Whether with human impulse, or by Heaven Struck down, he knew not; loosened 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 enamelled 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 dreams more horrible of eager fiends That seemed 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 called In answering groans on his Redeemer's name, That word the only prayer that past his lips Or rose within his heart. Then would he see The Cross whereon a bleeding Saviour hung, Who called on him to come and cleanse his soul In those all-healing streams, which from his wounds, As from perpetual springs, for ever flowed. 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 flocked like hungry ravens round his head,— Florinda stood between, and warned 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 Eer filled 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 seemed to Roderick's heart, With all their dread creations. From the throng He turned aside, unable to endure This burthen of the general woe: nor walls, Nor towers, nor mountain fastnesses he sought;
A firmer hold his spirit yearned to find, A rock of surer strength. Unknowing where, Straight through the wild he hastened on all day, And with unslackened speed was travelling still When evening gathered round. Seven days from morn Till night he travelled 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.
Was come, he found himself on Ana's banks, Fast by the Caulian Schools. 10 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 offered up the sacrifice.
Four days and nights he thus had past 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 seemed 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 bedewed the senseless stone. He had not wept till now, and at the gush Of these first tears, it seemed as if his heart, From a long winter's icy thrall let loose, Had opened 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, And took him by the arm, and led him in; And there before the altar, in the name Of Him whose bleeding image there was hung, Spake comfort, and adjured him in that name There to lay down the burthen of his sins. Lo! said Romano, I am waiting here The coming of the Moors, that from their hands My spirit may receive the purple robe Of martyrdom, and rise to claim its crown. That God who willeth not the sinner's death Hath led thee hither. Threescore years and five, Even from the hour when I, a five-years' child, Entered the schools, have I continued here And served the altar: not in all those years Hath such a contrite and a broken heart Appeared before me. O my brother, Heaven Hath sent thee for thy comfort, and for mine, That my last earthly act may reconcile
Before the holy man, and strove to speak.
Thou seest, he cried,-thou seest,-but memory And suffocating thoughts represt the word, And shudderings, like an ague fit, from head To foot convulsed him; till at length, subduing His nature to the effort, he exclaimed, Spreading his hands and lifting up his face," As if resolved in penitence to bear
A human eye upon his shame,―Thou seest Roderick the Goth! That name would have sufficed To tell the whole abhorred history:
He not the less pursued,--the ravisher, The cause of all this ruin! Having said,
In the same posture motionless he knelt,
Arms straightened down, and hands outspread, and eyes Raised to the Monk, like one who from his voice Expected life or death.
All night the old man Prayed with his penitent, and ministered Unto the wounded soul, till he infused A healing hope of mercy, that allayed Its heat of anguish. But Romano saw What strong temptations of despair beset, And how he needed in this second birth, Even like a yearling child, a fosterer's care. Father in heaven, he cried, thy will be done! Surely I hoped that I this day should sing Hosannahs at thy throne; but thou hast yet Work for thy servant here. He girt his loins, And from her altar took with reverent hands Our lady's image down: In this, quoth he, We have our guide and guard and comforter, The best provision for our perilous way. Fear not but we shall find a resting place- The Almighty's hand is on us.
They went forth, They crost the stream, and when Romano turned For his last look toward the Caulian towers, Far off the Moorish standards in the light Of morn were glittering, where the miscreant host Toward the Lusitanian capital
To lay their siege advanced: the eastern breeze Bore to the fearful travellers far away The sound of horn and tambour o'er the plain. All day they hastened, and when evening fell Sped toward the setting sun, as if its line
Of glory came from Heaven to point their course. But feeble were the feet of that old man For such a weary length of way; and now Being past the danger (for in Merida Sacaru long in resolute defence Withstood the tide of war), with easier pace The wanderers journeyed on; till having crost Old Tagus, and the rapid Zezere, They from Albardos' hoary height beheld Pine-forest, fruitful vale, and that fair lake Where Alcoa, mingled there with Baza's stream, Rests on its passage to the western sea, That sea the aim and boundary of their toil.
