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PREFACE ix

ORIGINAL PREFACE xxi

RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS:

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.

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."

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.

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, 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.

"'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.

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.

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.

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 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?

RODERICK IN SOLITUDE.

ADOSINDA.

'Twas now the earliest morning; soon the Sun, Rising above Albardos, pour'd his light Amid the forest, and with ray aslant Entering its depth, illumed the branchless pines, Brighten'd their bark, tinged with a redder hue Its rusty stains, and cast along the floor Long lines of shadow, where they rose erect Like pillars of the temple. With slow foot Roderick pursued his way; for penitence, Remorse which gave no respite, and the long And painful conflict of his troubled soul, Had worn him down. Now brighter thoughts arose, And that triumphant vision floated still Before his sight with all her blazonry, Her castled helm, and the victorious sword That flash'd like lightning o'er the field of blood. Sustain'd by thoughts like these, from morn till eve He journey'd, and drew near Leyria's walls. 'Twas even-song time, but not a bell was heard Instead thereof, on her polluted towers, Bidding the Moors to their unhallow'd prayer, The cryer stood, and with his sonorous voice Fill'd the delicious vale where Lena winds Thro' groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight Of turban, girdle, robe, and scymitar, And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth; The face of human-kind so long unseen Confused him now, and through the streets he went With hagg?d mien, and countenance like one Crazed or bewilder'd. All who met him turn'd, And wonder'd as he pass'd. One stopt him short. Put alms into his hand, and then desired In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man To bless him. With a look of vacancy Roderick received the alms; his wandering eye Fell on the money, and the fallen King, Seeing his own royal impress on the piece, Broke out into a quick convulsive voice, That seem'd like laughter first, but ended soon In hollow groans supprest; the Musselman Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified The name of Allah as he hasten'd on. A Christian woman spinning at her door Beheld him, and, with sudden pity touch'd She laid her spindle by, and running in Took bread, and following after call'd him back, And placing in his passive hands the loaf, She said, Christ Jesus for his mother's sake Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem'd Like idiotcy he heard her, and stood still, Staring awhile; then bursting into tears Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart, Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts. So through the streets, and through the northern gate Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place, With feeble yet with hurried step pursue His agitated way; and when he reach'd The open fields, and found himself alone Beneath the starry canopy of Heaven, The sense of solitude, so dreadful late, Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf; And shedding o'er that long untasted food Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul He breathed thanksgiving forth, then made his bed On heath and myrtle. But when he arose At day-break and pursued his way, his heart Felt lighten'd that the shock of mingling first Among his fellow-kind was overpast; And journeying on, he greeted whom he met With such short interchange of benison As each to other gentle travellers give, Recovering thus the power of social speech Which he had long disused. When hunger prest He ask'd for alms: slight supplication served; A countenance so pale and woe-begone Moved all to pity; and the marks it bore Of rigorous penance and austerest life, With something too of majesty that still Appear'd amid the wreck, inspired a sense Of reverence too. The goat-herd on the hills Open'd his scrip for him; the babe in arms, Affrighted at his visage, turn'd away, And clinging to the mother's neck in tears Would yet again look up and then again, Shrink back, with cry renew'd. The bolder imps Sporting beside the way, at his approach Brake off their games for wonder, and stood still In silence; some among them cried, A Saint! The village matron when she gave him food Besought his prayers; and one entreated him To lay his healing hands upon her child, For with a sore and hopeless malady Wasting, it long had lain, ... and sure, she said, He was a man of God. Thus travelling on He past the vale where wild Arunca pours Its wintry torrents; and the happier site Of old Conimbrica, whose ruin'd towers Bore record of the fierce Alani's wrath. Mondego too he cross'd, not yet renown'd In poets' amorous lay; and left behind The walls at whose foundation pious hands Of Priest and Monk and Bishop meekly toil'd, ... So had the insulting Arian given command. Those stately palaces and rich domains Were now the Moor's, and many a weary age Must Coimbra wear the misbeliever's yoke, Before Fernando's banner through her gate Shall pass triumphant, and her hallow'd Mosque Behold the hero of Bivar receive The knighthood which he glorified so oft In his victorious fields. Oh if the years To come might then have risen on Roderick's soul, How had they kindled and consoled his heart!... What joy might Douro's haven then have given, Whence Portugal, the faithful and the brave, Shall take her name illustrious!... what, those walls Where Mumadona one day will erect Convent and town and towers, which shall become The cradle of that famous monarchy! What joy might these prophetic scenes have given, ... What ample vengeance on the Musselman, Driven out with foul defeat, and made to feel In Africa the wrongs he wrought to Spain; And still pursued by that relentless sword, Even to the farthest Orient, where his power Received its mortal wound. O years of pride! In undiscoverable futurity, Yet unevolved, your destined glories lay; And all that Roderick in these fated scenes Beheld, was grief and wretchedness, ... the waste Of recent war, and that more mournful calm Of joyless, helpless, hopeless servitude. 'Twas not the ruin'd walls of church or tower, Cottage or hall or convent, black with smoke; 'Twas not the unburied bones, which where the dogs And crows had strewn them, lay amid the field Bleaching in sun or shower, that wrung his heart With keenest anguish: 'twas when he beheld The turban'd traitor shew his shameless front In the open eye of Heaven, ... the renegade, On whose base brutal nature unredeem'd Even black apostacy itself could stamp No deeper reprobation, at the hour Assign'd fall prostrate; and unite the names Of God and the Blasphemer, ... impious prayer, ... Most impious, when from unbelieving lips The accurs?d utterance came. Then Roderick's heart With indignation burnt, and then he long'd To be a King again, that so, for Spain Betray'd and his Redeemer thus renounced, He might inflict due punishment, and make These wretches feel his wrath. But when he saw The daughters of the land, ... who, as they went With cheerful step to church, were wont to shew Their innocent faces to all passers eyes, Freely, and free from sin as when they look'd In adoration and in praise to Heaven, ... Now mask'd in Moorish mufflers, to the Mosque Holding uncompanied their jealous way, His spirit seem'd at that unhappy sight To die away within him, and he too Would fain have died, so death could bring with it Entire oblivion. Rent with thoughts like these, He reach'd that city, once the seat renown'd Of Suevi kings, where, in contempt of Rome Degenerate long, the North's heroic race Raised first a rival throne; now from its state Of proud regality debased and fallen. Still bounteous nature o'er the lovely vale, Where like a Queen rose Bracara august, Pour'd forth her gifts profuse; perennial springs Flow'd for her habitants, and genial suns, With kindly showers to bless the happy clime, Combined in vain their gentle influences: For patient servitude was there, who bow'd His neck beneath the Moor, and silent grief That eats into the soul. The walls and stones Seem'd to reproach their dwellers; stately piles Yet undecay'd, the mighty monuments Of Roman pomp, Barbaric palaces, And Gothic halls, where haughty Barons late Gladden'd their faithful vassals with the feast And flowing bowl, alike the spoiler's now.

