Read Ebook: Roderick the last of the Goths by Southey Robert Finden Edward Francis Engraver Finden W William Engraver Creswick Thomas Illustrator

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

Oh none but she! exclaim'd the good old man, Clasping his hands, which trembled as he spake In act of pious passion raised to Heaven, ... Oh none but Adosinda!... none but she, ... None but that noble heart, which was the heart Of Auria while it stood, its life and strength, More than her father's presence, or the arm Of her brave husband, valiant as he was. Hers was the spirit which inspired old age, Ambitious boyhood, girls in timid youth, And virgins in the beauty of their spring, And youthful mothers, doting like herself With ever-anxious love: She breathed through all That zeal and that devoted faithfulness, Which to the invader's threats and promises Turn'd a deaf ear alike; which in the head And flood of prosperous fortune check'd his course, Repell'd him from the walls, and when at length His overpowering numbers forced their way, Even in that uttermost extremity Unyielding, still from street to street, from house To house, from floor to floor, maintain'd the fight: Till by their altars falling, in their doors, And on their household hearths, and by their beds And cradles, and their fathers' sepulchres, This noble army, gloriously revenged, Embraced their martyrdom. Heroic souls! Well have ye done, and righteously discharged Your arduous part! Your service is perform'd, Your earthly warfare done! Ye have put on The purple robe of everlasting peace! Ye have received your crown! Ye bear the palm Before the throne of Grace! With that he paused, Checking the strong emotions of his soul. Then with a solemn tone addressing him Who shared his secret thoughts, thou knowest, he said, O Urban, that they have not fallen in vain; For by this virtuous sacrifice they thinn'd Alcahman's thousands; and his broken force, Exhausted by their dear-bought victory, Turn'd back from Auria, leaving us to breathe Among our mountains yet. We lack not here Good hearts, nor valiant hands. What walls or towers Or battlements are like these fastnesses, These rocks and glens and everlasting hills? Give but that Aurian spirit, and the Moors Will spend their force as idly on these holds, As round the rocky girdle of the land The wild Cantabrian billows waste their rage. Give but that spirit!... Heaven hath given it us, If Adosinda thus, as from the dead, Be granted to our prayers! And who art thou, Said Urban, who hast taken on thyself This rule of warlike faith? Thy countenance And those poor weeds bespeak a life ere this Devoted to austere observances.

Roderick replied, I am a sinful man, One who in solitude hath long deplored A life mis-spent; but never bound by vows, Till Adosinda taught me where to find Comfort, and how to work forgiveness out. When that exalted woman took my vow, She call'd me Maccabee; from this day forth Be that my earthly name. But tell me now, Whom shall we rouse to take upon his head The crown of Spain? Where are the Gothic Chiefs? Sacaru, Theudemir, Athanagild, All who survived that eight days' obstinate fight, When clogg'd with bodies Chrysus scarce could for Its bloody stream along? Witiza's sons, Bad offspring of a stock accurst, I know, Have put the turban on their recreant heads. Where are your own Cantabrian Lords? I ween, Eudon, and Pedro, and Pelayo now Have ceased their rivalry. If Pelayo live, His were the worthy heart and rightful hand To wield the sceptre and the sword of Spain.

Then pausing for a moment, he pursued: The rule which thou hast taken on thyself Toledo ratifies: 'tis meet for Spain, And as the will divine, to be received, Observed, and spread abroad. Come hither thou, Who for thyself hath chosen the good part; Let me lay hands on thee, and consecrate Thy life unto the Lord. Me! Roderick cried; Me? sinner that I am!... and while he spake His wither'd cheek grew paler, and his limbs Shook. As thou goest among the infidels, Pursued the Primate, many thou wilt find Fallen from the faith; by weakness some betray'd, Some led astray by baser hope of gain, And haply too by ill example led Of those in whom they trusted. Yet have these Their lonely hours, when sorrow, or the touch Of sickness, and that aweful power divine Which hath its dwelling in the heart of man, Life of his soul, his monitor and judge, Move them with silent impulse; but they look For help, and finding none to succour them, The irrevocable moment passeth by. Therefore, my brother, in the name of Christ Thus I lay hands on thee, that in His name Thou with His gracious promises may'st raise The fallen, and comfort those that are in need, And bring salvation to the penitent. Now, brother, go thy way: the peace of God Be with thee, and his blessing prosper us!

RODERICK AND SIVERIAN.