The fourth week of their painful pilgrimage Was full, when they arrived where from the land A rocky hill, rising with steep ascent, O'erhung the glittering beach; there on the top A little lowly hermitage they found, And a rude Cross, and at its foot a grave, Bearing no name, nor other monument.
RODERICK IN SOLITUDE.
TWELVE months they sojourned in their solitude, And then beneath the burthen of old age Romano sunk. No brethren were there here To spread the sackcloth, and with ashes strew That penitential bed, and gather round To sing his requiem, and with prayer and psalm Assist him in his hour of agony.
He lay on the bare earth, which long had been His only couch; beside him Roderick knelt, Moistened from time to time his blackened lips, Received a blessing with his latest breath, Then closed his eyes, and by the nameless grave Of the fore-tenant of that holy place Consigned him earth to earth.
Two graves are here, And Roderick transverse at their feet began To break the third. In all his intervals Of prayer, save only when he searched the woods And filled the water-cruise, he laboured there; And when the work was done, and he had laid Himself at length within its narrow sides And measured it, he shook his head to think There was no other business now for him. Poor wretch, thy bed is ready, he exclaimed, And would that night were come!-It was a task, All gloomy as it was, which had beguiled The sense of solitude; but now he felt The burthen of the solitary hours: The silence of that lonely hermitage Lay on him like a spell; and at the voice Of his own prayers, he started, half aghast. Then too, as on Romano's grave he sate And pored upon his own, a natural thought Arose within him,-well might he have spared That useless toil: the sepulchre would be No hiding-place for him; no Christian hands Were here who should compose his decent corpse And cover it with earth. There he might drag His wretched body at its passing hour, And there the Sea-Birds of her heritage Would rob the worm, or peradventure seize, Ere death had done its work, their helpless prey. Even now they did not fear him: when he walked Beside them on the beach, regardlessly They saw his coming; and their whirring wings Upon the height had sometimes fanned his cheek, As if, being thus alone, humanity Had lost its rank, and the prerogative Of man was done away.
For his lost crown And sceptre never had he felt a thought Of pain: repentance had no pangs to spare For trifles such as these,-the loss of these Was a cheap penalty :—that he had fallen Down to the lowest depth of wretchedness, His hope and consolation. But to lose His human station in the scale of things,- To see brate Nature scorn him, and renounce Its homage to the human form divine;— Had then almighty vengeance thus revealed His punishment, and was he fallen indeed Below fallen man,-below redemption's reach,- Made lower than the beasts, and like the beasts To perish!-Such temptations troubled him By day, and in the visions of the night; And even in sleep he struggled with the thought, And waking with the effort of his prayers The dream assailed him still.
May reach and snatch him ere he sink engulpbed! At length, as life when it hath lain long time Opprest beneath some grievous malady, Seems to rouse up with re-collected strength, And the sick man doth feel within himself A second spring; so Roderick's better mind Arose to save him. Lo! the western sun Flames o'er the broad Atlantic; on the verge Of glowing ocean rests; retiring then Draws with it all its rays, and sudden night Fills the whole cope of Heaven. The penitent Knelt by Romano's grave, and, falling prone, Claspt with extended arms the funeral mould. Father! he cried; Companion! only friend, When all beside was lost! thou too art gone, And the poor sinner whom from utter death Thy providential hand preserved, once more Totters upon the gulph. I am too weak For solitude,-too vile a wretch to bear This everlasting commune with myself. The Tempter hath assailed me; my own heart Is leagued with him; Despair hath laid the nets To take my soul, and Memory, like a ghost, Haunts me, and drives me to the toils. O Saint, While I was blest with thee, the hermitage Was my sure haven! Look upon me still, For from thy heavenly mansion thou canst see The suppliant; look upon thy child in Christ. Is there no other way for penitence? I ask not martyrdom; for what am I That I should pray for triumphs, the fit meed Of a long life of holy works like thine; Or how should I presumptuously aspire To wear the heavenly crown resigned by thee, For my poor sinful sake? Oh point me thou Some humblest, painfullest, severest path,- Some new austerity, unheard of yet
In Syrian fields of glory, or the sands
Of holiest Egypt.13 Let me bind my brow With thorns, and barefoot seek Jerusalem, Tracking the way with blood; there day by day Inflict upon this guilty flesh the scourge, Drink vinegar and gall, and for my bed
And chilled had shrunk, should open forth like flowers Hang with extended limbs upon the Cross,
After cold winds of night, when gentle gales Restore the genial sun! If all were known, Would it indeed be not to be forgiven?- (Thus would he lay the unction to his soul,) If all were truly known, as Heaven knows all, Heaven that is merciful as well as just,- A passion slow and mutual in its growth, Pure as fraternal love, long self-concealed, And when confessed in silence, long controlled; Treacherous occasion, human frailty, fear Of endless separation, worse than death,- The purpose and the hope with which the Fiend Tempted, deceived, and maddened him;-but then As at a new temptation would he start, Shuddering beneath the intolerable shame, And clench in agony his matted hair; While in his soul the perilous thought arose, How easy 't were to plunge where yonder waves Invited him to rest.
