Made head, and in the front of battle broke
His force, till then resistless; which so oft
Had with alternate fortune braved the Frank;
Driven the ‘Byzantine from the furthest shores
Of Spain, long lingering there, to final flight;
And of their kingdoms and their name despoil’d
The Vandal, and the Alan, and the Sueve;
Blotted from human records is it now
As it had never been. So let it rest
With things forgotten! But Oblivion ne’er
Shall cancel from the historic roll, nor Time,
Who changeth all, obscure that fated sign,
Which brighter now than mountain snows at noon
To the bright sun displays its argent field.
Rose not the vision then upon thy soul,
O Roderick, when within that argent field
Thou saw’st the rampant Lion, red as if
Upon some noblest quarry he had roll’d,
Rejoicing in his satiate rage, and drunk
With blood and fury? Did the auguries
Which open’d on thy spirit bring with them
A perilous consolation, deadening heart
And soul, yea, worse than death — that thou through all
Thy checker’d way of life, evil and good,
Thy errors and thy virtues, hadst but been
The poor, mere instrument of things ordain’d,
Doing or suffering, impotent alike
To will or act, — perpetually bemoek’d
With semblance of volition, yet in all
Blind worker of the ways of destiny!
That thought intolerable, which in the hour
Of woe indignant conscience had repell’d,
As little might it find reception now,
When the regenerate spirit self-approved
Beheld its sacrifice complete. With faith
Elate, he saw the banner’d Lion float
Refulgent, and recall’d that thrilling shout
Which he had heard when on Romano’s grave
The joy of victory woke him from his dream,
And sent him with prophetic hope to work
Fulfilment of the great events ordain’d,
There in imagination’s inner world
Prefigured to his soul.
Alone, advanced
Before the ranks, the Goth in silence stood,
While from all voices round, loquacious joy
Mingled its buzz continuous with the blast
Of horn, shrill pipe, and tinkling cymbals’ clash,
And sound of deafening drum. But when the Prince
Drew nigh, and Urban, with the Cross upheld,
Stepp’d forth to meet him, all at once were still’d
With instantaneous hush; as when the wind,
Before whose violent gusts the forest oaks,
Tossing like billows their tempestuous heads,
Roar like a raging sea, suspends its force,
And leaves so dead a calm that not a leaf
Moves on the silent spray. The passing air
Bore with it from the woodland undisturb’d
The ringdove’s wooing, and the quiet voice
Of waters warbling near.
Son of a race
Of Heroes and of Kings! the Primate thus
Address’d him, Thou in whom the Gothic blood,
Mingling with old Iberia’s, hath restored
To Spain a ruler of her native line,
Stand forth, and in the face of God and man
Swear to uphold the right, abate the wrong,
With equitable hand, protect the Cross
Whereon thy lips this day shall seal their vow,
And underneath that hallow’d symbol, wage
Holy and inextinguishable war
Against the accursed nation that usurps
Thy country’s sacred soil!
So speak of me
Now and forever, O my countrymen!
Replied Pelayo; and so deal with me
Here and hereafter, thou Almighty God,
In whom I put my trust!
Lord God of Hosts,
Urban pursued, of Angels and of Men
Creator and Disposer, King of Kings,
Ruler of Earth and Heaven, — look down this day,
And multiply thy blessings on the head
Of this thy servant, chosen in thy sight!
Be thou his counsellor, his comforter,
His hope, his joy, his refuge, and his strength;
Crown him with justice, and with fortitude;
Defend him with thine all-sufficient shield;
Surround him every where with the right hand
Of thine all-present power, and with the might
Of thine omnipotence; send in his aid
Thy unseen Angels forth, that potently
And royally against all enemies
He may endure and triumph! Bless the land
O’er which he is appointed; bless thou it
With the waters of the firmament, the springs
Of the low-lying deep, the fruits which Sun
And Moon mature for man, the precious stores
Of the eternal hills, and all the gifts
Of Earth, its wealth and fulness!
Then he took
Pelayo’s hand, and on his finger placed
The mystic circlet. — With this ring, O Prince,
To our dear Spain, who like a widow now
Mourneth in desolation, I thee wed
For weal or woe thou takest her, till death
Dispart the union. Be it blest to her,
To thee, and to thy seed!
Thus when he ceased,
He gave the awaited signal. Roderick brought
The buckler: Eight for strength and stature chosen
Came to their honor’d office: Round the shield
Standing, they lower it for the Chieftain’s feet,
Then, slowly raised upon their shoulders, lift
The steady weight. Erect Pelayo stands,
And thrice he brandishes the burnish’d sword,
While Urban to the assembled people cries,
Spaniards, behold your King! The multitude
Then sent forth all their voice with glad acclaim,
Raising the loud Real; thrice did the word
Ring through the air, and echo from the walls
Of Cangas. Far and wide the thundering shout,
Rolling among reduplicating rocks,
Peal’d o’er the hills, and up the mountain vales.
