’Tis that mysterious sense by which mankind
To fix their friendships and their loves are led,
And which with fainter influence doth extend
To such poor things as this. As we put off
The cares and passions of this fretful world,
It may be too that we thus far approach
To elder nature, and regain in part
The privilege through sin in Eden lost.
The timid hare soon learns that she may trust
The solitary penitent, and birds
Will light upon the hermit’s harmless hand.
Thus Roderick answer’d in excursive speech,
Thinking to draw the old man’s mind from what
Might touch him else too nearly, and himself
Disposed to follow on the lure he threw,
As one whom such imaginations led
Out of the world of his own miseries.
But to regardless ears his words were given,
For on the dog Siverian gazed the while,
Pursuing his own thoughts. Thou hast not felt,
Exclaim’d the old man, the earthquake and the storm;
The kingdom’s overthrow, the wreck of Spain,
The ruin of thy royal master’s house,
Have reach’d not thee! — Then turning to the King,
When the destroying enemy drew nigh
Toledo, he continued, and we fled
Before their fury, even while her grief
Was fresh, my Mistress would not leave behind
This faithful creature. Well we knew she thought
Of Roderick then, although she named him not;
For never since the fatal certainty
Fell on us all, hath that unhappy name,
Save in her prayers, been known to pass her lips
Before this day. She names him now, and weeps;
But now her tears are tears of thankfulness;
For blessed hath thy coming been to her
And all who loved the King.
His faltering voice
Here fail’d him, and he paused: recovering soon,
When that poor injured Lady, he pursued,
Did in my presence to the Prince absolve
The unhappy King —
Absolve him! Roderick cried,
And in that strong emotion turn’d his face
Sternly toward Siverian, for the sense
Of shame and self-reproach drove from his mind
All other thoughts. The good old man replied,
Of human judgments humanly I speak.
Who knows not what Pelayo’s life hath been?
Not happier in all dear domestic ties,
Than worthy for his virtue of the bliss
Which is that virtue’s fruit; and yet did he
Absolve, upon Florinda’s tale, the King.
Siverian, thus he said, what most I hoped,
And still within my secret heart believed,
Is now made certain. Roderick hath been
More sinn’d against than sinning. And with that
He clasp’d his hands, and, lifting them to Heaven,
Cried, Would to God that he were yet alive!
For not more gladly did I draw my sword
Against Witiza in our common cause,
Than I would fight beneath his banners now,
And vindicate his name!
Did he say this?
The Prince? Pelayo? in astonishment
Roderick exclaim’d. — He said it, quoth the old man.
None better knew his kinsman’s noble heart,
None loved him better, none bewail’d him more:
And as he fell, like me, for his reproach
A deeper grief than for his death, even so
He cherish’d in his heart the constant thought
Something was yet untold, which, being known,
Would palliate his offence, and make the fall
Of one, til] then, so excellently good,
Less monstrous, less revolting to belief,
More to be pitied, more to be forgiven.
While thus he spake, the fallen King felt his face
Burn, and his blood flow fast. Down, guilty thoughts!
Firmly he said within his soul; lie still,
Thou heart of flesh! I thought thou hadst been quell’d,
And quell’d thou shalt be! Help me, O my God,
That I may crucify this inward foe!
Yea, thou hast help’d me, Father! I am strong,
O Savior, in thy strength.
As he breath’d thus
His inward supplications, the old man
Eyed him with frequent and unsteady looks,
He had a secret trembling on his lips,
And hesitated, still irresolute
In utterance to imbody the dear hope:
Fain would he have it strengthen’d and assured
By this concording judgment, yet he fear’d
To have it chill’d in cold accoil. At length
Venturing, he brake with interrupted speech
The troubled silence. Father Maccabee,
I cannot rest till I have laid my heart
Open before thee. When Pelayo wish’d
That his poor kinsman were alive to rear
His banner once again, a sudden thought —
A hope — a fancy — what shall it be call’d?
Possess’d me, that perhaps the wish might see
Its glad accomplishment, — that Roderick lived,
And might in glory take the field once more
For Spain. — I see thou startest at the thought!
Yet spurn it not with hasty unbelief,
As though ‘twere utterly beyond the scope
Of possible contingency. I think
That I have calmly satisfied myself
How this is more than idle fancy, more
Than mere imaginations of a mind
Which from its wishes builds a baseless faith.
