Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  Open’d his scrip for him; the babe in arms,

  Affrighted at his visage, turn’d away,

  And clinging to the mother’s neck in tears,

  Would yet again look up, and then again

  Shrink back, with cry renew’d. The bolder imps

  Sporting beside the way, at his approach

  Brake off their games 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, she said

  He was a man of God.

  Thus travelling on, he pass’d the vale where wild Aruncea pours

  Its wintry torrents; and the happier site

  Of old Conimbrica, whose ruin’d towers

  Bore record of the fierce Alani’s wrath.

  Mondego, too, he cross’d, not yet renown’d

  In poet’s amorous lay; and left behind

  The walls at whose foundation pious hands

  Of Priest, and Monk, and Bishop meekly toil’d,

  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 hallow’d 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 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 Mussulman,

  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!

  Oh years of pride!

  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 ruin’d walls of church or tower,

  Cottage, or hall, or convent, black with smoke;

  ’Twas not the unburied bones, which, where the dogs

  And crows had strown then, lay amid the field

  Bleaching in sun or shower, that wrung his heart

  With keenest anguish: ’twas when he beheld

  The turban’d traitor show his shameless front

  In the open eye of Heaven, — the renegade,

  On whose base, brutal nature, unredeem’d,

  Even black apostasy itself could stamp

  No deeper reprobation at the hour

  Assign’d 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 long’d

  To be a King again, that so, for Spain

  Betray’d 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 show

  Their innocent faces to all passers’ eyes,

  Freely, and free from sin as when they look’d

  In adoration and in praise to Heaven,

  Now mask’d in Moorish mufflers, to the Mosque

  Holding uncompanied their jealous way,

  His spirit seem’d 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 reach’d that city, once the seat renown’d

  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 Braeara august,

  Pour’d forth her gifts profuse; perennial springs

  Flow’d for her habitants, and genial suns,

  With kindly showers to bless the happy clime,

  Combined in vain their gentle influences;

  For patient servitude was there, who bow’d

  His neck beneath the Moor, and silent grief

  That eats into the soul. The walls and stones

  Seem’d to reproach their dwellers; stately piles

  Yet undecay’d, the mighty monuments

  Of Roman pomp, Barbaric palaces,

  And Gothic halls, where haughty Barons late

  Gladden’d their faithful vassals with the feast

  And flowing bowl, alike the spoiler’s now.

  Leaving these captive scenes behind, he cross’d

  Cavado’s silver current, and the banks

  Of Lima, through whose groves, in after years,

  Mournful yet sweet, Diogo’s amorous lute

  Prolong’d its tuneful echoes. But when now,

  Beyond Arnoya’s tributary tide,

  He came where Minho roll’d its ampler stream

  By Auria’s ancient walls, fresh horrors met

  His startled view; for prostrate in the dust

  Those walls were laid, and towers and temples stood

  Tottering in frightful ruins, as the flame

  Had left them black and bare; and through the streets,

  All with the recent wreck of war bestrown,

  Helmet and turban, cimeter and sword,

  Christian and Moor in death promiscuous lay,

  Each where they fell; and blood-flakes, parch’d and crack’d

  Like the dry slime of some receding flood;

  And half-burnt bodies, which allured from far

  The wolf and raven, and to impious food

  Tempted the houseless dog.

  A thrilling pang,

  A sweat like death, a sickness of the soul,

  Came over Roderick. Soon they pass’d away,

  And admiration in their stead arose,

  Stern joy and inextinguishable hope,

  With wrath, and hate, and sacred vengeance now

  Indissolubly link’d. O valiant race,

  O people excellently brave, he cried,

  True Goths ye fell, and faithful to the last;

  Though overpower’d, triumphant, and in death

  Unconquer’d! Holy be your memory!

  Bless’d and glorious now and evermore

  Be your heroic names! — Led by the sound,

  As thus he cried aloud, a woman came

  Toward him from the ruins. For the love

  Of Christ, she said, lend me a little while

  Thy charitable help! — Her words, her voice,

  Her look, more horror to his heart convey’d

  Than all the havock round; for though she spake

  With the ca
lm utterance of despair, in tones

  Deep breathed and low, yet never sweeter voice

  Pour’d forth its hymns in ecstasy to Heaven.

