Conceal’d, at dusk Pelayo pass’d the gate,
Florinda following near, disguised alike.
Two peasants on their mules they seem’d, at eve
Returning from the town. Not distant far,
Alphonso by the appointed orange-grove,
With anxious eye and agitated heart,
Watch’d for the Prince’s coming. Eagerly
At every foot-fall through the gloom he strain’d
His sight, nor did he recognize him when
The Chieftain thus accompanied drew nigh;
And when the expected signal called him on,
Doubting this female presence, half in fear
Obey’d the call. Pelayo too perceived
The boy was not alone; he not for that
Delay’d the summons, but lest need should be,
Laying hand upon his sword, toward him bent
In act soliciting speech, and low of voice
Enquired if friend or foe. Forgive me, cried
Alphonso, that I did not tell thee this,
Full as I was of happiness, before.
’Tis Hoya, servant of my father’s house,
Unto whose dutiful care and love, when sent
To this vile bondage, I was given in charge.
How could I look upon my father’s face
If I had in my joy deserted him,
Who was to me found faithful?... Right! replied
The Prince; and viewing him with silent joy,
Blessed the Mother, in his heart he said,
Who gave thee birth! but sure of womankind
Most blessed she whose hand her happy stars
Shall link with thine! and with that thought the form
Of Hermesind, his daughter, to his soul
Came in her beauty.
Soon by devious tracks
They turn’d aside. The favouring moon arose,
To guide them on their flight through upland paths
Remote from frequentage, and dales retired,
Forest and mountain glen. Before their feet
The fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade,
Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their way;
The timorous blackbird, starting at their step,
Fled from the thicket with shrill note of fear;
And far below them in the peopled dell,
When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased,
The distant watch-dog’s voice at times was heard,
Answering the nearer wolf. All through the night
Among the hills they travell’d silently;
Till when the stars were setting, at what hour
The breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheld
Within a lonely grove the expected fire,
Where Roderick and his comrade anxiously
Look’d for the appointed meeting. Halting there,
They from the burthen and the bit relieved
Their patient bearers, and around the fire
Partook of needful food and grateful rest.
Bright rose the flame replenish’d; it illumed
The cork-tree’s furrow’d rind, its rifts and swells
And redder scars, ... and where its aged boughs
O’erbower’d the travellers, cast upon the leaves
A floating, grey, unrealizing gleam.
Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heath
Lay carelessly dispread, in happy dreams
Of home; his faithful Hoya slept beside.
Years and fatigue to old Siverian brought
Easy oblivion; and the Prince himself,
Yielding to weary nature’s gentle will,
Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sate
Beholding Roderick with fix’d eyes intent,
Yet unregardant of the countenance
Whereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb’d,
Collecting fortitude for what she yearn’d,
Yet trembled to perform. Her steady look
Disturb’d the Goth, albeit he little ween’d
What agony awaited him that hour.
Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was now
Half-hidden, and the lustre of her eye
Extinct; nor did her voice awaken in him
One startling recollection when she spake,
So altered were its tones.
Father, she said,
All thankful as I am to leave behind
The unhappy walls of Cordoba, not less
Of consolation doth my heart receive
At sight of one to whom I may disclose
The sins which trouble me, and at his feet
Lay down repentantly, in Jesu’s name,
The burthen of my spirit. In his name
Hear me, and pour into a wounded soul
The balm of pious counsel.... Saying thus,
She drew toward the minister ordain’d,
And kneeling by him, Father, dost thou know
The wretch who kneels beside thee? she enquired,
He answered, Surely we are each to each
Equally unknown.
Then said she, Here thou seest
One who is known too fatally for all, ...
The daughter of Count Julian.... Well it was
For Roderick that no eye beheld him now;
From head to foot a sharper pang than death
Thrill’d him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke,
Ceased from its functions: his breath fail’d, and when
The power of life recovering set its springs
Again in action, cold and clammy sweat
Starting at every pore suffused his frame.
Their presence help’d him to subdue himself;
For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallen
Before Florinda prostrate on the earth,
And in that mutual agony belike
Both souls had taken flight. She mark’d him not,
For having told her name, she bow’d her head,
Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven,
While, as a penitent, she wrought herself
To open to his eye her hidden wounds.
Father, at length she said, all tongues amid
This general ruin shed their bitterness
On Roderick, load his memory with reproach,
And with their curses persecute his soul....
