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.
There hath a vow been offer’d up, which binds
Us and our children’s children to the work
Of holy hatred. In the name of Spain
That vow hath been pronounced, and register’d
Above, to be the bond whereby we stand
For condemnation or acceptance. Heaven
Received the irrevocable vow, and Earth
Must witness its fulfilment; Earth and Heaven
Call upon thee, Pelayo! Upon thee
The spirits of thy royal ancestors
Look down expectant; unto thee, from fields
Laid waste, and hamlets burnt, and cities sack’d,
The blood of infancy and helpless age
Cries out; thy native mountains call for thee,
Echoing from all their armed sons thy name.
And deem not thou that hot impatience goads
Thy countrymen to counsels immature.
Odoar and Urban from Visonia’s banks
Send me, their sworn and trusted messenger,
To summon thee, and tell thee in their name
That now the hour is come: For sure it seems,
Thus saith the Primate, Heaven’s high will to rear
Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne,
Restoring in thy native line, O Prince,
The sceptre to the Spaniard. Worthy son
Of that most ancient and heroic race,
Which with unweariable endurance still
Hath striven against its mightier enemies,
Roman or Carthaginian, Greek or Goth;
So often by superior arms oppress’d,
More often by superior arts beguiled;
Yet, amid all its sufferings, all the waste
Of sword and fire remorselessly employ’d,
Unconquer’d and unconquerable still;
Son of that injured and illustrious stock,
Stand forward thou, draw forth the sword of Spain,
Restore them to their rights, too long withheld,
And place upon thy brow the Spanish crown.
When Roderick ceased, the princely Mountaineer
Gazed on the passionate orator awhile,
With eyes intently fix’d, and thoughtful brow;
Then turning to the altar, he let fall
The sackcloth robe, which late, with folded arms,
Against his heart was press’d; and stretching forth
His hands toward the crucifix, exclaim’d,
My God and my Redeemer! where but here,
Before thy awful presence, in this garb,
With penitential ashes thus bestrown,
Could I so fitly answer to the call
Of Spain, and for her sake, and in thy name,
Accept the Crown of Thorns she proffers me?
And where but here, said Roderick in his heart,
Could I so properly, with humbled knee
And willing soul, confirm my forfeiture?
The action follow’d on that secret thought:
He knelt, and took Pelayo’s hand, and cried,
First of the Spaniards, let me with this kiss
Do homage to thee here, my Lord and King!
With voice unchanged and steady countenance
He spake; but when Siverian follow’d him,
The old man trembled as his lips pronounced
The faltering vow; and rising he exclaim’d,
God grant thee, O my Prince, a better fate
Than thy poor kinsman’s, who in happier days
Received thy homage here! Grief choked his speech,
And, bursting into tears, he sobb’d aloud.
Tears too adown Pelayo’s manly cheek
Roll’d silently. Roderick alone appear’d
Unmoved and calm; for now the royal Goth
Had offer’d his acecpted sacrifice,
And therefore in his soul he felt that peace
Which follows painful duty well perform’d,
Perfect and heavenly peace, — the peace of God.
VIII. ALPHONSO.
FAIN would Pelayo have that hour obey’d
The call, commencing his adventurous flight,
As one whose soul impatiently endured
His country’s thraldom, and in daily prayer
Imploring her deliverance, cried to Heaven,
How long, O Lord, how long! — But other thoughts
Curbing his spirit, made him yet awhile
Sustain the weight of bondage. Him alone,
Of all the Gothic baronage, the Moors
Watch’d with regard of wary policy,
Knowing his powerful name, his noble mind,
And how in him the old Iberian blood,
Of royal and remotest ancestry,
From undisputed source flow’d undefiled;
His mother’s after-guilt attainting not
The claim legitimate he derived from her,
Her first-born in her time of innocence.
He, too, of Chindasuintho’s regal line
Sole remnant now, drew after him the love
Of all true Goths, uniting in himself
Thus, by this double right, the general heart
Of Spain. For this the renegado crew,
Wretches in whom their conscious guilt and fear
Engender’d crudest hatred, still advised
The extinction of Pelayo’s house; but most
The apostate Prelate, in iniquity
Witiza’s genuine brother as in blood,
Orpas, pursued his life. He never ceased
With busy zeal, true traitor, to infuse
His deadly rancor in the Moorish chief;
Their only danger, ever he observed,
Was from Pelayo; root his lineage out,
The Caliph’s empire then would be secure,
And universal Spain, all hope of change
Being lost, receive the Prophet’s conquering law.
