RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.
A Tragic Poem.
[Illustration: TOLEDO.
_Painted by T. Creswick._ _Engraved by E. Finden._
LONDON; LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN & LONGMANS.]
[Illustration: _Cordoval._
_Painted by T. Creswick._ _Engraved by W. Finden._
LONDON. LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN & LONGMANS. PATERNOSTER ROW.]
RODERICK,
THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.
A Tragic Poem.
BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.
A NEW EDITION.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS.
MDCCCXLIV.
RODERICK,
THE LAST OF THE GOTHS:
A Tragic Poem.
Tanto acrior apud majores, sicut virtutibus gloria, ita
flagitiis pœnitentia, fuit. Sed hæc aliaque, ex veteri memorià
petita, quotiens res locusque exempla recti, aut solatia mali,
poscet, haud absurdè memorabimus.
TACITI _Hist. lib. 3. c. 51_.
TO
GROSVENOR CHARLES BEDFORD,
THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED,
IN LASTING MEMORIAL
OF A LONG AND UNINTERRUPTED FRIENDSHIP,
BY HIS OLD SCHOOLFELLOW,
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
CONTENTS.
Page
PREFACE ix
ORIGINAL PREFACE xxi
RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS:
I. Roderick and Romano 1
II. Roderick in Solitude 12
III. Adosinda 21
IV. The Monastery of St. Felix 35
V. Roderick and Siverian 46
VI. Roderick in Times past 59
VII. Roderick and Pelayo 67
VIII. Alphonso 74
IX. Florinda 82
X. Roderick and Florinda 87
XI. Count Pedro’s Castle 101
XII. The Vow 108
XIII. Count Eudon 116
XIV. The Rescue 125
XV. Roderick at Cangas 131
XVI. Covadonga 141
XVII. Roderick and Siverian 152
XVIII. The Acclamation 161
XIX. Roderick and Rusilla 173
XX. The Moorish Camp 178
XXI. The Fountain in the Forest 188
XXII. The Moorish Council 204
XXIII. The Vale of Covadonga 212
XXIV. Roderick and Count Julian 222
XXV. Roderick in Battle 232
NOTES 251
As the ample Moon,
In the deep stillness of a summer even
Rising behind a thick and lofty Grove,
Burns like an unconsuming fire of light
In the green trees; and kindling on all sides
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil
Into a substance glorious as her own,
Yea, with her own incorporated, by power
Capacious and serene: Like power abides
In Man’s celestial Spirit; Virtue thus
Sets forth and magnifies herself: thus feeds
A calm, a beautiful and silent fire,
From the incumbrances of mortal life,
From error, disappointment, ... nay from guilt;
And sometimes, so relenting Justice wills,
From palpable oppressions of Despair.
WORDSWORTH.
PREFACE.
This poem was commenced at Keswick, Dec. 2. 1809, and finished there July
14. 1814.
A French translation, by M. B. de S., in three volumes 12mo., was
published in 1820, and another by M. le Chevalier ⸺ in one volume 8vo.,
1821. Both are in prose.
When the latest of these versions was nearly ready for publication, the
publisher, who was also the printer, insisted upon having a life of the
author prefixed. The French public, he said, knew nothing of M. Southey,
and in order to make the book sell, it must be managed to interest them
for the writer. The Chevalier represented as a conclusive reason for not
attempting any thing of the kind, that he was not acquainted with M.
Southey’s private history. “Would you believe it?” says a friend of the
translator’s, from whose letter I transscribe what follows; “this was
his answer _verbatim_: ‘_N’importe, écrivez toujours; brodez, brodez-la
un peu; que ce soit vrai ou non ce ne fait rien; qui prendra la peine de
s’informer?_’” Accordingly a _Notice sur M. Southey_ was composed, not
exactly in conformity with the publisher’s notions of biography, but from
such materials as could be collected from magazines and other equally
unauthentic sources.
In one of these versions a notable mistake occurs, occasioned by the
French pronunciation of an English word. The whole passage indeed, in
both versions, may be regarded as curiously exemplifying the difference
between French and English poetry.
“The lamps and tapers now grew pale,
And through the eastern windows slanting fell
The roseate ray of morn. Within those walls
Returning day restored no cheerful sounds
Or joyous motions of awakening life;
But in the stream of light the speckled motes
As if in mimicry of insect play,
Floated with mazy movement. Sloping down
Over the altar pass’d the pillar’d beam,
And rested on the sinful woman’s grave
As if it enter’d there, a light from Heaven.
So be it! cried Pelayo, even so!
As in a momentary interval,
When thought expelling thought, had left his mind
Open and passive to the influxes
Of outward sense, his vacant eye was there, ...
So be it, Heavenly Father, even so I
Thus may thy vivifying goodness shed
Forgiveness there; for let not thou the groans
Of dying penitence, nor my bitter prayers
Before thy mercy-seat, be heard in vain!
