Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  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 leavesr />
  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;