Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  The inevitable hour, we die in peace.

  So saying, on her knees he bow’d his head;

  She raised her hands to Heaven and blest her child

  Then bending forward, as he rose, embraced

  And clasp’d him to her heart, and cried, Once more

  Theodofred, with pride behold thy son!

  XX. THE MOORISH CAMP.

  THE times are big with tidings; every hour

  From east, and west, and south, the breathless scouts

  Bring swift alarums in; the gathering foe,

  Advancing from all quarters to one point,

  Close their wide crescent. Nor was aid of fear

  To magnify their numbers needed now;

  They came in myriads. Africa had pour’d

  Fresh shoals upon the coast of wretched Spain;

  Lured from their hungry deserts to the scene

  Of spoil, like vultures to the battle-field,

  Fierce, unrelenting, habited in crimes,

  Like bidden guests the mirthful ruffians flock

  To that free feast which in their Prophet’s name

  Rapine and Lust proclaim’d. Nor wore the chiefs

  Of victory less assured, by long success

  Elate, and proud of that o’erwhelming strength,

  Which, surely they believed, as it had roll’d

  Thus far uncheck’d, would roll victorious on,

  Till, like the Orient, the subjected West

  Should bow in reverence at Mahommed’s name;

  And pilgrims, from remotest Arctic shores,

  Tread with religious feet the burning sands

  Of Araby, and Mecca’s stony soil.

  Proud of his part in Roderick’s overthrow,

  Their leader Abulcacem came, a man

  Immitigable, long in war renown’d.

  Here Magned comes, who on the conquer’d walls

  Of Cordoba, by treacherous fear betray’d,

  Planted the moony standard: Ibrahim here,

  He, who, by Genii and in Darro’s vales,

  Had for the Moors the fairest portion won

  Of all their spoils, fairest and best maintain’d,

  And to the Alpuxarras given in trust

  His other name, through them preserved in song.

  Here too Alcahinan, vaunting his late deeds

  At Auria, all her children by the sword

  Cut off, her bulwarks razed, her towers laid low,

  Her dwellings by devouring flames consumed,

  Bloody and hard of heart, he little ween d,

  Vain-boastful chief! that from those fatal flames

  The fire of retribution had gone forth,

  Which soon should wrap him round.

  The renegades

  Here too were seen, Ebba and Sisibert;

  A. spurious brood, but of their parent’s crimes

  True heirs, in guilt begotten, and in ill

  Train’d up. The same unnatural rage that turn’d

  Their swords against their country, made them seek,

  Unmindful of their wretched mother’s end,

  Pelayo’s life. No enmity is like

  Domestic hatred. For his blood they thirst,

  As if that sacrifice might satisfy

  Witiza’s guilty ghost, efface the shame

  Of their adulterous birth, and one crime more

  Crowning a hideous course, emancipate

  Thenceforth their spirits from all earthly fear.

  This was their only care; but other thoughts

  Were rankling in that elder villain’s mind,

  Their kinsman Orpas, he of all the crew

  Who in this fatal visitation fell,

  The foulest and the falsest wretch that e’er

  Renounced his baptism. From his cherish’d views

  Of royalty cut off, he coveted

  Count Julian’s wide domains, and hopeless now

  To gain them through the daughter, laid his toils

  Against the father’s life, — the instrument

  Of his ambition first, and now design’d

  Its victim. To this end, with cautious hints,

  At favoring season ventured, he possess’d

  The leader’s mind; then, subtly fostering

  The doubts himself had sown, with bolder charge

  He bade him warily regard the Count,

  Lest underneath an outward show of faith

  The heart uncircumcised were Christian still;

  Else, wherefore had Florinda not obey’d

  Her dear-loved sire’s example, and embraced

  The saving truth? Else, wherefore was her hand,

  Plighted to him so long, so long withheld,

  Till she had found a fitting hour to fly

  With that audacious Prince, who now, in arms,

  Defied the Caliph’s power; — for who could doubt

  That in his company she fled, perhaps

  The mover of his flight? What if the Count

  Himself had plann’d the evasion which he feign’d

  In sorrow to condemn? What if she went,

  A pledge assured, to tell the mountaineers

  That when they met the Mussulmen in the heat

  Of fight, her father, passing to their side.

  Would draw the victory with him? — Thus he breathed

  Fiend-like in Abulcacem’s car his schemes

  Of murderous malice; and the course of things,

  Erelong, in part approving his discourse,

  Aided his aim, and grave his wishes weight.

  For scarce on the Asturian territory

  Had they set foot, when, with the speed of fear,

  Count Eudon, nothing doubting that their force

  Would like a flood sweep all resistance down,

  Hasten’d to plead his merits; — he alone,

  Found faithful in obedience through reproach

  And danger, when the madden’d multitude

  Hurried their chiefs along, and high and low

  With one infectious frenzy seized, provoked

  The invincible in arms. Pelayo led

  The raging crew, — he doubtless the prime spring

  Of all these perilous movements; and ’twas said

  He brought the assurance of a strong support,

  Count Julian’s aid, for in his company

  From Cordoba, Count Julian’s daughter came.

