I little thought that I should live to bless

Than seem'd to follow on Florinda's words.

The last, the best, the only comfort earth
Could minister to this afflicted heart,

And my gray hairs may now unto the grave
Go down in peace.

Happy, Florinda cried,

Are they for whom the grave hath peace in store! The wrongs they have sustain'd, the woes they bear,

Pass not that holy threshold, where Death heals
The broken heart. O Lady, thou mayst trust
In humble hope, through Him who on the Cross
Gave his atoning blood for lost mankind,
To meet beyond the grave thy child forgiven.
I too with Roderick there may interchange
Forgiveness. But the grief which wastes away
This mortal frame, hastening the happy hour
Of my enlargement, is but a light part
Of what my soul endures! - that grief hath lost
Its sting: I have a keener sorrow here,—
One which, but God forefend that dire event, -
May pass with me the portals of the grave,
And with a thought, like sin which cannot die,
Imbitter Heaven. My father hath renounced
His hope in Christ! It was his love for me
Which drove him to perdition - I was born
To ruin all who loved me, - all I loved!
Perhaps I sinn'd in leaving him; that fear
Rises within me to disturb the peace
Which I should else have found.

To Roderick then The pious mourner turn'd her suppliant eyes: O Father, there is virtue in thy prayers! I do beseech thee offer them to Heaven In his behalf! For Roderick's sake, for mine, Wrestle with Him whose name is Merciful, That Julian may with penitence be touch'd, And clinging to the Cross, implore that grace Which ne'er was sought in vain. For Roderick's

sake

He shunn'd the meeting of her eye, he said,
Virtuous and pious as thou art, and ripe
For Heaven, O Lady, I must think the man
Hath not by his good Angel been cast off
For whom thy supplications rise. The Lord,
Whose justice doth in its unerring course
Visit the children for the sire's offence,
Shall He not in his boundless mercy hear
The daughter's prayer, and for her sake restore
The guilty parent? My soul shall with thine
In earnest and continual duty join. —
How deeply, how devoutly, He will know
To whom the cry is raised!

Thus having said,
Deliberately, in self-possession still,
Himself from that most painful interview
Dispeeding, he withdrew. The watchful dog
Follow'd his footsteps close. But he retired
Into the thickest grove; there yielding way
To his o'erburden'd nature, from all eyes
Apart, he cast himself upon the ground,
And threw his arms around the dog, and cried,
While tears stream'd down, Thou, Theron, then
hast known

Thy poor lost master, — Theron, none but thou!

XVI. COVADONGA.

May from that same unhappy source have risen,
Are earthly, temporal, reparable all; —
But if a soul be lost through our misdeeds,
That were eternal evil! Pray for him,
Good Father Maccabee, and be thy prayers
More fervent, as the deeper is the crime.

While thus Florinda spake, the dog who lay Before Rusilla's feet, eyeing him long And wistfully, had recognized at length, Changed as he was and in those sordid weeds, His royal master. And he rose and lick'd His wither'd hand, and earnestly look'd up With eyes whose human meaning did not need The aid of speech; and moan'd, as if at once To court and chide the long-withheld caress. A feeling uncommix'd with sense of guilt

Or shame, yet painfulest, thrill'd through the
King;

But he to self-control now long inured,
Repress'd his rising heart, nor other tears,
Full as his struggling bosom was, let fall

Of earth and heaven alive. With kindred joy
He heard the lark, who from her airy height,
On twinkling pinions poised, pour'd forth profuse,
In thrilling sequence of exuberant song,
As one whose joyous nature overflow'd
With life and power, her rich and rapturous strain.
The early bee, buzzing along the way,
From flower to flower, bore gladness on its wing
To his rejoicing sense; and he pursued,
With quicken'd eye alert, the frolic hare,
Where from the green herb in her wanton path
She brush'd away the dews. For he long time,
Far from his home and from his native hills,
Had dwelt in bondage; and the mountain breeze,
Which he had with the breath of infancy
Inhaled, such impulse to his heart restored,
As if the seasons had roll'd back, and life
Enjoy'd a second spring.

