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Of unrepented sin upon his head,

Sin which had weigh'd a nation down... what joy
To know that righteous Heaven had in its wrath
Remember'd mercy, and she yet might meet
The child whom she had borne, redeem'd, in bliss.
The sudden impulse of such thoughts confirm'd
That unacknowledged purpose, which till now
Vainly had sought its end. He girt his loins,
Laid holiest Mary's image in a cleft

Of the rock, where, shelter'd from the elements,
It might abide till happier days came on,
From all defilement safe; pour'd his last prayer
Upon Romano's grave, and kiss'd the earth
Which cover'd his remains, and wept as if
At long leave-taking, then began his way.

III.
ADOSINDA.

"Twas now the earliest morning; soon the Sun,
Rising above Albardos, pour'd his light
Amid the forest, and with ray aslant
Entering its depth, illumed the branchless pines,
Brighten'd their bark, tinged with a redder hue
Its rusty stains, and cast along the floor
Long lines of shadow, where they rose erect
Like pillars of the temple. With slow foot
Roderick pursued his way; for penitence,
Remorse which gave no respite, and the long
And painful conflict of his troubled soul,

Had worn him down. Now brighter thoughts arose,
And that triumphant vision floated still
Before his sight with all her blazonry,

Her castled helm, and the victorious sword
That flash'd like lightning o'er the field of blood.
Sustain'd by thoughts like these, from morn till eve
He journey'd, and drew near Leyria's walls.
"Twas even-song time, but not a bell was heard;
Instead thereof, on her polluted towers,
Bidding the Moors to their unhallow'd prayer,
The cryer stood, and with his sonorous voice
Fill'd the delicious vale where Lena winds

In hollow groans supprest; the Musselman
Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified
The name of Allah as he hasten'd on.
A Christian woman spinning at her door
Beheld him, and, with sudden pity touch'd,
She laid her spindle by, and running in
Took bread, and following after call'd him back,
And placing in his passive hands the loaf,
She said, Christ Jesus for his mother's sake
Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem'd
Like idiotcy he heard her, and stood still,
Staring awhile; then bursting into tears
Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart,
Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts.
So through the streets, and through the northern gate
Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place,
With feeble yet with hurried step pursue
His agitated way; and when he reach'd
The open fields, and found himself alone
Beneath the starry canopy of Heaven,
The sense of solitude, so dreadful late,
Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt
Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf;
And shedding o'er that long untasted food
Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul

He breathed thanksgiving forth, then made his bed
On heath and myrtle.

But when he arose
At day-break and pursued his way, his heart
Felt lighten'd that the shock of mingling first
Among his fellow-kind was overpast;
And journeying on, he greeted whom he met
With such short interchange of benison
As each to other gentle travellers give,
Recovering thus the power of social speech
Which he had long disused. When hunger prest
He ask'd for alms: slight supplication served;
A countenance so pale and woe-begone
Moved all to pity; aud the marks it bore
Of rigorous penance and austerest life,
With something too of majesty that still
Appear'd amid the wreck, inspired a sense
Of reverence too. The goat-herd on the hills
Open'd his scrip for him; the babe in arms,
Affrighted at his visage, turn'd away,

Thro' groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight | And clinging to the mother's neck in tears

Of turban, girdle, robe, and scymitar,

And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts
Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth;
The face of human-kind so long unseen
Confused him now, and through the streets he went
With hagged mien, and countenance like one
Crazed or bewilder'd. All who met him turn'd,
And wonder'd as he pass'd. One stopt him short,
Put alms into his hand, and then desired
In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man
To bless him. With a look of vacancy
Roderick received the alms; his wandering eye
Fell on the money, and the fallen King,
Seeing his own royal impress on the piece,
Broke out into a quick convulsive voice,
That seem'd like laughter first, but ended soon

1 The Roman Conimbrica stood about two leagues from the present Coimbra, on the site of Condeyxa Velha. Ataces, king of the Alanes, won it from the Sueves, and, in revenge

Would yet again look up, and then again,
Shrink back, with cry renew'd. The bolder imps
Sporting beside the way, at his approach
Brake off their games for wonder, and stood still
In silence; some among them cried, A Saint!
The village matron when she gave him food
Besought his prayers; and one entreated him
To lay his healing hands upon her child,
For with a sore and hopeless malady
Wasting, it long had lain,.. and sure, she said,
He was a man of God.