H — is horse, his royal robe, his horned helm,
His mail and sword were found upon the field;
But if King Roderick had in battle fallen,
That sword, I know, would only have been found
Clinch’d in the hand which, living, knew so well
To wield the dreadful steel! Not in the throng
Confounded, nor amid the torpid stream,
Opening with ignominious arms a way
For flight, would he have perish’d! Where the strife
Was hottest, ring’d about with slaughter’d foes,
Should Roderick have been found: by this sure mark
Ye should have known him, if nought else remain’d,
That his whole body had been gored with wounds,
And quill’d with spears, as if the Moors had felt
That in his single life the victory lay,
More than in all the host!
Siverian’s eyes
Shone with a youthful ardor while he spake;
His gathering brow grew stern: and as he raised
His arm, a warrior’s impulse character’d
The impassion’d gesture. But the King was calm,
And heard him with unchanging countenance;
For he had taken his resolve, and felt
Once more the peace of God within his soul,
As in that hour when by his father’s grave
He knelt before Pelayo.
Soon the old man
Pursued in calmer tones — Thus much I dare
Believe, that Roderick fell not on that day
When treason brought about his overthrow.
If yet he live, for sure I think I know
His noble mind, ’tis in some wilderness,
Where, in some savage den inhumed, he drags
The weary loud of life, and on his flesh,
As on a mortal enemy, inflicts
Fierce vengeance with immitigable hand.
> Oh that I knew but where to bend my way
In his dear search! my voice perhaps might reach
His heart, might reconcile him to himself,
Restore him to his mother ere she dies,
His people and his country: with the sword,
Them and his own good name should he redeem.
Oh might I but behold him once again
Leading to battle these intrepid bands,
Such as he was, — yea, rising from his fall
More glorious, more beloved! Soon, I believe,
Joy would accomplish then what grief hath fail’d
To do with this old heart, and I should die
Clasping his knees with such intense delight,
That when I woke in Heaven, even Heaven itself
Could have no higher happiness in store.
Thus fervently he spake, and copious tears
Ran down his cheeks. Full oft the Royal Goth,
Since he came forth again among mankind,
Had trembled lest some curious eye should read
His lineaments too closely; now he long’d
To fall upon the neck of that old man,
And give his full heart utterance. But the sense
Of duty, by the pride of self-control
Corroborate, made him steadily repress
His yearning nature. Whether Roderick live,
Paying in penitence the bitter price
Of sin, he answered, or if earth bath given
Rest to his earthly part, is only known
To him and Heaven. Dead is he to the world;
And let not these imaginations rob
His soul of thy continual prayers, whose aid
Too surely, in whatever world, he needs.
The faithful love that mitigates his fault,
Heavenward address’d, may mitigate his doom.
Living or dead, old man, be sure his soul,
It were unworthy else, — doth hold with thine
Entire communion! Doubt not he relies
Firmly on thee, as on a father’s love,
Counts on thy offices, and joins with thee
In sympathy and fervent act of faith,
Though regions, or though worlds, should intervene.
Lost as he is, to Roderick this must be
Thy first, best, dearest duty; next must be
To hold right onward in that noble path,
Which he would counsel, could his voice be heard.
Now therefore aid me, while I call upon
The Leaders and the People, that this day
We may acclaim Pelayo for our King.
XVIII. THE ACCLAMATION.
Now, when from Covadonga, down the vale
Holding his way, the princely mountaineer
Came with that happy family in sight
Of Cangas and his native towers, far off
He saw before the gate, in fair array,
The assembled land. Broad banners were display’d,
And spears were sparkling to the sun; shields shone,
And helmets glitter’d, and the blaring horn,
With frequent sally of impatient joy,
Provoked the echoes round. Well he areeds,
From yonder ensigns and augmented force,
That Odoar and the Primate from the west
Have brought their aid; but wherefore all were thus
Instructed as for some great festival,
He found not, till Favila’s quicker eye
Catching the ready buckler, the glad boy
Leap’d up, and clapping his exultant hands,
Shouted, King! King! my father shall be King
This day! Pelayo started at the word,
And the first thought which smote him brought a sigh
For Roderick’s fall; the second was of hope,
Deliverance for his country, for himself
Enduring fame, and glory for his line.
That high prophetic forethought gather’d strength,
As looking- to his honor’d mute, he read
Her soul’s accordant augury; her eyes
Brighten’d; the quicken’d action of the blood
Tinged with a deeper hue her glowing cheek,
And on her lips there sat a smile which spake
‘The honorable pride of perfect love,
Rejoicing, for her husband’s sake, to share
Thu lot he chose, the perils he defied,
The lofty fortune which their faith foresaw.