Through fertile fields
He went, by cots with pear-trees overbower'd,
Or spreading to the sun their trellised vines;
Through orchards now, and now by thymy banks,
Where wooden hives in some warm nook were hid

paths,

Where hazels fringed Pionia's vocal stream;
Till where the loftier hills to narrower bound
Confine the vale, he reach'd those huts remote,
Which should hereafter to the noble line
Of Soto origin and name impart ;
A gallant lineage, long in fields of war
And faithful chronicler's enduring page
Blazon'd; but most by him illustrated,
Avid of gold, yet greedier of renown,
Whom not the spoils of Atabalipa
Could satisfy insatiate, nor the fame
Of that wide empire overthrown appease;
But he to Florida's disastrous shores
In evil hour his gallant comrades led,

Arose on either hand, here hung with woods, Here rich with heath, that o'er some smooth

ascent

tribes,

The Apalachian arrows, and the snares
Of wilier foes, hunger, and thirst, and toil;
Till from ambition's feverish dream the touch
Of Death awoke him; and when he had seen
The fruit of all his treasures, all his toil,
Foresight, and long endurance, fade away,
Earth to the restless one refusing rest,
In the great river's midland bed he left
His honor'd bones.

A mountain rivulet,

Now calm and lovely in its summer course,
Held by those huts its everlasting way
Towards Pionia. They, whose flocks and herds
Drink of its water, call it Deva. Here
Pelayo southward up the ruder vale
Traced it, his guide unerring. Amid heaps
Of mountain wreck, on either side thrown high,
The wide-spread traces of its wintry might,
The tortuous channel wound; o'er beds of sand
Here silently it flows; here, from the rock
Rebutted, curls and eddies; plunges here
Precipitate; here roaring among crags,

It leaps, and foams, and whirls, and hurries on.
Gray alders here and bushy hazels hid
The mossy side; their wreath'd and knotted feet,
Bared by the current, now against its force
Repaying the support they found, upheld
The bank secure. Here, bending to the stream,
The birch fantastic stretch'd its rugged trunk,
Tall and erect from whence, as from their base,
Each like a tree, its silver branches grew.
The cherry here hung, for the birds of heaven,
Its
rosy fruit on high. The elder there
Its purple berries o'er the water bent,
Heavily hanging. Here, amid the brook,
Gray as the stone to which it clung, half root,
Half trunk, the young ash rises from the rock;
And there its parent lifts a lofty head,
And spreads its graceful boughs; the passing wind
With twinkling motion lifts the silent leaves,
And shakes its rattling tufts.

Soon had the Prince
Behind him left the farthest dwelling-place
Of man; no fields of waving corn were here,
Nor wicker storehouse for the autumnal grain,
Vineyard, nor bowery fig, nor fruitful grove;
Only the rocky vale, the mountain stream,

No might of human tyranny, can pierce

The tears which started then sprang not alone From lofty thoughts of elevating joy ; For love and admiration had their part, And virtuous pride. Here then thou hast retired, My Gaudiosa! in his heart he said; Excellent woman! ne'er was richer boon By fate benign to favor'd man indulged, Than when thou wert, before the face of Heaven, Given me to be my children's mother, brave And virtuous as thou art! Here thou hast fled, Thou, who wert nursed in palaces, to dwell

In rocks and mountain caves! - The thought was

proud,

Yet not without a sense of inmost pain;
For never had Pelayo, till that hour,
So deeply felt the force of solitude.
High over head, the eagle soar'd serene,
And the gray lizard, on the rocks below,
Bask'd in the sun: no living creature else,
In this remotest wilderness, was seen;
Nor living voice was there, only the flow
Of Deva, and the rushing of its springs,
Long in the distance heard, which nearer now,
With endless repercussion deep and loud,
Throbb'd on the dizzy sense.

