Part 2

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 (for in Merida Sacaru long in resolute defence Withstood the tide of war,) 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?

II.

RODERICK IN SOLITUDE.

Twelve months they sojourn’d in their solitude, And then beneath the burthen of old age Romano sunk. No brethren were there here To spread the sackcloth, and with ashes strew That penitential bed, and gather round To sing his requiem, and with prayer and psalm Assist him in his hour of agony. He lay on the bare earth, which long had been His only couch; beside him Roderick knelt, Moisten’d from time to time his blacken’d lips, Received a blessing with his latest breath, Then closed his eyes, and by the nameless grave Of the fore-tenant of that holy place Consign’d him earth to earth. Two graves are here, And Roderick transverse at their feet began To break the third. In all his intervals Of prayer, save only when he search’d the woods And fill’d the water-cruise, he labour’d there; And when the work was done, and he had laid Himself at length within its narrow sides And measured it, he shook his head to think There was no other business now for him. Poor wretch, thy bed is ready, he exclaim’d, And would that night were come!... It was a task, All gloomy as it was, which had beguiled The sense of solitude; but now he felt The burthen of the solitary hours: The silence of that lonely hermitage Lay on him like a spell; and at the voice Of his own prayers, he started half aghast. Then too as on Romano’s grave he sate And pored upon his own, a natural thought Arose within him, ... well might he have spared That useless toil; the sepulchre would be No hiding place for him; no Christian hands Were here who should compose his decent corpse And cover it with earth. There he might drag His wretched body at its passing hour, But there the Sea-Birds of her heritage Would rob the worm, or peradventure seize, Ere death had done its work, their helpless prey. Even now they did not fear him: when he walk’d Beside them on the beach, regardlessly They saw his coming; and their whirring wings Upon the height had sometimes fann’d his cheek, As if, being thus alone, humanity Had lost its rank, and the prerogative Of man were done away. For his lost crown And sceptre never had he felt a thought Of pain; repentance had no pangs to spare For trifles such as these, ... the loss of these Was a cheap penalty; ... that he had fallen Down to the lowest depth of wretchedness, His hope and consolation. But to lose His human station in the scale of things, ... To see brute nature scorn him, and renounce Its homage to the human form divine; ... Had then Almighty vengeance thus reveal’d His punishment, and was he fallen indeed Below fallen man, below redemption’s reach, ... Made lower than the beasts, and like the beasts To perish!... Such temptations troubled him By day, and in the visions of the night; And even in sleep he struggled with the thought. And waking with the effort of his prayers The dream assail’d him still. A wilder form Sometimes his poignant penitence assumed, Starting with force revived from intervals Of calmer passion, or exhausted rest; When floating back upon the tide of thought Remembrance to a self-excusing strain Beguiled him, and recall’d in long array The sorrows and the secret impulses Which to the abyss of wretchedness and guilt Led their unwary victim. The evil hour Return’d upon him, when reluctantly Yielding to worldly counsel his assent, In wedlock to an ill-assorted mate He gave his cold unwilling hand: then came The disappointment of the barren bed, The hope deceived, the soul dissatisfied, Home without love, and privacy from which Delight was banish’d first, and peace too soon Departed. Was it strange that when he met A heart attuned, ... a spirit like his own, Of lofty pitch, yet in affection mild, And tender as a youthful mother’s joy, ... Oh was it strange if at such sympathy The feelings which within his breast repell’d And chill’d had shrunk, should open forth like flowers After cold winds of night, when gentle gales Restore the genial sun? If all were known, Would it indeed be not to be forgiven?... (Thus would he lay the unction to his soul,) If all were truly known, as Heaven knows all, Heaven that is merciful as well as just, ... A passion slow and mutual in its growth, Pure as fraternal love, long