  Thus Eudon spake before the assembled chiefs;

  When instantly a stern and wrathful voice

  Replied, I know Pelayo never made

  That senseless promise! He who raised the tale

  Lies foully; but the bitterest enemy

  That ever hunted for Pelayo’s life

  Hath never with the charge of falsehood touch’d

  His name.

  The Baron had not recognized

  Till then, beneath the turban’s shadowing folds,

  Julian’s swart visage, where the fiery skies

  Of Africa, through many a year’s long course,

  Had set their hue inburnt. Something he sought

  In quick excuse to say of common fame,

  Lightly believed and busily diffused,

  And that no enmity had moved his speech

  Repeating rumor’s tale. Julian replied,

  Count Eudon, neither for thyself nor me

  Excuse is needed here. The path I tread

  Is one wherein there can be no return,

  No pause, no looking back! A choice like mine

  For time and for eternity is made,

  Once and forever! and as easily

  The breath of vain report might build again

  The throne which my just vengeance overthrew,

  As in the Caliph and his Captain’s mind

  Affect the opinion of my well-tried truth.

  The tidings which thou givest me of my child

  Touch me more vitally; bad though they be,

  A secret apprehension of aug
ht worse

  Makes me with joy receive them.

  Then the Count

  To Abulcacem turn’ll his speech, and paid,

  I pray thee, Chief, give me a messenger

  By whom I may to this unhappy child

  Despatch a lather’s bidding, such as yet

  May win her back. What I would say requires

  No veil of privacy; before ye all

  The errand shall be given.

  Boldly he spake,

  Yet wary in that show of open truth,

  For well he knew what dangers girt him round

  Amid the faithless race. Blind with revenge,

  For them in madness had he sacrificed

  His name, his baptism, and his native land,

  To feel, still powerful as he was, that life Hung on their jealous favor. But his heart

  Approved him now, where love, too long restrain’d,

  Resumed its healing influence, leading him

  Right on with no misgiving. Chiefs, he said,

  Hear me, and let your wisdom judge between

  Me and Prince Orpas! — Known it is to all,

  Too well, what mortal injury provoked

  My spirit to that vengeance which your aid

  So signally hath given. A covenant

  We made when first our purpose we combined,

  That he should have Florinda for his wife,

  My only child; so should she be, I thought,

  Revenged and honor’d best. My word was given

  Truly, nor did I cease to use all means

  Of counsel or command, entreating her

  Sometimes with tears, seeking sometimes with threats

  Of an offended father’s curse to enforce

  Obedience; that, she said, the Christian law

  Forbade; moreover she had vow’d herself

  A servant to the Lord. In vain I strove

  To win her to the Prophet’s saving faith,

  Using perhaps a rigor to that end

  Beyond permitted means, and to my heart,

  Which loved her dearer than its own life-blood,

  Abhorrent. Silently she suffer’d all;

  Or, when I urged her with most vehemence,

  Only replied, I knew her fix’d resolve,

  And craved my patience but a little while,

  Till death should set her free. Touch’d as I was

  I yet persisted, till at length, to escape

  The ceaseless importunity, she fled:

  And verily I fear’d, until this hour,

  My rigor to some fearfuler resolve

  Than flight, had driven my child. Chiefs, I appeal

  To each and all, and, Orpas, to thyself

  Especially, if, having thus essay’d

  All means that law and nature have allow’d

  To bend her will, I may not rightfully

  Hold myself free, that promise being void

  Which cannot be fulfill’d.

  Thou sayest then,

  Orpas replied, that from her false belief

  Her stubborn opposition drew its force.

  I should have thought that from the ways corrupt

  Of these idolatrous Christians, little care

  Might have sufficed to wean a duteous child,

  The example of a parent so beloved

  Leading the way; and yet I will not doubt

  Thou didst enforce with all sincerity

  And holy zeal upon thy daughter’s mind

  The truths of Islam.

  Julian knit his brow,

  And scowling on the insidious renegade,

  He answer’d, By what reasoning my poor mind

  Was from the old idolatry reclaim’d,

  None better knows than Seville’s mitred chief,

  Who first renouncing errors which he taught,

  Led me his follower to the Prophet’s pale.

  Thy lessons I repeated as I could;

  Of graven images, unnatural vows,

  False records, tabling creeds, and juggling priests,

  Who, making sanctity the cloak of sin,

  Laugh’d at the fools on whose credulity

  They fatten’d. To these arguments, whose worth

  Prince Orpas, least of all men, should impeach,

  I added, like a soldier bred in arms,

  And to the subtleties of schools unused,

  The flagrant fact, that Heaven with victory,

  Where’er they turn’d, attested and approved

  The chosen Prophet’s arms. If thou wert still

  The mitred Metropolitan, and I

  Some wretch of Arian or of Hebrew race,

  Thy proper business then might be to pry

  And question me for lurking flaws of faith.