And thou, poor soul, who from the dolorous house
Of weeping and of pain, dost look to me
To shorten and assuage thy penal term,
Pardon me that these hours in other thoughts
And other duties than this garb, this night
Enjoin, should thus have past! Our mother-land
Exacted of my heart the sacrifice;
And many a vigil must thy son perform
Henceforth in woods and mountain fastnesses,
And tented fields, outwatching for her sake
The starry host, and ready for the work
Of day, before the sun begins his course.”[1]
_Il se livrait à toutes ces réflexions, quand la lumière des lampes et
des cierges commença à pâlir, et que les premières teintes de l’aurore
se montrèrent à travers les hautes croisées tournées vers l’orient.
Le retour du jour ne ramena point dans ces murs des sons joyeux ni
les mouvemens de la vie qui se réveille; les seuls papillons de nuit,
agitant leurs ailes pesantes, bourdonnaient encore sous les voûtes
ténébreuses. Bientôt le premier rayon du soleil glissant obliquement
par-dessus l’autel, vint s’arrêter sur la tombe de la femme pécheresse,
et la lumière du ciel sembla y pénétrer. “Que ce présage s’accomplisse,”
s’écria Pelage, qui absorbé dans ses méditations, fixait en ce moment
ses yeux sur le tombeau de sa mere; “Dieu de miséricorde, qu’il en soit
ainsi! Puisse ta bonté vivifiante y verser de même le pardon! Que les
sanglots de la pénitence expirante, et que mes prières amères ne montent
point en vain devant le trône éternel. Et toi, pauvre âme, qui de ton
séjour douloureux de souffrances et de larmes, espères en moi pour
abréger et adoucir ton supplice, temporaire, pardonne moi d’avoir, sous
ces habits et dans cette nuit, détourné mes pensées sur d’autres devoirs.
Notre patrie commune a exigé de moi ce sacrifice, et ton fils doit
dorénavant accomplir plus d’une veille dans la profondeur des forêts,
sur la cime des monts, dans les plaines couvertes de tentes, observant,
pour l’amour de l’Espagne, la marche des astres de la nuit, et préparant
l’ouvrage de sa journée avant que le soleil ne commence sa course._”—T.
i. pp. 175-177.
In the other translation the _motes_ are not converted into moths,—but
the image is omitted.
_Consumées dans des soins pareils les rapides heures s’écouloient, les
lampes et les torches commençoient à pâlir, et l’oblique rayon du matin
doroit déjà les vitraux élevés qui regardoient vers l’Orient: le retour
du jour ne ramenoit point, dans cette sombre enceinte, les sons joyeux,
ni le tableau mouvant de la vie qui se reveille; mais, tombant d’en haut,
le céleste rayon, passant au-dessus de l’autel, vint frapper le tombeau
de la femme pécheresse. “Ainsi soit-il,” s’écria Pelage; “ainsi soit-il,
ô divin Créateur! Puisse ta vivifiante bonté verser ainsi le pardon en ce
lieu! Que les gémissemens d’une mort pénitente, que mes amères prières ne
soient pas arrivées en vain devant le trône de miséricorde! Et toi, qui,
de ton séjour de souffrances et de larmes, regardes vers ton fils, pour
abréger et soulager tes peines, pardonne, si d’autres devoirs ont rempli
les heures que cette nuit et cet habit m’enjoignoient de te consacrer!
Notre patrie exigeoit ce sacrifice; d’autres vigiles m’attendent dans
les bois et les défilés de nos montagnes; et bientôt sous la tente, il
me faudra veiller, le soir, avant que le ciel ne se couvre d’étoiles,
être prêt pour le travail du jour, avant que le soleil ne commence sa
course._”—pp. 92, 93.
A very good translation in Dutch verse, was published in two volumes,
8vo. 1823-4, with this title:—“Rodrigo de Goth, Koning van Spanje. Naar
het Engelsch van Southey gevolgd, door Vrouwe Katharina Wilhelmina
Bilderdijk. Te ’s Gravenhage.” It was sent to me with the following
epistle from her husband, Mr. Willem Bilderdijk.
“Roberto Southey, viro spectatissimo,
Gulielmus Bilderdijk, S. P. D.
“Etsi ea nunc temporis passim invaluerit opinio, poetarum genus
quam maxima gloriæ cupiditate flagrare, mihi tamen contraria
semper insedit persuasio, qui divinæ Poëseos altitudinem
veramque laudem non nisi ab iis cognosci putavi quorum præ
cæteris e meliori luto finxerit præcordia Titan, neque aut
verè aut justè judicari vatem nisi ab iis qui eodem afflatu
moveantur. Sexagesimus autem jam agitur annus ex quo et ipse
meos inter æquales poëta salutor, eumque locum quem ineunte
adolescentia occupare contigit, in hunc usque diem tenuisse
videor, popularis auræ nunquam captator, quin immo perpetuus
contemptor; parcus ipse laudator, censor gravis et nonnunquam
molestus. Tuum vero nomen, Vir celeberrime ac spectatissime,
jam antea veneratus, perlecto tuo de Roderico rege poëmate,
non potui non summis extollere laudibus, quo doctissimo simul
ac venustissimo opere, si minus _divinam Aeneida_, saltem
immortalem Tassonis Epopeiam _tentasse_, quin et certo respectu
ita superasse videris, ut majorum perpaucos, æqualium neminem,
cum vera fide ac pietate in Deum, tum ingenio omnique poëtica
dote tibi comparandum existimem. Ne mireris itaque, carminis
tui gravitate ac dulcedine captam, meoque judicio fultam,
non illaudatam in nostratibus Musam tuum illud nobile poëma
fœminea manu sed non insueto labore attrectasse, Belgicoque
sermone reddidisse. Hanc certe, per quadrantem seculi et quod
excurrit felicissimo connubio mihi junctam, meamque in Divina
arte alumnam ac sociam, nimium in eo sibi sumpsisse nemo facile
arbitrabitur cui vel minimum Poëseos nostræ sensum usurpare
contigerit; nec ego hos ejus conatus quos illustri tuo nomini
dicandos putavit, tibi mea manu offerre dubitabam. Hæc itaque
utriusque nostrum in te observantiæ specimina accipe, Vir
illustrissime, ac si quod communium studiorum, si quod veræ
pietatis est vinculum, nos tibi ex animo habe addictissimos.
