Pass’d slowly over her pale countenance,
Like moonlight on a marble statue. Heaven
Requite thee, Prince! she answer’d. All I ask
Is but a quiet resting-place, wherein
A broken heart, in prayer and humble hope,
May wait for its deliverance. Even this
My most unhappy fate denies me here.
Griefs which are known too widely and too well
I need not now remember. I could bear
Privation of all Christian ordinances;
The woe which kills hath saved me too, and made
A temple of this ruin’d tabernacle,
Wherein redeeming God doth not disdair.
To let his presence shine. And I could bear
To see the turban on my father’s brow,
Sorrow beyond all sorrows, — shame of shames,
Yet to be borne, while I with tears of blood,
And throes of agony, in his behalf
Implore and wrestle with offended Heaven.
This I have borne resign’d: but other ills,
And worse, assail me now; the which to bear,
If to avoid be possible, would draw
Damnation down. Orpas, the perjured Priest,
The apostate Orpas, claims me for his bride.
Obdurate as he is, the wretch profanes
My sacred woe, and wooes me to his bed,
The thing I am, — the living death thou seest!
Miscreant! exclaim’d Pelayo. Might I meet
That renegado, sword to cinneter,
In open field, never did man approach
The altar for the sacrifice in faith
More sure, than I should hew the villain down!
But how should Julian favor his demand?
Julian, who hath so passionately loved
His child, so dreadfully revenged her wrongs!
Count Julian, she replied, hath none but me,
And it hath, therefore, been his heart’s desire
To see his ancient line by me preserved.
This was their covenant when, in fatal hour
For Spain, and for themselves, in traitorous bond
Of union they combined. My father, stung
To madness, only thought of how to make
His vengeance sure; the Prelate, calm and cool,
When he renounced his outward faith in Christ,
Indulged at once his hatred of the King,
His inbred wickedness, and a haughty hope,
Versed as he was in treasons, to direct
The invaders by his secret policy,
And at their head, aided by Julian’s power,
Reign as a Moor upon that throne to which
The priestly order else had barr’d his way.
The African hath conquer’d for himself;
But Orpas coveteth Count Julian’s lands,
And claims to have the covenant perform’d.
Friendless, and worse than fatherless, I come
To thee for succor. Send me secretly,
For well I know all Faithful hearts must be
At thy devotion, — with a trusty guide
To guard me on the way, that I may reach
Some Christian land, where Christian rites are free,
And there discharge a vow, alas! too long,
Too fatally delay’d. Aid me in this
For Rode rick’s sake, Pelayo! and thy name
Shall be remember’d in my latest prayer.
Be comforted! the Prince replied; but when
He spake of comfort, twice did he break off
The idle words, feeling that earth had none
For grief so irremediable as hers.
At length he took her hand, and pressing it,
And forcing through involuntary tears
A mournful smile affectionate, he said,
Say not that thou art friendless while I live!
Thou couldst not to a readier ear have told
Thy sorrow’s, nor have ask’d in fitter hour
What for my country’s honor, for my rank,
My faith, and sacred knighthood, I am bound
In duty to perform; which not to do
Would show me undeserving of the names
Of Goth, Prince, Christian, even of Man. This day,
Lady, prepare to take thy lot with me,
And soon as evening closes meet me here.
Duties bring blessings with them, and I hold
Thy coming for a happy augury,
In this most awful crisis of my fate.
X. RODERICK AND FLORINDA.
WITH sword and breastplate, under rustic weeds
Conceal’d, at dusk Pelayo pass’d the gate,
Florinda following near, disguised alike.
Two peasants on their mules they seem’d, at eve
Returning from the town. Not distant far,
Alphonso by the appointed orange-grove,
With anxious eye and agitated heart,
Watch’d for the Prince’s coming. Eagerly
At every foot-fall through the gloom he strain’d
His sight, nor did he recognize him when
The Chieftain thus accompanied drew nigh:
And when the expected signal called him on,
Doubting this female presence, half in fear
Obey’d the call. Pelayo too perceived
The boy was not alone; he not for that
Delay’d the summons, but lest need should be,
Laying hand upon his sword, toward him bent
In act soliciting speech, and low of voice
Inquired, if friend or foe. Forgive me, cried
Alphonso, that I did not tell thee this,
Full as I was of happiness, before.
’Tis Hoya, servant of my father’s house,
Unto whose dutiful care and love, when sent
To this vile bondage, I was given in charge.