Thus travelling on
He pass'd the vale where wild Arunca pours
Its wintry torrents; and the happier site
Of old Conimbrica, whose ruin'd towers
Bore record of the fierce Alani's wrath. 1

for its obstinate resistance, dispeopled it, making all its inhabitants without distinction of persons, work at the foundation of Coimbra, where it now stands. Hermenerico, the king of

Mondego too he cross'd, not yet renown'd
In poets' amorous lay; and left behind
The walls at whose foundation pious hands
Of Priest and Monk and Bishop meekly toil'd, . .
So had the insulting Arian given command.
Those stately palaces and rich domains
Were now the Moor's, and many a weary age
Must Coimbra wear the misbeliever's yoke,
Before Fernando's banner through her gate
Shall pass triumphant, and her hallow'd Mosque
Behold the hero of Bivar receive

The knighthood which he glorified so oft
In his victorious fields. Oh, if the years

To come might then have risen on Roderick's soul,
How had they kindled and consoled his heart! . . .
What joy might Douro's haven then have given,
Whence Portugal, the faithful and the brave,
Shall take her name illustrious!.. what, those walls
Where Mumadona1 one day will erect
Convent and town and towers, which shall become
The cradle of that famous monarchy !

What joy might these prophetic scenes have given,..
What ample vengeance on the Musselman,
Driven out with foul defeat, and made to feel
In Africa the wrongs he wrought to Spain;
And still pursued by that relentless sword,
Even to the farthest Orient, where his power
Received its mortal wound.

In undiscoverable futurity,

O years of pride!

Yet unevolved, your destined glories lay;
And all that Roderick in these fated scenes
Beheld, was grief and wretchedness, . . the waste
Of recent war, and that more mournful calm
Of joyless, helpless, hopeless servitude.
"Twas not the ruin'd walls of church or tower,
Cottage or hall or convent, black with smoke;
'Twas not the unburied bones, which where the dogs
And crows had strewn them, lay amid the field
Bleaching in sun or shower, that wrung his heart
With keenest anguish: 'twas when he beheld
The turban'd traitor show his shameless front
In the open eye of Heaven,.. the renegade,
On whose base brutal nature unredeem'd
Even black apostacy itself could stamp
No deeper reprobation, at the hour

Assign'd fall prostrate; and unite the names

Of God and the Blasphemer,. . impious prayer,..

Most impious, when from unbelieving lips

With indignation burnt, and then he long'd
To be a King again, that so, for Spain
Betray'd and his Redeemer thus renounced,
He might inflict due punishment, and make
These wretches feel his wrath. But when he saw
The daughters of the land,. . who, as they went
With cheerful step to church, were wont to show
Their innocent faces to all passers' eyes

Freely, and free from sin as when they look'd

In adoration and in praise to Heaven,..

Now mask'd in Moorish mufflers, to the Mosque Holding uncompanied their jealous way,

His spirit seem'd at that unhappy sight

To die away within him, and he too

Would fain have died, so death could bring with it Entire oblivion.

Rent with thoughts like these

He reach'd that city, once the seat renown'd
Of Suevi kings, where, in contempt of Rome
Degenerate long, the North's heroic race
Raised first a rival throne; now from its state
Of proud regality debased and fallen.

Still bounteous nature o'er the lovely vale,
Where like a Queen rose Bracara august,

Pour'd forth her gifts profuse; perennial springs
Flow'd for her habitants, and genial suns,
With kindly showers to bless the happy clime,
Combined in vain their gentle influences :
For patient servitude was there, who bow'd
His neck beneath the Moor, and silent grief
That eats into the soul. The walls and stones
Seem'd to reproach their dwellers; stately piles
Yet undecayed, the mighty monuments
Of Roman pomp, Barbaric palaces,
And Gothic halls, where haughty Barons late
Gladden'd their faithful vassals with the feast
And flowing bowl, alike the spoiler's now.

Leaving these captive scenes behind, he crost
Cavado's silver current, and the banks
Of Lima, through whose groves in after years,
Mournful yet sweet, Diogo's amorous lute
Prolong'd its tuneful echoes. 2 But when now
Beyond Arnoya's tributary tide,

He came where Minho roll'd its ampler stream
By Auria's ancient walls, fresh horrors met

His startled view; for prostrate in the dust
Those walls were laid, and towers and temples stood
Tottering in frightful ruins, as the flame

The accursed utterance came. Then Roderick's heart Had left them black and bare; and through the streets,

the Sueves, attacked him while thus employed, but was defeated and pursued to the Douro; peace was then made, and Sindasunda, daughter of the conquered, given in marriage to the conqueror. In memory of the pacification thus effected, Ataces bore upon his banners a damsel in a tower, with a dragon vert on one side, and a lion rouge on the other, the bearings of himself and his marriage-father; and this device being sculptured upon the towers of Coimbra, still remains as the city arms. Two letters of Arisbert, bishop of Porto, to Samerius, archdeacon of Braga, which are preserved at Alcobaça, relate these events as the news of the day, that is, if the authority of Alcobaçan records, and of Bernardo de Brito, can be admitted."-Mon. Lus. 26. 3.