Awhile in silence Adosinda stood, Reading his alter'd visage and the thoughts Which thus transfigured him. Aye, she exclaim'd, My tale hath moved thee! it might move the dead, Quicken captivity's dead soul, and rouse This prostrate country from her mortal trance: Therefore I live to tell it; and for this Hath the Lord God Almighty given to me A spirit not mine own and strength from Heaven; Dealing with me as in the days of old With that Bethulian Matron when she saved His people from the spoiler. What remains But that the life which he hath thus preserved I consecrate to him? Not veil'd and vow'd To pass my days in holiness and peace; Nor yet between sepulchral walls immured, Alive to penitence alone; my rule He hath himself prescribed, and hath infused A passion in this woman's breast, wherein All passions and all virtues are combined; Love, hatred, joy, and anguish, and despair, And hope, and natural piety, and faith, Make up the mighty feeling. Call it not Revenge! thus sanctified and thus sublimed, 'Tis duty, 'tis devotion. Like the grace Of God, it came and saved me; and in it Spain must have her salvation. In thy hands Here, on the grave of all my family, I make my vow. She said, and kneeling down, Placed within Roderick's palms her folded hands. This life, she cried, I dedicate to God, Therewith to do him service in the way Which he hath shown. To rouse the land against This impious, this intolerable yoke, ... To offer up the invader's hateful blood, ... This shall be my employ, my rule and rite, Observances and sacrifice of faith; For this I hold the life which he hath given, A sacred trust; for this, when it shall suit His service, joyfully will lay it down. So deal with me as I fulfil the pledge, O Lord my God, my Saviour and my Judge.

