O Lord my God, my Savior, and my Judge.
Then rising from the earth, she spread her arms,
And looking round with sweeping eyes exclaim’d,
Auria, and Spain, and Heaven receive the vow!
IV. THE MONASTERY OF ST. FELIX.
THUS long had Roderick heard her powerful words
In silence, awed before her; but his heart
Was fill’d the while with swelling sympathy,
And now with impulse not to be restrain’d
The feeling overpower’d him. Hear me too,
Auria, and Spain, and Heaven! he cried; and thou
Who risest thus above mortality,
Sufferer and patriot, saint and heroine,
The servant and the chosen of the Lord,
For surely such thou art, — receive in me
The first-fruits of thy calling. Kneeling then,
And placing, as he spake, his hand in hers,
As thou hast sworn, the royal Goth pursued,
Even so I swear; my soul hath found at length
Her rest and refuge; in the invader’s blood
She must efface her stains of mortal sin,
And in redeeming this lost land, work out
Redemption for herself. Herein I place
My penance for the past, my hope to come,
My faith and my good works; here offer up
All thoughts and passions of mine inmost heart,
My days and nights, — this flesh, this blood, this life,
Yea, this whole being, do I here devote
For Spain. Receive the vow, all Saints in Heaven,
And prosper its good end! — Clap now your wings,
The Goth with louder utterance, as he rose,
Exclaim’d, — clap now your wings exultingly,
Ye ravenous fowl of Heaven; and in your dens
Set up, ye wolves of Spain, a yell of joy;
For, lo! a nation hath this day been sworn
To furnish forth your banquet; for a strife
Hath been commenced, the which, from this day forth,
Permits no breathing-time, and knows no end
Till in this land the last invader bow
His neck beneath the exterminating sword.
Said I not rightly? Adosinda cried;
The will which goads me on is not mine own;
’Tis from on high, — yea, verily of Heaven!
But who art thou who hast profess’d with me,
My first sworn brother in the appointed rule?
Tell me thy name.
Ask any thing but that!
The fallen King replied. My name was lost
When from the Goths the sceptre pass’d away.
The nation will arise regenerate;
Strong in her second youth, and beautiful,
And like a spirit which hath shaken off
The clog of dull mortality, shall Spain
Arise in glory. But for my good name
No resurrection is appointed here.
Let it be blotted out on earth: in Heaven
There shall be written with it penitence,
And grace, and saving faith, and such good deeds
Wrought in atonement as my soul this day
Hath sworn to offer up.
Then be thy name,
She answer’d, Maccabee, from this day forth;
For this day art thou born again; and like
Those brethren of old times, whose holy names
Live in the memory of all noble hearts
For love and admiration, ever young,
So for our native country, for her hearths
And altars, for her cradles and her graves,
Hast thou thyself devoted. Let us now
Each to our work — among the neighboring hills,
I to the vassals of my father’s house;
Thou to Visonia. Tell the Abbot there
What thou hast seen at Auria; and with him
Take counsel who, of all our Baronage,
Is worthiest to lead on the sons of Spain,
And wear upon his brow the Spanish crown.
Now, brother, fare thee well! we part in hope,
And we shall meet again, be sure, in joy.
So saying, Adosinda left the King
Alone amid the ruins. There he stood,
As when Elisha, on the farther bank
Of Jordan, saw that elder prophet mount
The fiery chariot, and the steeds of fire,
Trampling the whirlwind, bear him up the sky:
Thus gazing after her did Roderick stand;
And as the immortal Tishbite left behind
His mantle and prophetic power, even so
Had her inspiring presence left infused
The spirit which she breathed. Gazing he stood,
As at a heavenly visitation there
Vouchsafed in mercy to himself and Spain;
And when the heroic mourner from his sight
Had pass’d away, still reverential awe
Held him suspended there and motionless.
Then turning from the ghastly scene of death
Up murmuring Lona, he began toward
The holy Bierzo his obedient way.
Sil’s ample stream he cross’d, where through the vale
Of Orras, from that sacred land it bears
The whole collected waters; northward then,
Skirting the heights of Aguiar, he reach’d
That consecrated pile amid the wild,
Which sainted Fructuoso in his zeal
Rear’d to St. Felix, on Visonia’s banks.
In commune with a priest of age mature,
Whose thoughtful visage and majestic mien
Bespake authority and weight of care,
Odoar, the venerable Abbot, sat,
When ushering Roderick in, the Porter said,
A stranger came from Auria, and required
His private ear. From Auria? said the old man;
Comest thou from Auria, brother? I can spare
Thy painful errand then, — we know the worst.
