Forgive my feeble soul, which would have shrunk
From this, — for what am I that I should put
The bitter cup aside! O let my shame
And anguish be accepted in thy sight?
VI. RODERICK IN TIMES PAST.
THE mansion whitherward they went, was one
Which in his youth Theodofred had built:
Thither had he brought home, in happy hour,
His blooming bride; there fondled on his knee
The lovely boy she bore him. Close beside,
A temple to that Saint he rear’d, who first,
As old tradition tells, proclaim’d to Spain
The gospel-tidings; and in health and youth,
There mindful of mortality, he saw
His sepulchre prepared. Witiza took
For his adulterous leman and himself
The stately pile: but to that sepulchre,
When from captivity and darkness death
Enlarged him, was Theodofred consign’d;
For that unhappy woman, wasting then
Beneath a mortal malady, at heart
Was smitten, and the Tyrant at her prayer
This poor and tardy restitution made.
Soon the repentant sinner follow’d him;
And calling on Pelayo ere she died,
For his own wrongs, and for his father’s death,
Implored forgiveness of her absent child,
If it were possible he could forgive
Crimes black as hers, she said. And by the pangs
Of her remorse, — by her last agonies,
The unutterable horrors of her death,
And by the blood of Jesus on the cross
For sinners given, did she beseech his prayers
In aid of her most miserable soul.
Thus mingling sudden shrieks with hopeless vows,
And uttering franticly Pelayo’s name,
And crying out for mercy in despair,
Here had she made her dreadful end, and here
Her wretched body was deposited.
That presence seem’d to desecrate the place:
Thenceforth the usurper shunn’d it with the heart
Of conscious guilt; nor could Rusilla bear
These groves and bowers, which, like funereal shades,
Oppress’d her with their monumental forms:
One day of bitter and severe delight,
When Roderick came for vengeance, she endured,
And then forever left her bridal halls.
Oh, when I last beheld yon princely pile,
Exclaim’d Siverian, with what other thoughts
Full, and elate of spirit, did I pass
Its joyous gates! The weedery which through
The interstices of those neglected courts
Uncheck’d had flourish’d long, and seeded there,
“Was trampled then and bruised beneath the feet
Of thronging crowds. Here, drawn in fair array,
The faithful vassals of my master’s house,
Their javelins sparkling to the morning sun,
Spread their triumphant banners; high-plumed helms
Rose o’er the martial ranks, and prancing steeds
Made, answer to the trumpet’s stirring voice;
While yonder towers shook the dull silence off
Which long to their deserted walls had clung,
And with redoubling echoes swell’d the shout
That hail’d victorious Roderick. Louder rose
The acclamation, when the dust was seen
Rising beneath his chariot-wheels far off;
But nearer as the youthful hero came,
All sounds of all the multitude were hush’d,
And from the thousands and ten thousands here,
Whom Cordoba and His palis sent forth,
Yea, whom all Bætica, all Spain pour’d out
To greet his triumph, — not a whisper rose
To Heaven, such awe and reverence master’d them,
Such expectation held them motionless.
Conqueror and King he came; but with no joy
Of conquest, and no pride of sovereignty
That day display’d; for at his Father’s grave
Did Roderick come to offer up his vow
Of vengeance well perform’d. Three coal-black steeds
Drew on his ivory chariot: by his side,
Still wrapt in mourning for the long-deceased,
Rusilla sat; a deeper paleness blanch’d
Her faded countenance, but, in her eye
The light of her majestic nature shone.
Bound, and expecting at their hands the death
So well deserved, Witiza follow’d them;
Aghast and trembling, first he gazed around,
Wildly from side to side; then from the face
Of universal execration shrunk,
Hanging his wretched head abased; and poor
Of spirit, with unmanly tears deplored
His fortune, not his crimes. With bolder front,
Confiding in his priestly character,
Came Orpas next; and then the spurious race
Whom in unhappy hour Favila’s wife
Brought forth for Spain. O mercy ill bestow’d,
When Roderick, in compassion for their youth,
And for Pelayo’s sake, forbore to crush
The brood of vipers!
Err perchance he might,
Replied the Goth, suppressing, as he spake,
All outward signs of pain, though every word
Went like a dagger to his bleeding heart;
But sure, I ween, that error is not placed
Among his sins. Old man, thou mayst regret
The mercy ill deserved, and worse return’d,
But not for this wouldst thou reproach the King!
Reproach him? cried Siverian; — I reproach
My child, — my noble boy, — whom every tongue
Bless’d at that hour, — whose love fill’d every heart
With joy, and every eye with joyful tears!
My brave, my beautiful, my generous boy!