Vale.
“Dabam Lugduni in Batavis. Ipsis idib. Februar. CIↃIↃCCCXXIV.”
I went to Leyden in 1825, for the purpose of seeing the writer of this
epistle, and the lady who had translated my poem, and addressed it to me
in some very affecting stanzas. It so happened, that on my arrival in
that city, I was laid up under a surgeon’s care; they took me into their
house, and made the days of my confinement as pleasurable as they were
memorable. I have never been acquainted with a man of higher intellectual
power, nor of greater learning, nor of more various and extensive
knowledge than Bilderdijk, confessedly the most distinguished man of
letters in his own country. His wife was worthy of him. I paid them
another visit the following year. They are now both gone to their rest,
and I shall not look upon their like again.
Soon after the publication of Roderick, I received the following curious
letter from the Ettrick Shepherd, (who had passed a few days with me in
the preceding autumn,) giving me an account of his endeavours to procure
a favourable notice of the poem in the Edinburgh Review.
“Edinburgh, Dec. 15. 1814.
“MY DEAR SIR,
“I was very happy at seeing the post-mark of Keswick, and
quite proud of the pleasure you make me believe my “Wake” has
given to the beauteous and happy groupe at Greta Hall. Indeed
few things could give me more pleasure, for I left my heart a
sojourner among them. I have had a higher opinion of matrimony
since that period than ever I had before, and I desire that
you will positively give my kindest respects to each of them
individually.
“The Pilgrim of the Sun is published, as you will see by the
Papers, and if I may believe some communications that I have
got, the public opinion of it is high; but these communications
to an author are not to be depended on.
“I have read Roderick over and over again, and am the more and
more convinced that it is the noblest epic poem of the age. I
have had some correspondence and a good deal of conversation
with Mr. Jeffrey about it, though he does not agree with
me in every particular. He says it is too long, and wants
_elasticity_, and will not, he fears, be generally read, though
much may be said in its favour. I had even teazed him to let
me review it for him, on account, as I said, that he could not
appreciate its merits. I copy one sentence out of the letter he
sent in answer to mine:—
“‘For Southey I have, as well as you, great respect, and when
he will let me, great admiration; but he is a most provoking
fellow, and at least as conceited as his neighbour Wordsworth.
I cannot just trust you with his Roderick; but I shall be
extremely happy to talk over that and other kindred subjects
with you; for I am every way disposed to give Southey a lavish
allowance of praise, and few things would give me greater
pleasure than to find he had afforded me a fair opportunity.
But I must do my duty according to my own apprehensions of it.’
“I supped with him last night, but there was so many people
that I got but little conversation with him, but what we had
was solely about you and Wordsworth. I suppose you have heard
what a crushing review he has given the latter. I still found
him persisting in his first asseveration, that it was heavy;
but what was my pleasure to find that he had only got to the
seventeenth division. I assured him he had the marrow of the
thing to come at as yet, and in that I was joined by Mr.
Alison. There was at the same time a Lady M⸺ joined us at
the instant; short as her remark was, it seemed to make more
impression on Jeffrey than all our arguments:—“Oh, I do love
Southey!” that was all.
“I have no room to tell you more. But I beg that you will not
do any thing, nor publish any thing that will nettle Jeffrey
for the present, knowing as you do how omnipotent he is with
the fashionable world, and seemingly so well disposed toward
you.
“I am ever your’s most truly,
“JAMES HOGG.
“I wish the Notes may be safe enough. I never looked at them. I
wish these large quartos were all in hell burning.”
The reader will be as much amused as I was with poor Hogg’s earnest
desire that I would not say any thing which might tend to frustrate his
friendly intentions.
But what success the Shepherd met
Is to the world a secret yet.
There can be no reason, however, for withholding what was said in my
reply of the _crushing_ review which had been given to Mr. Wordsworth’s
poem:—“_He_ crush the Excursion!! Tell him he might as easily crush
Skiddaw!”
_Keswick, 15 June, 1838._
ORIGINAL PREFACE.
