Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey
Page 166
Pedro grew pale, and trembled at his sight;
Favinia clasp’d her hands, and looking up
To Heaven as she embraced the boy, exclaim’d,
Lord God, forgive me for my sinful fears;
Unworthy that I am, — my son, my son!
XII. THE VOW.
ALWAYS I knew thee for a generous foe,
Pelayo! said the Count; and in our time
Of enmity, thou too, I know, didst feel
The feud between us was but of the house,
Not of the heart. Brethren in arms henceforth
We stand or fall together; nor will I
Look to the event with one misgiving thought,
That were to prove myself unworthy now
Of Heaven’s benignant providence, this hour,
Scarcely by less than miracle, vouchsafed.
I will believe that we have days in store
Of hope, now risen again as from the dead,
Of vengeance, — of portentous victory,
Yea, maugre all unlikelihoods, — of peace.
Let us then here indissolubly knit
Our ancient houses, that those happy days,
When they arrive, may find us more than friends,
And bound by closer than fraternal ties.
Thou hast a daughter, Prince, to whom my heart
Yearns now, as if in winning infancy
Her smiles had been its daily food of love.
I need not tell thee what Alphonso is,
Thou know’st the boy
Already had that hope,
Replied Pelayo, risen within my soul.
O Thou, who, in thy mercy, from the house
Of Moorish bondage hast deliver’d us,
Fulfil the pious purposes for which
Here, in thy presence, thus we pledge our hands!
Strange hour to plight espousals! yielding half
To superstitious thoughts, Favinia cried,
And these strange witnesses! — The times are strange,
With thoughtful speech composed her Lord replies;
And what thou seest accords with them. This day
Is wonderful; nor could auspicious Heaven
With fairer or with fitter omen gild
Our enterprise, when, strong in heart and hope,
We take the field, preparing thus for works
Of piety and love. Unwillingly
I yielded to my people’s general voice,
Thinking that she who with her powerful words
To this excess had roused and kindled them,
Spake from the spirit of her griefs alone,
Not with prophetic impulse. Be that sin
Forgiven me! and the calm and quiet faith
Which, in the place of incredulity,
Hath fill’d me, now that seeing I believe,
Doth give of happy end to righteous cause
A presage, not presumptuous, but assured.
Then Pedro told Pelayo how from vale
To vale the exalted Adosinda went,
Exciting sire and son, in holy war
Conquering or dying, to secure their place
In Paradise; and how reluctantly,
And mourning for his child by his own act
Thus doom’d to death, he bade with heavy heart
His banner be brought forth. Devoid alike
Of purpose and of hope himself, he meant
To inarch toward the western Mountaineers,
Where Odoar by his counsel might direct
Their force conjoin’d. Now, said he, we must haste
To Cangas, there, Pelayo, to secure,
With timely speed, I trust in God thy house.
Then looking to his men, he cried, Bring forth
The armor which in Wamba’s wars I wore.
Alphonso’s heart leapt at the auspicious words.
Count Pedro mark’d the rising glow of joy,
Doubly to thee, Alphonso, he pursued,
This day above all other days is blest,
From whence, as from a birth-day, thou wilt date
Thy life in arms!
Rejoicing in their task,
The servants of the house, with emulous love,
Dispute the charge. One brings the cuirass, one
The buckler; this exultingly displays
The sword; his comrade lifts the helm on high;
The greaves, the gauntlets they divide; a spur
Seems now to dignify the officious hand
Which for such service bears it to his Lord.
Greek artists in the imperial city forged
That splendid armor, perfect in their craft;
With curious skill they wrought it, framed alike
To shine amid the pageantry of war,
And for the proof of battle. Many a time
Alphonso from his nurse’s lap had stretch’d
His infant hands toward it eagerly,
Where gleaming to the central fire it hung
High in the hall; and many a time had wish’d,
With boyish ardor, that the day were come
When Pedro to his prayers would grant the boon,
His dearest heart’s desire. Count Pedro then
Would smile, and in his heart rejoice to see
The noble instinct manifest itself.
Then, too, Favinia, with maternal pride,
Would turn her eyes exulting to her Lord,
And in that silent language bid him mark
His spirit in his boy; all danger then
W as distant, and if secret forethought faint
Of manhood’s perils, and the chance of war,
Hateful to mothers, pass’d across her mind,
The ill remote gave to the present hour
A heighten’d feeling of secure delight.