Between St. Felix and the regal seat Of Abdalazis, ancient Cordoba, Lay many a long day's journey interposed; And many a mountain range hath Roderick cross'd, And many a lovely vale, ere he beheld Where Betis, winding through the unbounded plain Roll'd his majestic waters. There at eve Entering an inn, he took his humble seat With other travellers round the crackling hearth, Where heath and cistus gave their flagrant flame. That flame no longer, as in other times, Lit up the countenance of easy mirth And light discourse: the talk which now went round Was of the grief that press'd on every heart; Of Spain subdued; the sceptre of the Goths Broken; their nation and their name effaced; Slaughter and mourning, which had left no house Unvisited; and shame, which set its mark On every Spaniard's face. One who had seen His sons fall bravely at his side, bewail'd The unhappy chance which, rescuing him from death, Left him the last of all his family; Yet he rejoiced to think that none who drew Their blood from him remain'd to wear the yoke, Be at the miscreant's beck, and propagate A breed of slaves to serve them. Here sate one Who told of fair possessions lost, and babes To goodly fortunes born, of all bereft. Another for a virgin daughter mourn'd, The lewd barbarian's spoil. A fourth had seen His only child forsake him in his age, And for a Moor renounce her hope in Christ. His was the heaviest grief of all, he said; And clenching as he spake his hoary locks, He cursed King Roderick's soul. Oh curse him not! Roderick exclaim'd, all shuddering as he spake. Oh, for the love of Jesus, curse him not! Sufficient is the dreadful load of guilt That lies upon his miserable soul! O brother, do not curse that sinful soul, Which Jesus suffer'd on the cross to save!

But then an old man, who had sate thus long A silent listener, from his seat arose, And moving round to Roderick took his hand; Christ bless thee, brother, for that Christian speech, He said; and shame on me that any tongue Readier than mine was found to utter it! His own emotion fill'd him while he spake, So that he did not feel how Roderick's hand Shook like a palsied limb; and none could see How, at his well-known voice, the countenance Of that poor traveller suddenly was changed, And sunk with deadlier paleness; for the flame Was spent, and from behind him, on the wall High hung, the lamp with feeble glimmering play'd.

Oh it is ever thus! the old man pursued, The crimes and woes of universal Spain Are charged on him; and curses which should aim At living heads, pursue beyond the grave His poor unhappy soul! As if his sin Had wrought the fall of our old monarchy! As if the Musselmen in their career Would ne'er have overleapt the gulf which parts Iberia from the Mauritanian shore, If Julian had not beckon'd them!... Alas! The evils which drew on our overthrow, Would soon by other means have wrought their end, Though Julian's daughter should have lived and died A virgin vow'd and veil'd. Touch not on that, Shrinking with inward shiverings at the thought, The penitent exclaim'd. Oh, if thou lovest The soul of Roderick, touch not on that deed! God in his mercy may forgive it him, But human tongue must never speak his name Without reproach and utter infamy, For that abhorred act. Even thou.... But here Siverian taking up the word, brake off Unwittingly the incautious speech. Even I, Quoth he, who nursed him in his father's hall, ... Even I can only for that deed of shame Offer in agony my secret prayers. But Spain hath witness'd other crimes as foul: Have we not seen Favila's shameless wife. Throned in Witiza's ivory car, parade Our towns with regal pageantry, and bid The murderous tyrant in her husband's blood Dip his adulterous hand? Did we not see Pelayo, by that bloody king's pursuit, And that unnatural mother, from the land With open outcry, like an outlaw'd thief, Hunted? And saw ye not Theodofred, As through the streets I guided his dark steps, Roll mournfully toward the noon-day sun His blank and senseless eye-balls? Spain saw this And suffer'd it!... I seek not to excuse The sin of Roderick. Jesu, who beholds The burning tears I shed in solitude, Knows how I plead for him in midnight prayer. But if, when he victoriously revenged The wrongs of Chindasuintho's house, his sword Had not for mercy turn'd aside its edge, Oh what a day of glory had there been Upon the banks of Chrysus! Curse not him, Who in that fatal conflict to the last So valiantly maintain'd his country's cause; But if your sorrow needs must have its vent In curses, let your imprecations strike The caitiffs, who, when Roderick's horn?d helm Rose eminent amid the thickest fight, Betraying him who spared and trusted them, Forsook their King, their Country, and their God, And gave the Moor his conquest. Aye! they said, These were Witiza's hateful progeny; And in an evil hour the unhappy King Had spared the viperous brood. With that they talk'd How Sisibert and Ebba through the land Guided the foe: and Orpas, who had cast The mitre from his renegado brow, Went with the armies of the infidels; And how in Hispalis, even where his hands Had minister'd so oft the bread of life, The circumcised apostate did not shame To shew in open day his turban'd head. The Queen too, Egilona, one exclaim'd; Was she not married to the enemy, The Moor, the Misbeliever? What a heart Were hers, that she could pride and plume herself To rank among his herd of concubines, Having been what she had been! And who could say How far domestic wrongs and discontent Had wrought upon the King!... Hereat the old man, Raising beneath the knit and curly brow His mournful eyes, replied, This I can tell, That that unquiet spirit and unblest, Though Roderick never told his sorrows, drove Rusilla from the palace of her son. She could not bear to see his generous mind Wither beneath the unwholesome influence, And cankering at the core. And I know well, That oft when she deplored his barren bed, The thought of Egilona's qualities Came like a bitter medicine for her grief, And to the extinction of her husband's line, Sad consolation, reconciled her heart.