Brave, beautiful, and generous as he was,
Never so brave, so beautiful, so great
As then, — not even on that glorious day,
When on the field of victory, elevate
Amid the thousands who acclaim’d him King,
Firm on the shield above their heads upraised,
Erect he stood, and waved his bloody sword —
Why dost thou shake thy head as if in doubt?
I do not dream, nor fable! Ten short years
Have scarcely past away, since all within
The Pyrenean hills, and the three seas
Which girdled Spain, echoed in one response
The acclamation from that field of fight —
Or doth aught ail thee, that thy body quakes
And shudders thus?
’Tis but a chill, replied
The King, in passing from the open air
Under the shadow of this thick-set grove.
Oh! if this scene awoke in thee such thoughts
As swell my bosom here, the old man pursued,
Sunshine, or shade, and all things from without,
Would be alike indifferent. Gracious God,
Only but ten short years, — and all so changed!
Ten little years since in yon court he check’d
His fiery steeds. The steeds obey’d his hand,
The whirling wheels stood still, and when he leap’d
Upon the pavement, the whole people heard
In their deep silence, open-ear’d, the sound.
With slower movement from the ivory seat
Rusilla rose, her arm, as down she stepp’d,
Extended to her son’s supporting hand;
Not for default of firm or agile strength,
But that the feeling of that solemn hour
&
nbsp; Subdued her then, and tears bedimm’d her sight.
Howbeit when to her husband’s grave she came,
On the sepulchral stone she bow’d her head
Awhile; then rose collectedly, and fix’d
Upon the scene her calm and steady eye.
Roderick, — oh, when did valor wear a form
So beautiful, so noble, so august?
Or vengeance, when did it put on before
A character so awful, so divine?
Roderick stood up, and reaching to the tomb
His hands, my hero cried, Theodofred!
Father! I stand before thee once again,
According to thy prayer, when kneeling down
Between thy knees I took my last farewell;
And vow’d by all thy sufferings, all thy wrongs,
And by my mother’s days and nights of woe,
Her silent anguish, and the grief which then
Even from thee she did not seek to hide,
That, if our cruel parting should avail
To save me from the Tyrant’s jealous guilt,
Surely should my avenging sword fulfil
Whate’er he omen’d. Oh that time, I cried,
Would give the strength of manhood to this arm,
Already would it find a manly heart
To guide it to its purpose! And I swore
Never again to see my father’s face,
Nor ask my mother’s blessing, till I brought,
Dead or in chains, the Tyrant to thy feet.
Boy as I was, before all Saints in Heaven,
And highest God, whose justice slumbereth not,
I made the vow. According to thy prayer,
In all things, O my father, is that vow
Perform’d, alas, too well! for thou didst pray,
While, looking up, I felt the burning tears
Which from thy sightless sockets stream’d, drop down,
That to thy grave, and not thy living feet,
The oppressor might be led. Behold him there,
Father! Theodofred! no longer now
In darkness, from thy heavenly seat look down,
And see before thy grave thine enemy
In bonds, awaiting judgment at my hand!
Thus while the hero spake, Witiza stood
Listening in agony, with open mouth,
And head, half-raised, toward his sentence turn’d;
His eyelids stiffen’d and pursed up, — his eyes
Rigid, and wild, and wide; and when the King
Had ceased, amid the silence which ensued,
The dastard’s chains were heard, link against link
Clinking. At length upon his knees he fell,
And lifting up his trembling hands, outstretch’d
In supplication, — Mercy! he exclaim’d,
Chains, dungeons, darkness, — any thing- but death!
I did not touch his life.
Roderick replied,
His hour, whenever it had come, had found
A soul prepared: he lived in peace with Heaven;
And life prolong’d for him, was bliss delay’d.
Jint life, in pain, and darkness, and despair,
For thee, all leprous as thou art with crimes,
Is mercy. — Take him hence, and let him see
The light of day no more!
Such Roderick was
When last I saw these courts, — his theatre
Of glory; — such when last I visited
My master’s grave! Ten years have hardly held
Their course, ten little years — break, break, old heart —
Oh, why art thou so tough?
As thus he spake,
They reach’d the church. The door before his hand
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 awful 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.
VII. RODERICK AND PELAYO.
‘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 icy feelings from his inmost heart
Effused. It changed the nature of his woe,
Making the burden 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
And prayer. This was the night, and he it was
Who now before Siverian and the King
Stood up in sackcloth.
The old man, from fear
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 eomest to Cordoba?
Children, or wire? — 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 agai
n,
And Spain were Spain once more. A tale of ill
I bear, but one that touches not the heart
Like what thy tears forebode. The renegade
Numacian wooes 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 accurs’d: 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 sail 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.
Roderick at that
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
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 162