Then did the Arch-villain urge the Moor at once
To cut off future peril, telling him
Death was a trusty keeper, and that none
E’er broke the prison of the grave. But here
Keen malice overshot its mark; the Moor,
Who from the plunder of their native land
Had bought the recreant crew that join’d his arms,
Or cheaplier with their own possessions bribed
Their sordid souls, saw through the flimsy show
Of policy wherewith they sought to cloak
Old enmity and selfish aims: he scorn’d
To let their private purposes incline
H is counsels, and believing Spain subdued,
Smiled, in the pride of power and victory,
Disdainful at the thought of further strife.
Howbeit he held Pelayo at his court,
And told him that, until his countrymen
Submissively should lay their weapons down,
He from his children and paternal hearth
Apart must dwell; nor hope to see again
His native mountains and their vales beloved,
Till all the Asturian and Cantabrian hills
Had bow’d before the Caliph; Cordoba
Must be his nightly prison till that hour
This night, by special favor from the Moor
Ask’d and vouchsafed he past without the walls,
Keeping his yearly vigil; on this night,
Therefore, the princely Spaniard could not fly,
Being thus in strongest bonds by honor held;
Nor would he by his own escape expose
To stricter bondage, or belike to death,
Count Pedro’s son. The ancient enmity
Of rival houses from Pelayo’s heart
&
nbsp; Had, like a thing forgotten, past away;
He pitied child and parent, separated
By the stern mandate of unfeeling power,
And almost with a father’s eyes beheld
The boy, his fellow in captivity.
For young Alphonso was in truth an heir
Of nature’s largest patrimony: rich
In form and feature, growing strength of limb,
A gentle heart, a soul affectionate,
A joyous spirit fill’d with generous thoughts,
And genius heightening and ennobling all;
The blossom of all manly virtues made
His boyhood beautiful. Shield, gracious Heaven,
In this ungenial season perilous,
Thus would Pelayo sometimes breathe in prayer
The aspirations of prophetic hope,
Shield, gracious Heaven, the blooming tree! And let
This goodly promise, for thy people’s sake,
Yield its abundant fruitage.
When the Prince,
With hope, and fear, and grief, and shame, disturb’d,
And sad remembrance, and the shadowy light
Of days before him, thronging as in dreams,
Whose quick succession fill’d and overpower’d
Awhile the unresisting faculty,
Could, in the calm of troubled thoughts subdued,
Seek in his heart for counsel, his first care
Was for the boy; how best they might evade
The Moor, and renegade’s more watchful eye;
And leaving in some unsuspicious guise
The city, through what unfrequented track
Safeliest pursue with speed their dangerous way.
Consumed in cares like these, the fleeting hours
Went by. The lamps and tapers now grew pale,
And through the eastern window slanting fell
The roseate ray of morn. Within those walls
Returning day restored no cheerful sounds
Or joyous motions of awakening life;
But in the stream of light the speckled motes,
As if in mimicry of insect play,
Floated with mazy movement. Sloping down
Over the altar pass’d the pillar’d beam,
And rested on the sinful woman’s grave
As if it enter’d there, a light from Heaven.
So be it! cried Pelayo, even so!
As in a momentary interval,
When thought expelling thought, had left his mind
Open and passive to the influxes
Of outward sense, his vacant eye was there,
So be it, Heavenly Father, even so!
Thus may thy vivifying goodness shed
Forgiveness there; for let not thou the groans
Of dying penitence, nor my bitter prayers
Before thy mercy-seat, be heard in vain!
And thou, poor soul, who, from the dolorous house
Of weeping and of pain, dost look to me
To shorten and assuage thy penal term,
Pardon me that these hours in other thoughts
And other duties than this garb, this night
Enjoin, should thus have past! Our mother-land
Exacted of my heart the sacrifice;
And many a vigil must thy son perform
Henceforth in woods and mountain fastnesses,
And tented fields, outwatching for her sake
The starry host, and ready for the work
Of day, before the sun begins his course.
The noble Mountaineer, concluding then
With silent prayer the service of the night,
Went forth. Without the porch, awaiting him,
He saw Alphonso, pacing to and fro
With patient step and eye reverted oft.
He, springing forward when he heard the door
Move on its heavy hinges, ran to him,
And welcomed him with smiles of youthful love.
I have been watching yonder moon, quoth he,
How it grew pale and paler as the sun
Scatter’d the flying shades; but woe is me,
For on the towers of Cordoba the while
That baleful crescent glitter’d in the morn,
And with its insolent triumph seem’d to mock
The omen I had found. — Last night I dreamt
That thou wert in the field in arms for Spain,
And I was at thy side: the infidels
Beset us round, but we with our good swords
Hew’d out a way. Methought I stabb’d a Moor
Who would have slain thee; but with that I woke
For joy, and wept to find it but a dream.
