Part 10

Meantime Pelayo up the vale pursued Eastward his way, before the sun had climb’d Auseva’s brow, or shed his silvering beams Upon Europa’s summit, where the snows Through all revolving seasons hold their seat. A happy man he went, his heart at rest, Of hope and virtue and affection full, To all exhilarating influences Of earth and heaven alive. With kindred joy He heard the lark, who from her airy height, On twinkling pinions poised, pour’d forth profuse, In thrilling sequence of exuberant song, As one whose joyous nature overflow’d With life and power, her rich and rapturous strain. The early bee, buzzing along the way, From flower to flower, bore gladness on its wing To his rejoicing sense; and he pursued, With quicken’d eye alert, the frolic hare, Where from the green herb in her wanton path She brush’d away the dews. For he long time, Far from his home and from his native hills, Had dwelt in bondage; and the mountain breeze, Which he had with the breath of infancy Inhaled, such impulse to his heart restored, As if the seasons had roll’d back, and life Enjoy’d a second spring. Through fertile fields He went, by cots with pear-trees overbower’d, Or spreading to the sun their trelliced vines; Through orchards now, and now by thymy banks, Where wooden hives in some warm nook were hid From wind and shower; and now thro’ shadowy paths, Where hazels fringed Pionia’s vocal stream; Till where the loftier hills to narrower bound Confine the vale, he reach’d those huts remote Which should hereafter to the noble line Of Soto origin and name impart: A gallant lineage, long in fields of war And faithful chronicler’s enduring page Blazon’d: but most by him illustrated, Avid of gold, yet greedier of renown, Whom not the spoils of Atabalipa Could satisfy insatiate, nor the fame Of that wide empire overthrown appease; But he to Florida’s disastrous shores In evil hour his gallant comrades led, Through savage woods and swamps, and hostile tribes, The Apalachian arrows, and the snares Of wilier foes, hunger, and thirst, and toil; Till from ambition’s feverish dream the touch Of Death awoke him; and when he had seen The fruit of all his treasures, all his toil, Foresight, and long endurance, fade away, Earth to the restless one refusing rest, In the great river’s midland bed he left His honour’d bones. A mountain rivulet, Now calm and lovely in its summer course, Held by those huts its everlasting way Towards Pionia. They whose flocks and herds Drink of its water call it Deva. Here Pelayo southward up the ruder vale Traced it, his guide unerring. Amid heaps Of mountain wreck, on either side thrown high, The wide-spread traces of its wintry might, The tortuous channel wound; o’er beds of sand Here silently it flows; here from the rock Rebutted, curls and eddies; plunges here Precipitate; here roaring among crags, It leaps and foams and whirls and hurries on. Grey alders here and bushy hazels hid The mossy side; their wreath’d and knotted feet Bared by the current, now against its force Repaying the support they found, upheld The bank secure. Here, bending to the stream, The birch fantastic stretch’d its rugged trunk, Tall and erect from whence, as from their base, Each like a tree, its silver branches grew. The cherry here hung for the birds of heaven Its rosy fruit on high. The elder there Its purple berries o’er the water bent, Heavily hanging. Here, amid the brook, Grey as the stone to which it clung, half root, Half trunk, the young ash rises from the rock; And there its parent lifts a lofty head, And spreads its graceful boughs; the passing wind With twinkling motion lifts the silent leaves, And shakes its rattling tufts. Soon had the Prince Behind him left the farthest dwelling-place Of man; no fields of waving corn were here, Nor wicker storehouse for the autumnal grain, Vineyard, nor bowery fig, nor fruitful grove; Only the rocky vale, the mountain stream, Incumbent crags, and hills that over hills Arose on either hand, here hung with woods, Here rich with heath, that o’er some smooth ascent Its purple glory spread, or golden gorse; Bare here, and striated with many a hue, Scored by the wintry rain; by torrents here Riven, and with overhanging rocks abrupt. Pelayo, upward as he cast his eyes Where crags loose-hanging o’er the narrow pass Impended, there beheld his country’s strength Insuperable, and in his heart rejoiced. Oh that the Musselman were here, he cried, With all his myriads! While thy day endures, Moor! thou may’st lord it in the plains; but here Hath Nature for the free and brave prepared A sanctuary, where no oppressor’s power, No might of human tyranny can pierce.