Why shouldst thou tell me this? exclaim’d the Goth,
From his cold forehead wiping as he spake
The death-like moisture; ... Why of Roderick’s guilt
Tell me? Or thinkest thou I know it not?
Alas! who hath not heard the hideous tale
Of Roderick’s shame! Babes learn it from their nurses,
And children, by their mothers unreproved,
Link their first execrations to his name.
Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy,
That, like Iscariot’s, through all time shall last,
Reeking and fresh for ever!
There! she cried,
Drawing her body backward where she knelt,
And stretching forth her arms with head upraised,
There! it pursues me still!... I came to thee,
Father, for comfort, and thou heapest fire
Upon my head. But hear me patiently,
And let me undeceive thee; self-abased,
Not to arraign another, do I come;
I come a self-accuser, self-condemn’d
To take upon myself the pain deserved;
For I have drank the cup of bitterness,
And having drank therein of heavenly grace,
I must not put away the cup of shame.
Thus as she spake she falter’d at the close,
And in that dying fall her voice sent forth
Somewhat of its original sweetness. Thou!...
Thou self-abased! exclaim’d the astonish’d King; ...
Thou self-condemn’d!... The cup of shame for thee!
Thee ... thee, Florinda!... But the very excess
Of passion check’d his speech, restraining thus
From farther transport, which had haply else
Master’d him; and he sate like one entranced,
Gazing upon that countenance so fallen,
So changed: her face, raised from its muffler now,
Was turn’d toward him, and the fire-light shone
Full on its mortal paleness; but the shade
Conceal’d the King.
She roused him from the spell
Which held him like a statue motionless.
Thou too, quoth she, dost join the general curse,
Like one who when he sees a felon’s grave,
Casting a stone there as he passes by,
Adds to the heap of shame. Oh what are we,
Frail creatures as we are, that we should sit
In judgement man on man! and what were we,
If the All-merciful should mete to us
With the same rigorous measure wherewithal
Sinner to sinner metes! But God beholds
The secrets of the heart, ... therefore his name
Is Merciful. Servant of God, see thou
The hidden things of mine, and judge thou then
In charity thy brother who hath fallen....
Nay, hear me to the end! I loved the King, ...
Tenderly, passionately, madly loved him.
Sinful it was to love a child of earth
With such entire devotion as I loved
Roderick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth!
And yet methought this was its only crime,
The imaginative passion seem’d so pure:
Quiet and calm like duty, hope nor fear
Disturb’d the deep contentment of that love;
He was the sunshine of my soul, and like
A flower, I lived and flourish’d in his light.
Oh bear not with me thus impatiently!
No tale of weakness this, that in the act
Of penitence, indulgent to itself,
With garrulous palliation half repeats
The sin it ill repents. I will be brief,
And shrink not from confessing how the love
Which thus began in innocence, betray’d
My unsuspecting heart; nor me alone,
But him, before whom, shining as he shone
With whatsoe’er is noble, whatsoe’er
Is lovely, whatsoever good and great,
I was as dust and ashes, ... him, alas!
This glorious being, this exalted Prince,
Even him, with all his royalty of soul,
Did this ill-omen’d, this accursëd love,
To his most lamentable fall betray
And utter ruin. Thus it was: The King,
By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised,
To an unworthy mate had bound himself
In politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tell
How Nature upon Egilona’s form,
Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts,
Left, like a statue from the graver’s hands,
Deformity and hollowness beneath
The rich external? For the love of pomp
And emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr’d
The grief and wonder of good men, the gibes
Of vulgar ribaldry, the reproach of all;
Profaning the most holy sacrament
Of marriage, to become chief of the wives
Of Abdalaziz, of the Infidel,
The Moor, the tyrant-enemy of Spain!
All know her now; but they alone who knew
What Roderick was can judge his wretchedness,
To that light spirit and unfeeling heart
In hopeless bondage bound. No children rose
From this unhappy union, towards whom
The springs of love within his soul confined
Might flow in joy and fulness; nor was he
One, like Witiza, of the vulgar crew,
Who in promiscuous appetite can find
All their vile nature seeks. Alas for man!
Exuberant health diseases him, frail worm!
And the slight bias of untoward chance
Makes his best virtue from the even line,
With fatal declination, swerve aside.