The history of the Wisi-Goths for some years before their overthrow
is very imperfectly known. It is, however, apparent, that the enmity
between the royal families of Chindasuintho and Wamba was one main cause
of the destruction of the kingdom, the latter party having assisted in
betraying their country to the Moors for the gratification of their own
revenge. Theodofred and Favila were younger sons of King Chindasuintho;
King Witiza, who was of Wamba’s family, put out the eyes of Theodofred,
and murdered Favila, at the instigation of that Chieftain’s wife, with
whom he lived in adultery. Pelayo, the son of Favila, and afterwards
the founder of the Spanish monarchy, was driven into exile. Roderick,
the son of Theodofred, recovered the throne, and put out Witiza’s eyes
in vengeance for his father; but he spared Orpas, the brother of the
tyrant, as being a Priest, and Ebba and Sisibert, the two sons of Witiza,
by Pelayo’s mother. It may be convenient thus briefly to premise these
circumstances of an obscure portion of history, with which few readers
can be supposed to be familiar; and a list of the principal persons who
are introduced, or spoken of, may as properly be prefixed to a Poem as to
a Play.
WITIZA, King of the Wisi-Goths; dethroned and blinded by
Roderick.
THEODOFRED, son of King Chindasuintho, blinded by King Witiza.
FAVILA, his brother; put to death by Witiza.
The Wife of Favila, Witiza’s adulterous mistress.
(_These four persons are dead before the action of the poem commences._)
RODERICK, the last King of the Wisi-Goths: son of Theodofred.
PELAYO, the founder of the Spanish Monarchy: son of Favila.
GAUDIOSA, his wife.
GUISLA, his sister.
FAVILA, his son.
HERMESIND, his daughter.
RUSILLA, widow of Theodofred, and mother of Roderick.
COUNT PEDRO, } powerful Lords of Cantabria.
COUNT EUDON, }
ALPHONSO, Count Pedro’s son, afterwards King.
URBAN, Archbishop of Toledo.
ROMANO, a Monk of the Caulian Schools, near Merida.
ABDALAZIZ, the Moorish Governor of Spain.
EGILONA, formerly the wife of Roderick, now of Abdalaziz.
ABULCACEM, }
ALCAHMAN, }
AYUB, } Moorish Chiefs.
IBRAHIM, }
MAGUED, }
ORPAS, brother to Witiza, and formerly Archbishop of
Seville, now a renegade.
SISIBERT, } sons of Witiza and of Pelayo’s mother.
EBBA, }
NUMACIAN, a renegade, governor of Gegio.
COUNT JULIAN, a powerful Lord among the Wisi-Goths, now a
renegade.
FLORINDA, his daughter, violated by King Roderick.
ADOSINDA, daughter of the Governor of Auria.
ODOAR, Abbot of St. Felix.
SIVERIAN, Roderick’s foster-father.
FAVINIA, Count Pedro’s wife.
The four latter persons are imaginary. All the others are mentioned in
history. I ought, however, to observe, that Romano is a creature of
monkish legends; that the name of Pelayo’s sister has not been preserved;
and that that of Roderick’s mother, Ruscilo, has been altered to Rusilla,
for the sake of euphony.
RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.
I.
RODERICK AND ROMANO.
Long had the crimes of Spain cried out to Heaven;
At length the measure of offence was full.
Count Julian call’d the invaders; not because
Inhuman priests with unoffending blood
Had stain’d their country; not because a yoke
Of iron servitude oppress’d and gall’d
The children of the soil; a private wrong
Roused the remorseless Baron. Mad to wreak
His vengeance for his violated child
On Roderick’s head, in evil hour for Spain,
For that unhappy daughter and himself,
Desperate apostate ... on the Moors he call’d;
And like a cloud of locusts, whom the South
Wafts from the plains of wasted Africa,
The Musselmen upon Iberia’s shore
Descend. A countless multitude they came,
Syrian, Moor, Saracen, Greek renegade,
Persian and Copt and Tatar, in one bond
Of erring faith conjoin’d, ... strong in the youth
And heat of zeal, ... a dreadful brotherhood,
In whom all turbulent vices were let loose;
While Conscience, with their impious creed accurst
Drunk as with wine, had sanctified to them
All bloody, all abominable things.
Thou, Calpe, saw’st their coming; ancient Rock
Renown’d, no longer now shalt thou be call’d
From Gods and Heroes of the years of yore,
Kronos, or hundred-handed Briareus,
Bacchus or Hercules; but doom’d to bear
The name of thy new conqueror, and thenceforth
To stand his everlasting monument.
Thou saw’st the dark-blue waters flash before
Their ominous way, and whiten round their keels;
Their swarthy myriads darkening o’er thy sands.
There on the beach the Misbelievers spread
Their banners, flaunting to the sun and breeze;
Fair shone the sun upon their proud array,
White turbans, glittering armour, shields engrail’d
With gold, and scymitars of Syrian steel;
And gently did the breezes, as in sport,
Curl their long flags outrolling, and display
The blazon’d scrolls of blasphemy. Too soon
The gales of Spain from that unhappy land
Wafted, as from an open charnel-house,
The taint of death; and that bright sun, from fields,
Of slaughter, with the morning dew drew up
Corruption through the infected atmosphere.
Then fell the kingdom of the Goths; their hour
Was come, and Vengeance, long withheld, went loose.
