A cave, where hugest son of giant birth,
That e’er of old in forest of romance
’Gainst knights and ladies waged discourteous war,
Erect within the portal might have stood.
The broken stone allow’d for hand and foot
No difficult ascent, above the base
In height a tall man’s stature, measured thrice.
No holier spot than Covadonga Spain
Boasts in her wide extent, though all her realms
Be with the noblest blood of martyrdom
In elder or in later days enrich’d,
And glorified with tales of heavenly aid
By many a miracle made manifest;
Nor in the heroic annals of her fame
Doth she show forth a scene of more renown.
Then, save the hunter, drawn in keen pursuit
Beyond his wonted haunts, or shepherd’s boy,
Following the pleasure of his straggling flock,
None knew the place.
Pelayo, when he saw
Those glittering sources and their sacred cave,
Took from his side the bugle silver-tipt,
And with a breath long drawn and slow expired
Sent forth that strain, which, echoing from the walls
Of Cangas, wont to tell his glad return.
When from the chace he came. At the first sound
Favila started in the cave, and cried,
My father’s horn!... A sudden flush suffused
Hermesind’s cheek, and she with quicken’d eye
Look’d eager to her mother silently;
But Gaudiosa trembled and grew pale,
Doubting her sense deceived. A second time
The bugle breathed its well-known notes abroad
And Hermesind around her mother’s neck
Threw her white arms, and earnestly exclaim’d,
’Tis he!... But when a third and broader blast
Rung in the echoing archway, ne’er did wand,
With magic power endued, call up a sight
So strange, as sure in that wild solitude
It seem’d, when from the bowels of the rock
The mother and her children hastened forth;
She in the sober charms and dignity
Of womanhood mature, nor verging yet
Upon decay; in gesture like a Queen,
Such inborn and habitual majesty
Ennobled all her steps, ... or Priestess, chosen
Because within such faultless work of Heaven
Inspiring Deity might seem to make
Its habitation known.... Favila such
In form and stature as the Sea Nymph’s son,
When that wise Centaur from his cave well-pleased
Beheld the boy divine his growing strength
Against some shaggy lionet essay,
And fixing in the half-grown mane his hands,
Roll with him in fierce dalliance intertwined.
But like a creature of some higher sphere
His sister came; she scarcely touch’d the rock,
So light was Hermesind’s aërial speed.
Beauty and grace and innocence in her
In heavenly union shone. One who had held
The faith of elder Greece, would sure have thought
She was some glorious nymph of seed divine,
Oread or Dryad, of Diana’s train
The youngest and the loveliest: yea she seem’d
Angel, or soul beatified, from realms
Of bliss, on errand of parental love
To earth re-sent, ... if tears and trembling limbs
With such celestial natures might consist.
Embraced by all, in turn embracing each,
The husband and the father for awhile
Forgot his country and all things beside:
Life hath few moments of such pure delight,
Such foretaste of the perfect joy of Heaven.
And when the thought recurr’d of sufferings past,
Perils which threaten’d still, and arduous toil
Yet to be undergone, remember’d griefs
Heighten’d the present happiness; and hope
Upon the shadows of futurity
Shone like the sun upon the morning mists,
When driven before his rising rays they roll,
And melt and leave the prospect bright and clear.
When now Pelayo’s eyes had drank their fill
Of love from those dear faces, he went up
To view the hiding place. Spacious it was
As that Sicilian cavern in the hill
Wherein earth-shaking Neptune’s giant son
Duly at eve was wont to fold his flock,
Ere the wise Ithacan, over that brute force
By wiles prevailing, for a life-long night
Seel’d his broad eye. The healthful air had here
Free entrance, and the cheerful light of heaven;
But at the end, an opening in the floor
Of rock disclosed a wider vault below,
Which never sun-beam visited, nor breath
Of vivifying morning came to cheer.
No light was there but that which from above
In dim reflection fell, or found its way,
Broken and quivering, through the glassy stream,
Where through the rock it gush’d. That shadowy light
Sufficed to show, where from their secret bed
The waters issued; with whose rapid course,
And with whose everlasting cataracts
Such motion to the chill damp atmosphere
Was given, as if the solid walls of rock
Were shaken with the sound.