Thus, as he spake, a livelier glow o’erspread
His cheek, and starting tears again suffused
The brightening lustre of his eyes. The Prince
Regarded him a moment steadfastly,
As if in quick resolve; then, looking round
On every side with keen and rapid glance,
Drew him within the church. Alphonso’s heart
Throbb’d with a joyful boding as he mark’d
The calmness of Pelayo’s countenance
Kindle with solemn thoughts, expressing now
High purposes of resolute hope. He gazed
All eagerly to hear what most he wish’d.
If, said the Prince, thy dream were verified,
And I indeed were in the field in arms
For Spain, wouldst thou be at Pelayo’s side?
If I should break these bonds, and fly to rear
Our country’s banner on our native hills,
Wouldst thou, Alphonso, share my dangerous flight?
Dear boy, — and wilt thou take thy lot with me
For death, or for deliverance?
Shall I swear?
Replied the impatient boy; and laying hand
Upon the altar, on his knee he bent,
Looking towards Pelayo with such joy
Of reverential love, as if a God
Were present to receive the eager vow.
Nay, quoth Pelayo: what hast thou to do
With oaths? — Bright emanation as thou art,
It were a wrong to thy unsullied soul,
A sin to nature, were I to require
Promise or vow from thee! Enough for me
That thy heart answers to the stirring call.
Alphonso, follow thou in happy faith
Ahvay the indwelling voice that counsels thee;
And then, let fall the issue as it may,
Shall all thy paths be in the light of Heaven,
The peace of Heaven be with thee in all hours.
How then, exclaim’d the boy, shall I discharge
The burden of this happiness, — how ease
My overflowing soul? — Oh gracious God,
Shall I behold my mother’s face again,
My father’s hall, — my native hills and vales,
And hear the voices of their streams again,
And free as I was born amid those scenes
Beloved, maintain my country’s freedom there,
Or, failing in the sacred enterprise,
Die as becomes a Spaniard.” — Saying- thus,
He lifted up his hands and eyes toward
The image of the Crucified, and cried,
O Thou who didst with thy most precious blood
Redeem us, Jesu! help us while we seek
Earthly redemption from this yoke of shame,
And misbelief, and death.
The noble boy
Then rose, and would have knelt again to clasp
Pelayo’s knees, and kiss his hand in act
Of homage; but the Prince, preventing this,
Bent over him in fatherly embrace,
And breathed a fervent blessing on his head.
IX. FLORINDA.
THERE sat a woman like a supplicant,
Muffled and cloak’d, before
Pelayo’s gate,
Awaiting when he should return that morn.
She rose at his approach, and bow’d her head,
And, with a low and trembling utterance,
Besought him to vouchsafe her speech within
In privacy. And when they were alone,
And the doors closed, she knelt and clasp’d his knees,
Saying, A boon! a boon! This night, O Prince,
Hast thou kept vigil for thy mother’s soul:
For her soul’s sake, and for the soul of him
Whom once, in happier days, of all mankind
Thou heldest for thy chosen bosom friend,
Oh, for the sake of his poor suffering soul,
Refuse me not!
How should I dare refuse,
Being thus adjured? he answer’d. Thy request
Is granted, woman, — be it what it may,
So it be lawful, and within the bounds
Of possible achievement: — aught unfit
Thou wouldst not with these adjurations seek.
But who thou art, I marvel, that dost touch
Upon that string, and ask in Roderick’s name!
She bared her face, and, looking up, replied,
Florinda! — Shrinking then, with both her hands
She hid herself, and bow’d her head abased
Upon her knee, — as one who, if the grave
Had oped beneath her, would have thrown herself,
Even like a lover, in the arms of Death.
Pelayo stood confused: he had not seen
Count Julian’s daughter since, in Roderick’s court,
Glittering in beauty and in innocence,
A radiant vision, in her joy she moved;
More like a poet’s dream, or form divine,
Heaven’s prototype of perfect womanhood,
So lovely was the presence, — than a thing
Of earth and perishable elements.
Now had he seen her in her winding-sheet,
Less painful would that, spectacle have proved;
For peace is with the dead, and piety
Bringeth a patient hope to those who mourn
O’er the departed; but this alter’d face,
Bearing its deadly sorrow character’d,
Came to him like a ghost, which in the grave
Could find no rest, He, taking her cold hand,
Raised her, and would have spoken; but his tongue
Fail’d in its office, and could only speak
In under tones compassionate her name.
The voice of pity soothed and melted her;
And when the Prince bade her be comforted,
Proffering his zealous aid in whatsoe’er
Might please her to appoint, a feeble smile
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 163