Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  Which bent toward the spring, and when the wind

  Made itself felt, just touch’d with gentle dip

  The glassy surface, ruffled ne’er but then,

  Save when a bubble rising from the depth

  Burst, and with faintest circles mark’d its place,

  Or if an insect skimm’d it with its wing,

  Or when in heavier drops the gather’d rain

  Fell from the oak’s high bower. The mountain roe,

  When, having drank there, he would bound across,

  Drew up upon the bank his meeting feet,

  And put forth half his force. With silent lapse

  From thence through mossy banks the water stole,

  Then murmuring hastened to the glen below.

  Diana might have loved in that sweet spot

  To take her noontide rest; and when she stoop’d

  Hot from the chase to drink, well pleased had seen

  Her own bright crescent, and the brighter face

  It crown’d, reflected there

  Beside that spring

  Count Julian’s tent was pitch’d upon the glade;

  There his ablutions Moor-like he perform’d,

  And Moor-like knelt in prayer, bowing his head

  Upon the mossy bank. There was a sound

  Of voices at the tent when he arose.

  And lo! with hurried step a woman came

  Toward him; rightly’ then his heart presaged,

  And ere he could behold her countenance,

  Florinda knelt, and with uplifted arms

  Embraced her sire. He raised her from the ground,

  Kiss’d her, and clasp’d her to his heart, and said,

  Thou hast not then forsaken me, my child!

  Howe’er the inexorable will of Fate

  May, in the world which is to come, divide

  Our everlasting destinies, in this

  Thou wilt not, O my child, abandon me!

  And then, with deep and interrupted voice,

  Nor seeking to restrain his copious tears,

  My blessing be upon thy head, he cried,

  A father’s blessing! Though all faiths were false.

  It should not lose its worth! — She lock’d her hands

  Around his neck, and gazing in his face

  Through streaming tears, exclaim’d, Oh, never more,

  Here or hereafter, never let us part!

  And breathing then a prayer in silence forth,

  The name of Jesus trembled on her tongue.

  Whom hast thou there? cried Julian, and drew back,

  Seeing that near them stood a meagre man

  In humble garb, who reseed with raised hands

  On a long staff, bending his head like one

  Who, when he hears the distant vesper-bell,

  Halts by the way, and, all unseen of men,

  Offers his homage in the eye of Heaven.

  She answered, Let not my dear lather frown

  In anger on his child! Thy messenger

  Told me that I should be restrain’d no more

  From liberty of faith, which the new law

  Indulged to all; how soon my hour might come

  I knew not, and although that hour will bring

  Few terrors, yet methinks I would not be

  Without a Christian comforter in death.

  A Priest! exclaimed the Count, and drawing back,

  Stoop’d for his turban, that he might not lack

  Some outward symbol of apostasy;

  For still in war his wonted arms he wore,

  Nor for the cimeter had changed the sword

  Accustomed to his hand. He covered now

  His short, gray hair, and under the white folds,

  His swarthy brow, which gather’d as he rose,

  Darken’d. Oh, frown not thus! Florinda said;

  A kind and gentle counsellor is this,

  One who pours balm into a wounded soul,

  And mitigates the griefs he cannot heal.

  I told him I had vow’d to pass my days

  A servant of the Lord, yet that my heart,

  Hearing the message of thy love, was drawn

  With powerful yearnings back. Follow thy heart —

  It answers to the call of duty here,

  He said, nor canst thou better serve the Lord

  Than at thy father’s side.

  Count Julian’s brow,

  While thus she spake, insensibly relax’d.

  A Priest, cried he, and thus with even hand

  Weigh vows and natural duty in the scale?

  In what old heresy hath he been train’d?

  Or in what wilderness hath he escaped

  The domineering Prelate’s fire and sword?

  Come hither, man, and tell me who thou art!

  A sinner, Roderick, drawing nigh, replied,

  Brought to repentance by the grace of God,

  And trusting for forgiveness through the blood

  Of Christ in humble hope.

  A smile of scorn

  Julian assumed, but merely from the lips

  It came; for he was troubled while he gazed

  On the strong countenance and thoughtful eye

  Before him. A new law hath been proclaim’d,

  Said he, which overthrows in its career

  The Christian altars of idolatry.

  What think’st thou of the Prophet? — Roderick

  Made answer, I am in the Moorish camp,

  And he who asketh is a Mussulman.

  How then should I reply? — Safely, rejoin’d

  The renegade, and freely mayst thou speak

  To all that Julian asks. Is not the yoke

  Of Mecca easy, and its burden light?

  Spain hath not found it so, the Goth replied,

  And groaning, turn’d away his countenance.

  Count Julian knit his low, and stood awhile

  Regarding him with meditative eye

  In silence. Thou art honest too! he cried;

  Why, ’twas in quest of such a man as this

  That the old Grecian search’d by lantern light,

  In open day, the city’s crowded streets;

  So rare he deem’d the virtue. Honesty,

  And sense of natural duty in a Priest!

  Now for a miracle, ye Saints of Spain!