But Roderick, while they communed thus, had ceased To hear, such painfulest anxiety The sight of that old venerable man Awoke. A sickening fear came over him: The hope which led him from his hermitage Now seem'd for ever gone, for well he knew Nothing but death could break the ties which bound That faithful servant to his father's house. She then for whose forgiveness he had yearn'd, Who in her blessing would have given and found The peace of Heaven, ... she then was to the grave Gone down disconsolate at last; in this Of all the woes of her unhappy life Unhappiest, that she did not live to see God had vouchsafed repentance to her child. But then a hope arose that yet she lived; The weighty cause which led Siverian here Might draw him from her side; better to know The worst than fear it. And with that he bent Over the embers, and with head half raised Aslant, and shadow'd by his hand, he said, Where is King Roderick's mother? lives she still?

God hath upheld her, the old man replied; She bears this last and heaviest of her griefs, Not as she bore her husband's wrongs, when hope And her indignant heart supported her; But patiently, like one who finds from Heaven A comfort which the world can neither give Nor take away.... Roderick inquired no more; He breathed a silent prayer in gratitude, Then wrapt his cloak around him, and lay down Where he might weep unseen. When morning came, Earliest of all the travellers he went forth, And linger'd for Siverian by the way, Beside a fountain, where the constant fall Of water its perpetual gurgling made, To the wayfaring or the musing man Sweetest of all sweet sounds. The Christian hand, Whose general charity for man and beast Built it in better times, had with a cross Of well-hewn stone crested the pious work, Which now the misbelievers had cast down, And broken in the dust it lay defiled. Roderick beheld it lying at his feet, And gathering reverently the fragments up, Placed them within the cistern, and restored With careful collocation its dear form, ... So might the waters, like a crystal shrine, Preserve it from pollution. Kneeling then, O'er the memorial of redeeming love He bent, and mingled with the fount his tears, And pour'd his spirit to the Crucified.

A Moor came by, and seeing him, exclaim'd, Ah, Kaffer! worshipper of wood and stone, God's curse confound thee! And as Roderick turn'd His face, the miscreant spurn'd him with his foot Between the eyes. The indignant King arose, And fell'd him to the ground. But then the Moor Drew forth his dagger, rising as he cried, What, dar?st thou, thou infidel and slave, Strike a believer? and he aim'd a blow At Roderick's breast. But Roderick caught his arm, And closed, and wrench'd the dagger from his hold, ... Such timely strength did those emaciate limbs From indignation draw, ... and in his neck With mortal stroke he drove the avenging steel Hilt deep. Then, as the thirsty sand drank in The expiring miscreant's blood, he look'd around In sudden apprehension, lest the Moors Had seen them; but Siverian was in sight, The only traveller, and he smote his mule And hasten'd up. Ah, brother! said the old man, Thine is a spirit of the ancient mould! And would to God a thousand men like thee Had fought at Roderick's side on that last day When treason overpower'd him! Now, alas! A manly Gothic heart doth ill accord With these unhappy times. Come, let us hide This carrion, while the favouring hour permits.

So saying he alighted. Soon they scoop'd Amid loose-lying sand a hasty grave, And levell'd over it the easy soil. Father, said Roderick, as they journey'd on, Let this thing be a seal and sacrament Of truth between us: Wherefore should there be Concealment between two right Gothic hearts In evil days like ours? What thou hast seen Is but the first fruit of the sacrifice, Which on this injured and polluted soil, As on a bloody altar, I have sworn To offer to insulted Heaven for Spain, Her vengeance and her expiation. This Was but a hasty act, by sudden wrong Provoked: but I am bound for Cordoba, On weighty mission from Visonia sent, To breathe into Pelayo's ear a voice Of spirit-stirring power, which like the trump Of the Arch-angel, shall awake dead Spain. The northern mountaineers are unsubdued; They call upon Pelayo for their chief; Odoar and Urban tell him that the hour Is come. Thou too, I ween, old man, art charged With no light errand, or thou wouldst not now Have left the ruins of thy master's house.

Who art thou? cried Siverian, as he search'd The wan and wither'd features of the King. The face is of a stranger, but thy voice Disturbs me like a dream. Roderick replied, Thou seest me as I am, ... a stranger; one Whose fortunes in the general wreck were lost, His name and lineage utterly extinct, Himself in mercy spared, surviving all; ... In mercy, that the bitter cup might heal A soul diseased. Now, having cast the slough Of old offences, thou beholdest me A man new-born; in second baptism named, Like those who in Judea bravely raised Against the Heath?n's impious tyranny The banner of Jehovah, Maccabee; So call me. In that name hath Urban laid His consecrating hands upon my head; And in that name have I myself for Spain Devoted. Tell me now why thou art sent To Cordoba; for sure thou go?st not An idle gazer to the Conqueror's court.

Roderick made no reply. He had not dared To turn his face toward those walls; but now He follow'd where the old man led the way. Lord! in his heart the silent sufferer said, Forgive my feeble soul, which would have shrunk From this, ... for what am I that I should put The bitter cup aside! O let my shame And anguish be accepted in thy sight!

RODERICK IN TIMES PAST.