  We Mussulmen, Prince Orpas, live beneath

  A wiser law, which with the iniquities

  Of thine old craft, hath abrogated this

  Its foulest practice!

  As Count Julian ceased,

  From underneath his black and gather’d brow

  There went a look, which with these wary words

  Bore to the heart of that false renegade

  Their whole envenom’d meaning. Haughtily

  Withdrawing then his alter’d eyes, he said,

  Too much of this! Return we to the sum

  Of my discourse. Let Abulcacem say,

  In whom the Caliph speaks, if with all faith

  Having essay’d in vain all means to win

  My child’s consent, I may not hold henceforth

  The covenant discharged.

  The Moor replied,

  Well hast thou said, and rightly mayst assure

  Thy daughter that the Prophet’s holy law

  Forbids compulsion. Give thine errand now;

  The messenger is here.

  Then Julian said,

  Go to Pelayo, and from him entreat

  Admittance to my child, where’er she be.

  Say to her, that her father solemnly

  Annuls the covenant with Orpas pledged,

  Nor with solicitations, nor With threats,

  Will urge her more, nor from that liberty

  Of faith restrain her, which the Prophet’s law,

  Liberal as Heaven from whence it came, to all

  Indulges. Tell her that her father says

  His days are number’d, and beseeches her

  By that dear love, which from her infancy

  Still he hath borne her, growing as she grew,

  Nursed in our weal and strengthen’d in our woe,

  She will not in the evening of his life

  Leave him forsaken and alone. Enough

  Of sorrow, tell her, have her injuries

  Brought on her father s head; let not her act

  Thus aggravate the burden. Tell her, too,

  That when he pray’d her to return, he wept

  Profusely as a child; but bitterer tears

  Than ever fell from childhood’s eyes, were those

  Which traced his hardy cheeks.

  With faltering voice

  He spake, and after he had ceased from speech

  His lip was quivering still. The Moorish chief

  Then to the messenger his bidding gave.

  Say, cried he, to these rebel infidels,

  Thus Abuleacem, in the Caliph’S name

  Exhorteth them: Repent and be forgiven!

  Nor think to slop the dreadful storm of war,

  Which, conquering and to conquer, must fulfil

  Its destined circle, rolling eastward now,

  Back from the subjugated west, to sweep

  Thrones and dominions down, till in the bond

  Of unity all nations join, and Earth

  Acknowledge, as she sees one Sun in heaven,

  One God, one Chief, one Prophet, and one Law.

  Jerusalem, the holy City, bows

  To holier Mecca’s creed; the Crescent shines

  Triumphant o’er the etern
al pyramids;

  On the cold altars of the worshippers

  Of Fire, moss grows, and reptiles leave their slime;

  The African idolatries are fallen,

  And Europe’s senseless gods of stone and wood

  Have had their day. Tell these misguided men,

  A moment for repentance yet is left,

  And mercy the submitted neck will spare

  Before the sword is drawn; but once unsheath’d,

  Let Auria witness how that dreadful sword

  Accomplished its work! They little know

  The Moors, who hope in battle to withstand

  Their valor, or in flight escape their rage!

  Amid our deserts, we hunt down the birds

  Of heaven, — wings do not save them! Nor shall rocks,

  And holds, and fastnesses, avail to save

  These mountaineers. Is not the Earth the Lord’s?

  And we, his chosen people, whom he sends

  To conquer and possess it in his name?

  XXI. THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST.

  THE second eve had closed upon their march

  Within the Asturian border, and the Moors

  Had pitch’d their tents amid an open wood

  Upon the mountain side. As day grew dim,

  Their scatter’d fires shone with distincter light

  Among the trees, above whose top the smoke

  Diffused itself, and stain’d the evening sky.

  Erelong the stir of occupation ceased,

  And all the murmur of the busy host,

  Subsiding, died away, as through the camp

  The crier, from a knoll, proclaim’d the hour

  For prayer appointed, and with sonorous voice,

  Thrice, in melodious modulation full,

  Pronounced the highest name. There is no God

  But God, he cried; there is no God but God!

  Mahommed is the Prophet of the Lord!

  Come ye to prayer! to prayer! The Lord is great!

  There is no God but God! — Thus he pronounced

  His ritual form, mingling with holiest truth

  The audacious name accursed. The multitude

  Made their ablutions in the mountain stream

  Obedient, then their faces to the earth

  Bent in formality of easy prayer.

  An arrow’s flight above that mountain stream

  There was a little glade, where underneath

  A long, smooth, mossy stone a fountain rose.

  An oak grew near, and with its ample boughs

  O’ercanopied the spring; its fretted roots

  Emboss’d the bank, and on their tufted bark

  Grew plants which love the moisture and the shade;

  Short ferns, and longer leaves of wrinkled green