Glad to respire
The upper air, Pelayo hasten’d back
From that drear den. Look! Hermesind exclaim’d,
Taking her father’s hand, thou hast not seen
My chamber: ... See!... did ever ring-dove chuse
In so secure a nook her hiding-place,
Or build a warmer nest? ’Tis fragrant too,
As warm, and not more sweet than soft; for thyme
And myrtle with the elastic heath are laid,
And, over all, this dry and pillowy moss ...
Smiling she spake. Pelayo kiss’d the child,
And, sighing, said within himself, I trust
In Heaven, whene’er thy May of life is come,
Sweet bird, that thou shalt have a blither bower!
Fitlier, he thought, such chamber might beseem
Some hermit of Hilarion’s school austere,
Or old Antonius, he who from the hell
Of his bewilder’d phantasy saw fiends
In actual vision, a foul throng grotesque
Of all horrific shapes and forms obscene
Crowd in broad day before his open eyes.
That feeling cast a momentary shade
Of sadness o’er his soul. But deeper thoughts,
If he might have foreseen the things to come,
Would there have fill’d him; for within that cave
His own remains were one day doom’d to find
Their final place of rest; and in that spot,
Where that dear child with innocent delight
Had spread her mossy couch, the sepulchre
Shall in the consecrated rock be hewn,
Where with Alphonso, her beloved lord,
Laid side by side, must Hermesind partake
The everlasting marriage-bed, when he,
Leaving a name perdurable on earth,
Hath changed his earthly for a heavenly crown.
Dear child, upon that fated spot she stood,
In all the beauty of her opening youth,
In health’s rich bloom, in virgin innocence,
While her eyes sparkled and her heart o’erflow’d
With pure and perfect joy of filial love.
Many a slow century since that day hath fill’d
Its course, and countless multitudes have trod
With pilgrim feet that consecrated cave;
Yet not in all those ages, amid all
The untold concourse, hath one breast been swoln
With such emotions as Pelayo felt
That hour. O Gaudiosa, he exclaim’d,
And thou couldst seek for shelter here, amid
This aweful solitude, in mountain caves!
Thou noble spirit! Oh when hearts like thine
Grow on this sacred soil, would it not be
In me, thy husband, double infamy,
And tenfold guilt, if I despair’d of Spain?
In all her visitations, favouring Heaven
Hath left her still the unconquerable mind;
And thus being worthy of redemption, sure
Is she to be redeem’d.
Beholding her
Through tears he spake, and prest upon her lips
A kiss of deepest love. Think ever thus,
She answer’d, and that faith will give the power
In which it trusts. When to this mountain hold
These children, thy dear images, I brought,
I said within myself, where should they fly
But to the bosom of their native hills?
I brought them here as to a sanctuary,
Where, for the temple’s sake, the indwelling God
Would guard his supplicants. O my dear Lord,
Proud as I was to know that they were thine,
Was it a sin if I almost believed,
That Spain, her destiny being link’d with theirs,
Must save the precious charge?
So let us think,
The chief replied, so feel and teach and act.
Spain is our common parent: let the sons
Be to the parent true, and in her strength
And Heaven, their sure deliverance they will find.
XVII.
RODERICK AND SIVERIAN.
O holiest Mary, Maid and Mother! thou
In Covadonga, at thy rocky shrine,
Hast witness’d whatsoe’er of human bliss
Heart can conceive most perfect! Faithful love,
Long crost by envious stars, hath there attain’d
Its crown, in endless matrimony given;
The youthful mother there hath to the font
Her first-born borne, and there, with deeper sense
Of gratitude for that dear babe redeem’d
From threatening death, return’d to pay her vows.
But ne’er on nuptial, nor baptismal day,
Nor from their grateful pilgrimage discharged,
Did happier group their way down Deva’s vale
Rejoicing hold, than this blest family,
O’er whom the mighty Spirit of the Land
Spread his protecting wings. The children, free
In youthhead’s happy season from all cares
That might disturb the hour, yet capable
Of that intense and unalloyed delight
Which childhood feels when it enjoys again
The dear parental presence long deprived;
Nor were the parents now less bless’d than they,
Even to the height of human happiness;
For Gaudiosa and her Lord that hour
Let no misgiving thoughts intrude: she fix’d
Her hopes on him, and his were fix’d on Heaven;
And hope in that courageous heart derived
Such rooted strength and confidence assured
In righteousness, that ’twas to him like faith ...
An everlasting sunshine of the soul,
Illumining and quickening all its powers.
But on Pionia’s side meantime a heart
As generous, and as full of noble thoughts,
Lay stricken with the deadliest bolts of grief.
