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Sir Lancelot, Sir Stephen bolde,

They rode with them that daye, And, foremost of the companye, There rode the stewarde Kaye. Soe did Sir Banier and Sir Bore,

And eke Sir Garratte keen,

Sir Tristram too, that gentle knight, To the forest fresh and green.

Note 5. Stanza xìii. And Lancelot, that evermore

Look'd stol'n-wise on the queen.

Upon this delicate subject hear Richard Robinson, citizen of London, in his Assertion of King Arthur:

<«<But as it is a thing sufficiently apparent that she (Guenever, wife of King Arthur) was beautiful, so it is a thing doubted whether she was chaste, yea or no. Truly, so far as I can with honestie, I would spare the impayred honour and fame of noble women. But yet the truth of the historie pluckes me be the eere, and willeth me not onely, but commandeth me to declare what the ancients have deemed of her. To wrestle or contend with so great authoritie were indeed unto me a controversie, and that greate.»-Assertion of King Arthure. Imprinted by John Wolfe, London, 1582. Note 6. Stanza xviii.

There were two who loved their neighbours' wives,

And one who loved his own.

standyng poole, covered and overflowed all England, fewe books were read in our tongue, savyng certaine bookes of chevalrie, as they said, for pastime and pleasure; which, as some say, were made in the monasteries, by idle monks or wanton chanons. As one for example, La morte d'Arthure; the whole pleasure of which book standeth in two speciall poynts, in open manslaughter and bold bawdrye; in which booke they be counted the noblest knightes that do kill most men without any quarrell, and commit fowlest adoulteries by sutlest shiftes; as Sir Lancelot, with the wife of King Arthur, his master; Sir Tristram, with the wife of King Marke, his uncle; Sir Lamerocke, with the wife of King Lote, that was his own aunt. This is good stuffe for wise men to laugh at, or honest men to take pleasure at, yet I know when God's Bible was banished the court, and La Morte d'Arthure received into the prince's chamber.»-ASCHAM's Schoolmaster.

Note 7. Stanza xviii.

-valiant Carodac, Who won the cup of gold.

See the comic tale of the Boy and the Mantle, in the third volume of Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry, from the Breton or Norman original of which Ariosto is supposed to have taken his tale of the Enchanted

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AND TO THE COMMITTEE OF SUBSCRIBERS FOR RELIEF OF THE POrtuguese SUFFERERS,

IN WHICH HE PRESIDES,

This Poem,

COMPOSED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE FUND UNDER THEIR MANAGEMENT,
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,

BY WALTER SCOTT.

PREFACE.

THE following poem is founded upon a Spanish tradition, particularly detailed in the Notes; but bearing, in general, that Don Roderick, the last Gothic King of Spain, when the invasion of the Moors was impending, had the temerity to descend into an ancient vault, near Toledo, the opening of which had been denounced as fatal to the Spanish monarchy. The legend adds, that his rash curiosity was mortified by an emblematical representation of those Saracens, who, in the year 714, defeated him in battle, and reduced Spain under their dominion. I have presumed to prolong the Vision of the Revolutions of Spain down to the present eventful

crisis of the Peninsula; and to divide it, by a supposed change of scene, into THREE PERIODS. The FIRST of these represents the Invasion of the Moors, the Defeat and Death of Roderick, and closes with the peaceful occupation of the country by the victors. The SECOND PERIOD embraces the state of the Peninsula, when the conquests of the Spaniards and Portuguese in the East and West Indies had raised to the highest pitch the renown of their arms; sullied, however, by superstition and cruelty. An allusion to the inhumanities of the inquisition terminates this picture. The LAST PART of the poem opens with the state of Spain previous to the unparalleled treachery of BONAPARTE; gives a sketch of the usurpation attempted upon that unsuspicious and friendly kingdom, and terminates with the arrival of

the British succours.

It may be farther proper to mention, that the object of the poem is less to commemorate or detail particular incidents, than to exhibit a general and impressive picture of the several periods brought upon the stage.

