Then fell the kingdom of the Goths; their hour Was come, and Vengeance, long withheld, went loose. Famine and Pestilence had wasted them,

And Treason, like an old and eating sore,
Consumed the bones and sinews of their strength;
And worst of enemies, their Sins were arm'd
Against them. Yet the sceptre from their hands
Pass'd not away inglorious, nor was shame
Left for their children's lasting heritage;
Eight summer days, from morn till latest eve,
The fatal fight endured, till perfidy
Prevailing to their overthrow, they sunk
Defeated, not dishonour'd. On the banks
Of Chrysus, Roderick's royal car was found,
His battle-horse Orelio, and that helm

Whose horns, amid the thickest of the fray
Eminent, had mark'd his presence. Did the stream
Receive him with the undistinguish'd dead,

Christian and Moor, who clogg'd its course that day? So thought the Conqueror, and from that day forth, Memorial of his perfect victory,

He bade the river bear the name of Joy.

So thought the Goths; they said no prayer for him, For him no service sung, nor mourning made,

But charged their crimes upon his head, and curs'd His memory.

Bravely in that eight-days fight The King had striven,..for victory first, while hope Remain'd, then desperately in search of death. The arrows pass'd him by to right and left, The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar Glanced from his helmet. Is the shield of Heaven,

Wretch that I am, extended over me?
Cried Roderick; and he dropt Orelio's reins,
And threw his hands aloft in frantic prayer,
Death is the only mercy that I crave,
Death soon and short, death and forgetfulness!
Aloud he cried; but in his inmost heart
There answer'd him a secret voice, that spake
Of righteousness and judgement after death,
And God's redeeming love, which fain would save
The guilty soul alive. 'T was agony,

And yet

't was hope; . . a momentary light,

That flash'd through utter darkness on the Cross
To point salvation, then left all within

Dark as before. Fear, never felt till then,
Sudden and irresistible as stroke

Of lightning, smote him. From his horse he dropt,
Whether with human impulse, or by Heaven
Struck down, he knew not; loosen'd from his wrist
The sword-chain, and let fall the sword, whose hilt
Clung to his palm a moment ere it fell,
Glued there with Moorish gore. His royal robe,
His horned helmet and enamell'd mail,

He cast aside, and taking from the dead
A peasant's garment, in those weeds involved
Stole like a thief in darkness from the field.

Evening closed round to favour him. All night He fled, the sound of battle in his ear

Ringing, and sights of death before his eyes,
With forms more horrible of eager fiends
That seem'd to hover round, and gulphs of fire
Opening beneath his feet. At times the groan

Of some poor fugitive, who, bearing with him.
His mortal hurt, had fallen beside the way,
Roused him from these dread visions, and he call'd
In answering groans on his Redeemer's name,
That word the only prayer that pass'd his lips
Or rose within his heart. Then would he see
The Cross whereon a bleeding Saviour hung,
Who call'd on him to come and cleanse his soul
In those all-healing streams, which from his wounds,
As from perpetual springs, for ever flow'd.
No hart e'er panted for the water-brooks
As Roderick thirsted there to drink and live:
But Hell was interposed; and worse than Hell..
Yea to his eyes more dreadful than the fiends
Who flock'd like hungry ravens round his head, . .
Florinda stood between, and warn'd him off
With her abhorrent hands,.. that agony

Still in her face, which, when the deed was done,
Inflicted on her ravisher the curse

That it invoked from Heaven.... Oh what a night
Of waking horrors! Nor when morning came
Did the realities of light and day

Bring aught of comfort; wheresoe'er he went
The tidings of defeat had gone before;
And leaving their defenceless homes to seek
What shelter walls and battlements might yield,
Old men with feeble feet, and tottering babes,
And widows with their infants in their arms,
Hurried along. Nor royal festival,

Nor sacred pageant, with like multitudes

E'er fill'd the public way. All whom the sword
Had spared were here; bed-rid infirmity

Alone was left behind; the cripple plied

His crutches, with her child of yesterday
The mother fled, and she whose hour was come
Fell by the road.

Less dreadful than this view

Of outward suffering which the day disclosed,
Had night and darkness seem'd to Roderick's heart,
With all their dread creations. From the throng
He turn'd aside, unable to endure

This burthen of the general woe; nor walls,
Nor towers, nor mountain fastnesses he sought,
A firmer hold his spirit yearn'd to find,

A rock of surer strength. Unknowing where,
Straight through the wild he hasten'd on all day,
And with unslacken'd speed was travelling still
When evening gather'd round. Seven days from morn
Till night he travell'd thus; the forest oaks,
The fig-grove by the fearful husbandman
Forsaken to the spoiler, and the vines,
Where fox and household dog together now
Fed on the vintage, gave him food; the hand
Of Heaven was on him, and the agony

Which wrought within, supplied a strength beyond
All natural force of man.

When the eighth eve
Was come, he found himself on Ana's banks,
Fast by the Caulian Schools. It was the hour
Of vespers, but no vesper bell was heard,
Nor other sound, than of the passing stream,
Or stork, who flapping with wide wing the air,
Sought her broad nest upon the silent tower.
Brethren and pupils thence alike had fled

To save themselves within the embattled walls
Of neighbouring Merida. One aged Monk
Alone was left behind; he would not leave
The sacred spot beloved, for having served
There from his childhood up to ripe old age
God's holy altar, it became him now,
He thought, before that altar to await
The merciless misbelievers, and lay down
His life, a willing martyr.

So he staid

When all were gone, and duly fed the lamps,
And kept devotedly the altar drest,

And duly offer'd up the sacrifice.

Four days and nights he thus had pass'd alone,
In such high mood of saintly fortitude,

That hope of Heaven became a heavenly joy;
And now at evening to the gate he went

If he might spy the Moors, for it seem'd long To tarry for his crown.

Before the Cross

Roderick had thrown himself; his body raised,
Half kneeling, half at length he lay; his arms
Embraced its foot, and from his lifted face
Tears streaming down bedew'd the senseless stone.
He had not wept till now, and at the gush
Of these first tears, it seem'd as if his heart,
From a long winter's icey thrall let loose,
Had open'd to the genial influences
Of Heaven. In attitude, but not in act

Of prayer he lay ; an agony of tears

Was all his soul could offer. When the Monk
Beheld him suffering thus, he raised him up,