How could I look upon my lather’s face,
If I had in my joy deserted him,
Who was to me found faithful? — Right! replied
The Prince; and viewing him with silent joy,
Blessed the Bother, in his heart he said,
Who gave thee birth! but sure of womankind
Most blessed she whose hand her happy stars
Shall link with thine! and with that thought the form
Of Hermesind, his daughter, to his soul
Came in her beauty.
Soon, by devious tracks,
They turn’d aside. The favoring moon arose,
To guide them on their flight through upland paths
Remote from frequentage, and dales retired,
Forest and mountain glen. Before their feet
The fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade,
Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their way;
The timorous blackbird, starting at their step,
Fled from the thicket with shrill note of fear;
And far below them in the peopled dell,
When all the soothing sounds of eye had ceased,
The distant watch-dog’s voice at times was heard,
Answering the nearer wolf. All through the night
Among the hills they travell’d silently;
Till when the stars were setting, at what hour
The breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheld
Within a lonely grove the expected fire,
Where Roderick and his comrade anxiously
Look’d for the appointed meeting. Halting there,
They from the burden and the bit relieved
Their patient bearers, and around the fire
Partook of needful food and grateful rest.
Bright rose the flame replenish’d; it illumed
The cork-tree’s furrow’d rind, its rifts, and swells,
And redder scars, — and where its aged boughs
O’erbower’d the travellers, cast upon the leaves
A floating, gray, unrealizing gleam.
Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heath
Lay carelessly dispread, in happy dreams
Of home; his faithful Hoya slept beside.
Years and fatigue to old Siverian brought
Easy oblivion; and the Prince himself,
Yielding to weary nature’s gentle will,
Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sat
Beholding Roderick with fix’d eyes intent,
Yet unregardant of the countenance
Whereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb’d,
Collecting fortitude for what she yearn’d,
Yet trembled to perform. Her steady look
Disturb’d the Goth, albeit he little ween’d
What agony awaited him that hour.
Her face, well nigh as changed as his, Avas now
Half-hidden, and the lustre of her eye
Extinct; nor did her voice awaken in him
One startling recollection when she spake,
So altered were its tones.
Father, she said,
All thankful as I am to leave behind
The unhappy walls of Cordoba, not less
Of consolation doth my heart receive
At sight of one to whom I may disclose
The sins which trouble me, and at his feet
Lay down repentantly, in Jesu’s name,
The burden of my spirit, in his name
Hear me, and pour into a wounded soul
The balm of pious counsel. — Saying thus,
She drew toward the minister ordain’d,
And kneeling by him, Father, dost thou know
The wretch who kneels beside thee? she inquired,
He answered, Surely we are each to each
Equally unknown.
Then said she, Here thou seest
One who is known too fatally for all,
The daughter of Count Julian. — Well it was
For Roderick that no eye beheld him now;
From head to foot a sharper pang than death
Thrill’d him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke,
Ceased from its functions: his breath fail’d, and when
The power of life, recovering, set its springs
Again in action, cold and clammy sweat
Starting at every pore suffused his frame.
Their presence help’d him to subdue himself;
For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallen
Before Florinda prostrate on the earth,
And in that mutual agony belike
Both souls had taken flight. She mark’d him not,
For having told her name, she bow’d her head,
Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven,
While, as a penitent, she wrought herself
To open to his eye her hidden wounds.
Father, at length she said, all tongues amid
This general ruin shed their bitterness
On Roderick, load his memory with reproach,
And with their curses persecute his soul.
Why shouldst thou tell me this? exclaim’d the Goth,
From his cold forehead wiping, as he spake,
The death-like moisture; — why of Roderick’s guilt
Tell me? Or thinkest thou I know it not?
Alas! who hath not heard the hideous tale
Of Roderick’s shame! Babes learn it from their nurses,
And children, by their mothers unreproved,
Link their first execrations to his name.
Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy,
That, like Iscariot’s, through all time shall last,
Reeking and fresh forever!
There! she cried,
Drawing her body backward where she knelt,
And stretching forth her arms with head upraised,
There! it pursues me still! — I came to thee,
Father, for comfort, and thou heapest fire
Upon my head. But hear me patiently,
And let me undeceive thee; self-abased,
Not to arraign another, do I come;
I come a self-accuser, self-condemn’d
To take upon myself the pain deserved;
For I have drank the cup of bitterness,
And having drank therein of heavenly grace,
I must not put away the cup of shame.
Thus as she spake she falter’d at the close,
And in that dying fall her voice sent forth
Somewhat of its original sweetness. Thou!