Famine and Pestilence had wasted them,
And Treason, like an old and eating sore,
Consumed the bones and sinews of their strength;
And worst of enemies, their Sins were arm’d
Against them. Yet the sceptre from their hands
Pass’d not away inglorious, nor was shame
Left for their children’s lasting heritage;
Eight summer days, from morn till latest eve,
The fatal fight endured, till perfidy
Prevailing to their overthrow, they sunk
Defeated, not dishonour’d. On the banks
Of Chrysus, Roderick’s royal car was found,
His battle-horse Orelio, and that helm
Whose horns, amid the thickest of the fray
Eminent, had mark’d his presence. Did the stream
Receive him with the undistinguish’d dead,
Christian and Moor, who clogg’d its course that day?
So thought the Conqueror, and from that day forth,
Memorial of his perfect victory,
He bade the river bear the name of Joy.
So thought the Goths; they said no prayer for him,
For him no service sung, nor mourning made,
But charged their crimes upon his head, and curs’d
His memory.
Bravely in that eight-days fight
The King had striven, ... for victory first, while hope
Remain’d, then desperately in search of death.
The arrows pass’d him by to right and left,
The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar
Glanced from his helmet. Is the shield of Heaven,
Wretch that I am, extended over me?
Cried Roderick; and he dropt Orelio’s reins,
And threw his hands aloft in frantic prayer, ...
Death is the only mercy that I crave,
Death soon and short, death and forgetfulness!
Aloud he cried; but in his inmost heart
There answer’d him a secret voice, that spake
Of righteousness and judgement after death,
And God’s redeeming love, which fain would save
The guilty soul alive. ’Twas agony,
And yet ’twas hope; ... a momentary light,
That flash’d through utter darkness on the Cross
To point salvation, then left all within
Dark as before. Fear, never felt till then,
Sudden and irresistible as stroke
Of lightning, smote him. From his horse he dropt,
Whether with human impulse, or by Heaven
Struck down, he knew not; loosen’d from his wrist
The sword-chain, and let fall the sword, whose hilt
Clung to his palm a moment ere it fell,
Glued there with Moorish gore. His royal robe,
His horned helmet and enamell’d mail,
He cast aside, and taking from the dead
A peasant’s garment, in those weeds involved
Stole like a thief in darkness from the field.
Evening closed round to favour him. All night
He fled, the sound of battle in his ear
Ringing, and sights of death before his eyes,
With forms more horrible of eager fiends
That seem’d to hover round, and gulphs of fire
Opening beneath his feet. At times the groan
Of some poor fugitive, who, bearing with him
His mortal hurt, had fallen beside the way,
Roused him from these dread visions, and he call’d
In answering groans on his Redeemer’s name,
That word the only prayer that pass’d his lips
Or rose within his heart. Then would he see
The Cross whereon a bleeding Saviour hung,
Who call’d on him to come and cleanse his soul
In those all-healing streams, which from his wounds,
As from perpetual springs, for ever flow’d.
No hart e’er panted for the water-brooks
As Roderick thirsted there to drink and live:
But Hell was interposed; and worse than Hell ...
Yea to his eyes more dreadful than the fiends
Who flock’d like hungry ravens round his head, ...
Florinda stood between, and warn’d him off
With her abhorrent hands, ... that agony
Still in her face, which, when the deed was done,
Inflicted on her ravisher the curse
That it invoked from Heaven.... Oh what a night
Of waking horrors! Nor when morning came
Did the realities of light and day
Bring aught of comfort; wheresoe’er he went
The tidings of defeat had gone before;
And leaving their defenceless homes to seek
What shelter walls and battlements might yield,
Old men with feeble feet, and tottering babes,
And widows with their infants in their arms,
Hurried along. Nor royal festival,
Nor sacred pageant, with like multitudes
E’er fill’d the public way. All whom the sword
Had spared were here; bed-rid infirmity
Alone was left behind; the cripple plied
His crutches, with her child of yesterday
The mother fled, and she whose hour was come
Fell by the road.
Less dreadful than this view
Of outward suffering which the day disclosed,
Had night and darkness seem’d to Roderick’s heart,
With all their dread creations. From the throng
He turn’d aside, unable to endure
This burthen of the general woe; nor walls,
Nor towers, nor mountain fastnesses he sought,
A firmer hold his spirit yearn’d to find,
A rock of surer strength. Unknowing where,
Straight through the wild he hasten’d on all day
And with unslacken’d speed was travelling still
When evening gather’d round. Seven days from morn
Till night he travell’d thus; the forest oaks,
The fig-grove by the fearful husbandman
Forsaken to the spoiler, and the vines,
Where fox and household dog together now
Fed on the vintage, gave him food; the hand
Of Heaven was on him, and the agony
Which wrought within, supplied a strength beyond
All natural force of man.
When the eighth eve
Was come, he found himself on Ana’s banks,
Fast by the Caulian Schools. It was the hour
Of vespers, but no vesper bell was heard,
Nor other sound, than of the passing stream,
Or stork, who flapping with wide wing the air,
Sought her broad nest upon the silent tower.