Upon a smooth grey stone sate Roderick there;
The wind above him stirr’d the hazel boughs,
And murmuring at his feet the river ran.
He sate with folded arms and head declined
Upon his breast, feeding on bitter thoughts,
Till nature gave him in the exhausted sense
Of woe a respite something like repose;
And then the quiet sound of gentle winds
And waters with their lulling consonance
Beguiled him of himself. Of all within
Oblivious there he sate, sentient alone
Of outward nature, ... of the whispering leaves
That soothed his ear, ... the genial breath of Heaven
That fann’d his cheek, ... the stream’s perpetual flow,
That, with its shadows and its glancing lights,
Dimples and thread-like motions infinite,
For ever varying and yet still the same,
Like time toward eternity, ran by.
Resting his head upon his master’s knees,
Upon the bank beside him Theron lay.
What matters change of state and circumstance,
Or lapse of years, with all their dread events,
To him? What matters it that Roderick wears
The crown no longer, nor the sceptre wields?...
It is the dear-loved hand, whose friendly touch
Had flatter’d him so oft; it is the voice,
At whose glad summons to the field so oft
From slumber he had started, shaking off
Dreams of the chace, to share the actual joy;
The eye, whose recognition he was wont
To watch and welcome with exultant tongue.
A coming step, unheard by Roderick, roused
His watchful ear, and turning he beheld
Siverian. Father, said the good old man,
As Theron rose and fawn’d about his knees,
Hast thou some charm, which draws about thee thus
The hearts of all our house, ... even to the beast
That lacks discourse of reason, but too oft,
With uncorrupted feeling and dumb faith,
Puts lordly man to shame?... The king replied,
’Tis that mysterious sense by which mankind
To fix their friendships and their loves are led,
And which with fainter influence doth extend
To such poor things as this. As we put off
The cares and passions of this fretful world,
It may be too that we thus far approach
To elder nature, and regain in part
The privilege through sin in Eden lost.
The timid hare soon learns that she may trust
The solitary penitent, and birds
Will light upon the hermit’s harmless hand.
Thus Roderick answer’d in excursive speech,
Thinking to draw the old man’s mind from what
Might touch him else too nearly, and himself
Disposed to follow on the lure he threw,
As one whom such imaginations led
Out of the world of his own miseries.
But to regardless ears his words were given,
For on the dog Siverian gazed the while,
Pursuing his own thoughts. Thou hast not felt,
Exclaim’d the old man, the earthquake and the storm;
The kingdom’s overthrow, the wreck of Spain,
The ruin of thy royal master’s house,
Have reach’d not thee!... Then turning to the King,
When the destroying enemy drew nigh
Toledo, he continued, and we fled
Before their fury, even while her grief
Was fresh, my Mistress would not leave behind
This faithful creature. Well we knew she thought
Of Roderick then, although she named him not;
For never since the fatal certainty
Fell on us all, hath that unhappy name,
Save in her prayers, been known to pass her lips
Before this day. She names him now, and weeps;
But now her tears are tears of thankfulness,
For blessed hath thy coming been to her
And all who loved the King.
His faltering voice
Here fail’d him, and he paused: recovering soon,
When that poor injured Lady, he pursued,
Did in my presence to the Prince absolve
The unhappy King....
Absolve him! Roderick cried,
And in that strong emotion turn’d his face
Sternly toward Siverian, for the sense
Of shame and self-reproach drove from his min
All other thoughts. The good old man replied
Of human judgements humanly I speak.
Who knows not what Pelayo’s life hath been?
Not happier in all dear domestic ties,
Than worthy for his virtue of the bliss
Which is that virtue’s fruit; and yet did he
Absolve, upon Florinda’s tale, the King.
Siverian, thus he said, what most I hoped,
And still within my secret heart believed,
Is now made certain. Roderick hath been
More sinn’d against than sinning. And with that
He claspt his hands, and, lifting them to Heaven,
Cried, Would to God that he were yet alive!
For not more gladly did I draw my sword
Against Witiza in our common cause,
Than I would fight beneath his banners now,
And vindicate his name!
Did he say this?
The Prince? Pelayo? in astonishment
Roderick exclaim’d.... He said it, quoth the old man.
