Have search’d to its remotest source the sin;
And tracing it through all its specious forms
Of fair disguisement, I present it now,
Even as it lies before the eye of God,
Bare and exposed, convicted and condemn’d.
One eve, as in the bowers which overhang
The glen where Tagus rolls between his rocks
I roam’d alone, alone I met the King.
His countenance was troubled, and his speech
Like that of one whose tongue to light discourse
At fits constrain’d, betrays a heart disturb’d:
I too, albeit unconscious of his thoughts,
With anxious looks reveal’d what wandering words
In vain essay’d to hide. A little while
Did this oppressive intercourse endure,
Till our eyes met in silence, each to each
Telling their mutual tale, then consciously
Together fell abash’d. He took my hand,
And said, Florinda, would that thou and I
Earlier had met! Oh, what a blissful lot
Had then been mine, who might have found in thee
The sweet companion and the friend endear’d,
A fruitful wife and crown of earthly joys!
Thou too shouldst then have been of womankind
Happiest, as now the loveliest. — And with that,
First giving way to passion first disclosed,
He press’d upon my lips a guilty kiss,
Alas! more guiltily received than given.
Passive and yielding, and yet self-reproach’d,
Trembling I stood, upheld in his embrace;
When coming steps were heard, and Roderick said,
Meet me to-morrow, I beseech thee, here,
Queen of my heart! Oh meet me here again,
My own Florinda, meet me here again!
Tongue, eye, and pressure of the impassion’d hand
Solicited and urged the ardent suit,
And from my hesitating, hurried lips
The word of promise fatally was drawn.
O Roderick, Roderick! hadst thou told me all
Thy purpose at that hour, from what a world
Of woe had thou and I — The bitterness
Of that reflection overcame her then,
And chok’d her speech. But Roderick sat the while
Covering his face with both his hands close-press’d,
H is head bow’d down, his spirit to such point
Of sufferance knit, as one who patiently
Awaits the uplifted sword.
Till now, said she,
Resuming her confession, I had lived,
If not in innocence, yet self-deceived,
And of my perilous and sinful state
Unconscious. But this fatal hour reveal’d
To my awakening soul her guilt and shame:
And in those agonies with which remorse,
Wrestling with weakness and with cherish’d sin,
Doth triumph o’er the lacerated heart,
That night — that miserable night — I vow’d,
A virgin dedicate, to pass my life
Immured; and, like redeemed Magdalen,
Or that Egyptian penitent, whose tears
Fretted the rock, and moisten’d round her cave
The thirsty desert, so to mourn my fall.
The struggle ending thus, the victory
Thus, as I thought, accomplish’d, I believed
My soul was calm, and that the peace of Heaven
Descended to accept and bless my vow;
And in this faith, prepared to consummate
The sacrifice, I went to meet the King.
See, Father, what a snare had Satan laid!
For Roderick came to tell me that the Church
From his unfruitful bed would set him free,
And I should be his Queen.
O let me close
The dreadful tale! I told him of my vow;
And from sincere and scrupulous piety,
But more, I fear me, in that desperate mood
Of obstinate will perverse, the which, with pride,
And shame, and self-reproach, doth sometimes make
A woman’s tongue, her own worst enemy,
Run counter to her dearest heart’s desire,
In that unhappy mood did I resist
All his most earnest prayers to let the power
Of holy Church, never more rightfully
Invoked, he said, than now in our behalf,
Release us from our fatal bonds. He urged
With kindling warmth his suit, like one whose life
Hung on the issue; I dissembled not
My cruel self-reproaches, nor my grief,
Yet desperately maintain’d the rash resolve;
Till, in the passionate argument, he grew
Incensed, inflamed, and madden’d or possess’d —
For Hell too surely at that hour prevail’d,
And with such subtile toils enveloped him,
That even in the extremity of guilt
No guilt he purported, but rather meant
An amplest recompense of life-long love
For transitory wrong, which fate perverse —
Thus madly he deceived himself — compell’d,
And therefore stern necessity excused.
Here then, O Father, at thy feet I own
Myself the guiltier; for full well I knew
These were his thoughts, but vengeance master’d me,
And in my agony I cursed the man
Whom I loved best.
Dost thou recall that curse?
Cried Roderick, in a deep and inward voice,
Still with his head depress’d, and covering still
Discountenance. Recall it? she exclaim’d;
Father, I come to thee because I gave
The reins to wrath too long, — because I wrought
His ruin, death, and infamy. — O God,
Forgive the wicked vengeance thus indulged,
As I forgive the King! — But teach me thou
What reparation more than tears and prayers
May now be made; — how shall I vindicate
His injured name, and take upon myself —
Daughter of Julian, firmly he replied,
Speak not of that, I charge thee! On his fame
The Ethiop dye, fixed ineffaceably,
Forever will abide; so it must be,
So should be:. ’tis his rightful punishment;
And if to the full measure of his sin
The punishment hath fallen, the more our hope
That through the blood of Jesus he may find
That sin forgiven him.