The mansion whitherward they went, was one Which in his youth Theodofred had built: Thither had he brought home in happy hour His blooming bride; there fondled on his knee The lovely boy she bore him. Close beside, A temple to that Saint he rear'd, who first, As old tradition tells, proclaim'd to Spain The gospel-tidings; and in health and youth, There mindful of mortality, he saw His sepulchre prepared. Witiza took For his adulterous leman and himself The stately pile: but to that sepulchre, When from captivity and darkness death Enlarged him, was Theodofred consign'd; For that unhappy woman, wasting then Beneath a mortal malady, at heart Was smitten, and the Tyrant at her prayer This poor and tardy restitution made. Soon the repentant sinner follow'd him; And calling on Pelayo ere she died, For his own wrongs, and for his father's death, Implored forgiveness of her absent child, ... If it were possible he could forgive Crimes black as her's, she said. And by the pangs Of her remorse, ... by her last agonies, ... The unutterable horrors of her death, ... And by the blood of Jesus on the cross For sinners given, did she beseech his prayers In aid of her most miserable soul. Thus mingling sudden shrieks with hopeless vows, And uttering franticly Pelayo's name, And crying out for mercy in despair, Here had she made her dreadful end, and here Her wretched body was deposited. That presence seem'd to desecrate the place: Thenceforth the usurper shunn'd it with the heart Of conscious guilt; nor could Rusilla bear These groves and bowers, which, like funereal shades, Opprest her with their monumental forms: One day of bitter and severe delight, When Roderick came for vengeance, she endured, And then for ever left her bridal halls.

Oh when I last beheld yon princely pile, Exclaim'd Siverian, with what other thoughts Full, and elate of spirit, did I pass Its joyous gates! The weedery which through The interstices of those neglected courts Uncheck'd had flourish'd long, and seeded there, Was trampled then and bruised beneath the feet Of thronging crowds. Here drawn in fair array, The faithful vassals of my master's house, Their javelins sparkling to the morning sun, Spread their triumphant banners; high-plumed helms Rose o'er the martial ranks, and prancing steeds Made answer to the trumpet's stirring voice; While yonder towers shook the dull silence off Which long to their deserted walls had clung, And with redoubling echoes swell'd the shout That hail'd victorious Roderick. Louder rose The acclamation, when the dust was seen Rising beneath his chariot-wheels far off; But nearer as the youthful hero came, All sounds of all the multitude were hush'd, And from the thousands and ten thousands here, Whom Cordoba and Hispalis sent forth, ... Yea whom all Baetica, all Spain pour'd out To greet his triumph, ... not a whisper rose To Heaven, such awe and reverence master'd them, Such expectation held them motionless. Conqueror and King he came; but with no joy Of conquest, and no pride of sovereignty That day display'd; for at his father's grave Did Roderick come to offer up his vow Of vengeance well perform'd. Three coal-black steed Drew on his ivory chariot: by his side, Still wrapt in mourning for the long-deceased, Rusilla state; a deeper paleness blanch'd Her faded countenance, but in her eye The light of her majestic nature shone. Bound, and expecting at their hands the death So well deserved, Witiza follow'd them; Aghast and trembling, first he gazed around, Wildly from side to side; then from the face Of universal execration shrunk, Hanging his wretched head abased; and poor Of spirit, with unmanly tears deplored His fortune, not his crimes. With bolder front, Confiding in his priestly character, Came Orpas next; and then the spurious race Whom in unhappy hour Favila's wife Brought forth for Spain. O mercy ill bestow'd, When Roderick, in compassion for their youth, And for Pelayo's sake, forebore to crush The brood of vipers! Err perchance he might, Replied the Goth, suppressing as he spake All outward signs of pain, though every word Went like a dagger to his bleeding heart; ... But sure, I ween, that error is not placed Among his sins. Old man, thou mayest regret The mercy ill deserved, and worse return'd, But not for this wouldst thou reproach the King!

Reproach him? cried Siverian; ... I reproach My child, ... my noble boy, ... whom every tongue Bless'd at that hour, ... whose love fill'd every heart With joy, and every eye with joyful tears! My brave, my beautiful, my generous boy! Brave, beautiful, and generous as he was, Never so brave, so beautiful, so great As then, ... not even on that glorious day, When on the field of victory, elevate Amid the thousands who acclaim'd him King, Firm on the shield above their heads upraised, Erect he stood, and waved his bloody sword.... Why dost thou shake thy head as if in doubt? I do not dream, nor fable! Ten short years Have scarcely past away, since all within The Pyrenean hills, and the three seas Which girdle Spain, echoed in one response The acclamation from that field of fight.... Or doth aught ail thee, that thy body quakes And shudders thus? 'Tis but a chill, replied The King, in passing from the open air Under the shadow of this thick-set grove.