Then rising from the earth, she spread her arms, And looking round with sweeping eyes exclaim'd, Auria, and Spain, and Heaven receive the vow!

Thus long had Roderick heard her powerful words In silence, awed before her; but his heart Was fill'd the while with swelling sympathy, And now with impulse not to be restrain'd The feeling overpower'd him. Hear me too, Auria, and Spain, and Heaven! he cried; and thou Who risest thus above mortality, Sufferer and patriot, saint and heroine, The servant and the chosen of the Lord, For surely such thou art, ... receive in me The first-fruits of thy calling. Kneeling then, And placing as he spake his hand in her's, As thou hast sworn, the royal Goth pursued, Even so I swear; my soul hath found at length Her rest and refuge; in the invader's blood She must efface her stains of mortal sin, And in redeeming this lost land, work out Redemption for herself. Herein I place My penance for the past, my hope to come, My faith and my good works; here offer up All thoughts and passions of mine inmost heart, My days and night, ... this flesh, this blood, this life, Yea, this whole being, do I here devote For Spain. Receive the vow, all Saints in Heaven, And prosper its good end!... Clap now your wings, The Goth with louder utterance as he rose Exclaim'd, ... clap now your wings exultingly Ye ravenous fowl of Heaven; and in your dens Set up, ye wolves of Spain, a yell of joy; For, lo! a nation hath this day been sworn To furnish forth your banquet; for a strife Hath been commenced, the which from this day forth Permits no breathing-time, and knows no end Till in this land the last invader bow His neck beneath the exterminating sword.

Said I not rightly? Adosinda cried; The will which goads me on is not mine own, 'Tis from on high, ... yea, verily of Heaven! But who art thou who hast profess'd with me, My first sworn brother in the appointed rule? Tell me thy name. Ask any thing but that! The fallen King replied. My name was lost When from the Goths the sceptre pass'd away. The nation will arise regenerate; Strong in her second youth and beautiful, And like a spirit which hath shaken off The clog of dull mortality, shall Spain Arise in glory. But for my good name No resurrection is appointed here. Let it be blotted out on earth: in Heaven There shall be written with it penitence And grace and saving faith and such good deeds Wrought in atonement as my soul this day Hath sworn to offer up. Then be thy name, She answer'd, Maccabee, from this day forth: For this day art thou born again; and like Those brethren of old times, whose holy names Live in the memory of all noble hearts For love and admiration, ever young, ... So for our native country, for her hearths And altars, for her cradles and her graves, Hast thou thyself devoted. Let us now Each to our work. Among the neighbouring hills, I to the vassals of my father's house; Thou to Visonia. Tell the Abbot there What thou hast seen at Auria; and with him Take counsel who of all our Baronage Is worthiest to lead on the sons of Spain, And wear upon his brow the Spanish crown. Now, brother, fare thee well! we part in hope, And we shall meet again, be sure, in joy.

So saying, Adosinda left the King Alone amid the ruins. There he stood, As when Elisha, on the farther bank Of Jordan, saw that elder prophet mount The fiery chariot, and the steeds of fire, Trampling the whirlwind, bear him up the sky: Thus gazing after her did Roderick stand; And as the immortal Tishbite left behind His mantle and prophetic power, even so Had her inspiring presence left infused The spirit which she breathed. Gazing he stood, As at a heavenly visitation there Vouchsafed in mercy to himself and Spain; And when the heroic mourner from his sight Had pass'd away, still reverential awe Held him suspended there and motionless. Then turning from the ghastly scene of death Up murmuring Lona, he began toward The holy Bierzo his obedient way. Sil's ample stream he crost, where through the vale Of Orras, from that sacred land it bears The whole collected waters; northward then, Skirting the heights of Aguiar, he reach'd That consecrated pile amid the wild, Which sainted Fructuoso in his zeal Rear'd to St. Felix, on Visonia's banks.

In commune with a priest of age mature, Whose thoughtful visage and majestic mien Bespake authority and weight of care, Odoar, the venerable Abbot, sate, When ushering Roderick in, the Porter said, A stranger came from Auria, and required His private ear. From Auria? said the old man, Comest thou from Auria, brother? I can spare Thy painful errand then, ... we know the worst.

The Lady Adosinda? Odoar cried. Roderick made answer, So she call'd herself.

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