Brethren and pupils thence alike had fled
To save themselves within the embattled walls
Of neighbouring Merida. One aged Monk
Alone was left behind; he would not leave
The sacred spot beloved, for having served
There from his childhood up to ripe old age
God’s holy altar, it became him now,
He thought, before that altar to await
The merciless misbelievers, and lay down
His life, a willing martyr. So he staid
When all were gone, and duly fed the lamps,
And kept devotedly the altar drest,
And duly offer’d up the sacrifice.
Four days and nights he thus had pass’d alone,
In such high mood of saintly fortitude,
That hope of Heaven became a heavenly joy;
And now at evening to the gate he went
If he might spy the Moors, ... for it seem’d long
To tarry for his crown.
Before the Cross
Roderick had thrown himself; his body raised,
Half kneeling, half at length he lay; his arms
Embraced its foot, and from his lifted face
Tears streaming down bedew’d the senseless stone.
He had not wept till now, and at the gush
Of these first tears, it seem’d as if his heart,
From a long winter’s icey thrall let loose,
Had open’d to the genial influences
Of Heaven. In attitude, but not in act
Of prayer he lay; an agony of tears
Was all his soul could offer. When the Monk
Beheld him suffering thus, he raised him up,
And took him by the arm, and led him in;
And there before the altar, in the name
Of Him whose bleeding image there was hung,
Spake comfort, and adjured him in that name
There to lay down the burthen of his sins.
Lo! said Romano, I am waiting here
The coming of the Moors, that from their hands
My spirit may receive the purple robe
Of martyrdom, and rise to claim its crown.
That God who willeth not the sinner’s death
Hath led thee hither. Threescore years and five,
Even from the hour when I, a five-years child,
Enter’d the schools, have I continued here
And served the altar: not in all those years
Hath such a contrite and a broken heart
Appear’d before me. O my brother, Heaven
Hath sent thee for thy comfort, and for mine,
That my last earthly act may reconcile
A sinner to his God.
Then Roderick knelt
Before the holy man, and strove to speak.
Thou seest, he cried, ... thou seest, ... but memory
And suffocating thoughts repress’d the word,
And shudderings like an ague fit, from head
To foot convulsed him; till at length, subduing
His nature to the effort, he exclaim’d,
Spreading his hands and lifting up his face,
As if resolved in penitence to bear
A human eye upon his shame, ... Thou seest
Roderick the Goth! That name would have sufficed
To tell its whole abhorred history:
He not the less pursued, ... the ravisher,
The cause of all this ruin! Having said,
In the same posture motionless he knelt,
Arms straighten’d down, and hands outspread, and eyes
Raised to the Monk, like one who from his voice
Awaited life or death.
All night the old man
Pray’d with his penitent, and minister’d
Unto the wounded soul, till he infused
A healing hope of mercy that allay’d
Its heat of anguish. But Romano saw
What strong temptations of despair beset,
And how he needed in this second birth,
Even like a yearling child, a fosterer’s care.
Father in Heaven, he cried, thy will be done!
Surely I hoped that I this day should sing
Hosannahs at thy throne; but thou hast yet
Work for thy servant here. He girt his loins,
And from her altar took with reverent hands
Our Lady’s image down: In this, quoth he,
We have our guide and guard and comforter,
The best provision for our perilous way.
Fear not but we shall find a resting place,
The Almighty’s hand is on us.
They went forth,
They cross’d the stream, and when Romano turn’d
For his last look toward the Caulian towers,
Far off the Moorish standards in the light
Of morn were glittering, where the miscreant host
Toward the Lusitanian capital
To lay their siege advanced; the eastern breeze
Bore to the fearful travellers far away
The sound of horn and tambour o’er the plain.
All day they hasten’d, and when evening fell
Sped toward the setting sun, as if its line
Of glory came from Heaven to point their course.
But feeble were the feet of that old man
For such a weary length of way; and now
Being pass’d the danger (for in Merida
Sacaru long in resolute defence
Withstood the tide of war,) with easier pace
The wanderers journey’d on; till having cross’d
Rich Tagus, and the rapid Zezere,
They from Albardos’ hoary height beheld
Pine-forest, fruitful vale, and that fair lake
Where Alcoa, mingled there with Baza’s stream,
Rests on its passage to the western sea,
That sea the aim and boundary of their toil.
The fourth week of their painful pilgrimage
Was full, when they arrived where from the land
A rocky hill, rising with steep ascent,
O’erhung the glittering beach; there on the top
A little lowly hermitage they found,
And a rude Cross, and at its foot a grave,
Bearing no name, nor other monument.
Where better could they rest than here, where faith
And secret penitence and happiest death
Had bless’d the spot, and brought good Angels down,
And open’d as it were a way to Heaven?
Behind them was the desert, offering fruit
And water for their need: on either side
The white sand sparkling to the sun; in front,
Great Ocean with its everlasting voice,
As in perpetual jubilee, proclaim’d
The wonders of the Almighty, filling thus
The pauses of their fervent orisons.
Where better could the wanderers rest than here?
II.
RODERICK IN SOLITUDE.
Twelve months they sojourn’d in their solitude,
And then beneath the burthen of old age
Romano sunk. No brethren were there here
To spread the sackcloth, and with ashes strew
That penitential bed, and gather round
To sing his requiem, and with prayer and psalm
Assist him in his hour of agony.