Roderick, in front of all the assembled troops,
Held the broad buckler, following to the end
That steady purpose to the which his zeal
Had this day wrought the Chiefs. Tall as himself,
Erect it stood beside him, and his hands
Hung resting on the rim. This was an hour
That sweeten’d life, repaid and recompensed
All losses; and although it could not heal
All griefs, yet laid them for a while to rest.
The active, agitating joy that fill’d
The vale, that with contagious influence spread
Through all the exulting mountaineers, that gave
New ardor to all spirits, to all breasts
Inspired fresh impulse of excited hope,
Moved every longue, and strengthen’d every limb,
That joy which every man reflected saw
From every face of all the multitude,
And heard in every voice, in every sound,
Reach’d not the King. Aloof from sympathy,
He from the solitude of his own soul
Beheld the busy scene. None shared or knew
His deep and incommunicable joy;
None but that heavenly Father, who alone
Beholds the struggles of the heart, alone
Sees and rewards the secret sacrifice.
Among the chiefs conspicuous, Urban stood,
He whom, with well-weigh’d choice, in arduous time,
To arduous office the consenting Church
Had call’d when Sindered, fear-smitten, fled:
Unfaithful shepherd, who for life alone
Solicitous, forsook his flock, when most
In peril and in suffering they required
A pastor’s care. Far off at Rome he dwells
In ignominious safety, while the Church
Keeps in her annals the deserter’s name,
But from the service, which with daily zeal
Devout her ancient prelacy recalls,
Blots it, unworthy to partake her prayers.
Urban, to that high station thus being call’d,
From whence disanimating fear had driven
The former primate, for the general weal
Consulting first, removed with timely care
The relics and the written works of Saints,
Toledo’s choicest treasure, prized beyond
All wealth, their living and their dead remains;
These to the mountain fastnesses he bore
Of unsubdued Cantabria, there deposed,
One day to be the boast of yet unbuilt
Oviedo, and the dear idolatry
Of multitudes unborn. To things of state
Then giving thought mature, he held advice
With Odoar, whom of counsel competent
And firm of heart he knew. What, then they plann’d,
Time and the course of overruled events
To earlier act had ripen’d, than their hope
Had ever in its gladdest dream proposed;
And here by agents unforeseen, and means
Beyond the scope of foresight brought about,
This day they saw their dearest heart’s desire
Accorded them; all-able Providence
Thus having ordered all, that Spain this hour
With happiest omens, and on surest base,
Should from its ruins rear again her throne.
For acclamat
ion and for sacring now
One form must serve, more solemn for the breach
Of old observances, whose absence here
Deeplier impress’d the heart, than all display
Of regal pomp and wealth pontifical,
Of-vestments radiant with their gems, and stiff
With ornature of gold; the glittering train,
The long procession, and the full-voiced choir.
This day the forms of piety and war
In strange but fitting union must combine.
Not in his alb, and cope, and orary,
Came Urban now, nor wore he mitre here,
Precious or auriphrygiate; bare of head
He stood, all else in arms complete, and o’er
His gorget’s iron rings the pall was thrown
Of wool undyed, which on the Apostle’s tomb
Gregory had laid, and sanctified with prayer;
That from the living Pontiff and the dead,
Replete with holiness, it might impart
Doubly derived its grace. One Page beside
Bore his broad-shadow’d helm; another’s hand
Held the long spear, more suited in these times
For Urban, than the crosier richly wrought
With silver foliature, the elaborate work
Of Grecian or Italian artist, train’d
In the eastern capital, or sacred Rome,
Still o’er the west predominant, though fallen.
Better the spear befits the shepherd’s hand
When robbers break the fold. Now he had laid
The weapon by, and held a natural cross
Of rudest form, imped’d, even as it grew
On the near oak that morn.
Mutilate alike
Of royal rites was this solemnity.
Where was the rubied crown, the sceptre where,
And where the golden pome, the proud array
Of ermines, aureate vests, and jewelry,
With all which Leuvigild for after kings
Left, ostentatious of his power? The Moor
Had made his spoil of these, and on the field
Of Xeres, where contending multitudes
Had trampled it beneath their bloody feet,
The standard of the Goths forgotten lay
Defiled, and rotting there in sun and rain.
Utterly is it lost; nor evermore
Herald or antiquary’s patient search
Shall from forgetfulness avail to save
Those blazon’d arms, so fatally of old
Renown’d through all the affrighted Occident.
That banner, before which imperial Rome
First to a conqueror bow’d her head abased;
Which when the dreadful Hun, with all his powers,
Came like a deluge rolling o’er the world,
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 170