Of comfort,--for a ray of hope from Heaven! A hand that from these billows of despair
A nightly crucifixion!-any thing
Of action, difficulty, bodily pain, Labour, and outward suffering,—any thing But stillness and this dreadful solitude! Romano! Father! let me hear thy voice In dreams, O sainted Soul! or from the grave Speak to thy penitent; even from the grave Thine were a voice of comfort.
Easing the pressure of his burthened heart With passionate prayer; thus poured his spirit forth, Till the long effort had exhausted him, His spirit failed, and laying on the grave His weary head, as on a pillow, sleep Fell on him. He had prayed to hear a voice Of consolation, and in dreams a voice Of consolation came. Roderick, it said,— Roderick, my poor, unhappy, sinful child, Jesus have mercy on thee!-Not if Heaven Had opened, and Romano, visible
In his beatitude, bad breathed that prayer;- Not if the grave had spoken, had it pierced
So deeply in his soul, nor wrung his heart With such compunctious visitings, nor given So quick, so keen a pang. It was that voice Which sung his fretful infancy to sleep
So patiently; which soothed his childish griefs; Counselled, with anguish and prophetic tears, His headstrong youth. And lo! his Mother stood Before him in the vision: in those weeds
Which never from the hour when to the grave She followed her dear lord Theodofred Rusilla laid aside;14 but in her face A sorrow that bespake a heavier load At heart, and more uumitigated woe,— Yea a more mortal wretchedness than when Witiza's ruffians and the red-hot brass
Had done their work, and in her arms she held Her eyeless husband;15 wiped away the sweat Which still his tortures forced from every pore; Cooled his scorched lids with medicinal herbs, And prayed the while for patience for herself And him, and prayed for vengeance too, and found Best comfort in her curses. In his dream, Groaning he knelt before her to beseech Her blessing, and she raised her hands to lay A benediction on him. But those hands Were chained, and casting a wild look around, With thrilling voice she cried, Will no one break These shameful fetters? Pedro, Theudemir, Athanagild, where are ye? Roderick's arm Is wither'd,-Chiefs of Spain, but where are ye? And thou, Pelayo, thou our surest hope, Dost thou too sleep?-Awake, Pelayo!-up!- Why tarriest thou, Deliverer?-But with that
She broke her bouds, and lo! her form was changed! Radiant in arms she stood! a bloody Cross Gleamed on her breast-plate, in her shield displayed Erect a lion ramped; her helmed head Rose like the Berecynthian Goddess crowned With towers, and in her dreadful hand the sword Red as a fire-brand blazed. Anon the tramp Of horsemen, and the din of multitudes Moving to mortal conflict, rang around: The battle-song, the clang of sword and shield, War-cries and tumult, strife and hate and rage, Blasphemous prayers, confusion, agony, Rout and pursuit and death; and over all The shout of victory-Spain and Victory! Roderick, as the strong vision mastered him, Rushed to the fight rejoicing: starting then, As his own effort burst the charm of sleep, He found himself upon that lonely grave In moonlight and in silence. But the dream Wrought in him still; for still he felt his heart Pant, and his withered arm was trembling still: And still that voice was in his ear which called On Jesus for his sake.