Oh! if this scene awoke in thee such thoughts As swell my bosom here, the old man pursued, Sunshine, or shade, and all things from without, Would be alike indifferent. Gracious God, Only but ten short years, ... and all so changed! Ten little years since in yon court he check'd His fiery steeds. The steeds obey'd his hand, The whirling wheels stood still, and when he leapt Upon the pavement, the whole people heard, In their deep silence, open-ear'd, the sound. With slower movement from the ivory seat Rusilla rose, her arm, as down she stept, Extended to her son's supporting hand; Not for default of firm or agile strength, But that the feeling of that solemn hour Subdued her then, and tears bedimm'd her sight. Howbeit when to her husband's grave she came, On the sepulchral stone she bow'd her head Awhile; then rose collectedly, and fix'd Upon the scene her calm and steady eye. Roderick, ... oh when did valour wear a form So beautiful, so noble, so august? Or vengeance, when did it put on before A character so aweful, so divine? Roderick stood up, and reaching to the tomb His hands, my hero cried, Theodofred! Father! I stand before thee once again, According to thy prayer, when kneeling down Between thy knees I took my last farewell; And vow'd by all thy sufferings, all thy wrongs, And by my mother's days and nights of woe, Her silent anguish, and the grief which then Even from thee she did not seek to hide, That if our cruel parting should avail To save me from the Tyrant's jealous guilt, Surely should my avenging sword fulfil Whate'er he omen'd. Oh that time, I cried, Would give the strength of manhood to this arm, Already would it find a manly heart To guide it to its purpose! And I swore Never again to see my father's face, Nor ask my mother's blessing, till I brought, Dead or in chains, the Tyrant to thy feet. Boy as I was, before all Saints in Heaven, And highest God, whose justice slumbereth not, I made the vow. According to thy prayer, In all things, O my father, is that vow Perform'd, alas too well! for thou didst pray, While looking up I felt the burning tears Which from thy sightless sockets stream'd, drop down, ... That to thy grave, and not thy living feet, The oppressor might be led. Behold him there, ... Father! Theodofred! no longer now In darkness, from thy heavenly seat look down, And see before thy grave thine enemy In bonds, awaiting judgment at my hand!

Thus while the hero spake, Witiza stood Listening in agony, with open mouth, And head, half-raised, toward his sentence turn'd; His eye-lids stiffen'd and pursed up, ... his eyes Rigid, and wild, and wide; and when the King Had ceased, amid the silence which ensued, The dastard's chains were heard, link against link Clinking. At length upon his knees he fell, And lifting up his trembling hands, outstretch'd In supplication, ... Mercy! he exclaim'd.... Chains, dungeons, darkness, ... any thing but death!... I did not touch his life. Roderick replied, His hour, whenever it had come, had found A soul prepared: he lived in peace with Heaven, And life prolong'd for him, was bliss delay'd. But life, in pain and darkness and despair, For thee, all leprous as thou art with crimes, Is mercy.... Take him hence, and let him see The light of day no more! Such Roderick was When last I saw these courts, ... his theatre Of glory; ... such when last I visited My master's grave! Ten years have hardly held Their course, ... ten little years ... break, break, old heart.... Oh why art thou so tough! As thus he spake They reach'd the church. The door before his hand Gave way; both blinded with their tears, they went Straight to the tomb; and there Siverian knelt, And bow'd his face upon the sepulchre, Weeping aloud; while Roderick, overpower'd, And calling upon earth to cover him, Threw himself prostrate on his father's grave.

Thus as they lay, an aweful voice in tones Severe address'd them. Who are ye, it said, That with your passion thus, and on this night, Disturb my prayers? Starting they rose; there stood A man before them of majestic form And stature, clad in sackcloth, bare of foot, Pale, and in tears, with ashes on his head.

RODERICK AND PELAYO.

'Twas not in vain that on her absent son, Pelayo's mother from the bed of death Call'd for forgiveness, and in agony Besought his prayers; all guilty as she was, Sure he had not been human, if that cry Had fail'd to pierce him. When he heard the tale He bless'd the messenger, even while his speech Was faltering, ... while from head to foot he shook With icey feelings from his inmost heart Effused. It changed the nature of his woe, Making the burthen more endurable: The life-long sorrow that remain'd, became A healing and a chastening grief, and brought His soul, in close communion, nearer Heaven. For he had been her first-born, and the love Which at her breast he drew, and from her smiles, And from her voice of tenderness imbibed, Gave such unnatural horror to her crimes, That when the thought came over him, it seem'd As if the milk which with his infant life Had blended, thrill'd like poison through his frame. It was a woe beyond all reach of hope, Till with the dreadful tale of her remorse Faith touch'd his heart; and ever from that day Did he for her who bore him, night and morn, Pour out the anguish of his soul in prayer: But chiefly as the night return'd, which heard Her last expiring groans of penitence, Then through the long and painful hours, before The altar, like a penitent himself, He kept his vigils; and when Roderick's sword Subdued Witiza, and the land was free, Duly upon her grave he offer'd up His yearly sacrifice of agony And prayer. This was the night, and he it was Who now before Siverian and the King Stood up in sackcloth. The old man, from fear Recovering and from wonder, knew him first. It is the Prince! he cried, and bending down Embraced his knees. The action and the word Awaken'd Roderick; he shook off the load Of struggling thoughts, which pressing on his heart, Held him like one entranced; yet, all untaught To bend before the face of man, confused Awhile he stood, forgetful of his part. But when Siverian cried, My Lord, my Lord, Now God be praised that I have found thee thus, My Lord and Prince, Spain's only hope and mine! Then Roderick, echoing him, exclaim'd, My Lord, And Prince, Pelayo!... and approaching near, He bent his knee obeisant: but his head Earthward inclined; while the old man, looking up From his low gesture to Pelayo's face, Wept at beholding him for grief and joy.

