Gave way; both blinded with their tears, they went
Straight to the tomb; and there Siverian knelt,
And bow'd his face upon the sepulchre,
Weeping aloud; while Roderick, overpower'd,
And calling upon earth to cover him,
Threw himself prostrate on his father's grave.
Thus as they lay, an aweful voice in tones
Severe address'd them. Who are ye, it said,
That with your passion thus, and on this night,
Disturb my prayers? Starting they rose; there stood
A man before them of majestic form
And stature, clad in sackcloth, bare of foot,
Pale, and in tears, with ashes on his head.
'Twas not in vain that on her absent son,
Pelayo's mother from the bed of death
Call'd for forgiveness, and in agony
Besought his prayers; all guilty as she was,
Sure he had not been human, if that cry
Had fail'd to pierce him. When he heard the tale
He bless'd the messenger, even while his speech
Was faltering,.. while from head to foot he shook
With icey feelings from his inmost heart
Effused. It changed the nature of his woe,
Making the burthen more endurable:
The life-long sorrow that remain'd, became
A healing and a chastening grief, and brought
His soul, in close communion, nearer Heaven.
For he had been her first-born, and the love
Which at her breast he drew, and from her smiles,
And from her voice of tenderness imbibed,
Gave such unnatural horror to her crimes,
That when the thought came over him, it seem'd
As if the milk which with his infant life
Had blended, thrill'd like poison through his frame. It was a woe beyond all reach of hope,
Till with the dreadful tale of her remorse
Faith touch'd his heart; and ever from that day
Did he for her who bore him, night and morn,
Pour out the anguish of his soul in prayer:
But chiefly as the night return'd, which heard
Her last expiring groans of penitence,
Then through the long and painful hours, before
The altar, like a penitent himself,
He kept his vigils; and when Roderick's sword
Subdued Witiza, and the land was free,
Duly upon her grave he offer'd up
His yearly sacrifice of agony
This was the night, and he it was
Who now before Siverian and the King
Stood up in sackcloth.
Recovering and from wonder, knew him first.
It is the Prince! he cried, and bending down
Embraced his knees. The action and the word
Awaken'd Roderick; he shook off the load
Of struggling thoughts, which pressing on his heart,
Held him like one entranced; yet, all untaught
To bend before the face of man, confused
Awhile he stood, forgetful of his part.
But when Siverian cried, My Lord, my Lord,
Now God be praised that I have found thee thus,
My Lord and Prince, Spain's only hope and mine!
Then Roderick, echoing him, exclaim'd, My Lord,
And Prince, Pelayo!.. and approaching near,
He bent his knee obeisant: but his head
Earthward inclined; while the old man, looking up
From his low gesture to Pelayo's face,
Wept at beholding him for grief and joy.
Siverian! cried the chief, . . of whom hath Death Bereaved me, that thou comest to Cordoba ? .. Children, or wife? .. Or hath the merciless scythe Of this abhorr'd and jealous tyranny
Made my house desolate at one wide sweep?
They are as thou couldst wish, the old man replied, Wert thou but lord of thine own house again, And Spain were Spain once more.
A tale of ill
I bear, but one that touches not the heart
Like what thy fears forebode. The renegade
Numacian woos thy sister, and she lends
To the vile slave, unworthily, her ear:
The Lady Gaudiosa hath in vain
Warn'd her of all the evils which await
A union thus accurst: she sets at nought
Her faith, her lineage, and thy certain wrath.
Pelayo hearing him, remain'd awhile
Silent; then turning to his mother's grave,
O thou poor dust, hath then the infectious taint
Survived thy dread remorse, that it should run
In Guisla's veins ? he cried; . . I should have heard
This shameful sorrow any where but here! . .
Humble thyself, proud heart; thou, gracious Heaven,
Be merciful! . . it is the original flaw,
And what are we? . . a weak unhappy race,
Born to our sad inheritance of sin
And death! He smote his forehead as he spake,
And from his head the ashes fell, like snow
Shaken from some dry beech-leaves, when a bird Lights on the bending spray. A little while
In silence, rather than in thought, he stood
Passive beneath the sorrow: turning then,
And what doth Gaudiosa counsel me?
He ask'd the old man; for she hath ever been
My wise and faithful counsellor He replied,
The Lady Gaudiosa bade me say
She sees the danger which on every part
Besets her husband's house. . Here she had ceased;
But when my noble Mistress gave in charge,
How I should tell thee that in evil times
The bravest counsels ever are the best;
Then that high-minded Lady thus rejoin'd,
Whatever be my Lord's resolve, he knows
I bear a mind prepared.
Brave spirits! cried
Pelayo, worthy to remove all stain
Of weakness from their sex! I should be less
Than man, if, drawing strength where others find
Their hearts most open to assault of fear,
I quail'd at danger. Never be it said
Of Spain, that in the hour of her distress
Her women were as heroes, but her men
Perform'd the woman's part.
Look'd up, and taking up the word, exclaim'd,
O Prince, in better days the pride of Spain,
And prostrate as she lies, her surest hope,
Hear now my tale. The fire which seem'd extinct
Hath risen revigorate: a living spark
From Auria's ashes, by a woman's hand
Preserved and quicken'd, kindles far and wide
The beacon-flame o'er all the Asturian hills.
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