  I shall not pry too closely for the wires,

  For, seeing what I sec, ye have me now

  In the believing mood!

  O blessed Saints,

  Florinda cried, ’tis from the bitterness,

  Not from the hardness of the heart, he speaks!

  Hear him! and in your goodness give the scoff

  The virtue of a prayer! So saying, she raised

  Her hands, in fervent action clasp’d, to Heaven,

  Then as still clasp’d, they fell, toward her sire

  She turn’d her eyes, beholding him through tears

  The look, the gesture, and that silent woe,

  Soften’d her father’s heart, which in this hour

  Was open to the influences of love.

  Priest, thy vocation were a blessed one,

  Said Julian, if its mighty power were used

  To lessen human misery, not to swell

  The mournful sum, already all-too-great.

  If, as thy former counsel should imply,

  Thou art not one who would for his craft’s sake

  Fret with corrosives and inflame the wound,

  Which the poor sufferer brings to thee in trust

  That thou with virtuous balm wilt bind it up,

  If, as I think, thou art not one of those

  Whose villany makes honest men turn Moors,

  Thou then wilt answer with unbias’d mind

  What I shall ask thee, and exorcise thus

  The sick and feverish conscience of my child,

  From inbred phantoms, fiend-like, which possess

  Her innocent spirit. Children
we are all

  Of one great Father, in whatever clime

  Nature or chance hath cast the seeds of life,

  All tongues, all colors; neither after death

  Shall we be sorted into languages

  And tints, — white, black, and tawny, Greek and Goth,

  Northmen and offspring of hot Africa,

  The All-Father, He in whom we live and move,

  He the indifferent Judge of all, regards

  Nations, and hues, and dialects alike;

  According to their works shall they he judged,

  When even-handed Justice in the scale

  Their good and evil weighs. All creeds, I ween,

  Agree in this, and hold it orthodox.

  Roderick, perceiving here that Julian paused,

  As if he waited for acknowledgment

  Of that plain truth, in motion of assent

  Inclined his brow complacently, and said,

  Even so: What follows? — This, resumed the Count;

  That creeds, like colors, being but accident,

  Are therefore in the scale imponderable;

  Thou seest my meaning; — That from every faith,

  As every clime, there is a way to Heaven;

  And thou and I may meet in Paradise.

  Oh grant it, God! cried Roderick fervently,

  And smote his breast. Oil grant it, gracious God!

  Through the dear blood of Jesus, grant that he

  And I may meet, before the mercy-throne!

  That were a triumph of Redeeming Love,

  For which admiring Angels would renew

  Their hallelujahs through the choir of Heaven!

  Man! quoth Count Julian, wherefore art thou moved

  To this strange passion? I require of thee

  Thy judgment, not thy prayers!

  Be not displeased!

  In gentle voice subdued the Goth replies;

  A prayer, from whatsoever lips it flow,

  By thine own rule should find the way to Heaven,

  So that the heart in its sincerity

  Straight forward breathe it forth. I, like thyself,

  Am all untrain’d to subtilties of speech,

  Nor competent of this great argument

  Thou openest; and perhaps shall answer thee

  Wide of the words, but to the purport home.

  There are to whom the light of gospel truth

  Hath never reach’d; of such I needs must deem

  As of the sons of men who had their day

  Before the light was given. But, Count, for those

  Who, born amid the light, to darkness turn,

  Wilful in error, — I dare only say,

  God doth not leave the unhappy soul without

  An inward monitor, and till the grave

  Open, the gate of mercy is not closed

  Priest-like! the renegade replied, and shook

  His head in scorn. What is not in the craft

  Is error, and for error there shall be

  No mercy found in Him whom yet ye name

  The Merciful!

  Now God forbid, rejoin’d

  The fallen King, that one who stands in need

  Of mercy for his sins should argue thus

  Of error! Thou hast said that thou and I,

  Thou dying in name a Mussulman, and I

  A servant of the Cross, may meet in Heaven.

  Time was when in our fathers’ ways we walk’d

  Regardlessly alike; faith being to each —

  For so far thou hast reason’d rightly — like

  Our country’s fashion and our mother-tongue,

  Of mere inheritance, — no thing of choice

  In judgment fix’d, nor rooted in the heart.

  Me have the arrows of calamity

  Sore stricken; sinking underneath the weight

  Of sorrow, yet more heavily oppress’d

  Beneath the burden of my sins, I turn’d

  In that dread hour to Him who from the Cross

  Calls to the heavy-laden. There I found

  Relief and comfort; there I have my hope,

  My strength, and my salvation; there, the grave

  Ready beneath my feet, and Heaven in view,

  I to the King of Terrors say, Come, Death,

  Come quickly! Thou too wert a stricken deer,

  Julian, — God pardon the unhappy hand

  That wounded thee! — but whither didst thou go

  For healing? Thou hast turn’d away from Him,

  Who saith, Forgive, as ye would be forgiven;

  And, that the Moorish sword might do thy work,

  Received the creed of Mecca: with what fruit

  For Spain, let tell her cities sack’d, her sons

  Slaughter’d, her daughters than thine own dear child

  More foully wrong’d, more wretched! For thyself,

  Thou hast had thy till of vengeance, and, perhaps,

  The cup was sweet; but it hath left behind

  A bitter relish! Gladly would thy soul

  Forget the past; as little canst thou bear

  To send into futurity thy thoughts.