He lay on the bare earth, which long had been
His only couch; beside him Roderick knelt,
Moisten’d from time to time his blacken’d lips,
Received a blessing with his latest breath,
Then closed his eyes, and by the nameless grave
Of the fore-tenant of that holy place
Consign’d him earth to earth.
Two graves are here,
And Roderick transverse at their feet began
To break the third. In all his intervals
Of prayer, save only when he search’d the woods
And fill’d the water-cruise, he labour’d there;
And when the work was done, and he had laid
Himself at length within its narrow sides
And measured it, he shook his head to think
There was no other business now for him.
Poor wretch, thy bed is ready, he exclaim’d,
And would that night were come!... It was a task,
All gloomy as it was, which had beguiled
The sense of solitude; but now he felt
The burthen of the solitary hours:
The silence of that lonely hermitage
Lay on him like a spell; and at the voice
Of his own prayers, he started half aghast.
Then too as on Romano’s grave he sate
And pored upon his own, a natural thought
Arose within him, ... well might he have spared
That useless toil; the sepulchre would be
No hiding place for him; no Christian hands
Were here who should compose his decent corpse
And cover it with earth. There he might drag
His wretched body at its passing hour,
But there the Sea-Birds of her heritage
Would rob the worm, or peradventure seize,
Ere death had done its work, their helpless prey.
Even now they did not fear him: when he walk’d
Beside them on the beach, regardlessly
They saw his coming; and their whirring wings
Upon the height had sometimes fann’d his cheek,
As if, being thus alone, humanity
Had lost its rank, and the prerogative
Of man were done away.
For his lost crown
And sceptre never had he felt a thought
Of pain; repentance had no pangs to spare
For trifles such as these, ... the loss of these
Was a cheap penalty; ... that he had fallen
Down to the lowest depth of wretchedness,
His hope and consolation. But to lose
His human station in the scale of things, ...
To see brute nature scorn him, and renounce
Its homage to the human form divine; ...
Had then Almighty vengeance thus reveal’d
His punishment, and was he fallen indeed
Below fallen man, below redemption’s reach, ...
Made lower than the beasts, and like the beasts
To perish!... Such temptations troubled him
By day, and in the visions of the night;
And even in sleep he struggled with the thought.
And waking with the effort of his prayers
The dream assail’d him still.
A wilder form
Sometimes his poignant penitence assumed,
Starting with force revived from intervals
Of calmer passion, or exhausted rest;
When floating back upon the tide of thought
Remembrance to a self-excusing strain
Beguiled him, and recall’d in long array
The sorrows and the secret impulses
Which to the abyss of wretchedness and guilt
Led their unwary victim. The evil hour
Return’d upon him, when reluctantly
Yielding to worldly counsel his assent,
In wedlock to an ill-assorted mate
He gave his cold unwilling hand: then came
The disappointment of the barren bed,
The hope deceived, the soul dissatisfied,
Home without love, and privacy from which
Delight was banish’d first, and peace too soon
Departed. Was it strange that when he met
A heart attuned, ... a spirit like his own,
Of lofty pitch, yet in affection mild,
And tender as a youthful mother’s joy, ...
Oh was it strange if at such sympathy
The feelings which within his breast repell’d
And chill’d had shrunk, should open forth like flowers
After cold winds of night, when gentle gales
Restore the genial sun? If all were known,
Would it indeed be not to be forgiven?...
(Thus would he lay the unction to his soul,)
If all were truly known, as Heaven knows all,
Heaven that is merciful as well as just, ...
A passion slow and mutual in its growth,
Pure as fraternal love, long self-conceal’d,
And when confess’d in silence, long controll’d;
Treacherous occasion, human frailty, fear
Of endless separation, worse than death, ...
The purpose and the hope with which the Fiend
Tempted, deceived, and madden’d him; ... but then
As at a new temptation would he start,
Shuddering beneath the intolerable shame,
And clench in agony his matted hair;
While in his soul the perilous thought arose,
How easy ’twere to plunge where yonder waves
Invited him to rest.
Oh for a voice
Of comfort, ... for a ray of hope from Heaven!
A hand that from these billows of despair
May reach and snatch him ere he sink engulph’d!
At length, as life when it hath lain long time
Opprest beneath some grievous malady,
Seems to rouse up with re-collected strength,
And the sick man doth feel within himself
A second spring; so Roderick’s better mind
Arose to save him. Lo! the western sun
Flames o’er the broad Atlantic; on the verge
Of glowing ocean rests; retiring then
Draws with it all its rays, and sudden night
Fills the whole cope of heaven. The penitent
Knelt by Romano’s grave, and falling prone,
Claspt with extended arms the funeral mould.
Father! he cried; Companion! only friend,
When all beside was lost! thou too art gone,
And the poor sinner whom from utter death
Thy providential hand preserved, once more
Totters upon the gulph. I am too weak
For solitude, ... too vile a wretch to bear
This everlasting commune with myself.
The Tempter hath assail’d me; my own heart
Is leagued with him; Despair hath laid the nets
To take my soul, and Memory, like a ghost,
Haunts me, and drives me to the toils. O Saint,
While I was blest with thee, the hermitage
Was my sure haven! Look upon me still,
For from thy heavenly mansion thou canst see
The suppliant; look upon thy child in Christ.