The tears which started then sprang not alone From lofty thoughts of elevating joy; For love and admiration had their part, And virtuous pride. Here then thou hast retired, My Gaudiosa! in his heart he said; Excellent woman! ne’er was richer boon By fate benign to favour’d man indulged, Than when thou wert before the face of Heaven Given me to be my children’s mother, brave And virtuous as thou art! Here thou hast fled, Thou who wert nurst in palaces, to dwell In rocks and mountain caves!... The thought was proud, Yet not without a sense of inmost pain; For never had Pelayo till that hour So deeply felt the force of solitude. High over head the eagle soar’d serene, And the grey lizard on the rocks below Bask’d in the sun: no living creature else In this remotest wilderness was seen; Nor living voice was there, ... only the flow Of Deva, and the rushing of its springs Long in the distance heard, which nearer now, With endless repercussion deep and loud, Throbb’d on the dizzy sense. The ascending vale, Long straiten’d by the narrowing mountains, here Was closed. In front a rock, abrupt and bare, Stood eminent, in height exceeding far All edifice of human power, by King Or Caliph, or barbaric Sultan rear’d, Or mightier tyrants of the world of old, Assyrian or Egyptian, in their pride; Yet far above, beyond the reach of sight, Swell after swell, the heathery mountain rose. Here, in two sources, from the living rock The everlasting springs of Deva gush’d. Upon a smooth and grassy plat below, By Nature there as for an altar drest, They join’d their sister stream, which from the earth Well’d silently. In such a scene rude man With pardonable error might have knelt, Feeling a present Deity, and made His offering to the fountain Nymph devout.

The arching rock disclosed above the springs A cave, where hugest son of giant birth, That e’er of old in forest of romance ’Gainst knights and ladies waged discourteous war, Erect within the portal might have stood. The broken stone allow’d for hand and foot No difficult ascent, above the base In height a tall man’s stature, measured thrice. No holier spot than Covadonga Spain Boasts in her wide extent, though all her realms Be with the noblest blood of martyrdom In elder or in later days enrich’d, And glorified with tales of heavenly aid By many a miracle made manifest; Nor in the heroic annals of her fame Doth she show forth a scene of more renown. Then, save the hunter, drawn in keen pursuit Beyond his wonted haunts, or shepherd’s boy, Following the pleasure of his straggling flock, None knew the place. Pelayo, when he saw Those glittering sources and their sacred cave, Took from his side the bugle silver-tipt, And with a breath long drawn and slow expired Sent forth that strain, which, echoing from the walls Of Cangas, wont to tell his glad return. When from the chace he came. At the first sound Favila started in the cave, and cried, My father’s horn!... A sudden flush suffused Hermesind’s cheek, and she with quicken’d eye Look’d eager to her mother silently; But Gaudiosa trembled and grew pale, Doubting her sense deceived. A second time The bugle breathed its well-known notes abroad And Hermesind around her mother’s neck Threw her white arms, and earnestly exclaim’d, ’Tis he!... But when a third and broader blast Rung in the echoing archway, ne’er did wand, With magic power endued, call up a sight So strange, as sure in that wild solitude It seem’d, when from the bowels of the rock The mother and her children hastened forth; She in the sober charms and dignity Of womanhood mature, nor verging yet Upon decay; in gesture like a Queen, Such inborn and habitual majesty Ennobled all her steps, ... or Priestess, chosen Because within such faultless work of Heaven Inspiring Deity might seem to make Its habitation known.... Favila such In form and stature as the Sea Nymph’s son, When that wise Centaur from his cave well-pleased Beheld the boy divine his growing strength Against some shaggy lionet essay, And fixing in the half-grown mane his hands, Roll with him in fierce dalliance intertwined. But like a creature of some higher sphere His sister came; she scarcely touch’d the rock, So light was Hermesind’s aërial speed. Beauty and grace and innocence in her In heavenly union shone. One who had held The faith of elder Greece, would sure have thought She was some glorious nymph of seed divine, Oread or Dryad, of Diana’s train The youngest and the loveliest: yea she seem’d Angel, or soul beatified, from realms Of bliss, on errand of parental love To earth re-sent, ... if tears and trembling limbs With such celestial natures might consist.

Embraced by all, in turn embracing each, The husband and the father for awhile Forgot his country and all things beside: Life hath few moments of such pure delight, Such foretaste of the perfect joy of Heaven. And when the thought recurr’d of sufferings past, Perils which threaten’d still, and arduous toil Yet to be undergone, remember’d griefs Heighten’d the present happiness; and hope Upon the shadows of futurity Shone like the sun upon the morning mists, When driven before his rising rays they roll, And melt and leave the prospect bright and clear.