Nay, answer’d Roderick, but thou hast not heard
My tale. Where that devoted city lies
In ashes, mid the ruins and the dead
I found a woman, whom the Moors had borne
Captive away; but she, by Heaven inspired
And her good heart, with her own arm had wrought
Her own deliverance, smiting in his tent
A lustful Moorish miscreant, as of yore
By Judith’s holy deed the Assyrian fell.
And that same spirit which had strengthen’d her
Work’d in her still. Four walls with patient toil
She rear’d, wherein, as in a sepulchre,
With her own hands she laid her murder’d babe,
Her husband and her parents, side by side;
And when we cover’d in this shapeless tomb,
There, on the grave of all her family,
Did this courageous mourner dedicate
All thoughts and actions of her future life
To her poor country. For she said, that Heaven,
Supporting her, in mercy had vouchsafed
A foretaste of revenge; that, like the grace
Of God, revenge had saved her; that in it
Spain must have her salvation; and henceforth
That passion, thus sublimed and sanctified,
Must be to all the loyal sons of Spain
The pole-star of their faith, their rule and rite,
Observances and worthiest sacrifice.
I took the vow, unworthy as I am,
Her first sworn follower in the appointed rule;
And then we parted; she among the hills
TO ROUSE the vassals of her father’s house;
I at her bidding hitherward, to ask
Thy counsel, who, of our old Baronage,
Shall place upon his brow the Spanish crown.
; The Lady Adosinda? Odoar cried.
Roderick made answer, So she call’d herself.
Oh, none but she! exclaim’d the good old man,
Clasping his hands, which trembled as he spake,
In act of pious passion raised to Heaven,
Oh, none but Adosinda! — none but she,
None but that noble heart, which was the heart
Of Auria while it stood, its life and strength,
More than her father’s presence, or the arm
Of her brave husband, valiant as he was.
Hers was the spirit which inspired old age,
Ambitious boyhood, girls in timid youth,
And virgins in the beauty of their spring,
And youthful mothers, doting, like herself,
With ever-anxious love. She breathed through all
That zeal and that devoted faithfulness,
Which to the invader’s threats and promises
Turn’d a deaf ear alike; which in the head
And flood of prosperous fortune cheek’d his course,
Repell’d him from the walls, and when at length
His overpowering numbers forced their way,
Even in that uttermost extremity
Unyielding, still from street to street, from house
To house, from floor to floor, maintain’d the fight;
Till by their altars falling, in their doors,
And on their household hearths, and by their beds
And cradles, and their fathers’ sepulchres,
This noble army, gloriously revenged,
Embraced their martyrdom. Heroic souls!
Well have ye done, and righteously discharged
Your arduous part! Your service is perform’d,
Your earthly warfare done! Ye have put on
The purple robe of everlasting peace!
Ye have received your crown! Ye bear the palm
Before the throne of Grace!
With that he paused,
Checking the strong emotions of his soul.
Then, with a solemn tone, addressing him,
Who shared his secret thoughts, Thou knowest, he said,
O Urban, that they have not fallen in vain;
For by this virtuous sacrifice they thinn’d
Alcahman’s thousands; and his broken force,
Exhausted by their dear-bought victory,
Turn’d back from Auria, leaving us to breathe
Among our mountains yet. We lack not here
Good hearts, nor valiant hands. What walls, or towers,
Or battlements are like these fastnesses,
These rocks, and glens, and everlasting hills?
Give but that Aurian spirit, and the Moors
Will spend their force as idly on these holds
As round the rocky girdle of the land
The wild Cantabrian billows waste their rage.
Give but that spirit! — Heaven hath given it us,
If Adosinda thus, as from the dead,
Be granted to our prayers!
And who art thou,
Said Urban, who hast taken on thyself
This rule of warlike faith? Thy countenance
And those poor weeds bespeak a life ere this
Devoted to austere observances.
Roderick replied, I am a sinful man,
One who in solitude hath long deplored
A life misspent; but never bound by vows,
Till Adosinda taught me where to find
Comfort, and how to work forgiveness out.
When that exalted woman took my vow,
She call’d me Maccabee; from this day forth
Be that my earthly name. But tell me now,
Whom shall we rouse to take upon his head
The crown of Spain? Where are the Gothic Chiefs?
Sacaru, Theudemir, Athanagild,
All who suivived that eight-days’ obstinate fight,
When elogg’d with bodies, Chrysus scarce could force
Its bloody stream along? Witiza’s sons,
Bad offspring of a stock accurs’d, I know,
Have put the turban on their recreant head.
Where are your own Cantabrian Lords? I ween,
Eudon, and Pedro, and Pelayo now
Have ceased their rivalry. If Pelayo live,
His were the worthy heart and rightful hand
To wield the sceptre and the sword of Spain.