Aye, thou mayest groan for poor mortality, ...
Well, Father, mayest thou groan!
My evil fate
Made me an inmate of the royal house,
And Roderick found in me, if not a heart
Like his, ... for who was like the heroic Goth?...
One which at least felt his surpassing worth,
And loved him for himself.... A little yet
Bear with me, reverend Father, for I touch
Upon the point, and this long prologue goes,
As justice bids, to palliate his offence,
Not mine. The passion, which I fondly thought
Such as fond sisters for a brother feel,
Grew day by day, and strengthen’d in its growth,
Till the beloved presence had become
Needful as food or necessary sleep,
My hope, light, sunshine, life, and every thing.
Thus lapt in dreams of bliss, I might have lived
Contented with this pure idolatry,
Had he been happy: but I saw and knew
The inward discontent and household griefs
Which he subdued in silence; and alas!
Pity with admiration mingling then,
Alloy’d and lower’d and humanized my love,
Till to the level of my lowliness
It brought him down; and in this treacherous heart
Too often the repining thought arose,
That if Florinda had been Roderick’s Queen,
Then might domestic peace and happiness
Have bless’d his home and crown’d our wedded loves.
Too often did that sinful thought recur,
Too feebly the temptation was repell’d.
See, Father, I have probed my inmost soul;
Have search’d to its remotest source the sin;
And tracing it through all its specious forms
Of fair disguisement, I present it now,
Even as it lies before the eye of God,
Bare and exposed, convicted and condemn’d.
One eve, as in the bowers which overhang
The glen where Tagus rolls between his rocks
I roam’d alone, alone I met the King.
His countenance was troubled, and his speech
Like that of one whose tongue to light discourse
At fits constrain’d, betrays a heart disturb’d:
I too, albeit unconscious of his thoughts,
With anxious looks reveal’d what wandering words
In vain essay’d to hide. A little while
Did this oppressive intercourse endure,
Till our eyes met in silence, each to each
Telling their mutual tale, then consciously
Together fell abash’d. He took my hand
And said, Florinda, would that thou and I
Earlier had met! oh what a blissful lot
Had then been mine, who might have found in thee
The sweet companion and the friend endear’d,
A fruitful wife and crown of earthly joys!
Thou too shouldst then have been of womankind
Happiest, as now the loveliest.... And with that,
First giving way to passion first disclosed,
He press’d upon my lips a guilty kiss, ...
Alas! more guiltily received than given.
Passive and yielding, and yet self-reproach’d,
Trembling I stood, upheld in his embrace;
When coming steps were heard, and Roderick said,
Meet me to-morrow, I beseech thee, here,
Queen of my heart! Oh meet me here again,
My own Florinda, meet me here again!...
Tongue, eye, and pressure of the impassion’d hand
Solicited and urged the ardent suit,
And from my hesitating hurried lips
The word of promise fatally was drawn.
O Roderick, Roderick! hadst thou told me all
Thy purpose at that hour, from what a world
Of woe had thou and I.... The bitterness
Of that reflection overcame her then,
And choak’d her speech. But Roderick sate the while
Covering his face with both his hands close-prest,
His head bow’d down, his spirit to such point
Of sufferance knit, as one who patiently
Awaits the uplifted sword.
Till now, said she,
Resuming her confession, I had lived,
If not in innocence, yet self-deceived,
And of my perilous and sinful state
Unconscious. But this fatal hour reveal’d
To my awakening soul her guilt and shame;
And in those agonies with which remorse,
Wrestling with weakness and with cherish’d sin,
Doth triumph o’er the lacerated heart,
That night ... that miserable night ... I vow’d,
A virgin dedicate, to pass my life
Immured; and, like redeemëd Magdalen,
Or that Egyptian penitent, whose tears
Fretted the rock, and moisten’d round her cave
The thirsty desert, so to mourn my fall.
The struggle ending thus, the victory
Thus, as I thought, accomplish’d, I believed
My soul was calm, and that the peace of Heaven
Descended to accept and bless my vow
And in this faith, prepared to consummate
The sacrifice, I went to meet the King.
See, Father, what a snare had Satan laid!
For Roderick came to tell me that the Church
From his unfruitful bed would set him free,
And I should be his Queen.