No season this for old solemnities,
For wassailry and sport; — the bath, the bed,
The vigil, — all preparatory rites
Omitted now, — here, in the face of Heaven,
Before the vassals of his father’s house,
With them in instant peril to partake
The chance of life or death, the heroic boy
Dons his first arms; the coated scales of steel
Which o’er the tunic to his knees depend,
The hose, the sleeves of mail; bareheaded then
He stood. But when Count Pedro took the spurs,
And bent his knee in service to his son,
Alphonso from that gesture half drew back,
Starting in reverence, and a deeper hue
Spread o’er the glow of joy which flush’d his cheeks.
Do thou the rest, Pelayo! said the Count;
So shall the ceremony of this hour
Exceed in honor what in form it lacks.
The Prince from Hoya’s faithful hand receiv’d
The sword; he girt it round the youth, and drew
And placed it in his hand; unsheathing then
His own good falchion, with its burnish’d blade
He touch’d Alphonso’s neck, and with a kiss
Gave him his rank in arms.
Thus long the crowd
Had look’d intently on, in silence hush’d;
Loud and continuous now with one accord,
Shout following shout, their acclamations rose;
Blessings were breathed from every heart, and joy.
Powerful alike in all, which, as with force
Of” an inebriating cup, inspired
The youthful, from the eye of age drew tears.
The uproar died away, when, standing forth,
Roderick, with lifted hand, besought a pause
For speech, and moved towards the youth. I, too,
Young Baron, he began, must do my part;
Not with prerogative of earthly power,
But as the servant of the living God,
The God of Hosts. This day thou promisest
To die,
when honor calls thee, for thy faith.
For thy liege Lord, and for thy native land;
The duties which at birth we all contract,
Are by the high profession of this hour
Made thine especially. Thy noble blood,
The thoughts with which thy childhood hath been led,
And thine own noble nature more than all,
Are sureties for thee. But these dreadful times
Demand a further pledge; for it hath pleased
The Highest, as he tried his Saints of old.
So in the fiery furnace of his wrath
To prove and purify the sons of Spain;
And they must knit their spirits to the proof,
Or sink, forever lost. Hold forth thy sword,
Young Baron, and before thy people take
The vow which, in Toledo’s sacred name,
Poor as these weeds bespeak me, I am here
To minister with delegated power.
With reverential awe was Roderick heard
By all, so well authority became
That mien, and voice, and countenance austere.
Pelayo with complacent eye beheld
The unlook’d-for interposal, and the Count
Bends toward Alphonso his approving head.
The youth, obedient, loosen’d from his belt
The sword, and looking, while his heart beat fast,
To Roderick, reverently expectant stood.
O noble youth, the Royal Goth pursued.
Thy country is in bonds; an impious foe
Oppresses her; he brings with him strange laws,
Strange language, evil customs, and false faith,
And forces them on Spain. Swear that thy soul
Will make no covenant with these accursed,
But that the sword shall he from this day forth
Thy children’s portion, to be handed down
From sire to son, a sacred heritage,
Through every generation, till the work
Be done, and this insulted land hath drunk
In sacrifice the last invader’s blood.
Bear witness, ancient Mountains! cried the youth,
And ye, my native Streams, who hold your course
Forever; — this dear Earth, and yonder Sky,
Be witness! for myself I make the vow,
And for my children’s children. Here I stand
Their sponsor, binding them in sight of Heaven,
As by a new baptismal sacrament,
To wage hereditary, holy war,
Perpetual, patient, persevering war,
Till not one living enemy pollute
The sacred soil of Spain.
So, as he ceased,
While yet toward the clear, blue firmament
His eyes were raised, he lifted to his lips
The sword, with reverent gesture bending then,
Devoutly kiss’d its cross.
And ye! exclaimed
Roderick, as, turning to the assembled troop,
He motion’d with authoritative hand,
Ye children of the hills and sons of Spain!
Through every heart the rapid feeling ran,
For us! they answer’d all with one accord,
And at the word they knelt: People and Prince,
The young and old, the father and the son,
At once they knelt; with one accord they cried,
For us, and for our seed! with one accord
They cross’d their fervent arms, and with bent head
Inclined toward that awful voice from whence
The inspiring impulse came. The Royal Goth
Made answer, — I receive your vow for Spain
And for the Lord of Hosts: your cause is good;
Go forward in his spirit and his strength.
Ne’er in his happiest hours had Roderick
With such commanding majesty dispensed
His princely gifts, as dignified him now,
When, with slow movement, solemnly upraised,
Toward the kneeling troop he spread his arms,
As if the expanded soul diffused itself,
And carried to all spirits with the act
Its effluent inspiration. Silently
The people knelt, and when they rose, such awe
Held them in silence, that the eagle’s cry,
Who far above them, at her highest flight
A speck scarce visible, gyred round and round,
Was heard distinctly; and the mountain stream,
Which from the distant glen sent forth its sounds
Wafted upon the wind, grew audible
In that deep hush of feeling, like the voice
Of waters in the stillness of the night.