Odoar and Urban eyed him while he spake,
As if they wonder’d whose the tongue might be
Familiar thus with Chiefs and thoughts of state.
They seann’d his countenance, but not a trace
Betray’d the Royal Goth: sunk was that eye
Of sovereignty, and on the emaciate cheek
Had penitence and anguish deeply drawn
Their furrows premature, — forestalling time,
And shedding upon thirty’s brow more snows
Than threescore winters in their natural course
Might else have sprinkled there. It seems indeed
That thou hast pass’d thy days in solitude,
Replied the Abbot, or thou wouldst not ask
Of tilings so long gone by. Athanagild
And Theudeinir have taken on their necks
The yoke. Saearu play’d a nobler part.
Long within Merida did he withstand
The invader’s hot assault; and when at length,
Hopeless of all relief, he yielded up
The gates, disdaining in his fathers’ land
To breathe the air of bondage, with a few
Found faithful till the last, indignantly
Did he toward the ocean bend his way,
And shaking from his feet the dust of Spain,
Took ship, and hoisted sail through seas unknown
To seek for freedom. Our Cantabrian Chiefs
All have submitted, but the wary Moor
Trusteth not all alike. At his own Court
He holds Pelayo, as suspecting most
That calm and manly spirit; Pedro’s son
There too is held as hostage, and secures
His father’s faith; Count Eudon is despised,
And so lives unmolested. When he pays
His tribute, an uncomfortable thought
May then perhaps disturb him: — or more like
He meditates how profitable ‘twere
To be a Moor; and if apostasy
Were all, and to he unbaptized might serve,
But I waste breath upon a wretch like this;
Pelayo is the only hope of Spain,
Only Pelayo.
If, as we believe,
Said Urban then, the hand of Heaven is here,
And dreadful though they be, yet for wise end
Of good, these visitations do its work;
And dimly as our mortal sight may scan
The future, yet methinks my soul descries
How in Pelayo should the purposes
Of Heaven be best accomplish’d. All too long,
Here in their own inheritance, the sons
Of Spain have groan’d beneath a foreign yoke,
Punic and Roman, Kelt, and Goth, and Greek:
This latter tempest comes to sweep away
All proud distinctions which commingling blood
And time’s long course have fail’d to efface; and now
Perchance it is the will of Fate to rear
Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne,
Restoring in Pelayo’s native line
The sceptre to the Spaniard.
Go thou, then,
And seek Pelayo at the Conqueror’s Court.
Tell him the mountaineers are unsubdued;
The precious time they needed hath been gain’d
By Auria’s sacrifice, and all they ask
Is him to guide them on. In Odoar’s name
And Urban’s, tell him that the hour is come.
Th
en, pausing for a moment, he pursued: —
The rule which thou hast taken on thyself
Toledo ratifies: ’tis meet for Spain,
And as the will divine, to be received,
Observed, and spread abroad. Come hither thou.
Who for thyself hast chosen the good part;
Let me lay hands on thee, and consecrate
Thy life unto the Lord.
Me! Roderick cried;
Me! sinner that I am! — and while he spake
His wither’d cheek grew paler, and his limbs
Shook. As thou goest among the infidels,
Pursued the Primate, many thou wilt find
Fallen from the faith; by weakness some betray’d,
Some led astray by baser hope of gain,
And haply, too, by ill example led
Of those in whom they trusted. Yet have these
Their lonely hours, when sorrow, or the touch
Of sickness, and that awful power divine
Which hath its dwelling in the heart of man,
Life of his soul, his monitor and judge,
Move them with silent impulse; but they look
For help, and finding none to succor them,
The irrevocable moment passeth by.
Therefore, my brother, in the name of Christ
Thus I lay hands on thee, that in His name
Thou with His gracious promises mayst raise
The fallen, and comfort those that are in need,
And bring salvation to the penitent.
Now, brother, go thy way: the peace of God
Be with thee, and his blessing prosper us!
V. RODERICK AND SIVERIAN.
BETWEEN St. Felix and the regal seat
Of Abdalaziz, ancient Cordoba,
Lay many a long day’s journey interposed;
And many a mountain range hath Roderick cross’d,
And many a lovely vale, ere he beheld
Where Betis, winding through the unbounded plain,
Roll’d his majestic waters. There, at eve,
Entering an inn, he took his humble seat
With other travellers round the crackling hearth,
Where heath and cistus gave their fragrant flame.
That flame no longer, as in other times.
Lit up the countenance of easy mirth —
And light discourse: the talk which now went round
Was of the grief that press’d on every heart;
Of Spain subdued; the sceptre of the Goths
Broken; their nation and their name effaced;
Slaughter and mourning, which had left no house
Unvisited; and shame, which set its mark
On every Spaniard’s face. One who had seen
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 160