O let me close
The dreadful tale! I told him of my vow;
And from sincere and scrupulous piety,
But more, I fear me, in that desperate mood
Of obstinate will perverse, the which, with pride
And shame and self-reproach, doth sometimes make
A woman’s tongue, her own worst enemy,
Run counter to her dearest heart’s desire, ...
In that unhappy mood did I resist
All his most earnest prayers to let the power
Of holy Church, never more rightfully
Invoked, he said, than now in our behalf,
Release us from our fatal bonds. He urged
With kindling warmth his suit, like one whose life
Hung on the issue; I dissembled not
My cruel self-reproaches, nor my grief,
Yet desperately maintain’d the rash resolve;
Till in the passionate argument he grew
Incensed, inflamed, and madden’d or possess’d, ...
For Hell too surely at that hour prevail’d,
And with such subtile toils enveloped him,
That even in the extremity of guilt
No guilt he purported, but rather meant
An amplest recompence of life-long love
For transitory wrong, which fate perverse,
Thus madly he deceived himself, compell’d,
And therefore stern necessity excused.
Here then, O Father, at thy feet I own
Myself the guiltier; for full well I knew
These were his thoughts, but vengeance master’d me,
And in my agony I cursed the man
Whom I loved best.
Dost thou recall that curse?
Cried Roderick, in a deep and inward voice,
Still with his head depress’d, and covering still
His countenance. Recall it? she exclaim’d;
Father, I come to thee because I gave
The reins to wrath too long, ... because I wrought
His ruin, death, and infamy.... O God,
Forgive the wicked vengeance thus indulged,
As I forgive the King!... But teach me thou
What reparation more than tears and prayers
May now be made; ... how shall I vindicate
His injured name, and take upon myself....
Daughter of Julian, firmly he replied,
Speak not of that, I charge thee! On his fame
The Ethiop dye, fixed ineffaceably,
For ever will abide; so it must be,
So should be: ’tis his rightful punishment;
And if to the full measure of his sin
The punishment hath fallen, the more our hope
That through the blood of Jesus he may find
That sin forgiven him.
Pausing then, he raised
His hand, and pointed where Siverian lay
Stretch’d on the heath. To that old man, said he,
And to the mother of the unhappy Goth,
Tell, if it please thee, ... not what thou hast pour’d
Into my secret ear, but that the child
For whom they mourn with anguish unallay’d,
Sinn’d not from vicious will, or heart corrupt,
But fell by fatal circumstance betray’d.
And if in charity to them thou sayest
Something to palliate, something to excuse
An act of sudden frenzy when the Fiend
O’ercame him, thou wilt do for Roderick
All he could ask thee, all that can be done
On earth, and all his spirit could endure.
Venturing towards her an imploring look,
Wilt thou join with me for his soul in prayer?
He said, and trembled as he spake. That voice
Of sympathy was like Heaven’s influence,
Wounding at once and comforting the soul.
O Father, Christ requite thee! she exclaim’d;
Thou hast set free the springs which withering griefs
Have closed too long. Forgive me, for I thought
Thou wert a rigid and unpitying judge;
One whose stern virtue, feeling in itself
No flaw of frailty, heard impatiently
Of weakness and of guilt. I wrong’d thee Father!...
With that she took his hand, and kissing it,
Bathed it with tears. Then in a firmer speech,
For Roderick, for Count Julian and myself,
Three wretchedest of all the human race,
Who have destroyed each other and ourselves,
Mutually wrong’d and wronging, let us pray!
XI.
COUNT PEDRO’S CASTLE.
Twelve weary days with unremitting speed,
Shunning frequented tracks, the travellers
Pursued their way; the mountain path they chose,
The forest or the lonely heath wide-spread,
Where cistus shrubs sole-seen exhaled at noon
Their fine balsamic odour all around;
Strew’d with their blossoms, frail as beautiful,
The thirsty soil at eve; and when the sun
Relumed the gladden’d earth, opening anew
Their stores exuberant, prodigal as frail,
Whiten’d again the wilderness. They left
The dark Sierra’s skirts behind, and cross’d
The wilds where Ana in her native hills
Collects her sister springs, and hurries on
Her course melodious amid loveliest glens,
With forest and with fruitage overbower’d.
These scenes profusely blest by Heaven they left,
Where o’er the hazel and the quince the vine
Wide-mantling spreads; and clinging round the cork
And ilex, hangs amid their dusky leaves
Garlands of brightest hue, with reddening fruit
Pendant, or clusters cool of glassy green.