  Her hands were bloody, and her garments stain’d

  With blood, her face with blood and dust defiled.

  Beauty and youth, and grace and majesty,

  Had every charm of form and feature given;

  But now upon her rigid countenance

  Severest anguish set a fixedness

  Ghastlier than death.

  She led him through the streets

  A little way along, where four low walls,

  Heap’d rudely from the ruins round, enclosed

  A narrow space: and there upon the ground

  Four bodies, decently composed, were laid,

  Though horrid all with wounds and clotted gore:

  A venerable ancient, by his side

  A comely matron, for whose middle age,

  (If ruthless slaughter had not intervened,)

  Nature, it seem’d, and gentle Time, might well

  Have many a calm declining year in store;

  The third an armed warrior, on his breast

  An infant, over whom his arms were cross’d.

  There, — with firm eye and steady countenance,

  Unfaltering, she address’d him, — there they lie,

  Child, Husband, Parents, — Adosinda’s all!

  I could not break the earth with these poor hands,

  Nor other tomb provide, — but let that pass!

  Auria itself is now but one wide tomb

  For all its habitants: — What better grave?

  What worthier monument? — Oh, cover not

  Their blood, thou Earth! and ye, ye blessed Souls

  Of Heroes and of murder’d Innocents,

  Oh, never let your everlasting Cries

  Cease round the Eternal Throne, till the Most High

  For all these unexampled wrongs hath given

  Full, overflowing vengeance!

  While she spake,

  She raised her lofty hands to Heaven, as if

  Calling for justice on the Judgment-seat;

  Then laid them on her eyes, and, leaning on,

  Bent o’er the open sepulchre.

  But soon,

  With quiet mien collectedly, like one

  Who from intense devotion, and the act

  Of ardent prayer, arising, girds himself

  For this world’s daily business she arose,

  And said to Roderick, Help me now to raise

  The covering of the tomb.

  With half-burnt planks,

  Which she had gather’d for this funeral use,

  They roof’d the vault; then, laying stones above,

  They closed it down; last, rendering all secure,

  Stones upon stones they piled, till all appear’d

  A huge and shapeless heap. Enough, she cried;

  And taking Roderick’s hands in both her own,

  And wringing them with fervent thankfulness,

  May God show mercy to thee, she exclaim’d,

  When most thou needest mercy! Who thou art

  I know not; not of Auria, — Tor of all

  Her sons and daughters, save the one who stands

  Before thee, not a soul is left alive.

  But thou hast render’d to me, in my hour

  Of need, the only help which man could give.

  What else of consolation may be found

  For one so utterly bereft, from Heaven

  And from myself must come. For deem not thou

  That I shall sink beneath calamity:

  This visitation, like a lightning-stroke,

  Hath scathed the fruit and blossom of my youth;

  One hour hath orphan’d me, and widow’d me,

  And made me childless. In this sepulchre

  Lie buried all my earthward hopes and fears,

  All human loves and natural charities;

  All womanly tenderness, all gentle thoughts,

  All female weakness too, I bury here,

  Yea, all my former nature. There remain

  Revenge and death: — the bitterness of death

  Is past, and Heaven already hath vouchsafed

  A foretaste of revenge.

  Look here! she cried,

  And drawing back, held forth her bloody hands,

  ’Tis Moorish! — In the day of massacre,

  A captain of Alcahman’s murderous host

  Reserved me from the slaughter. Not because

  My rank and station tempted him with thoughts

  Of ransom, for amid the general waste

  Of ruin all was lost; — nor yet, be sure,

  That pity moved him, — they who from this race

  Accurs’d for pity look, such pity find

  As ravenous wolves show the defenceless flock.

  My husband at my feet had fallen; my babe,

  Spare me that thought, O God! — and then — even then,

  Amid the maddening throes of agony

  Which rent my soul, — when, if this solid Earth

  Had open’d, and let out the central fire,

  Before whose all-involving flames wide Heaven

  Shall shrivel like a scroll, and be consumed,

  The universal wreck had been to me

  Relief and comfort; — even then this Moor

  Turn’d on me his libidinous eyes, and bade

  His men reserve me safely for an hour

  Of dalliance, — me! — me in my agonies!