I am too sensible of the respect due to the Public, especially by one who has already experienced more than ordinary indulgence, to offer any apology for the inferiority of the poetry to the subject it is chiefly designed to commemorate. Yet I think it proper to mention, that while I was hastily executing a work, written for a temporary purpose, and on passing events, the task was cruelly interrupted by the successive deaths of Lord President BLAIR, and Lord Viscount MELVILLE. In those distinguished characters, I had not only to regret persons whose lives were most important to Scotland, but also whose notice and patronage honoured my entrance upon active life; and I may add, with melancholy pride, who permitted my more advanced age to claim no common share in their friendship. Under such interruptions, the following verses, which my best and happiest efforts must have left far unworthy of their theme, have, I am myself sensible, an appearance of negligence and incoherence, which, in other circumstances, I might have been able to remove.

Edinburgh, June 24, 1811.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

LIVES there a strain, whose sounds of mountain fire
May rise distinguish'd o'er the din of war;

Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre,
Who sung beleaguer'd Ilion's evil star?
Such, WELLINGTON, might reach thee from afar,
Wafting its descant wide o'er ocean's range;

Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood could mar,
All as it swell'd 'twixt each loud trumpet-change,
That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge!

II.

Yes! such a strain, with all-o'erpowering measure,
Might melodize with each tumultuous sound,
Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure,
That rings Mondego's ravaged shores around;
The thund'ring cry of hosts with conquest crown'd,
The female shriek, the ruin'd peasant's moan,
The shout of captives from their chains unbound,
The foil'd oppressor's deep and sullen groan,
A nation's choral hynin for tyranny o'erthrown.

III.

But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day,

Skill'd but to imitate an elder page, Timid and raptureless, can we repay

The debt thou claim'st in this exhausted age? Thou givest our lyres a theme, that might engage Those that could send thy name o'er sea and land, While sea and land shall last; for Homer's rage

A theme; a theme for Milton's mighty handHow much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band!

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Then lend the note to him has loved you long! Who pious gather'd each tradition gray

That floats your solitary wastes along, And with affection vain gave them new voice in song. VI.

For not till now, how oft soe'er the task

Of truant verse hath lighten'd graver care,
From muse or sylvan was he wont to ask,
In phrase poetic, inspiration fair;
Careless he gave his numbers to the air,—

They came unsought for, if applauses came;
Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer;
'Let but his verse befit a hero's fame,
Immortal be the verse!-forgot the poet's name.

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Full on the prelate's face, and silver hair,
The stream of failing light was feebly roll'd;
But Roderick's visage, though his head was bare,
Was shadow'd by his hand and mantle's fold.
While of his hidden soul the sins he told:
Proud Alaric's descendant could not brook,

VISION OF DON RODERICK. That mortal man his bearing should behold,

I.

REARING their crests amid the cloudless skies, And darkly clustering in the pale moon-light, Toledo's holy towers and spires arise,

As from a trembling lake of silver white. Their mingled shadows intercept the sight

Of the broad burial-ground outstretch'd below, And nought disturbs the silence of the night; All sleeps in sullen shade, or silver glow, All save the heavy swell of Teio's ceaseless flow.

II.

All save the rushing swell of Teio's tide,

Or distant heard, a courser's neigh or tramp, Their changing rounds as watchful horsemen ride, To guard the limits of King Roderick's camp. For, through the river's night-fog rolling damp, Was many a proud pavilion dimly seen, Which glimmer'd back, against the moon's fair lamp, Tissues of silk and silver-twisted sheen,

And standards proudly pitch'd, and warders arm'd be

tween.

III.

But of their monarch's person keeping ward,

Since last the deep-mouth'd bell of vespers toll'd,

Or boast that he had seen, when conscience shook, Fear tame a monarch's brow, remorse a warrior's look.

VII.

The old man's faded cheek wax'd yet more pale,
As many a secret sad the king bewray'd;
And sign and glance eked out the unfinish'd tale,
When in the midst his faltering whisper staid.—

<< Thus royal Witiza was slain,>>-he said;
<< Yet, holy father, deem not it was I.>>-
Thus still ambition strives her crime to shade-
<< Oh rather deem 't was stern necessity!
Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or die.

VIII.