The wild ass starting in the forest glade
Ran to the covert; the affrighted wolf
Skulk’d through the thicket to a closer brake;
The sluggish bear, awakened in his den,
Housed up and answer’d with a sullen growl,
Low-breathed and long; and at the uproar seared,
The brooding eagle from her nest took wing.
Heroes and Chiefs of old! and ye who bore
Finn to the last your part in that dread strife,
When Julian and Witiza’s viler race
Betray’d their country, hear ye from yon Heaven
The joyful acclamation which proclaims
That Spain is born again! O ye who died
In that disastrous field, and ye who fell
Embracing with a martyr’s love your death
Amid the flames of Auria; and all ye
Victims innumerable, whose cries unheard
On earth, but heard in Heaven, from all the land
Went up for vengeance; not in vain ye cry
Before the eternal throne! — Rest, innocent blood!
Vengeance is due, and vengeance will he given.
Rest, innocent blood? The appointed age is come!
The star that harbingers a glorious day
Hath risen! Lo there the Avenger stands! Lo, there
; He brandishes the avenging sword! Lo, there
The avenging banner spreads its argent field
Refulgent with auspicious light! — Rejoice,
O Leon, for thy banner is displayed;
Rejoice with all thy mountains, and thy vales
And streams! And thou, O Spain, through all thy realms,
For thy deliverance cometh! Even now,
As from all sides the miscreant hosts move on;
From southern Betis; from the western lands,
Where through redundant vales smooth Minho flows,
And Douro pours through vine-clad hills the wealth
Of Leon’s gathered waters; from the plains
Burgensian, in old time Vardulia call’d,
But in their castellated strength erelong
To be design’d Castillo, a deathless name;
From midland regions where Toledo reigns
Proud city on her royal eminence,
And Tagus bends his sickle round the scene
Of Roderick’s fall; from rich Rioja’s fields;
Dark Ebro’s shores; the walls of Salduba,
Seat of the Sedetanians old, by Rome
Caesarian and August denominate,
Now Zaragoza, in this later time
Above all cities of the earth renown’d
For duty perfectly perform’d; — East, West,
And South, where’er their gather’d multitudes,
Urged by the speed of vigorous tyranny,
With more than with commeasurable strength
Haste to prevent the danger, crush the hopes
Of rising Spain, and rivet round her neck
The eternal yoke, — the ravenous fowls of heaven
Flock there presentient of their food obscene,
Following the accursed armies, whom too well
They know their purveyors long. Pursue their inarch,
Ominous attendants! Ere the moon hath fill’d
Her horns, these purveyors shall become the prey,
And ye on Moorish, not on Christian flesh
Wearying your beaks, shall clog your scaly feet
With foreign gore. Soon will ye learn to know,
Followers and harbingers of blood, the flag
Of Leon where it bids you to your feast!
Terror and flight shall with that flag go forth,
And Havock and the Dogs of War and Death
Thou Covadonga with the tainted stream
Of Deva, and this now rejoicing vale,
Soon its primitial triumphs wilt behold!
Nor shall the glories of the noon be less
Than such miraculous promise of the dawn:
Witness Clavijo, where the dreadful cry
Of Santiago, then first heard o’erpower’d
The Akbar, and that holier name blasphemed
By misbelieving lips! Simaneas, thou
Be witness! And do ye your record bear,
Tolosan mountains, where the Almohade
Beheld his myriads scatter’d and destroy’d,
Like locusts swept before the stormy North!
Thou too, Salado, on that later day
When Africa received her final foil,
And thy swollen stream incarnadined, roll’d back
The invaders to the deep, — there shall they toss
Till, on their native Mauritanian shore,
The waves shall east their bones to whiten there.
XIX. RODERICK AND RUSILLA.
WHEN all had been perform’d, the royal Goth
Look’d up towards the chamber in the tower,
Where, gazing on the multitude below,
Alone Rusilla stood, He met her eye,
For it was singling him amid the crowd;
Obeying then the hand which beckon’d him,
He went with heart prepared, nor shrinking now,
But arm’d with sell-approving thoughts that hour.
Entering in tremulous haste, he closed the door,
And turn’d to clasp her knees; but lo, she spread
Her arms, and catching him in close embrace,
Fell on his neck, and cried, My Son, my Son!
Erelong, controlling that first agony
With effort of strong will, backward she bent,
And gazing on his head, now shorn and gray,
And on his furrow’d countenance, exclaim’d,
Still, still my Roderick! the same noble mind!
