd giddily. Then plainly was it shown
How well the vassals loved their generous lord,
How like a father the Asturian Prince
Was dear. They crowded round; they clasp'd
his knees;

They snatch'd his hand; they fell upon his neck, —
They wept; - they blest Almighty Providence,
Which had restored him thus from bondage free;
God was with them and their good cause, they said;
His hand was here. His shield was over them, —
His spirit was abroad, His power displayed;
And pointing to their bloody trophies then,
They told Pelayo, there he might behold
The first fruits of the harvest they should soon
Reap in the field of war! Benignantly,

Thus while he spake, lights were descried far off With voice, and look, and gesture, did the Prince

Moving among the trees, and coming sounds

Were heard as of a distant multitude.

Anon a company of horse and foot,

Advancing in disorderly array,

Came up the vale; before them and beside

Their torches flash'd on Sella's rippling stream;
Now gleam'd through chestnut groves, emerging

now,

O'er their huge boughs and radiated leaves
Cast broad and bright a transitory glare.
That sight inspired with strength the mountaineers;
All sense of weariness, all wish for rest
At once were gone; impatient in desire
Of second victory alert they stood;
And when the hostile symbols, which from far
Imagination to their wish had shaped,
Vanish'd in nearer vision, high-wrought hope
Departing, left the spirit pall'd and blank.
No turban'd race, no sons of Africa
Were they who now came winding up the vale,
As waving wide before their horses' feet
The torch-light floated, with its hovering glare
Blackening the incumbent and surrounding night.
Helmet and breastplate glitter'd as they came,
And spears erect; and nearer as they drew
Were the loose folds of female garments seen
On those who led the company. Who then
Had stood beside Pelayo, might have heard
The beating of his heart.

But vainly there
Sought he with wistful eye the well-known forms
Beloved; and plainly might it now be seen,
That from some bloody conflict they return'd
Victorious, - for at every saddle-bow

A gory head was hung. Anon, they stopp'd,
Levelling, in quick alarm, their ready spears.
Hold! who goes there? cried one. A hundred
tongues

To these warm greetings of tumultuous joy
Respond; and sure, if at that moment aught
Could for a while have overpower'd those fears
Which, from the inmost heart, o'er all his frame
Diffused their chilling influence, worthy pride,
And sympathy of love, and joy, and hope,
Had then possess'd him wholly. Even now
His spirit rose; the sense of power, the sight
Of his brave people, ready where he led
To fight their country's battles, and the thought
Of instant action, and deliverance, -
If Heaven, which thus far had protected him,
Should favor still, revived his heart, and gave
Fresh impulse to its spring. In vain he sought,
Amid that turbulent greeting, to inquire
Where Gaudiosa was, his children where,
Who call'd them to the field, who captain'd them;
And how these women, thus with arms and death
Environ'd, came amid their company;

For yet, amid the fluctuating light

And tumult of the crowd, he knew them not.

Guisla was one. The Moors had found in her
A willing and concerted prisoner.
Gladly to Gegio, to the renegade,

On whom her loose and shameless love was bent,
Had she set forth; and in her heart she curs'd
The busy spirit, who, with powerful call
Rousing Pelayo's people, led them on
In quick pursual, and victoriously
Achieved the rescue, to her mind perverse
Unwelcome as unlook'd for. With dismay
She recognized her brother, dreaded now
More than he once was dear; her countenance

Was turn'd toward him,- not with eager joy
To court his sight, and meeting its first glance,
Exchange delightful welcome, soul with soul:
Hers was the conscious eye, that cannot choose

But look to what it fears. She could not shun

His presence, and the rigid smile constrain'd,
With which she coldly dress'd her features, ill
Conceal'd her inward thoughts, and the despite
Of obstinate guilt and unrepentant shame.
Sullenly thus, upon her mule she sat,
Waiting the greeting which she did not dare
Bring on. But who is she that, at her side,
Upon a stately war-horse eminent,

