Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  Such apprehension as without reproach

  Might blanch a soldier’s chcck, when life and death

  Hang on another’s will, and helplessly

  He must abide the issue. But the thoughts

  Which quail’d Count Eudon’s heart, and made his limbs

  Quiver, were of his own unworthiness,

  Old enmity, and that he stood in power

  Of hated and hereditary foes.

  I came not with them willingly! he cried,

  Addressing Pedro and the Prince at once,

  Rolling from each to each his restless eyes

  Aghast, — the Moor can tell I had no choice;

  They forced me from my castle: — in the fight

  They would have slain me: — sec, I bleed! The Moor

  Can witness that a Moorish cimeter

  Inflicted this: — he saved me from worse hurt: —

  I did not come in arms: — he knows it all;

  Speak, man, and let the truth be known to clear

  My innocence!

  Thus as he ceased, with fear

  And rapid utterance, panting open-mouth’d,

  Count Pedro half repress’d a mournful smile,

  Wherein compassion seem’d to mitigate

  His deep) contempt. Methinks, said he, the Moor

  Might with more reason look himself to find

  An intercessor, than be call’d upon

  To play the pleader’s part. Didst thou then save

  The Baron from thy comrades?

  Let my Lord

  Show mercy to me, said the Mussulman,

  As I am free from falsehood. We were left,

  I and another, holding him in charge;

  My fellow would have slain him when he saw

  How the fight fared; I turn’d the cimeter

  Aside, and trust that life will be the meed

  For life by me preserved.

  Nor shall thy trust.,

  Rejoin’d the Count, be vain. Say further now,

  From whence ye came; — your orders, what- — what force

  In Gegio; and if others like yourselves

  Are in the field.

  The African replied,

  We came from Gegio, order’d to secure

  This Baron on the way, and seek thee here

  To bear thee hence in bonds. A messenger

  From Cordoba, whose speed denoted well

  He came with urgent tidings, wa s the cause

  Of this our sudden movement. We went forth

  Three hundred men; an equal force was sent

  For Cangas, on like errand, as I ween.

  Four hundred in the city then were left.

  If other force be moving from the south,

  I know not, save that all appearances

  Denote alarm and vigilance

  The Prince

  Fix’d upon Eudon then his eye severe;

  Baron, he said, the die of war is cast;

  What part art thou prepared to take? against,

  Or with the oppressor?

  Not against my friends,

  Not against you! — the irresolute wretch replied,

  Hasty, yet faltering in his fearful speech;

  But, — have ye weigh’d it well? — It is not yet

  Too late, — their numbers, — their victorious force,

  Which hath already trodden in the dust

  The sceptre of the Goths: — the throne destroy’d,

  Our towns subdued, — our country overrun,

  The people to the yoke of their new Lords

  Resign’d in peace — Can I not mediate?

  Were it not batter through my agency

  To gain such terms, — such honorable terms? —

  Terms! cried Pelayo, cutting short at once

  That dastard speech, and cheeking, ere it grew

  Too powerful for restraint, the incipient wrath

  Which in indignant murmurs breathing round,

  Rose like a gathering storm, learn thou what terms

  Asturias, this day speaking by my voice,

  Doth constitute to be the law between

  Thee and thy Country. Our portentous age,

  As with an earthquake’s desolating force,

  Hath loosen’d and disjointed the whole frame

  Of social order, and she calls not now

  For service with the force of sovereign will.

  That which was common duty in old times,

  Becomes an arduous, glorious virtue now;

  And every one, as between Hell and Heaven,

  In free election must be left to choose.

  Asturias asks not of thee to partake

  The cup which we have pledged; she claims from none

  The dauntless fortitude, the mind resolved,

  Which only God can give; — therefore such peace

  As thou canst find where all around is war,

  She leaves thee to enjoy. But think not, Count,

  That because thou art weak, one valiant arm,

  One generous spirit must be lost to Spain!

  The vassal owes no service to the Lord

  Who to his Country doth acknowledge none.

  The summons which thou hast not heart to give,

  I and Count Pedro over thy domains

  Will send abroad; the vassals who were thine

  Will fight beneath our banners, and our wants

  Shall from thy lands, as from a patrimony

  Which hath reverted to the common stock,

  Be fed: such tribute, too, as to the Moors

  Thou rendcrest, we will take It is the price

  Which in this land for weakness must be paid

  While evil stars prevail. And mark me, Chief!

  Fear is a treacherous counsellor! I know

  Thou thinkest that beneath his horses’ hoofs

  The Moor will trample our poor numbers down;

  But join not, in contempt of us and Heaven,

  His multitudes! for if thou shouldst be found

  Against thy country, on the readiest tree

  Those recreant bones shall rattle in the wind,

  ‘When the birds have left them bare.