Ataces was an Arian, and therefore made the Catholic bishops and priests work at his new city, but his queen converted him.

1 Gasper Estaço has shown that this is the name of the foundress of Guimaraens, and that it is not, as some writers had supposed, erroneously thus written, because the words Muma and Dona followed each other in the deeds of gift wherein it is preserved; the name being frequently found with its title affixed thus, Dma Mumadna.

2 Diogo Bernardes, one of the best of the Portugueze poets, was born on the banks of the Lima, and passionately fond of its scenery. Some of his sonnets will bear comparison with the best poems of their kind. There is a charge of pla giarism against him for having printed several of Camoensi sonnets as his own; to obtain any proofs upon this subject would be very difficult; this, however, is certain, that his own undisputed productions resemble them so closely in unaffected tenderness, and in sweetness of diction, that the whole appear like the works of one author.

All with the recent wreck of war bestrewn,

Helmet and turban, scymitar and sword,
Christian and Moor in death promiscuous lay

For all these unexampled wrongs hath given
Full,.. over-flowing vengeance !

While she spake

Each where they fell; and blood-flakes, parch'd and She raised her lofty hands to Heaven, as if

crack'd

Like the dry slime of some receding flood;
And half-burnt bodies, which allured from far
The wolf and raven, and to impious food
Tempted the houseless dog.

A thrilling pang,
A sweat like death, a sickness of the soul,
Came over Roderick. Soon they pass'd away,
And admiration in their stead arose,
Stern joy, and inextinguishable hope,

With wrath, and hate, and sacred vengeance now
Indissolubly link'd. O valiant race,

O people excellently brave, he cried,
True Goths ye fell, and faithful to the last;
Though overpower'd, triumphant, and in death
Unconquer'd! Holy be your memory!
Bless'd and glorious now and evermore
Be your heroic names!.. Led by the sound,
As thus he cried aloud, a woman came
Toward him from the ruins. For the love
Of Christ, she said, lend me a little while
Thy charitable help!... Her words, her voice,
Her look, more horror to his heart convey'd
Than all the havoc round: for though she spake
With the calm utterance of despair, in tones
Deep-breathed and low, yet never sweeter voice
Pour'd forth its hymns in ecstasy to Heaven.
Her hands were bloody, and her garments stain'd
With blood, her face with blood and dust defiled.
Beauty and youth, and grace and majesty,
Had every charm of form and feature given;
But now upon her rigid countenance
Severest anguish set a fixedness
Ghastlier than death.

Calling for justice on the Judgement-seat;
Then laid them on her eyes, and leaning on
Bent o'er the open sepulchre.

But soon

With quiet mien collectedly, like one
Who from intense devotion, and the act
Of ardent prayer, arising, girds himself
For this world's daily business,.. she arose,
And said to Roderick, Help me now to raise
The covering of the tomb.

With half-burnt planks,
Which she had gather'd for this funeral use,
They roof'd the vault, then, laying stones above,
They closed it down; last, rendering all secure,
Stones upon stones they piled, till all appear'd
A huge and shapeless heap. Enough, she cried;
And taking Roderick's hands in both her own,
And wringing them with fervent thankfulness,
May God shew mercy to thee, she exclaim'd,
When most thou needest mercy! Who thou art
I know not; not of Auria,. . for of all
Her sons and daughters, save the one who stands
Before thee, not a soul is left alive.
But thou hast render'd to me, in my hour
Of need, the only help which man could give.
What else of consolation may be found
For one so utterly bereft, from Heaven
And from myself must come.

For deem not thou

That I shall sink beneath calamity :
This visitation, like a lightning-stroke,
Hath scathed the fruit and blossom of my youth;
One hour hath orphan'd me, and widow'd me,
And made me childless. In this sepulchre
Lie buried all my earthward hopes and fears,

She led him through the streets All human loves and natural charities; . .

A little way along, where four low walls,
Heapt rudely from the ruins round, enclosed
A narrow space: and there upon the ground
Four bodies, decently composed, were laid,
Though horrid all with wounds and clotted gore;
A venerable ancient, by his side

A comely matron, for whose middle age,
(If ruthless slaughter had not intervened,)
Nature it seem'd, and gentle Time, might well
Have many a calm declining year in store;
The third an armed warrior, on his breast
An infant, over whom his arms were cross'd.
There,.. with firm eye and steady countenance
Unfaltering, she addrest him,. . there they lie,
Child, Husband, Parents, . . Adosinda's all!