Siverian! cried the chief, ... of whom hath Death Bereaved me, that thou comest to Cordoba?... Children, or wife?... Or hath the merciless scythe Of this abhorr'd and jealous tyranny Made my house desolate at one wide sweep?

They are as thou couldst wish, the old man replied, Wert thou but lord of thine own house again, And Spain were Spain once more. A tale of ill I bear, but one that touches not the heart Like what thy fears forebode. The renegade Numacian woos thy sister, and she lends To the vile slave, unworthily, her ear: The Lady Gaudiosa hath in vain Warn'd her of all the evils which await A union thus accurst: she sets at nought Her faith, her lineage, and thy certain wrath.

Pelayo hearing him, remain'd awhile Silent; then turning to his mother's grave, ... O thou poor dust, hath then the infectious taint Survived thy dread remorse, that it should run In Guisla's veins? he cried; ... I should have heard This shameful sorrow any where but here!... Humble thyself, proud heart; thou, gracious Heaven, Be merciful!... it is the original flaw, ... And what are we?... a weak unhappy race, Born to our sad inheritance of sin And death!... He smote his forehead as he spake, And from his head the ashes fell, like snow Shaken from some dry beech-leaves, when a bird Lights on the bending spray. A little while In silence, rather than in thought, he stood Passive beneath the sorrow: turning then, And what doth Gaudiosa counsel me? He ask'd the old man; for she hath ever been My wise and faithful counsellor.... He replied, The Lady Gaudiosa bade me say She sees the danger which on every part Besets her husband's house.... Here she had ceased; But when my noble Mistress gave in charge, How I should tell thee that in evil times The bravest counsels ever are the best; Then that high-minded Lady thus rejoin'd, Whatever be my Lord's resolve, he knows I bear a mind prepared. Brave spirits! cried Pelayo, worthy to remove all stain Of weakness from their sex! I should be less Than man, if, drawing strength where others find Their hearts most open to assault of fear, I quail'd at danger. Never be it said Of Spain, that in the hour of her distress Her women were as heroes, but her men Perform'd the woman's part. Roderick at that Look'd up, and taking up the word, exclaim'd, O Prince, in better days the pride of Spain, And prostrate as she lies, her surest hope, Hear now my tale. The fire which seem'd extinct Hath risen revigorate: a living spark From Auria's ashes, by a woman's hand Preserved and quicken'd, kindles far and wide The beacon-flame o'er all the Asturian hills. There hath a vow been offer'd up, which binds Us and our children's children to the work Of holy hatred. In the name of Spain That vow hath been pronounced, and register'd Above, to be the bond whereby we stand For condemnation or acceptance. Heaven Received the irrevocable vow, and Earth Must witness its fulfilment; Earth and Heaven Call upon thee, Pelayo! Upon thee The spirits of thy royal ancestors Look down expectant; unto thee, from fields Laid waste, and hamlets burnt, and cities sack'd, The blood of infancy and helpless age Cries out; thy native mountains call for thee, Echoing from all their armed sons thy name. And deem not thou that hot impatience goads Thy countrymen to counsels immature. Odoar and Urban from Visonia's banks Send me, their sworn and trusted messenger, To summon thee, and tell thee in their name That now the hour is come: For sure it seems, Thus saith the Primate, Heaven's high will to rear Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne, Restoring in thy native line, O Prince, The sceptre to the Spaniard. Worthy son Of that most ancient and heroic race, Which with unweariable endurance still Hath striven against its mightier enemies, Roman or Carthaginian, Greek or Goth; So often by superior arms oppress'd, More often by superior arts beguiled; Yet amid all its sufferings, all the waste Of sword and fire remorselessly employ'd, Unconquer'd and unconquerable still; ... Son of that injured and illustrious stock, Stand forward thou, draw forth the sword of Spain, Restore them to their rights, too long withheld, And place upon thy brow the Spanish crown.

When Roderick ceased, the princely Mountaineer Gazed on the passionate orator awhile, With eyes intently fix'd, and thoughtful brow; Then turning to the altar, he let fall The sackcloth robe, which late with folded arms Against his heart was prest; and stretching forth His hands toward the crucifix, exclaim'd, My God and my Redeemer! where but here, Before thy aweful presence, in this garb, With penitential ashes thus bestrewn, Could I so fitly answer to the call Of Spain; and for her sake, and in thy name, Accept the Crown of Thorns she proffers me!

And where but here, said Roderick in his heart, Could I so properly, with humbled knee And willing soul, confirm my forfeiture?... The action follow'd on that secret thought: He knelt, and took Pelayo's hand, and cried, First of the Spaniards, let me with this kiss Do homage to thee here, my Lord and King!... With voice unchanged and steady countenance He spake; but when Siverian follow'd him, The old man trembled as his lips pronounced The faltering vow; and rising he exclaim'd, God grant thee, O my Prince, a better fate Than thy poor kinsman's, who in happier days Received thy homage here! Grief choak'd his speech And, bursting into tears, he sobb'd aloud. Tears too adown Pelayo's manly cheek Roll'd silently. Roderick alone appear'd Unmoved and calm; for now the royal Goth Had offer'd his accepted sacrifice, And therefore in his soul he felt that peace Which follows painful duty well perform'd, ... Perfect and heavenly peace, ... the peace of God.