Pausing then, he raised
His hand, and pointed where Siverian lay
Stretch’d on the heath. To that old man, said he,
And to the mother of the unhappy Goth,
Tell, if it please thee, — not what thou hast pour’d
Into my secret ear, but that the child
For whom they mourn with anguish unallay’d,
Sinn’d not from vicious will, or heart corrupt,
But fell by fatal circumstance betray’d.
And if in charity to them thou sayest
Something to palliate, something to excuse
An act of sudden frenzy when the Fiend
O’ercame him, thou wilt do for Roderick
All he could ask thee, all that car be done
On earth, and all his spirit could endure.
Venturing towards her an imploring look,
Wilt thou join with me for his soul in prayer?
He said, and trembled as he spake. That voice
Of sympathy was like Heaven’s influence,
Wounding at once and comforting the soul.
O Father, Christ requite thee! she exclaim’d;
Thou hast set free the springs w
hich withering griefs
Have closed too long. Forgive me, for I thought
Thou wert a rigid and unpitying judge;
One whose stern virtue, feeling in itself
No (law of frailty, heard impatiently
Of weakness and of guilt. I wrong’d thee, Father!
With that she took his hand, and kissing it,
Bathed it with tears. Then in a firmer speech,
For Roderick, for Count Julian, and myself,
Three wretchedest of all the human race,
Who have destroyed each other and ourselves,
Mutually wrong’d and wronging, let us pray!
XI. COUNT PEDRO’S CASTLE.
TWELVE weary days with unremitting speed,
Shunning frequented tracks, the travellers
Pursued their way; the mountain path they chose,
The forest or the lonely heath wide-spread,
Where cistus shrubs sole seen exhaled at noon
Their fine balsamic odor all around;
Strow’d with their blossoms, frail as beautiful,
The thirsty soil at eve; and when the sun
Relumed the gladden’d earth, opening anew
Their stores exuberant, prodigal as frail,
Whiten’d again the wilderness. They left
The dark Sierra’s skirts behind, and cross’d
The wilds where Ana, in her native hills,
Collects her sister springs, and hurries on
Her course melodious amid loveliest glens,
With forest and with fruitage overbower’d.
These scenes profusely blest by Heaven they left,
Where o’er the hazel and the quince the vine
Wide-mantling spreads; and clinging round the cork
And ilex, hangs amid their dusky leaves
Garlands of brightest hue, with reddening fruit
Pendent, or clusters cool of glassy green.
So holding on o’er mountain and o’er vale,
Tagus they cross’d, where, midland on his way,
The King of Rivers rolls his stately stream;
And rude Alverches wide and stony bed,
And Duero distant far, and many a stream
And many a field obscure, in future war
For bloody theatre of famous deeds
Foredoom’d; and deserts where, in years to come,
Shall populous towns arise, and crested towers,
And stately temples rear their heads on high.
Cautious, with course circuitous they shunn’d
The embattled city, which, in eldest time,
Thrice-greatest Hermes built, so fables say,
Now subjugate, but fated to behold
Erelong the heroic Prince (who, passing now
Unknown and silently the dangerous track,
Turns thither his regardant eye) come down
Victorious from the heights, and bear abroad
Her banner’d Lion, symbol to the Moor
Of rout and death through many an age of blood.
Lo, there the Asturian hills! Far in the west,
Huge Rabanal and Foncebadon huge,
Precminent, their giant hulk display,
Darkening with earliest shade, the distant vales
Of Leon, and with evening premature.
Far in Cantabria eastward, the long line
Extends beyond the reach of eagle’s eye,
When buoyant in mid-heaven the bird of Jove
Soars at his loftiest pitch. In the north, before
The travellers the Erbasian mountains rise,
Bounding the land beloved, their native land.
How then, Alphonso, did thy eager soul
Chide the slow hours and painful way, which seem’d
Lengthening to grow before their lagging pace!
Youth of heroic thought and high desire,
’Tis not the spur of lofty enterprise
That with unequal throbbing hurries now
The unquiet heart, now makes it sink dismay’d;
’Tis not impatient joy which thus disturbs
In that young breast the healthful spring of life;
Joy and ambition have forsaken him.