None better knew his kinsman’s noble heart,
None loved him better, none bewail’d him more:
And as he felt, like me, for his reproach
A deeper grief than for his death, even so
He cherish’d in his heart the constant thought
Something was yet untold, which, being known,
Would palliate his offence, and make the fall
Of one till then so excellently good,
Less monstrous, less revolting to belief,
More to be pitied, more to be forgiven.
While thus he spake, the fall’n King felt his face
Burn, and his blood flow fast. Down, guilty thoughts!
Firmly he said within his soul; lie still,
Thou heart of flesh! I thought thou hadst been quell’d,
And quell’d thou shalt be! Help me, O my God,
That I may crucify this inward foe!
Yea, thou hast help’d me, Father! I am strong,
O Saviour, in thy strength.
As he breath’d thus
His inward supplications, the old man
Eyed him with frequent and unsteady looks.
He had a secret trembling on his lips,
And hesitated, still irresolute
In utterance to embody the dear hope:
Fain would he have it strengthen’d and assured
By this concording judgement, yet he fear’d
To have it chill’d in cold accoil. At length
Venturing, he brake with interrupted speech
The troubled silence. Father Maccabee,
I cannot rest till I have laid my heart
Open before thee. When Pelayo wish’d
That his poor kinsman were alive to rear
His banner once again, a sudden thought..
A hope.. a fancy.. what shall it be call’d?
Possess’d me, that perhaps the wish might see
Its glad accomplishment,.. that Roderick lived,
And might in glory take the field once more
For Spain.... I see thou startest at the thought!
Yet spurn it not with hasty unbelief,
As though ’twere utterly beyond the scope
Of possible contingency. I think
That I have calmly satisfied myself
How this is more than idle fancy, more
Than mere imaginations of a mind
Which from its wishes builds a baseless faith.
His horse, his royal robe, his horned helm,
His mail and sword were found upon the field;
But if King Roderick had in battle fallen,
That sword, I know, would only have been found
Clench’d in the hand which, living, knew so well
To wield the dreadful steel! Not in the throng
Confounded, nor amid the torpid stream,
Opening with ignominious arms a way
For flight, would he have perish’d! Where the strife
Was hottest, ring’d about with slaughter’d foes,
Should Roderick have been found: by this sure mark
Ye should have known him, if nought else remain’d,
That his whole body had been gored with wounds,
And quill’d with spears, as if the Moors had felt
That in his single life the victory lay,
More than in all the host!
Siverian’s eyes
Shone with a youthful ardour while he spake,
His gathering brow grew stern, and as he raised
His arm, a warrior’s impulse character’d
The impassion’d gesture. But the King was calm
And heard him with unchanging countenance;
For he had taken his resolve, and felt
Once more the peace of God within his soul,
As in that hour when by his father’s grave
He knelt before Pelayo.
Soon the old man
Pursued in calmer tones, ... Thus much I dare
Believe, that Roderick fell not on that day
When treason brought about his overthrow.
If yet he live, for sure I think I know
His noble mind, ’tis in some wilderness,
Where, in some savage den inhumed, he drags
The weary load of life, and on his flesh
As on a mortal enemy, inflicts
Fierce vengeance with immitigable hand.
Oh that I knew but where to bend my way
In his dear search! my voice perhaps might reach
His heart, might reconcile him to himself,
Restore him to his mother ere she dies,
His people and his country: with the sword,
Them and his own good name should he redeem.
Oh might I but behold him once again
Leading to battle these intrepid bands,
Such as he was, ... yea rising from his fall
More glorious, more beloved! Soon I believe
Joy would accomplish then what grief hath fail’d
To do with this old heart, and I should die
Clasping his knees with such intense delight,
That when I woke in Heaven, even Heaven itself
Could have no higher happiness in store.
Thus fervently he spake, and copious tears
Ran down his cheeks. Full oft the Royal Goth,
Since he came forth again among mankind,
Had trembled lest some curious eye should read
His lineaments too closely; now he long’d
To fall upon the neck of that old man,
And give his full heart utterance. But the sense
Of duty, by the pride of self-controul
Corroborate, made him steadily repress
His yearning nature. Whether Roderick live,
Paying in penitence the bitter price
Of sin, he answered, or if earth hath given
Rest to his earthly part, is only known
To him and Heaven. Dead is he to the world;
And let not these imaginations rob
His soul of thy continual prayers, whose aid
Too surely, in whatever world, he needs.
The faithful love that mitigates his fault,
Heavenward addrest, may mitigate his doom.