  And for this Now, what is it, Count, but fear,

  However bravely thou mayst bear thy front,

  Danger, remorse, and stinging obloquy?

  One only hope, one only remedy,

  One only refuge yet remains. — My life

  Is at thy mercy, Count! Call, if thou wilt,

  Thy men, and to the Moors deliver me!

  Or strike thyself! Death were from any hand

  A welcome gift; from thine, and in this cause,

  A boon indeed! My latest words on earth

  Should tell thee that all sins may be effaced,

  Bid thee repent, have faith, and be forgiven!

  Strike, Julian, if thou wilt, and send my soul

  To intercede for thine, that we may meet,

  Thou, and thy child, and I, beyond the grave.

  Thus Roderick spake, and spread his arms as if

  He offer’d to the sword his willing breast,

  With looks of passionate persuasion fix’d

  Upon the Count, who, in his first access

  Of anger, seem’d as though he would have call’d

  His guards to seize the Priest. The attitude

  Disarm’d him, and that fervent zeal sincere,

  And more than both, the look and voice, which like

  A mystery troubled him. Florinda too

  Hung on his arm with both her hands, and cried,

  O father, wrong him not! he speaks from God!

  Life and salvation are upon his tongue!

  Judge thou the value of that faith whereby,

  Reflecting on the past, I murmur not,

  And to the end of all look on with joy

  Of hope assured!

  Peace, innocent! replied

  The Count, and from her hold withdrew his arm;

  Then, with a gather’d brow of mournfulness

  Rather than wrath, regarding Roderick, said,

  Thou preachest that all sins may be effaced;

  Is there forgiveness, Christian, in thy creed

  For Roderick’s crime? — For Roderick and for thee,

  Count Julian, said the Goth, and, as he spake,

  Trembled through every fibre of his frame,

  The gate of Heaven is open. Julian threw

  H is wrathful hand aloft, and cried, Away!

  Earth could not hold us both, nor can one Heaven

  Contain my deadliest enemy and me!

  My father, say not thus! Florinda cried;

  I have forgiven him! I have pray’d for him!

  For him, for thee, and for myself I pour

  One constant prayer to Heaven! In passion then

  She knelt, and bending back, with arms and face

  Raised toward the sky, the supplicant exclaim’d,

  Redeemer, heal his heart! It is the grief

  Whi
ch festers there that hath bewilder’d him!

  Save him, Redeemer! by thy precious death

  Save, save him, O my God! Then on her face

  She fell, and thus with bitterness pursued

  In silent throes her agonizing prayer.

  Afflict not thus thyself, my child, the Count

  Exclaim d; O dearest, be thou comforted;

  Set but thy heart at rest, I ask no more!

  Peace, dearest, peace! — and weeping as he spake,

  He knelt to raise her. Roderick also knelt;

  Be comforted, he cried, and rest in faith

  That God will hear thy prayers! they must be heard.

  He who could doubt the worth of prayers like thine,

  May doubt of all things! Sainted as thou art

  In sufferings here, this miracle will be

  Thy work and thy reward!

  Then, raising her,

  They seated her upon the fountain’s brink,

  And there beside her sat. The moon had risen,

  And that fair spring lay blackened half in shade,

  Half like a burnish’d mirror in her light.

  By that reflected light Count Julian saw

  That Roderick’s face was bathed with tears, and pale

  As monumental marble. Friend, said he,

  Whether thy faith he fabulous, or sent

  Indeed from Heaven, its dearest gift to man,

  Thy heart is true: and had the mitred Priest

  Of Seville been like thee, or hadst thou held

  The place he fill’d; — but this is idle talk,

  Things are as they will be; and we, poor slaves,

  Fret in the harness as we may, must drag

  The Car of Destiny where’er she drives,

  Inexorable and blind!

  Oh wretched man!

  Cried Roderick, if thou seekest to assuage

  Thy wounded spirit with that deadly drug,

  Hell’s subtlest venom; look to thine own heart,

  ‘Where thou hast Will and Conscience to belie

  This juggling sophistry, and lead thee yet

  Through penitence to Heaven!

  Whate’er it be

  That governs us, in mournful tone the Count

  Replied, Fate, Providence, or Allah’s will,

  Or reckless Fortune, still the effect the same,

  A world of evil and of misery!

  Look where we will, we meet it; wheresoe’er

  We go, we bear it with us. Here we sit

  Upon the margin of this peaceful spring,

  And oh! what volumes of calamity

  Would he unfolded here, if either heart

  Laid open its sad records! Tell me not

  Of goodness! Either in some freak of power

  This frame of things was fashion’d, then east off