His soul is sick with hope. So near his home,
So near his mother’s arms; — alas! perchance
The long’d-for meeting may be yet far off
As earth from heaven. Sorrow, in these long months
Of separation, may have laid her low;
Or what if at his flight the bloody Moor
Hath sent his ministers of slaughter forth,
And he himself should thus have brought the sword
Upon his father’s head? — Sure Hoya too
The same dark presage feels, the fearful boy
Said in himself; or wherefore is his brow
Thus overcast with heaviness, and why
Looks he thus anxiously in silence round?
Just then that faithful servant raised his hand,
And turning to Alphonso with a smile,
He pointed where Count Pedro’s towers far off
Peer’d in the dell below; faint was the smile.
And while it sat upon his lips, his eye
Retain’d its troubled speculation still.
For long had he look’d wistfully in vain,
Seeking where far or near he might espy
From whom to learn if time or chance had wrought
Change in his master’s house: but on the hills
Nor goatherd could he see, nor traveller,
Nor huntsman early at his sports afield,
Nor angler following up the mountain glen
His lonely pastime; neither could he hear
Carol, or pipe, or shout of shepherd’s boy,
Nor woodman’s axe, for not a human sound
Disturb’d the silence of the solitude.
Is it the spoiler’s work? At yonder door
Behold the favorite kidling bleats unheard;
The next stands open, and the sparrows there
Boldly pass in and out. Thither he turn’d
To seek what indications were within;
The chestnut-bread was on the shelf, the churn,
As if in haste forsaken, full and fresh;
The recent lire had moulder’d on the hearth;
And broken cobwebs mark’d the whiter space
Where from the wall the buckler and the sword
Had late been taken down. Wonder at first
Had mitigated fear; but Hoya now
Return’d to tell the symbols of good hope,
And they prick’d forward joyfully. Erelong
Perceptible above the ceaseless sound
Of yonder stream, a voice of multitudes,
As if in loud acclaim, was heard far off;
And nearer as they drew, distincter shouts
Came from the dell, and at Count Pedro’s gate
The human swarm were seen, — a motley group,
Maids, mothers, helpless infancy, weak age,
And wondering children, and tumultuous boys,
Hot youth, and resolute manhood gather’d there,
In uproar all. Anon the moving mass
Falls in half circle back; a general cry
Bursts forth; exultant arms are lifted up,
And caps are thrown aloft, as through the gate
Count Pedro’s banner came. Alphonso shriek’d
For joy, and smote his steed and gallop’d on.
Fronting the gate, the standard-bearer holds
His precious charge. Behind, the men divide
In order’d files; green boyhood presses there,
And waning eld, pleading a youthful soul,
Entreats admission. All is ardor here,
Hope, and brave purposes, and minds resolved.
Nor where the weaker sex is left apart
Doth aught of fear find utterance, though perchance
Some paler cheeks might ther
e be seen, some eyes
Big with sad bodings and some natural tears.
Count Pedro’s war-horse in the vacant space
Strikes with impatient hoof the trodden turf,
And gazing round upon the martial show,
Proud of his stately trappings, flings his head,
And snorts and champs the bit, and neighing shrill
Wakes the near echo with his voice of joy.
The page beside him holds his master’s spear,
And shield, and helmet. In the castle-gate
Count Pedro stands, his countenance resolved,
Put mournful, for Favinia on his arm
Hung, passionate with her fears, and held him back.
Go not, she cried, with this deluded crew?
She hath not, Pedro, with her frantic words
Bereft thy faculty, — she is crazed with grief,
And her delirium hath infected these:
But, Pedro, thou art calm; thou dost not share
The madness of the crowd; thy sober mind
Surveys the danger in its whole extent,
And sees the certain ruin, — for thou know’st
I know thou hast no hope. Unhappy man,
Why then for this most desperate enterprise
Wilt thou devote thy son, thine only child?
Not for myself I plead, nor even for thee;
Thou art a soldier, and thou canst not fear
The face of death; and I should welcome it
As the best visitant whom Heaven could send.
Not for our lives I speak then, — were they worth
The thought of preservation; — Nature soon
Must call for them; the sword that should cut short
Sorrow’s slow work were merciful to us.
But spare Alphonso! there is time and hope
In store for him. O thou who gavest him life,
Seal not his death, his death and mine at once!
Peace! he replied: thou know’st there is no choice;
I did not raise the storm; I cannot turn
Its course aside! but where yon banner goes
Thy Lord must not be absent! Spare me then,
Favinia, lest I hear thy honor’d name
Now first attainted with deserved reproach.
The boy is in God’s hands. He who of yore
Walk’d with the sons of Judah in the fire,
And from the lions’ den drew Daniel forth
Unhurt, can save him, — if it be his will.
Even as he spake, the astonish’d troop set up
A shout of joy which rung through all the hills.
Alphonso heeds not how they break their ranks
And gather round to greet him; from his horse
Precipitate and panting off he springs. —
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 165