Living or dead, old man, be sure his soul, ...
It were unworthy else, ... doth hold with thine
Entire communion! Doubt not he relies
Firmly on thee, as on a father’s love,
Counts on thy offices, and joins with thee
In sympathy and fervent act of faith,
Though regions, or though worlds, should intervene.
Lost as he is, to Roderick this must be
Thy first, best, dearest duty; next must be
To hold right onward in that noble path,
Which he would counsel, could his voice be heard.
Now therefore aid me, while I call upon
The Leaders and the People, that this day
We may acclaim Pelayo for our King.
XVIII.
THE ACCLAMATION.
Now, when from Covadonga, down the vale
Holding his way, the princely mountaineer
Came with that happy family in sight
Of Cangas and his native towers, far off
He saw before the gate, in fair array,
The assembled land. Broad banners were display’d,
And spears were sparkling to the sun, shields shone,
And helmets glitter’d, and the blairing horn,
With frequent sally of impatient joy,
Provoked the echoes round. Well he areeds,
From yonder ensigns and augmented force,
That Odoar and the Primate from the west
Have brought their aid; but wherefore all were thus
Instructed as for some great festival,
He found not, till Favila’s quicker eye
Catching the ready buckler, the glad boy
Leapt up, and clapping his exultant hands,
Shouted, King! King! my father shall be King
This day! Pelayo started at the word,
And the first thought which smote him brought a sigh
For Roderick’s fall; the second was of hope,
Deliverance for his country, for himself
Enduring fame, and glory for his line.
That high prophetic forethought gather’d strength,
As looking to his honour’d mate, he read
Her soul’s accordant augury; her eyes
Brighten’d; the quicken’d action of the blood
Tinged with a deeper hue her glowing cheek,
And on her lips there sate a smile which spake
The honourable pride of perfect love,
Rejoicing, for her husband’s sake, to share
The lot he chose, the perils he defied,
The lofty fortune which their faith foresaw.
Roderick, in front of all the assembled troops,
Held the broad buckler, following to the end
That steady purpose to the which his zeal
Had this day wrought the Chiefs. Tall as himself,
Erect it stood beside him, and his hands
Hung resting on the rim. This was an hour
That sweeten’d life, repaid and recompensed
All losses; and although it could not heal
All griefs, yet laid them for awhile to rest.
The active agitating joy that fill’d
The vale, that with contagious influence spread
Through all the exulting mountaineers, that gave
New ardour to all spirits, to all breasts
Inspired fresh impulse of excited hope,
Moved every tongue, and strengthen’d every limb, ...
That joy which every man reflected saw
From every face of all the multitude,
And heard in every voice, in every sound,
Reach’d not the King. Aloof from sympathy,
He from the solitude of his own soul
Beheld the busy scene. None shared or knew
His deep and incommunicable joy;
None but that heavenly Father, who alone
Beholds the struggles of the heart, alone
Sees and rewards the secret sacrifice.
Among the chiefs conspicuous, Urban stood,
He whom, with well-weigh’d choice, in arduous time
To arduous office the consenting Church
Had call’d when Sindered fear-smitten fled;
Unfaithful shepherd, who for life alone
Solicitous, forsook his flock, when most
In peril and in suffering they required
A pastor’s care. Far off at Rome he dwells
In ignominious safety, while the Church
Keeps in her annals the deserter’s name,
But from the service which with daily zeal
Devout her ancient prelacy recalls,
Blots it, unworthy to partake her prayers.
Urban, to that high station thus being call’d,
From whence disanimating fear had driven
The former primate, for the general weal
Consulting first, removed with timely care
The relics and the written works of Saints,
Toledo’s choicest treasure, prized beyond
All wealth, their living and their dead remains;
These to the mountain fastnesses he bore
Of unsubdued Cantabria, there deposed,
One day to be the boast of yet unbuilt
Oviedo, and the dear idolatry
Of multitudes unborn. To things of state
Then giving thought mature, he held advice
With Odoar, whom of counsel competent
And firm of heart he knew. What then they plann’d,
Time and the course of over-ruled events
To earlier act had ripen’d, than their hope
Had ever in its gladdest dream proposed;
And here by agents unforeseen, and means
Beyond the scope of foresight brought about,
This day they saw their dearest heart’s desire
Accorded them: All-able Providence
Thus having ordered all, that Spain this hour
With happiest omens, and on surest base,
Should from its ruins rear again her throne.