XIII. COUNT EUDON.
THAT awful silence still endured, when one,
Who to the northern entrance of the vale
Had turn’d his casual eye, exclaim’d, The Moors!
For from the forest verge a troop were seen
Hastening toward Pedro’s hall. Their forward speed
Was check’d when they beheld his banner spread,
And saw his order’d spears in prompt array,
Marshalled to meet their coming. But the pride
Of power and insolence of long command
Prick’d on their Chief presumptuous: We are come
Late for prevention, cried the haughty Moor,
But never time more fit for punishment!
These unbelieving slaves must feel and know
Their master’s arm! — On, faithful Mussulman,
On — on, — and hew down the rebellious dogs!
Then, as he spurr’d his steed, Allah is great!
Mahommed is his Prophet! he exclaim’d,
And led the charge.
Count Pedro met the Chief
In full career; ne bore him from his horse
A full spear’s length upon the lance transfix’d;
Then leaving in his breast the mortal shaft,
Pass’d on, and, breaking through the turban’d files,
Open’d a path. Pelayo, who that day
Fought in the ranks afoot, for other war
Yet unequipp’d, pursued and smote the foe,
But ever on Alphonso, at his side,
Retained a watchful eye. The gallant boy
Gave his good sword that hour its earliest taste
Of Moorish blood, — that sword, whose hungry edge,
Through the fair course of all his glorious life,
From that auspicious day, was led so well.
Cheap was the victory now for Spain achieved;
For the first fervor of their zeal inspired
The Mountaineers, — the presence of their Chiefs,
The sight of all dear objects, all dear ties,
The air they breathed, the soil whereon they trod,
Duty, devotion, faith, and hope, and joy.
And little had the misbelievers ween’d
In such impetuous onset to receive
A greeting deadly as their own intent;
Victims they thought to find, not men prepared
And eager for the tight; their confidence
Therefore gave way to wonder, and dismay
Effected what astonishment began.
Scatter’d before the impetuous Mountaineers,
Buckler, and spear, and cimeter they dropp’d,
As in precipitate rout they fled before
The Asturian sword: the vales, and hills, and rocks,
Received their blood, and where they fell the wolves
At evening found them.
From the fight apart
Two Africans had stood, who held in charge
Count Eudon. When they saw their countrymen
Falter, give way, and fly before the foe,
One turn’d toward him with malignant rage,
And saying, Infidel! thou shalt not live
To join their tri
umph! aim’d against his neck
The moony falchion’s point. His comrade raised
A hasty hand, and turn’d its edge aside,
Yet so that o’er the shoulder glancing down,
It scarr’d him as it pass’d. The murderous Moor,
Not tarrying to secure his vengeance, fled;
While he of milder mood, at Eudon’s feet
Fell and embraced his knees. The mountaineer
Who found them thus, withheld at Eudon’s voice
His wrathful hand, and led them to his Lord.
Count Pedro, and Alphonso, and the Prince
Stood on a little rocky eminence
Which overlook’d the vale. Pedro had put
His helmet off, and with sonorous horn
Blew the recall; for well he knew what thoughts,
Calm as the Prince appear’d and undisturb’d,
Lay underneath his silent fortitude;
And how at this eventful juncture speed
Imported more than vengeance. Thrice he sent
The long-resounding signal forth, which rung
From hill to hill, reechoing far and wide.
Slow and unwillingly his men obey’d
The swelling horn’s reiterated call;
Repining that a single foe escaped
The retribution of that righteous hour.
With lingering step reluctant from the chase
They turn’d, — their veins full-swollen, their sinews strung
For battle still, their hearts unsatisfied;
Their swords were dropping still with Moorish blood,
And where they wiped their reeking brows, the stain
Of Moorish gore was left. But when they came
Where Pedro, with Alphonso at his side,
Stood to behold their coming, then they press’d,
All emulous, with gratulation round.
Extolling, for his deeds that day display’d.
The noble boy. Oh! when had Heaven, they said,
With such especial favor manifest
Illustrated a first essay in arms!
They bless’d the father from whose loins he sprung,
The mother at whose happy breast he fed;
And pray’d that their young hero’s fields might be
Many, and all like this.
Thus they indulged
The honest heart, exuberant of love,
When that loquacious joy at once was check’d,
For Eudon and the Moor were brought before
Count Pedro. Both came fearfully and pale,
But with a different fear: the African
Felt, at this crisis of his destiny,