  As thus he spake,

  Count Eudon heard and trembled: every joint

  Was loosen’d, every fibre of his flesh

  Thrill’d, and from every pore effused, cold sweat

  Clung on his quivering limbs. Shame forced it forth,

  Envy, and inward consciousness, and fear

  Predominant, which stifled in his heart

  Hatred and rage. Before his livid lips

  Could shape to utterance their essay’d reply,

  Compassionately Pedro interposed.

  Go, Baron, to the Castle, said the Count;

  There let thy wound be look’d to, and consult

  Thy better mind at leisure. Let this Moor

  Attend upon thee there, and when thou wilt,

  Follow thy fortunes — To Pelayo then

  He turn’d, and saying, All-too-long, O Prince,

  Hath this unlook’d-for conflict held thee here,

  He bade his gallant men begin their march.

  Flush’d with success, and in auspicious hour,

  The Mountaineers set forth. Blessings and prayers

  Pursued them at their parting, and the tears

  Which fell were tears of fervor, not of grief.

  The sun was verging to the western slope

  Of Heaven, but they till midnight traveil’d on;

  Renewing then at early dawn their way,

  They held their unremitting course from morn

  Till latest eve, such urgent cause impell’d;

  And night had closed around, when to the vale

  Where Sella in her ampler bed receives

  Pionia’s stream they came. Massive and black

  Pelayo’s castle there was seen; its lines

  And battlements against the deep blue sky

  Distinct
in solid darkness visible.

  No light is in the tower. Eager to know

  The worst, and with that fatal certainty

  To terminate intolerable dread,

  He spurr’d his courser forward. All his fears

  Too surely are fulfill’d, — for open stand

  The doors, and mournfully at times a dog

  Fills with his howling the deserted hall.

  A moment overcome with wretchedness,

  Silent Pelayo stood! recovering then,

  Lord God, resign’d he cried, thy will be done!

  XIV. THE RESCUE.

  COUNT, said Pelayo, Nature hath assign’d

  Two sovereign remedies for human grief;

  Religion, surest, firmest, first and best,

  Strength to the weak, and to the wounded balm;

  And strenuous action next. Think not I came

  With unprovided heart. My noble wife,

  In the last solemn words, the last farewell

  With which she charged her secret messenger,

  Told me that whatsoe’er was my resolve,

  She bore a mind prepared. And well I know

  The evil, be it what it may, hath found

  In her courage equal to the hour.

  Captivity, or death, or what worse pangs,

  She in her children may be doom’d to feel,

  Will never make that steady soul repent

  Its virtuous purpose. I, too, did not cast

  .My single life into the lot, but knew

  These dearer pledges on the die were set;

  And if the worst have fallen, I shall but bear

  That in my breast, which, with transfiguring power

  Of piety, makes chastening sorrow take

  The form of hope, and sees, in Death, the friend

  And the restoring Angel. We must rest

  Perforce, and wait what tidings night may bring,

  Haply of comfort. Ho, there! kindle fires,

  And sec if aught of hospitality

  Can yet within these mournful walls be found!

  Thus while he spake, lights were descried far off

  Moving among the trees, and coming sounds

  Were heard as of a distant multitude.

  Anon a company of horse and foot,

  Advancing in disorderly array,

  Came up the vale; before them and beside

  Their torches flash’d on Sella’s rippling stream;

  Now gleam’d through chestnut groves, emerging now,

  O’er their huge boughs and radiated leaves

  Cast broad and bright a transitory glare.

  That sight inspired with strength the mountaineers;

  All sense of weariness, all wish for rest

  At once were gone; impatient in desire

  Of second victory alert they stood;

  And when the hostile symbols, which from far

  Imagination to their wish had shaped,

  Vanish’d in nearer vision, high-wrought hope

  Departing, left the spirit pall’d and blank.

  No turban’d race, no sons of Africa

  Were they who now came winding up the vale,

  As waving wide before their horses’ feet

  The torch-light floated, with its hovering glare

  Blackening the incumbent and surrounding night.

  Helmet and breastplate glitter’d as they came,

  And spears erect; and nearer as they drew

  Were the loose folds of female garments seen

  On those who led the company. Who then

  Had stood beside Pelayo, might have heard

  The beating of his heart.

  But vainly there

  Sought he with wistful eye the well-known forms

  Beloved; and plainly might it now be seen,

  That from some bloody conflict they return’d

  Victorious, — for at every saddle-bow

  A gory head was hung. Anon, they stopp’d,

  Levelling, in quick alarm, their ready spears.

  Hold! who goes there? cried one. A hundred tongues —

  Sent forth with one accord the glad reply,

  Friends and Asturians. Onward moved the lights,

  The people knew their lord.