That actual voice! and if Rusilla lived,- If shame and anguish for his crimes not yet Had brought her to the grave,-sure she would bless Her penitent child, and pour into his heart Prayers and forgiveness, which, like precious balm, Would heal the wounded soul. Nor to herself Less precious, or less healing, would the voice That spake forgiveness flow. She wept her son For ever lost, cut off with all the weight
Of unrepented sin upon his head,
Sin which had weighed a nation down :-what joy To know that righteous Heaven had in its wrath Remembered mercy, and she yet might meet The child whom she had born, redeemed, in bliss? The sudden impulse of such thoughts confirmed That unacknowledged purpose, which till now Vainly had sought its end. He girt his loins, Laid blessed Mary's image in a cleft
Of the rock, where, sheltered from the elements, It might abide till happier days came on, From all defilement safe; poured his last prayer Upon Romano's grave, and kissed the earth Which covered his remains, and wept as if At long leave-taking, then began his way.
"T WAS now the earliest morning; soon the Sun, Rising above Albardos, poured his light Amid the forest, and with ray aslant Entering its depth, illumed the branchless pines, Brightened 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 flashed like lightning o'er the field of blood. Sustained by thoughts like these, from morn till eve He journeyed, and drew near Leyria's walls. 'T was even-song time, but not a bell was heard : Instead thereof, on her polluted towers, Bidding the Moors to their unhallowed prayer, The cryer stood, and with his sonorous voice Filled the delicious vale where Lena winds Through groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight Of turban, girdle, robe, and scymitar,
And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth; The unaccustomed face of human-kind
Confused him now, and through the streets he went With hagged mien, and countenance like one Crazed or bewildered. All who met him turned, And wondered as he past. 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 seemed like laughter first, but ended soon In hollow groans supprest: the Musselman Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified The name of Allah as he hastened on.
A Christian woman spinning at her door
Beheld him, and, with sudden pity touched, She laid her spindle by, and running in
Took bread, and following after called 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 seemed 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 reached 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 unaccustomed 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 lightened 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 asked for alms: slight supplication served; A countenance so pale and woe-begone Moved all to pity; and the marks it bore Of rigorous penance and austerest life, With something too of majesty that still Appeared amid the wreck, inspired a sense Of reverence too. The goat-herd on the hills Opened his scrip for him; the babe in arms, Affrighted at his visage, turned away, And clinging to its mother's neck in tears Would yet again look up, and then again, With cry renewed, shrink back. The bolder imps Who played beside the way, at his approach Brake off their sport 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, He was a man of God.
Thus travelling on He past the vale where wild Arunca pours Its wintry torrents; and the happier site Of old Conimbrica, whose ruined towers Bore record of the fierce Alani's wrath. 16 Mondego too he crost, not yet renowned In poets' amorous lay; and left behind The walls at whose foundation pious hands Of Priest and Monk and Bishop meekly toiled,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 hallowed 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 Mumadona 17 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,
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 ruined walls of church or tower, Cottage or hall or convent, black with smoke;
'T was 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: 't was when he beheld The turban'd traitor shew his shameless front In the open eye of Heaven,—the renegade, On whose base brutal nature unredeemed Even black apostacy itself could stamp No deeper reprobation, at the hour Assigned fall prostrate, and unite the names Of God and the Blasphemer,-impious prayer,- Most impious, when from unbelieving lips
The accursed utterance came. Then Roderick's heart With indignation burnt, and then he longed To be a king again, that So, for Spain Betrayed 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 shew Their innocent faces to all passers' eyes, Freely, and free from sin as when they looked In adoration and in praise to Heaven,— Now masked in Moorish mufflers, to the Mosque Holding uncompanied their jealous way,
His spirit seemed 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 reached that city, once the seat renowned 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,
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