Thou self-abased! exclaim’d the astonish’d King;
Thou self-condemn’d! — The cup of shame for thee.
Thee — thee, Florinda! — But the very excess
Of passion check’d his speech, restraining thus
From further transport, which hail haply else
Master’d him; and he sat like one entranced,
Gazing upon that countenance so fallen,
So changed: her face, raised from its muffler now,
Was turn’d toward him, and the fire-light shone
Full on its mortal paleness; but the shade
Conceal’d the King.
She roused him from the spell
Which held him like a statue motionless.
Thou, too, quoth she, dost join the general curse,
Like one, who, when he sees a felon’s grave,
Casting a stone there as he passes by,
Adds to the heap of shame. Oh, what are we,
Frail creatures as we are, that we should sit
In judgment, man on man! and what were we,
If the All-merciful should mete to us
With the same rigorous measure wherewithal
Sinner to sinner metes! But God beholds
The secrets of the heart. — therefore his name
Is Merciful. Servant of God, see thou
The hidden things of mine, and judge thou then
In charity thy brother who hath fallen.
Nay, hear me to the end! I loved the King,
Tenderly, passionately, madly loved him.
Sinful it was to love a child of earth
With such entire devotion as I loved
Roderick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth!
And yet methought this was its only crime,
The imaginative passion seem’d so pure;
Quiet and calm like duty, hope nor fear
Disturb’d the deep contentment of that love;
He was the sunshine of my soul, and like
A flower, I lived and flourish’d in his light.
Oh, bear not with me thus impatiently!
No tale of weakness this, that in the act
Of penitence, indulgent to itself,
With garrulous palliation half repeats
The sin it ill repents. I will be brief,
Anil shrink not from confessing how the love
Which thus began in innocence, betray’d
My unsuspecting heart; nor me alone,
But him, before whom, shining as he shone
With whatsoe’er is noble, whatsoe’er
Is lovely, whatsoever good and great,
I was as dust and ashes, — him, alas!
This glorious being, this exalted Prince,
Even him, with all his royalty of soul,
Did this ill-omen’d, this accursed love,
To his most lamentable fall betray
And utter ruin. Thus it was: The King,
By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised,
To an unworthy mate had bound himself
In politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tell
How Nature upon Egilona’s form,
Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts,
Left, like a statue from the graver’s hands,
Deformity and hollowness beneath
The rich external? For the love of pomp
And emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr’d
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br /> The grief and wonder of good men, the jibes
Of vulgar ribaldry, the reproach of all;
Profaning the most holy sacrament
Of marriage, to become chief of the wives
Of Abdalaziz, of the Infidel,
The Moor, the tyrant-enemy of Spain!
All know her now; but they alone who knew
What Roderick was, can judge his wretchedness.
To that, light spirit and unfeeling heart
In hopeless bondage bound. No children rose
From this unhappy union, towards whom
The springs of love, within his soul confined,
Might flow in joy and fulness; nor was he
One, like Witiza, of the vulgar crew,
Who in promiscuous appetite can find
All their vile nature seeks. Alas for man!
Exuberant health diseases him, frail worm!
And the slight bias of untoward chance
Makes his best virtue from the even line,
With fatal declination, swerve aside.
Ay, thou mayst groan for poor mortality,
Well, Father, mayst thou groan!
My evil fate
Made me an inmate of the royal house,
And Roderick found in me, if not a heart
Like his, — for who was like the heroic Goth?
One which at least felt his surpassing worth,
And loved him for himself. — A little yet
Bear with me, reverend Father, for I touch
Upon the point, and this long prologue goes,
As justice bids, to palliate his offence,
Not mine. The passion, which I fondly thought
Such as fond sisters for a brother feel,
Grew day by day, and strengthen’d in its growth,
Till the beloved presence had become
Needful as food or necessary sleep,
My hope, light, sunshine, life, and every thing.
Thus lapp’d in dreams of bliss, I might have lived
Contented with this pure idolatry,
Had he been happy; but I saw and knew
The inward discontent and household griefs
Which he subdued in silence; and alas!
Pity with admiration mingling then,
Alloy’d, and lower’d, and humanized my love,
Till to the level of my lowliness
It brought him down; and in this treacherous heart
Too often the repining thought arose,
That if Florinda had been Roderick’s Queen,
Then might domestic peace and happiness
Have bless’d his home and crown’d our wedded loves.
Too often did that sinful thought recur,
Too feebly the temptation was repell’d.
See, Father, I have probed my inmost soul;
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 164