  But when I found for what this miscreant child

  Of Hell had snatch’d me from the butchery,

  The very horror of that monstrous thought

  Saved me from madness; I was calm at once,

  Yet comforted and reconciled to life;

  Hatred became to me the life of life,

  Its purpose and its power.

  The glutted Moors

  At length broke up. This hell-dog turn’d aside

  Toward his home; we travell’d fast and far,

  Till by a forest edge at eve he pitched

  His tents. I wash’d and ate at his command,

  Forcing revolted nature; I composed

  My garments, and bound up my scatter’d hair;

  And when he took my hand, and to his couch

  Would fain have drawn me, gently I retired

  From that abominable touch, and said,

  Forbear to-night, I pray thee, for this day

  A widow, as thou seest me, am I made;

  Therefore, according to our law, must watch

  And pray to-night. The loathsome villain paused

  Ere he assented, then laid down to rest;

  While, at the door of the pavilion, I

  Knelt on the ground, and bowed my face to earth;

  But when the neighboring tents had ceased their stir,

  The fires were out, and all were fast asleep,

  Then I arose. The blessed Moon from Heaven

  Lent me her holy light. I did not pray

  For strength, for strength was given me as I drew

  The cimeter, and standing o’er his couch, liaised it in both my hands with steady aim,

  And smote his neck. Upward, as from a spring

  When newly open’d by the husbandman,

  The villain’s life-blood spouted. Twice I struck,

  So making vengeance sure; then, praising God,

  Retired amid the wood, and measured back

  My patient way to Auria, to perform

  This duty which thou seest

  As thus she spake,

  Roderick, intently listening, had forgot

  His crown, his kingdom, his calamities,

  His crimes, — so like a spell upon the Goth

  Her powerful words prevail’d. With open lips,

  And eager ear, and eyes which, while they watch’d

  Her features, caught the spirit that she breathed,

  Mute
and enrapt he stood, and motionless;

  The vision rose before him; and that shout,

  Which, like a thunder-peal, victorious Spain

  Sent through the welkin, rung within his soul

  Its deep, prophetic echoes. On his brow

  The pride and power of former majesty

  Dawn’d once again, but changed and purified;

  Duty and high heroic purposes

  Now hallow’d it, and, as with inward light,

  Illumed his meagre countenance austere.

  Awhile in silence Adosinda stood,

  Reading his alter’d visage and the thoughts

  Which thus transfigured him. Ay, she exclaim’d,

  My tale hath moved thee! it might move the dead,

  Quicken captivity’s dead soul, and rouse

  This prostrate country from her mortal trance:

  Therefore I live to tell it; and for this

  Hath the Lord God Almighty given to me

  A spirit not mine own and strength from Heaven;

  Dealing with me as in the days of old

  With that Bethulian Matron when she saved

  His people from the spoiler. What remains

  But that the life which he hath thus preserved

  I consecrate to him? Not veil’d and vow’d

  To pass my days in holiness and peace;

  Nor yet between sepulchral walls immured,

  Alive to penitence alone; my rule

  He hath himself prescribed, and hath infused

  A passion in this woman’s breast, wherein

  All passions and all virtues are combined;

  Love, hatred, joy, and anguish, and despair,

  And hope, and natural piety, and faith,

  Make up the mighty feeling. Call it not

  Revenge! thus sanctified, and thus sublimed,

  ’Tis duty, ’tis devotion. Like the grace

  Of God, it came and saved me; and in it

  Spain must have her salvation. In thy hands

  Here, on the grave of all my family,

  I make my vow.

  She said, and, kneeling down,

  Placed within Roderick’s palms her folded hands.

  This life, she cried, I dedicate to God,

  Therewith to do him service in the way

  Which he hath shown. To rouse the land against

  This impious, this intolerable yoke,

  To offer up the invader’s hateful blood,

  This shall be my employ, my rule and rite,

  Observances and sacrifice of faith;

  For this I hold the life which he hath given,

  A sacred trust; for this, when it shall suit

  His service, joyfully will lay it down.

  So deal with me as I fulfil the pledge,