The ascending vale, Long straiten'd by the narrowing mountains, here

Was closed. In front, a rock, abrupt and bare,
Stood eminent, in height exceeding far
All edifice of human power, by King,
Or Caliph, or barbaric Sultan rear'd,
Or mightier tyrants of the world of old,
Assyrian or Egyptian, in their pride;
Yet, far above, beyond the reach of sight,
Swell after swell, the heathery mountain rose
Here, in two sources, from the living rock
The everlasting springs of Deva gush'd.
Upon a smooth and grassy plat below,
By nature there, as for an altar, dress'd,
They join'd their sister stream, which from the

earth

Well'd silently. In such a scene, rude man, With pardonable error, might have knelt, Feeling a present Deity, and made

His offering to the fountain Nymph devout.

Of his bewilder'd phantasy saw fiends
In actual vision, a foul throng grotesque
Of all horrific shapes and forms obscene
Crowd in broad day before his open eyes.
That feeling cast a momentary shade
Of sadness o'er his soul. But deeper thoughts,
If he might have foreseen the things to come,
Would there have fill'd him; for within that

cave

His own remains were one day doom'd to find
Their final place of rest; and in that spot,
Where that dear child with innocent delight
Had spread her mossy couch, the sepulchre
Shall in the consecrated rock be hewn,
Where with Alphonso, her beloved lord,
Laid side by side, must Hermesind partake
The everlasting marriage-bed, when he,
Leaving a name perdurable on earth,
Hath changed his earthly for a heavenly crown.
Dear child, upon that fated spot she stood,
In all the beauty of her opening youth,
In health's rich bloom, in virgin innocence,
While her eyes sparkled and her heart o'erflow'd
With pure and perfect joy of filial love.

Many a slow century since that day hath fill'd Its course, and countless multitudes have trod With pilgrim feet that consecrated cave; Yet not in all those ages, amid all

XVII.

RODERICK AND SIVERIAN.

O HOLIEST Mary, Maid and Mother! thou
In Covadonga, at thy rocky shrine,
Hast witness'd whatsoe'er of human bliss
Heart can conceive most perfect! Faithful love,
Long cross'd by envious stars, hath there attain'd
Its crown, in endless matrimony given;

The youthful mother there hath to the font
Her first-born borne, and there, with deeper sense
Of gratitude for that dear babe redeem'd
From threatening death, return'd to pay her vows.
But ne'er on nuptial, nor baptismal day,
Nor from their grateful pilgrimage discharged,
Did happier group their way down Deva's vale
Rejoicing hold, than this blest family,
O'er whom the mighty Spirit of the Land
Spread his protecting wings. The children, free
In youthhead's happy season from all cares
That might disturb the hour, yet capable
Of that intense and unalloyed delight
Which childhood feels when it enjoys again
The dear parental presence long deprived;
Nor were the parents now less bless'd than they,
Even to the height of human happiness;

For Gaudiosa and her Lord that hour

That hour. O Gaudiosa, he exclaim'd,
And thou couldst seek for shelter here, amid
This awful solitude, in mountain caves!
Thou noble spirit! Oh, when hearts like thine
Grow on this sacred soil, would it not be
In me, thy husband, double infamy,
And tenfold guilt, if I despair'd of Spain?
In all her visitations, favoring Heaven
Hath left her still the unconquerable mind;
And thus being worthy of redemption, sure
Is she to be redeem'd.

Beholding her

Her hopes on him, and his were fix'd on Heaven;
And hope in that courageous heart derived
Such rooted strength and confidence assured
In righteousness, that 'twas to him like faith
An everlasting sunshine of the soul,
Illumining and quickening all its powers.

But on Pionia's side meantime a heart As generous, and as full of noble thoughts, Lay stricken with the deadliest bolts of grief. Upon a smooth gray stone sat Roderick there; The wind above him stirr'd the hazel boughs, And murmuring at his feet the river ran.

A kiss of deepest love. Think ever thus,

She answer'd, and that faith will give the power
In which it trusts. When to this mountain hold
These children, thy dear images, I brought,

I said within myself, Where should they fly
But to the bosom of their native hills?
I brought them here as to a sanctuary,

Where, for the temple's sake, the indwelling
God

Would guard his supplicants. O my dear Lord, Proud as I was to know that they were thine, Was it a sin if I almost believed,

That Spain, her destiny being link'd with theirs, Must save the precious charge?