  Then what a shout

  Rung through the valley! From their clay-built nests,

  Beneath the overbrowing battlements,

  Now first disturb’d, the affrighted martins flew,

  And uttering notes of terror short and shrill,

  Amid the yellow glare and lurid smoke

  Wheel’d giddily. Then plainly was it shown

  How well the vassals loved their generous lord,

  How like a father the Asturian Prince

  Was dear. They crowded round; they clasp’d his knees;

  They snatch’d his hand; they fell upon his neck,

  They wept; — they blest Almighty Providence,

  Which had restored him thus from bondage free;

  God was with them and their good cause, they said;

  His hand was here. — His shield was over them,

  His spirit was abroad, — His power displayed;

  And pointing to their bloody trophies then.

  They told Pelayo, there he might behold

  The first fruits of the harvest they should soon

  Reap in the field of war! Benignantly,

  With voice, and look, and gesture, did the Prince

  To these warm greetings of tumultuous joy

  Respond; and sure, if at that moment aught

  Could for a while have overpower’d those fears

  Which, from the inmost heart, o’er all his frame

  Diffused their chilling influence, worthy pride,

  And sympathy of love, and joy, and hope,

  Had then possess’d him wholly. Even now

  His spirit rose; the sense of power, the sight

  Of his brave people, ready where he led

  To fight their country’s battles, and the thought

  Of instant action, and deliverance,

  If Heaven, which thus far had protected him,

  Should favor still, — revived his heart, and gave

  Fresh impulse to its spring. In vain he sought,

  Amid that turbulent greeting, to inquire

  Where Gaudiosa was, his children where,

  Who call’d them to the field, who captain’d them;

  And how these women, thus with arms and death

  Environ’d, came amid their company;

  For yet, amid the fluctuating light

  And tumult of the crowd, he knew them not.

  Guisla was one. The Moors had found in her

  A willing and concerted prisoner.

  Gladly to Gegio, to the renegade,

  On whom her loose and shameless love was bent,

  Had she set forth; and in her heart she curs’d

  The busy spirit, who, with powerful call

  Rousing Pelayo’s people, led them on

  In quick pursual, and victoriously

  Achieved the rescue, to her mind perverse

  Unwelcome as unlook’d for. With dismay

  She recognized her brother, dreaded now

  More than he once was dear; her countenance

  Was turn’d toward him, — not with eager joy

  To court his sight, and meeting its first glance,

  Exchange delightful welcome, soul with soul:

  Hers was the conscious eye, that cannot choose

  But look to what it fears. She could not shun

  His presence, and the rigid smile constrain’d,

  With which she coldly dress’d her features, ill

  Conceal’d her inward thoughts, and the despite

  Of obstinate guilt and unrepentant shame.

  Sullenly thus, upon her mule she sat,

  Waiting the greeting which she did not dare

  Bring on. But who is she that, at her side,

  Upon a stately
war-horse eminent,

  Holds the loose rein with careless hand? A helm

  Presses the clusters of her flaxen hair;

  The shield is on her arm; her breast is mail’d;

  A sword-belt is her girdle, and right well

  It may be seen that sword hath done its work

  To-day, for upward from the wrist her sleeve

  Is stiff with blood. An unregardant eye,

  As one whose thoughts were not of earth, she east

  Upon the turmoil round. One countenance

  So strongly mark’d, so passion-worn, was there,

  That it recall’d her mind. Ha! Maccabee!

  Lifting her arm, exultingly she cried,

  Did I not tell thee we should meet in joy?

  Well, Brother, hast thou done thy part, — I, too,

  Have not been wanting! Now be His the praise

  From whom the impulse came!

  That startling call,

  That voice so well remember’d, touch’d the Goth

  With timely impulse now; for he had seen

  His Mother’s face, — and at her sight, the past

  And present mingled like a frightful dream,

  Which from some dread reality derives

  Its deepest horror. Adosinda’s voice

  Dispersed the waking vision. Little deem’d

  Rusilla, at that moment, that the child,

  For whom her supplications day and night

  Were offer’d, breathed the living air. Her heart

  Was calm; her placid countenance, though grief

  Deeper than time had left its traces there,

  Retain’d its dignity serene; yet, when

  Siverian, pressing through the people, kiss’d

  Her reverend hand, some quiet tears ran down.

  As she approach’d the Prince, the crowd made way

  Respectful. The maternal smile which bore

  Her greeting, from Pelayo’s heart at once

  Dispell’d its boding. What he would have ask’d

  She knew, and bending from her palfrey down,

  Told him that they for whom he look’d were safe,

  And that in secret he should hear the rest.

  XV. RODERICK AT CANGAS.

  How calmly gliding through the dark-blue sky

  The midnight Moon ascends! Her placid beams

  Through thinly-scatter’d leaves and boughs grotesque,

  Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;

  Here, o’er the chestnut’s fretted foliage, gray

  And massy, motionless they spread; here shine

  Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night

  Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry

  Ripples and glances on the confluent streams.