<< And if Florinda's shrieks alarm'd the air,
If she invoked her absent sire in vain,
And on her knees implored that I would spare,
Yet, reverend priest, thy sentence rash refrain !—
All is not as it seems-the female train
Know by their bearing to disguise their mood :»-
But conscience here, as if in high disdain,

Sent to the monarch's cheek the burning blood-
He stay'd his speech abrupt-and up the prelate stood.

The predecessor of Roderick upon the Spanish throne, and slain by his connivance, as is affirmed by Rodriguez of Toledo, the father of Spanish history.

IX.

<< O harden'd offspring of an iron race!

What of thy crimes, Don Roderick, shall I say? What alms, or prayers, or penance can efface

Murder's dark spot, wash treason's stain away?
For the foul ravisher how shall I pray,

Who, scarce repentant, makes his crime his boast?
How hope Almighty vengeance shall delay,
Unless, in mercy to yon Christian host,

XV.

Fix'd was the right-hand giant's brazen look
Upon his brother's glass of shifting sand,
As if its ebb he measured by a book,

Whose iron volume loaded his huge hand;
In which was wrote of many a falling land,
Of empires lost, and kings to exile driven,
And o'er that pair their names in scroll expand-
<< Lo, Destiny and Time! to whom by Heaven

lle spare the shepherd, lest the guiltless sheep be The guidance of the earth is for a season given.»>

lost?»

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«By Heaven, the Moors prevail! the Christians yield !— From the dim landscape roll the clouds away—
Their coward leader gives for flight the sign!
The scepter'd craven mounts to quit the field-
Is not yon steed Orelia!-Yes, 't is mine! (8)
But never was she turn'd from battle-line;

Lo! where the recreant spurs o'er stock and stone!
Curses pursue the slave and wrath divine!

Rivers ingulf him!»-« Hush!» in shuddering tone, The prelate said; « rash prince, yon vision'd form's thine

own.»

XXII.

Just then, a torrent cross'd the flyer's course;

The dangerous ford the kingly likeness tried;
But the deep eddies whelm'd both man and horse,
Swept like benighted peasant down the tide;
And the proud Moslemah spread far and wide,
As numerous as their native locust band;

Berber and Ismael's sons the spoils divide,
With naked scymitars mete out the land,

The Christians have regain'd their heritage;
Before the cross has waned the crescent's ray,
And many a monastery decks the stage,
And lofty church, and low-brow'd hermitage.
The land obeys a hermit and a knight,-
The genii these of Spain for many an age;

This clad in sackcloth, that in armour bright,
And that was Valour named, this Bigotry was hight.
XXVIII.

Valour was harness'd like a chief of old,
Arm'd at all points, and prompt for knightly gest;
His sword was temper'd in the Ebro cold,

Morena's eagle-plume adorn'd his crest,
The spoils of Afric's lion bound his breast.
Fierce he stepp'd forward, and flung down his

As if of mortal kind to brave the best.
Him follow'd his companion, dark and sage,

gage,

And for their bondsmen base the free-born natives As he, my master, sung, the dangerous Archimage.

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Oft his proud galleys sought some new-found world,
That latest sees the sun, or first the morn;
Still at that wizard's feet their spoils he hurl'd,—
Ingots of ore, from rich Potosi borne,

Crowns by caciques, aigrettes by omrahs worn,

Wrought of rare gems, but broken, rent, and foul;
Idols of gold, from heathen temples torn,
Bedabbled all with blood.-With grisly scowl,

The imaum's chaunt was heard from mosque or mi- The hermit mark'd the stains, and smiled beneath his

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Whose sulph'rous wreaths were cross'd by sheets of flame; And at his word the choral hymns awake,

With every

flash a bolt explosive broke,

Till Roderick deem'd the fiends had burst their yoke,

And waved 'gainst heaven the infernal gonfalone!
For War a new and dreadful language spoke,
Never by ancient warrior heard or known;

And many a hand the silver censer sways.
But with the incense breath these censers raise,
Mix steams from corpses smouldering in the fire;
The groans of prison'd victims mar the lays,
And shrieks of agony confound the quire,

Lightning and smoke her breath, and thunder was hier While, 'mid the mingled sounds, the darken'd scenes

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