ALPHONSO.

The noble Mountaineer, concluding then With silent prayer the service of the night, Went forth. Without the porch awaiting him He saw Alphonso, pacing to and fro With patient step and eye reverted oft. He, springing forward when he heard the door Move on its heavy hinges, ran to him, And welcomed him with smiles of youthful love. I have been watching yonder moon, quoth he How it grew pale and paler as the sun Scatter'd the flying shades; but woe is me, For on the towers of Cordoba the while That baleful crescent glitter'd in the morn, And with its insolent triumph seem'd to mock The omen I had found.... Last night I dreamt That thou wert in the field in arms for Spain, And I was at thy side: the infidels Beset us round, but we with our good swords Hew'd out a way. Methought I stabb'd a Moor Who would have slain thee; but with that I woke For joy, and wept to find it but a dream.

Thus as he spake a livelier glow o'erspread His cheek, and starting tears again suffused The brightening lustre of his eyes. The Prince Regarded him a moment stedfastly, As if in quick resolve; then looking round On every side with keen and rapid glance, Drew him within the church. Alphonso's heart Throbb'd with a joyful boding as he mark'd The calmness of Pelayo's countenance Kindle with solemn thoughts, expressing now High purposes of resolute hope. He gazed All eagerly to hear what most he wish'd. If, said the Prince, thy dream were verified, And I indeed were in the field in arms For Spain, ... wouldst thou be at Pelayo's side?... If I should break these bonds, and fly to rear Our country's banner on our native hills, Wouldst thou, Alphonso, share my dangerous flight, Dear boy, ... and wilt thou take thy lot with me For death, or for deliverance? Shall I swear? Replied the impatient boy; and laying hand Upon the altar, on his knee he bent, Looking towards Pelayo with such joy Of reverential love, as if a God Were present to receive the eager vow. Nay, quoth Pelayo: what hast thou to do With oaths?... Bright emanation as thou art, It were a wrong to thy unsullied soul, A sin to nature, were I to require Promise or vow from thee! Enough for me That thy heart answers to the stirring call. Alphonso, follow thou in happy faith Alway the indwelling voice that counsels thee; And then, let fall the issue as it may, Shall all thy paths be in the light of Heaven, The peace of Heaven be with thee in all hours.

How then, exclaim'd the boy, shall I discharge The burthen of this happiness, ... how ease My overflowing soul!... Oh gracious God, Shall I behold my mother's face again, ... My father's hall, ... my native hills and vales, And hear the voices of their streams again, ... And free as I was born amid those scenes Beloved, maintain my country's freedom there, ... Or, failing in the sacred enterprise, Die as becomes a Spaniard?... Saying thus, He lifted up his hands and eyes toward The image of the Crucified, and cried, O Thou who didst with thy most precious blood Redeem us, Jesu! help us while we seek Earthly redemption from this yoke of shame And misbelief and death. The noble boy Then rose, and would have knelt again to clasp Pelayo's knees, and kiss his hand in act Of homage; but the Prince, preventing this, Bent over him in fatherly embrace, And breathed a fervent blessing on his head.

FLORINDA.

There sate a woman like a supplicant, Muffled and cloak'd, before Pelayo's gate, Awaiting when he should return that morn. She rose at his approach, and bow'd her head, And, with a low and trembling utterance, Besought him to vouchsafe her speech within In privacy. And when they were alone, And the doors closed, she knelt and claspt his knees, Saying, a boon! a boon! This night, O Prince, Hast thou kept vigil for thy mother's soul: For her soul's sake, and for the soul of him Whom once, in happier days, of all mankind Thou heldest for thy chosen bosom friend, Oh for the sake of his poor suffering soul, Refuse me not! How should I dare refuse, Being thus adjured? he answer'd. Thy request Is granted, woman, ... be it what it may, So it be lawful, and within the bounds Of possible atchievement: ... aught unfit Thou wouldst not with these adjurations seek. But who thou art, I marvel, that dost touch Upon that string, and ask in Roderick's name!... She bared her face, and, looking up, replied, Florinda!... Shrinking then, with both her hands She hid herself, and bow'd her head abased Upon her knee, ... as one who, if the grave Had oped beneath her, would have thrown herself, Even like a lover, in the arms of Death.

Pelayo stood confused: he had not seen Count Julian's daughter since in Roderick's court, Glittering in beauty and in innocence, A radiant vision, in her joy she moved; More like a poet's dream, or form divine, Heaven's prototype of perfect womanhood, So lovely was the presence, ... than a thing Of earth and perishable elements. Now had he seen her in her winding-sheet, Less painful would that spectacle have proved; For peace is with the dead, and piety Bringeth a patient hope to those who mourn O'er the departed; but this alter'd face, Bearing its deadly sorrow character'd, Came to him like a ghost, which in the grave Could find no rest. He, taking her cold hand, Raised her, and would have spoken; but his tongue Fail'd in its office, and could only speak In under tones compassionate her name.