Is there no other way for penitence?
I ask not martyrdom; for what am I
That I should pray for triumphs, the fit meed
Of a long life of holy works like thine;
Or how should I presumptuously aspire
To wear the heavenly crown resign’d by thee,
For my poor sinful sake? Oh point me thou
Some humblest, painfulest, severest path, ...
Some new austerity, unheard of yet
In Syrian fields of glory, or the sands
Of holiest Egypt. Let me bind my brow
With thorns, and barefoot seek Jerusalem,
Tracking the way with blood; there day by day
Inflict upon this guilty flesh the scourge,
Drink vinegar and gall, and for my bed
Hang with extended limbs upon the Cross,
A nightly crucifixion!... any thing
Of action, difficulty, bodily pain,
Labour, and outward suffering, ... any thing
But stillness and this dreadful solitude!
Romano! Father! let me hear thy voice
In dreams, O sainted Soul! or from the grave
Speak to thy penitent; even from the grave
Thine were a voice of comfort.
Thus he cried,
Easing the pressure of his burthen’d heart
With passionate prayer; thus pour’d his spirit forth,
Till with the long impetuous effort spent,
His spirit fail’d, and laying on the grave
His weary head as on a pillow, sleep
Fell on him. He had pray’d to hear a voice
Of consolation, and in dreams a voice
Of consolation came. Roderick, it said, ...
Roderick, my poor, unhappy, sinful child,
Jesus have mercy on thee!... Not if Heaven
Had opened, and Romano, visible
In his beatitude, had breathed that prayer; ...
Not if the grave had spoken, had it pierced
So deeply in his soul, nor wrung his heart
With such compunctious visitings, nor given
So quick, so keen a pang. It was that voice
Which sung his fretful infancy to sleep
So patiently; which soothed his childish griefs,
Counsell’d, with anguish and prophetic tears,
His headstrong youth. And lo! his Mother stood
Before him in the vision; in those weeds
Which never from the hour when to the grave
She follow’d her dear lord Theodofred
Rusilla laid aside; but in her face
A sorrow that bespake a heavier load
At heart, and more unmitigated woe, ...
Yea, a more mortal wretchedness than when
Witiza’s ruffians and the red-hot brass
Had done their work, and in her arms she held
Her eyeless husband; wiped away the sweat
Which still his tortures forced from every pore
Cool’d his scorch’d lids with medicinal herbs,
And pray’d the while for patience for herself
And him, and pray’d for vengeance too, and found
Best comfort in her curses. In his dream,
Groaning he knelt before her to beseech
Her blessing, and she raised her hands to lay
A benediction on him. But those hands
Were chain’d, and casting a wild look around,
With thrilling voice she cried, Will no one break
These shameful fetters? Pedro, Theudemir,
Athanagild, where are ye? Roderick’s arm
Is wither’d; ... Chiefs of Spain, but where are ye?
And thou, Pelayo, thou our surest hope,
Dost thou too sleep?... Awake, Pelayo!... up!...
Why tarriest thou, Deliverer?... But with that
She broke her bonds, and lo! her form was changed!
Radiant in arms she stood! a bloody Cross
Gleam’d on her breast-plate, in her shield display’d
Erect a lion ramp’d; her helmed head
Rose like the Berecynthian Goddess crown’d
With towers, and in her dreadful hand the sword
Red as a fire-brand blazed. Anon the tramp
Of horsemen, and the din of multitudes
Moving to mortal conflict, rang around;
The battle-song, the clang of sword and shield,
War-cries and tumult, strife and hate and rage,
Blasphemous prayers, confusion, agony,
Rout and pursuit and death; and over all
The shout of victory ... Spain and Victory!
Roderick, as the strong vision master’d him,
Rush’d to the fight rejoicing: starting then,
As his own effort burst the charm of sleep,
He found himself upon that lonely grave
In moonlight and in silence. But the dream
Wrought in him still; for still he felt his heart
Pant, and his wither’d arm was trembling still;
And still that voice was in his ear which call’d
On Jesus for his sake.
Oh, might he hear
That actual voice! and if Rusilla lived, ...
If shame and anguish for his crimes not yet
Had brought her to the grave, ... sure she would bless
Her penitent child, and pour into his heart
Prayers and forgiveness, which like precious balm,
Would heal the wounded soul. Nor to herself
Less precious, or less healing, would the voice
That spake forgiveness flow. She wept her son
For ever lost, cut off with all the weight
Of unrepented sin upon his head,
Sin which had weigh’d a nation down ... what joy
To know that righteous Heaven had in its wrath
Remember’d mercy, and she yet might meet
The child whom she had borne, redeem’d, in bliss.
The sudden impulse of such thoughts confirm’d
That unacknowledged purpose, which till now
Vainly had sought its end. He girt his loins,
Laid holiest Mary’s image in a cleft
Of the rock, where, shelter’d from the elements,
It might abide till happier days came on,
From all defilement safe; pour’d his last prayer
Upon Romano’s grave, and kiss’d the earth
Which cover’d his remains, and wept as if
At long leave-taking, then began his way.
III.
ADOSINDA.