When now Pelayo’s eyes had drank their fill Of love from those dear faces, he went up To view the hiding place. Spacious it was As that Sicilian cavern in the hill Wherein earth-shaking Neptune’s giant son Duly at eve was wont to fold his flock, Ere the wise Ithacan, over that brute force By wiles prevailing, for a life-long night Seel’d his broad eye. The healthful air had here Free entrance, and the cheerful light of heaven; But at the end, an opening in the floor Of rock disclosed a wider vault below, Which never sun-beam visited, nor breath Of vivifying morning came to cheer. No light was there but that which from above In dim reflection fell, or found its way, Broken and quivering, through the glassy stream, Where through the rock it gush’d. That shadowy light Sufficed to show, where from their secret bed The waters issued; with whose rapid course, And with whose everlasting cataracts Such motion to the chill damp atmosphere Was given, as if the solid walls of rock Were shaken with the sound. Glad to respire The upper air, Pelayo hasten’d back From that drear den. Look! Hermesind exclaim’d, Taking her father’s hand, thou hast not seen My chamber: ... See!... did ever ring-dove chuse In so secure a nook her hiding-place, Or build a warmer nest? ’Tis fragrant too, As warm, and not more sweet than soft; for thyme And myrtle with the elastic heath are laid, And, over all, this dry and pillowy moss ... Smiling she spake. Pelayo kiss’d the child, And, sighing, said within himself, I trust In Heaven, whene’er thy May of life is come, Sweet bird, that thou shalt have a blither bower! Fitlier, he thought, such chamber might beseem Some hermit of Hilarion’s school austere, Or old Antonius, he who from the hell Of his bewilder’d phantasy saw fiends In actual vision, a foul throng grotesque Of all horrific shapes and forms obscene Crowd in broad day before his open eyes. That feeling cast a momentary shade Of sadness o’er his soul. But deeper thoughts, If he might have foreseen the things to come, Would there have fill’d him; for within that cave His own remains were one day doom’d to find Their final place of rest; and in that spot, Where that dear child with innocent delight Had spread her mossy couch, the sepulchre Shall in the consecrated rock be hewn, Where with Alphonso, her beloved lord, Laid side by side, must Hermesind partake The everlasting marriage-bed, when he, Leaving a name perdurable on earth, Hath changed his earthly for a heavenly crown. Dear child, upon that fated spot she stood, In all the beauty of her opening youth, In health’s rich bloom, in virgin innocence, While her eyes sparkled and her heart o’erflow’d With pure and perfect joy of filial love.

Many a slow century since that day hath fill’d Its course, and countless multitudes have trod With pilgrim feet that consecrated cave; Yet not in all those ages, amid all The untold concourse, hath one breast been swoln With such emotions as Pelayo felt That hour. O Gaudiosa, he exclaim’d, And thou couldst seek for shelter here, amid This aweful solitude, in mountain caves! Thou noble spirit! Oh when hearts like thine Grow on this sacred soil, would it not be In me, thy husband, double infamy, And tenfold guilt, if I despair’d of Spain? In all her visitations, favouring Heaven Hath left her still the unconquerable mind; And thus being worthy of redemption, sure Is she to be redeem’d. Beholding her Through tears he spake, and prest upon her lips A kiss of deepest love. Think ever thus, She answer’d, and that faith will give the power In which it trusts. When to this mountain hold These children, thy dear images, I brought, I said within myself, where should they fly But to the bosom of their native hills? I brought them here as to a sanctuary, Where, for the temple’s sake, the indwelling God Would guard his supplicants. O my dear Lord, Proud as I was to know that they were thine, Was it a sin if I almost believed, That Spain, her destiny being link’d with theirs, Must save the precious charge? So let us think, The chief replied, so feel and teach and act. Spain is our common parent: let the sons Be to the parent true, and in her strength And Heaven, their sure deliverance they will find.

XVII.

RODERICK AND SIVERIAN.

O holiest Mary, Maid and Mother! thou In Covadonga, at thy rocky shrine, Hast witness’d whatsoe’er of human bliss Heart can conceive most perfect! Faithful love, Long crost by envious stars, hath there attain’d Its crown, in endless matrimony given; The youthful mother there hath to the font Her first-born borne, and there, with deeper sense Of gratitude for that dear babe redeem’d From threatening death, return’d to pay her vows. But ne’er on nuptial, nor baptismal day, Nor from their grateful pilgrimage discharged, Did happier group their way down Deva’s vale Rejoicing hold, than this blest family, O’er whom the mighty Spirit of the Land Spread his protecting wings. The children, free In youthhead’s happy season from all cares That might disturb the hour, yet capable Of that intense and unalloyed delight Which childhood feels when it enjoys again The dear parental presence long deprived; Nor were the parents now less bless’d than they, Even to the height of human happiness; For Gaudiosa and her Lord that hour Let no misgiving thoughts intrude: she fix’d Her hopes on him, and his were fix’d on Heaven; And hope in that courageous heart derived Such rooted strength and confidence assured In righteousness, that ’twas to him like faith ... An everlasting sunshine of the soul, Illumining and quickening all its powers.