The voice of pity soothed and melted her; And when the Prince bade her be comforted, Proffering his zealous aid in whatsoe'er Might please her to appoint, a feeble smile Pass'd slowly over her pale countenance, Like moonlight on a marble statue. Heaven Requite thee, Prince! she answer'd. All I ask Is but a quiet resting-place, wherein A broken heart, in prayer and humble hope, May wait for its deliverance. Even this My most unhappy fate denies me here. Griefs which are known too widely and too well I need not now remember. I could bear Privation of all Christian ordinances, The woe which kills hath saved me too, and made A temple of this ruin'd tabernacle, Wherein redeeming God doth not disdain To let his presence shine. And I could bear To see the turban on my father's brow, ... Sorrow beyond all sorrows, ... shame of shames, ... Yet to be borne, while I with tears of blood, And throes of agony, in his behalf Implore and wrestle with offended Heaven. This I have borne resign'd: but other ills And worse assail me now; the which to bear, If to avoid be possible, would draw Damnation down. Orpas, the perjured Priest, The apostate Orpas, claims me for his bride. Obdurate as he is, the wretch profanes My sacred woe, and woos me to his bed, The thing I am, ... the living death thou seest!

Miscreant! exclaim'd Pelayo. Might I meet That renegado, sword to scymitar, In open field, never did man approach The altar for the sacrifice in faith More sure, than I should hew the villain down! But how should Julian favour his demand?... Julian, who hath so passionately loved His child, so dreadfully revenged her wrongs!

Count Julian, she replied, hath none but me, And it hath, therefore, been his heart's desire To see his ancient line by me preserved. This was their covenant when in fatal hour For Spain, and for themselves, in traitorous bond Of union they combined. My father, stung To madness, only thought of how to make His vengeance sure; the Prelate, calm and cool, When he renounced his outward faith in Christ, Indulged at once his hatred of the King, His inbred wickedness, and a haughty hope, Versed as he was in treasons, to direct The invaders by his secret policy, And at their head, aided by Julian's power, Reign as a Moor upon that throne to which The priestly order else had barr'd his way. The African hath conquer'd for himself; But Orpas coveteth Count Julian's lands, And claims to have the covenant perform'd. Friendless, and worse than fatherless, I come To thee for succour. Send me secretly, ... For well I know all faithful hearts must be At thy devotion, ... with a trusty guide To guard me on the way, that I may reach Some Christian land, where Christian rites are free, And there discharge a vow, alas! too long, Too fatally delay'd. Aid me in this For Roderick's sake, Pelayo! and thy name Shall be remember'd in my latest prayer.

Be comforted! the Prince replied; but when He spake of comfort, twice did he break off The idle words, feeling that earth had none For grief so irremediable as hers. At length he took her hand, and pressing it, And forcing through involuntary tears A mournful smile affectionate, he said, Say not that thou art friendless while I live! Thou couldst not to a readier ear have told Thy sorrows, nor have ask'd in fitter hour What for my country's honour, for my rank, My faith, and sacred knighthood, I am bound In duty to perform; which not to do Would show me undeserving of the names Of Goth, Prince, Christian, even of Man. This day Lady, prepare to take thy lot with me, And soon as evening closes meet me here. Duties bring blessings with them, and I hold Thy coming for a happy augury, In this most aweful crisis of my fate.

RODERICK AND FLORINDA.

With sword and breast-plate, under rustic weeds 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.

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!

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 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.

Fronting the gate the standard-bearer holds His precious charge. Behind the men divide In order'd files; green boyhood presses there, And waning eld, pleading a youthful soul, Intreats admission. All is ardour here, Hope and brave purposes and minds resolved. Nor where the weaker sex is left apart Doth aught of fear find utterance, though perchance Some paler cheeks might there be seen, some eyes Big with sad bodings, and some natural tears. Count Pedro's war-horse in the vacant space Strikes with impatient hoof the trodden turf, And gazing round upon the martial show, Proud of his stately trappings, flings his head, And snorts and champs the bit, and neighing shrill Wakes the near echo with his voice of joy. The page beside him holds his master's spear And shield and helmet. In the castle-gate Count Pedro stands, his countenance resolved But mournful, for Favinia on his arm Hung, passionate with her fears, and held him back. Go not, she cried, with this deluded crew! She hath not, Pedro, with her frantic words Bereft thy faculty, ... she is crazed with grief, And her delirium hath infected these: But, Pedro, thou art calm; thou dost not share The madness of the crowd; thy sober mind Surveys the danger in its whole extent, And sees the certain ruin, ... for thou know'st I know thou hast no hope. Unhappy man, Why then for this most desperate enterprize Wilt thou devote thy son, thine only child? Not for myself I plead, nor even for thee; Thou art a soldier, and thou canst not fear The face of death; and I should welcome it As the best visitant whom Heaven could send. Not for our lives I speak then, ... were they worth The thought of preservation; ... Nature soon Must call for them; the sword that should cut short Sorrow's slow work were merciful to us. But spare Alphonso! there is time and hope In store for him. O thou who gavest him life, Seal not his death, his death and mine at once!

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