So let us think,

The chief replied, so feel, and teach, and act.
Spain is our common parent: let the sons
Be to the parent true, and in her strength

To him? What matters it that Roderick wears

A coming step, unheard by Roderick, roused His watchful ear, and turning he beheld Siverian. Father, said the good old man, As Theron rose and fawn'd about his knees, Hast thou some charm, which draws about thee thus The hearts of all our house, even to the beast That lacks discourse of reason, but too oft, With uncorrupted feeling and dumb faith, Puts lordly man to shame? -The king replied, 'Tis that mysterious sense by which mankind To fix their friendships and their loves are led, And which with fainter influence doth extend To such poor things as this. As we put off The cares and passions of this fretful world, It may be too that we thus far approach To elder nature, and regain in part The privilege through sin in Eden lost.

The timid hare soon learns that she may trust The solitary penitent, and birds

Will light upon the hermit's harmless hand.

Thus Roderick answer'd in excursive speech, Thinking to draw the old man's mind from what Might touch him else too nearly, and himself Disposed to follow on the lure he threw, As one whom such imaginations led Out of the world of his own miseries. But to regardless ears his words were given, For on the dog Siverian gazed the while, Pursuing his own thoughts. Thou hast not felt, Exclaim'd the old man, the earthquake and the

storm;

The kingdom's overthrow, the wreck of Spain, The ruin of thy royal master's house,

Sternly toward Siverian, for the sense

Of shame and self-reproach drove from his mind
All other thoughts. The good old man replied,
Of human judgments humanly I speak.
Who knows not what Pelayo's life hath been?
Not happier in all dear domestic ties,
Than worthy for his virtue of the bliss
Which is that virtue's fruit; and yet did he
Absolve, upon Florinda's tale, the King.
Siverian, thus he said, what most I hoped,
And still within my secret heart believed,
Is now made certain. Roderick hath been
More sinn'd against than sinning. And with that
He clasp'd his hands, and, lifting them to Heaven,
Cried, Would to God that he were yet alive!
For not more gladly did I draw my sword
Against Witiza in our common cause,
Than I would fight beneath his banners now,
And vindicate his name!

Did he say this?
The Prince? Pelayo? in astonishment
Roderick exclaim'd. He said it, quoth the old

man.

None better knew his kinsman's noble heart,
None loved him better, none bewail'd him more:
And as he felt, like me, for his reproach

A deeper grief than for his death, even so
He cherish'd in his heart the constant thought
Something was yet untold, which, being known,
Would palliate his offence, and make the fall
Of one, till then, so excellently good,
Less monstrous, less revolting to belief,
More to be pitied, more to be forgiven.

While thus he spake, the fallen King felt his face Burn, and his blood flow fast. Down, guilty

thoughts!

King,

When the destroying enemy drew nigh

Toledo, he continued, and we fled

Before their fury, even while her grief
Was fresh, my Mistress would not leave behind
This faithful creature. Well we knew she thought
Of Roderick then, although she named him not;
For never since the fatal certainty
Fell on us all, hath that unhappy name,
Save in her prayers, been known to pass her lips
Before this day. She names him now, and weeps;
But now her tears are tears of thankfulness;
For blessed hath thy coming been to her
And all who loved the King.

His faltering voice
Here fail'd him, and he paused: recovering soon,
When that poor injured Lady, he pursued,
Did in my presence to the Prince absolve
The unhappy King —

As he breath'd thus
His inward supplications, the old man
Eyed him with frequent and unsteady looks.
He had a secret trembling on his lips,
And hesitated, still irresolute

In utterance to imbody the dear hope:
Fain would he have it strengthen'd and assured
By this concording judgment, yet he fear'd
To have it chill'd in cold accoil. At length
Venturing, he brake with interrupted speech
The troubled silence. Father Maccabee,
I cannot rest till I have laid my heart
Open before thee. When Pelayo wish'd
That his poor kinsman were alive to rear
His banner once again, a sudden thought —
A hope -a fancy-what shall it be call'd?
Possess'd me, that perhaps the wish might see
Its glad accomplishment, - that Roderick lived,
And might in glory take the field once more