Holds the loose rein with careless hand? A helm
Presses the clusters of her flaxen hair;

The shield is on her arm; her breast is mail'd;
A sword-belt is her girdle, and right well
It may be seen that sword hath done its work
To-day, for upward from the wrist her sleeve
Is stiff with blood. An unregardant eye,
As one whose thoughts were not of earth, she cast
Upon the turmoil round. One countenance
So strongly mark'd, so passion-worn, was there,
That it recall'd her mind. Ha! Maccabee!
Lifting her arm, exultingly she cried,
Did I not tell thee we should meet in joy?
Well, Brother, hast thou done thy part, I, too,
Have not been wanting! Now be His the praise
From whom the impulse came !

That startling call,
That voice so well remember'd, touch'd the Goth
With timely impulse now; for he had seen
His Mother's face, and at her sight, the past
And present mingled like a frightful dream,
Which from some dread reality derives
Its deepest horror. Adosinda's voice
Dispersed the waking vision. Little deem'd
Rusilla, at that moment, that the child,
For whom her supplications day and night
Were offer'd, breathed the living air. Her heart
Was calm; her placid countenance, though grief
Deeper than time had left its traces there,
Retain'd its dignity serene; yet, when
Siverian, pressing through the people, kiss'd
Her reverend hand, some quiet tears ran down.
As she approach'd the Prince, the crowd made way
Respectful. The maternal smile which bore
Her greeting, from Pelayo's heart at once
Dispell'd its boding. What he would have ask'd
She knew, and bending from her palfrey down,
Told him that they for whom he look'd were safe,
And that in secret he should hear the rest.

XV.

RODERICK AT CANGAS.

How calmly gliding through the dark-blue sky
The midnight Moon ascends! Her placid beams

A lovelier, purer light than that of day
Rests on the hills; and oh, how awfully
Into that deep and tranquil firmament
The summits of Auseva rise serene !
The watchman on the battlements partakes
The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels
The silence of the earth, the endless sound
Of flowing water soothes him, and the stars,
Which in that brightest moonlight well nigh
quench'd

Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth
Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,
Draw on, with elevating influence,
Toward eternity the attemper'd mind.
Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands,
And to the Virgin Mother silently
Prefers her hymn of praise.

For Guisla's guilt, which freshen'd in his heart
The memory of their wretched mother's crime,
Still made its presence felt, like the dull sense
Of some perpetual inward malady;
And the whole peril of the future lay
Before him clearly seen. He had heard all;
How that unworthy sister, obstinate

In wrong and shameless, rather seem'd to woo
The upstart renegado than to wait
His wooing; how, as guilt to guilt led on,
Spurning at gentle admonition first,
When Gaudiosa hopelessly forbore
From further counsel, then in sullen mood
Resentful, Guisla soon began to hate
The virtuous presence before which she felt
Her nature how inferior, and her fault
How foul. Despiteful thus she grew, because
Humbled, yet unrepentant. Who could say
To what excess bad passions might impel
A woman thus possess'd? She could not fail
To mark Siverian's absence, for what end
Her conscience but too surely had divined;
And Gaudiosa, well aware that all

To the vile paramour was thus made known,

Had to safe hiding-place, with timely fear,
Removed her children. Well the event had proved
How needful was that caution; for at night
She sought the mountain solitudes, and morn
Beheld Numacian's soldiers at the gate.

Through thinly-scatter'd leaves and boughs gro-Yet did not sorrow in Pelayo's heart

tesque,

Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;
Here, o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage, gray
And massy, motionless they spread; here shine
Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night
Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry
Ripples and glances on the confluent streams.

For this domestic shame prevail that hour,
Nor gathering danger weigh his spirit down.
The anticipated meeting put to flight

These painful thoughts: to-morrow will restore
All whom his heart holds dear; his wife beloved,
No longer now remember'd for regret,
ls present to his soul with hope and joy;

Both had been weeping, both were pale, but calm. Seem'd good to Heaven. I murmur not, nor doubt