I could not break the earth with these poor hands,
Nor other tomb provide,. . but let that pass!
Auria itself is now but one wide tomb
For all its habitants: 1 What better grave?
What worthier monument?.. Oh cover not
Their blood, thou Earth! and ye, ye blessed Souls
Of Heroes and of murder'd Innocents,

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Oh never let your everlasting cries

All womanly tenderness, all gentle thoughts,
All female weakness too, I bury here,
Yea, all my former nature. There remain
Revenge and death: . . the bitterness of death
Is past, and Heaven already hath vouchsafed
A foretaste of revenge.

Look here she cried, And drawing back, held forth her bloody hands,.. 'Tis Moorish!... In the day of massacre,

A captain of Alcahman's murderous host
Reserved me from the slaughter. Not because
My rank and station tempted him with thoughts
Of ransom, for amid the general waste
Of ruin all was lost; ... Nor yet, be sure,
That pity moved him,.. they who from this race
Accurst for pity look, such pity find

As ravenous wolves show the defenceless flock.
My husband at my feet had fallen; my babe,..
Spare me that thought, O God!.. and then.. even
then

Amid the maddening throes of agony

Which rent my soul,.. when if this solid Earth
Had open'd and let out the central fire

Cease round the Eternal Throne, till the Most High Before whose all-involving flames wide Heaven

1 The present Orense. The Moors entirely destroyed it; "depopulavit usque ad solum," are the words of one of the

old brief chronicles. In 832, Alonzo el Costo found it too completely ruined to be restored. - España Sagrada, xvii. p. 48.

Shall shrivel like a scroll and be consumed,
The universal wreck had been to me
Relief and comfort; ..
... even then this Moor
Turn'd on me his libidinous eyes, and bade
His men reserve me safely for an hour

Of dalliance, . . me!.. me in my agonies!
But when I found for what this miscreant child
Of Hell had snatch'd me from the butchery,
The very horror of that monstrous thought
Saved me from madness; I was calm at once,..
Yet comforted and reconciled to life:
Hatred became to me the life of life,

Its purpose and its power.

The glutted Moors

At length broke up. This hell-dog turn'd aside
Toward his home; we travell'd fast and far,
Till by a forest edge at eve he pitched
His tents. I wash'd and ate at his command,
Forcing revolted nature; I composed

My garments and bound up my scatter'd hair;
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 neighbouring 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
For strength, for strength was given me as I drew
The scymitar, 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.

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,
Make up the mighty feeling. Call it not
Revenge! thus sanctified and thus sublimed,
"Tis duty, 'tis devotion. Like the grace
Of God, it came and saved me; and in it
Spain must have her salvation. In thy hands
Here, on the grave of all my family,

I make my vow.

She said, and kneeling down,
Placed within Roderick's palms her folded hands.
This life, she cried, I dedicate to God,
Therewith to do him service in the way
Which he hath shown. To rouse the land against
This impious, this intolerable yoke,..

To offer up the invader's hateful blood,..
This shall be my employ, my rule and rite,
Observances and sacrifice of faith;

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 Saviour and my Judge.

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 her's, 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 night,.. this flesh, this blood, this life,
Yea this whole being, do I here devote

For Spain. Receive the vow, all Saints in Heaven,
And prosper its good end!... Clap now your wings,
The Goth with louder utterance as he rose
Exclaim'd,... clap now your wings exultingly,
Ye ravenous fowl of Heaven; and in your dens
Set up, ye wolves of Spain, a yell of joy ;
For, lo a nation hath this day been sworn
To furnish forth your banquet; for a strife

Hath been commenced, the which from this day 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. Among the neighbouring hills,
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

1 of this saint, and the curious institutions which he formed, and the beautiful tract of country in which they were

The fiery chariot, and the steeds of fire,
Trampling the whirlwind, bear him up the sky :
Thus gazing after her did Rokerick 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.

Sil's ample stream he crost, where through the vale
Of Orras, from that sacred land it bears
The whole collected waters; northward then,
Skirting the heights of Aguiar, he reach'd
That consecrated pile amid the wild,
Which sainted Fructuoso in his zeal
Rear'd to St. Felix', on Visonia's banks.

In commune with a priest of age mature, Whose thoughtful visage and majestic mien Bespake authority and weight of care, Odoar, the venerable Abbot, sate, When ushering Roderick in, the Porter said, A stranger came from Auria, and required His private ear. From Auria? said the old man, Comest thou from Auria, brother? I can spare Thy painful errand then,.. we know the worst.

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
To her poor country. For she said, that Heaven
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

placed, I have given an account in the third edition of Letters from Spain and Portugal, vol. i. p. 103.

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