So holding on o’er mountain and o’er vale,
Tagus they cross’d where midland on his way
The King of Rivers rolls his stately stream;
And rude Alverches wide and stony bed,
And Duero distant far, and many a stream
And many a field obscure, in future war
For bloody theatre of famous deeds
Foredoom’d; and deserts where in years to come
Shall populous towns arise, and crested towers
And stately temples rear their heads on high.
Cautious with course circuitous they shunn’d
The embattled city, which in eldest time
Thrice-greatest Hermes built, so fables say,
Now subjugate, but fated to behold
Ere long the heroic Prince (who passing now
Unknown and silently the dangerous track,
Turns thither his regardant eye) come down
Victorious from the heights, and bear abroad
Her banner’d Lion, symbol to the Moor
Of rout and death through many an age of blood.
Lo, there the Asturian hills! Far in the west,
Huge Rabanal and Foncebadon huge,
Pre-eminent, their giant bulk display,
Darkening with earliest shade the distant vales
Of Leon, and with evening premature.
Far in Cantabria eastward, the long line
Extends beyond the reach of eagle’s eye,
When buoyant in mid-heaven the bird of Jove
Soars at his loftiest pitch. In the north, before
The travellers the Erbasian mountains rise,
Bounding the land beloved, their native land.
How then, Alphonso, did thy eager soul
Chide the slow hours and painful way, which seem’d
Lengthening to grow before their lagging pace!
Youth of heroic thought and high desire,
’Tis not the spur of lofty enterprize
That with unequal throbbing hurries now
The unquiet heart, now makes it sink dismay’d;
’Tis not impatient joy which thus disturbs
In that young breast the healthful spring of life;
Joy and ambition have forsaken him,
His soul is sick with hope. So near his home,
So near his mother’s arms; ... alas! perchance
The long’d-for meeting may be yet far off
As earth from heaven. Sorrow in these long months
Of separation may have laid her low;
Or what if at his flight the bloody Moor
Hath sent his ministers of slaughter forth,
And he himself should thus have brought the sword
Upon his father’s head?... Sure Hoya too
The same dark presage feels, the fearful boy
Said in himself; or wherefore is his brow
Thus overcast with heaviness, and why
Looks he thus anxiously in silence round?
Just then that faithful servant raised his hand,
And turning to Alphonso with a smile,
He pointed where Count Pedro’s towers far off
Peer’d in the dell below; faint was the smile,
And while it sate upon his lips, his eye
Retain’d its troubled speculation still.
For long had he look’d wistfully in vain,
Seeking where far or near he might espy
From whom to learn if time or chance had wrought
Change in his master’s house: but on the hills
Nor goat-herd could he see, nor traveller,
Nor huntsman early at his sports afield,
Nor angler following up the mountain glen
His lonely pastime; neither could he hear
Carol, or pipe, or shout of shepherd’s boy,
Nor woodman’s axe, for not a human sound
Disturb’d the silence of the solitude.
Is it the spoiler’s work? At yonder door
Behold the favourite kidling bleats unheard;
The next stands open, and the sparrows there
Boldly pass in and out. Thither he turn’d
To seek what indications were within;
The chesnut-bread was on the shelf, the churn,
As if in haste forsaken, full and fresh;
The recent fire had moulder’d on the hearth;
And broken cobwebs mark’d the whiter space
Where from the wall the buckler and the sword
Had late been taken down. Wonder at first
Had mitigated fear, but Hoya now
Return’d to tell the symbols of good hope,
And they prick’d forward joyfully. Ere long
Perceptible above the ceaseless sound
Of yonder stream, a voice of multitudes,
As if in loud acclaim, was heard far off;
And nearer as they drew, distincter shouts
Came from the dell, and at Count Pedro’s gate
The human swarm were seen, ... a motley group,
Maids, mothers, helpless infancy, weak age,
And wondering children and tumultuous boys,
Hot youth and resolute manhood gather’d there,
In uproar all. Anon the moving mass
Falls in half circle back, a general cry
Bursts forth, exultant arms are lifted up
And caps are thrown aloft, as through the gate
Count Pedro’s banner came. Alphonso shriek’d
For joy, and smote his steed and gallop’d on.