The same heroic heart! Still, still my Son! —
Changed, — yet not wholly fallen, — not wholly lost,
He cried, — not wholly in the sight of Heaven
Unworthy, O my Mother, nor in thine!
She lock’d her arms again around his neck,
Saying, Lord, let me now depart in peace!
And bow’d her head again, and silently
Gave way to tears.
When that first force was spent,
And passion in exhaustment found relief,
I knew thee, said Rusilla, when the dog
Rose from my feet, and lick’d his master’s hand.
All flash’d upon me then; the instinctive sense
That goes unerringly where reason fails,
The voice, the eye, — a mother’s thoughts are quick,
Miraculous as it seem’d, — Siverian’s tale,
Florinda’s, — every action, — every word,
Each strengthening each, and all confirming all,
Reveal’d thee, O my Son! hut I restrain’d
My heart, and yielded to thy holier will
The thoughts which rose to tempt a soul not yet
Wean’d wholly from the world.
What thoughts? replied
Roderick. That I might see thee yet again
Such as thou wert, she answer’d; not alone
To Heaven and me restored, but to thyself,
Thy Crown, — thy Country, — all within thy reach;
Heaven so disposing all things, that the means
Which wrought the ill, might work the remedy.
Methought I saw thee once again the hope,
The strength, — the pride of Spain! The miracle
Which I beheld made all things possible.
I know the inconstant people, how their mind,
With every breath of good or ill report,
Fluctuates, like summer corn before the breeze;
Quick in their hatred, quicker in their love,
Generous and hasty, soon would they redress
All wrongs of former obloquy. — I thought
Of happiness restored, — the broken heart
Heal’d, — and Count Julian, for his daughter’s sake,
Turning in thy behalf against the Moors
His powerful sword: — all possibilities,
That could be found or fancied, built a dream
Before me; such as easiest might illude
A lofty spirit train’d in palaces,
And not alone amid the flatteries
Of youth with thoughts of high ambition fed
When all is sunshine, but through years of woe,
When sorrows sanctified their use, upheld
By honorable pride and earthly hopes.
I thought I yet might nurse upon my knee
Some young Theodofred, and see in him
Thy Father’s image and thine own renew’d,
And love to think the little hand which there
Flay’d with the bauble should in after days
Wield the transmitted sceptre; — that through him
The ancient seed should be perpetuate,
That precious seed revered so long, desired
So dearly, and so wondrously preserved.
Nay, he replied, Heaven hath not with its bolts
Scathed the proud summit of the tree, and left
The trunk unflaw’d; ne’er shall it clothe its boughs
Again, nor push again its scions forth,
Head,
root, and branch, all mortified alike!
Long ere these locks were shorn had I cut off
The thoughts of royalty! Time might renew
Their growth, as for Manoah’s captive son,
And I too on the miscreant race, like him,
Might prove my strength regenerate; but the hour,
When, in its second best nativity,
My sou] was born again through grace, this heart
Died to the world. Dreams such as thine pass now
Like evening clouds before me; if I think
How beautiful they seem, ’tis but to feel
How soon they fade, how fast the night shuts in.
But in that World to which my hopes look on,
Time enters not, nor Mutability;
Beauty and goodness are unfading there;
Whatever there is given us to enjoy,
That we enjoy forever, still the same.
Much might Count Julian’s sword achieve for Spain
And me, but more will his dear daughter’s soul
Effect in Heaven; and soon will she be there,
An Angel at the throne of Grace, to plead
In his behalf and mine.
I knew thy heart,
She answer’d, and subdued the vain desire,
It was the World’s last effort. Thou hast chosen
The better part. Yes, Roderick, even on earth
There is a praise above the monarch’s fame,
A higher, holier, more enduring praise,
And this will yet be thine!
O tempt me not,
Mother! he cried; nor let ambition take
That specious form to cheat us! What but this,
Fallen as I am, have I to offer Heaven?
The ancestral sceptre, public fame, content
Of private life, the general good report,
Power, reputation, happiness, — whate’er
The heart of man desires to constitute
His earthly weal, — unerring Justice claim’d
In forfeiture. I with submitted soul
Bow to the righteous law and kiss the rod.
Only while thus submitted, suffering thus,
Only while offering up that name on earth,
Perhaps in trial offer’d to my choice,
Could I present myself before thy sight;
Thus only could endure myself, or fix
My thoughts upon that fearful pass, where Death
Stands in the Gate of Heaven! — Time passes on,
The healing work of sorrow is complete;
All vain desires have long been weeded out,
All vain regrets subdued; the heart is dead,
The soul is ripe and eager for her birth.
Bless me, my Mother! and come when it will
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 171