But on Pionia’s side meantime a heart As generous, and as full of noble thoughts, Lay stricken with the deadliest bolts of grief. Upon a smooth grey stone sate Roderick there; The wind above him stirr’d the hazel boughs, And murmuring at his feet the river ran. He sate with folded arms and head declined Upon his breast, feeding on bitter thoughts, Till nature gave him in the exhausted sense Of woe a respite something like repose; And then the quiet sound of gentle winds And waters with their lulling consonance Beguiled him of himself. Of all within Oblivious there he sate, sentient alone Of outward nature, ... of the whispering leaves That soothed his ear, ... the genial breath of Heaven That fann’d his cheek, ... the stream’s perpetual flow, That, with its shadows and its glancing lights, Dimples and thread-like motions infinite, For ever varying and yet still the same, Like time toward eternity, ran by. Resting his head upon his master’s knees, Upon the bank beside him Theron lay. What matters change of state and circumstance, Or lapse of years, with all their dread events, To him? What matters it that Roderick wears The crown no longer, nor the sceptre wields?... It is the dear-loved hand, whose friendly touch Had flatter’d him so oft; it is the voice, At whose glad summons to the field so oft From slumber he had started, shaking off Dreams of the chace, to share the actual joy; The eye, whose recognition he was wont To watch and welcome with exultant tongue.

A coming step, unheard by Roderick, roused His watchful ear, and turning he beheld Siverian. Father, said the good old man, As Theron rose and fawn’d about his knees, Hast thou some charm, which draws about thee thus The hearts of all our house, ... even to the beast That lacks discourse of reason, but too oft, With uncorrupted feeling and dumb faith, Puts lordly man to shame?... The king replied, ’Tis that mysterious sense by which mankind To fix their friendships and their loves are led, And which with fainter influence doth extend To such poor things as this. As we put off The cares and passions of this fretful world, It may be too that we thus far approach To elder nature, and regain in part The privilege through sin in Eden lost. The timid hare soon learns that she may trust The solitary penitent, and birds Will light upon the hermit’s harmless hand.

Thus Roderick answer’d in excursive speech, Thinking to draw the old man’s mind from what Might touch him else too nearly, and himself Disposed to follow on the lure he threw, As one whom such imaginations led Out of the world of his own miseries. But to regardless ears his words were given, For on the dog Siverian gazed the while, Pursuing his own thoughts. Thou hast not felt, Exclaim’d the old man, the earthquake and the storm; The kingdom’s overthrow, the wreck of Spain, The ruin of thy royal master’s house, Have reach’d not thee!... Then turning to the King, When the destroying enemy drew nigh Toledo, he continued, and we fled Before their fury, even while her grief Was fresh, my Mistress would not leave behind This faithful creature. Well we knew she thought Of Roderick then, although she named him not; For never since the fatal certainty Fell on us all, hath that unhappy name, Save in her prayers, been known to pass her lips Before this day. She names him now, and weeps; But now her tears are tears of thankfulness, For blessed hath thy coming been to her And all who loved the King. His faltering voice Here fail’d him, and he paused: recovering soon, When that poor injured Lady, he pursued, Did in my presence to the Prince absolve The unhappy King.... Absolve him! Roderick cried, And in that strong emotion turn’d his face Sternly toward Siverian, for the sense Of shame and self-reproach drove from his min All other thoughts. The good old man replied Of human judgements humanly I speak. Who knows not what Pelayo’s life hath been? Not happier in all dear domestic ties, Than worthy for his virtue of the bliss Which is that virtue’s fruit; and yet did he Absolve, upon Florinda’s tale, the King. Siverian, thus he said, what most I hoped, And still within my secret heart believed, Is now made certain. Roderick hath been More sinn’d against than sinning. And with that He claspt his hands, and, lifting them to Heaven, Cried, Would to God that he were yet alive! For not more gladly did I draw my sword Against Witiza in our common cause, Than I would fight beneath his banners now, And vindicate his name! Did he say this? The Prince? Pelayo? in astonishment Roderick exclaim’d.... He said it, quoth the old man. None better knew his kinsman’s noble heart, None loved him better, none bewail’d him more: And as he felt, like me, for his reproach A deeper grief than for his death, even so He cherish’d in his heart the constant thought Something was yet untold, which, being known, Would palliate his offence, and make the fall Of one till then so excellently good, Less monstrous, less revolting to belief, More to be pitied, more to be forgiven.