THE

VISION OF DON RODERICK.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

LIVES there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire May rise distinguished o'er the din of war; Or died it with you 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!

Yes! such a strain, with all-o'erpow'ring measure, Might melodize with each tumultuous sound, Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure, That rings Mondego's ravaged shores around; The thundering 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 hymn 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 hand-
How much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band!

IV.

Ye mountains stern! within whose rugged breast
The friends of Scottish freedom found repose;
Ye torrents! whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest,
Returning from the field of vanquish'd foes;

Say, have ye lost each wild majestic close,
That erst the choir of Bards or Druids flung,

What time their hymn of victory arose,

And Cattraeth's glens with voice of triumph rung, And mystic Merlin harp'd, and grey - hair'd Llywarch sung!

V.

O! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain,

As sure your changeful gales seem oft to say When sweeping wild, and sinking soft again, Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp's wild sway; If ye can echo such triumphant lay,

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

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!

1

1 See Note 1 of the "NOTES TO THE VISION OF DON RODERICK." The

figures of reference throughout the poem relate to further Notes.

VII.

Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer tost:
"Minstrel! the fame of whose romantic lyre,
Capricious-swelling now, may soon be lost,
Like the light flickering of a cottage fire;
If to such task presumptuous thou aspire,
Seek not from us the meed to warrior due:
Age after age has gather'd son to sire,

Since our grey cliffs the din of conflict knew,
Or, pealing through our vales, victorious bugles blew.

VIII.

"Decay'd our old traditionary lore,

Save where the lingering fays renew their ring, By milk-maid seen beneath the hawthorn hoar,

Or round the marge of Minchmore's haunted spring; 2 Save where their legends grey-hair'd shepherds sing, That now scarce win a listening ear but thine, Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging,

And rugged deeds recount in rugged line,

Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, or Tyne.

IX.

"No! search romantic lands, where the near Sun Gives with unstinted boon ethereal flame, Where the rude villager, his labour done,

In verse spontaneous 3 chants some favour'd name; Whether Olalia's charms his tribute claim, Her eye of diamond, and her locks of jet; Or whether, kindling at the deeds of Græme, 4 He sing, to wild Morisco measure set, Old Albin's red claymore, green Erin's bayonet!

X.

"Explore those regions, where the flinty crest
Of wild Nevada ever gleams with snows,
Where in the proud Alhambra's ruin'd breast
Barbaric monuments of pomp repose;

Or where the banners of more ruthless foes

Than the fierce Moor, float o'er Toledo's fane, From whose tall towers even now the patriot throws An anxious glance, to spy upon the plain

The blended ranks of England, Portugal, and Spain.

ΧΙ.

"There, of Numantian fire a swarthy spark
Still lightens in the sunburnt native's eye;
The stately port, slow step, and visage dark,
Still mark enduring pride and constancy.
And, if the glow of feudal chivalry

Beam not, as once, thy nobles' dearest pride,
Iberia! oft thy crestless peasantry

Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit their side, Have seen, yet dauntless stood

died.

XII.

'gainst fortune fought and

“And cherish'd still by that unchanging race,
Are themes for minstrelsy more high than thine;
Of strange tradition many a mystic trace,
Legend and vision, prophesy and sign;
Where wonders wild of Arabesque combine
With Gothic imagery of darker shade,
Forming a model meet for minstrel line. —

Go, seek such theme!" - The Mountain Spirit said:
With filial awe I heard - I heard, and I obeyed.

THE VISION OF DON RODERICK.

I.

BEARING their crests amid the cloudless skies,
And darkly clustering in the pale moonlight,
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 between.

III.

But of their Monarch's person keeping ward,

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

The chosen soldiers of the royal guard

The post beneath the proud Cathedral hold:

A band unlike their Gothic sires of old,

Who, for the cap of steel and iron mace,

Bear slender darts, and casques bedeck'd with gold, While silver-studded belts their shoulders grace, Where ivory quivers ring in the broad falchion's place.