self-conceal’d, And when confess’d in silence, long controll’d; Treacherous occasion, human frailty, fear Of endless separation, worse than death, ... The purpose and the hope with which the Fiend Tempted, deceived, and madden’d him; ... but then As at a new temptation would he start, Shuddering beneath the intolerable shame, And clench in agony his matted hair; While in his soul the perilous thought arose, How easy ’twere to plunge where yonder waves Invited him to rest. Oh for a voice Of comfort, ... for a ray of hope from Heaven! A hand that from these billows of despair May reach and snatch him ere he sink engulph’d! At length, as life when it hath lain long time Opprest beneath some grievous malady, Seems to rouse up with re-collected strength, And the sick man doth feel within himself A second spring; so Roderick’s better mind Arose to save him. Lo! the western sun Flames o’er the broad Atlantic; on the verge Of glowing ocean rests; retiring then Draws with it all its rays, and sudden night Fills the whole cope of heaven. The penitent Knelt by Romano’s grave, and falling prone, Claspt with extended arms the funeral mould. Father! he cried; Companion! only friend, When all beside was lost! thou too art gone, And the poor sinner whom from utter death Thy providential hand preserved, once more Totters upon the gulph. I am too weak For solitude, ... too vile a wretch to bear This everlasting commune with myself. The Tempter hath assail’d me; my own heart Is leagued with him; Despair hath laid the nets To take my soul, and Memory, like a ghost, Haunts me, and drives me to the toils. O Saint, While I was blest with thee, the hermitage Was my sure haven! Look upon me still, For from thy heavenly mansion thou canst see The suppliant; look upon thy child in Christ. Is there no other way for penitence? I ask not martyrdom; for what am I That I should pray for triumphs, the fit meed Of a long life of holy works like thine; Or how should I presumptuously aspire To wear the heavenly crown resign’d by thee, For my poor sinful sake? Oh point me thou Some humblest, painfulest, severest path, ... Some new austerity, unheard of yet In Syrian fields of glory, or the sands Of holiest Egypt. Let me bind my brow With thorns, and barefoot seek Jerusalem, Tracking the way with blood; there day by day Inflict upon this guilty flesh the scourge, Drink vinegar and gall, and for my bed Hang with extended limbs upon the Cross, A nightly crucifixion!... any thing Of action, difficulty, bodily pain, Labour, and outward suffering, ... any thing But stillness and this dreadful solitude! Romano! Father! let me hear thy voice In dreams, O sainted Soul! or from the grave Speak to thy penitent; even from the grave Thine were a voice of comfort. Thus he cried, Easing the pressure of his burthen’d heart With passionate prayer; thus pour’d his spirit forth, Till with the long impetuous effort spent, His spirit fail’d, and laying on the grave His weary head as on a pillow, sleep Fell on him. He had pray’d to hear a voice Of consolation, and in dreams a voice Of consolation came. Roderick, it said, ... Roderick, my poor, unhappy, sinful child, Jesus have mercy on thee!... Not if Heaven Had opened, and Romano, visible In his beatitude, had breathed that prayer; ... Not if the grave had spoken, had it pierced So deeply in his soul, nor wrung his heart With such compunctious visitings, nor given So quick, so keen a pang. It was that voice Which sung his fretful infancy to sleep So patiently; which soothed his childish griefs, Counsell’d, with anguish and prophetic tears, His headstrong youth. And lo! his Mother stood Before him in the vision; in those weeds Which never from the hour when to the grave She follow’d her dear lord Theodofred Rusilla laid aside; but in her face A sorrow that bespake a heavier load At heart, and more unmitigated woe, ... Yea, a more mortal wretchedness than when Witiza’s ruffians and the red-hot brass Had done their work, and in her arms she held Her eyeless husband; wiped away the sweat Which still his tortures forced from every pore Cool’d his scorch’d lids with medicinal herbs, And pray’d the while for patience for herself And him, and pray’d for vengeance too, and found Best comfort in her curses. In his dream, Groaning he knelt before her to beseech Her blessing, and she raised her hands to lay A benediction on him. But those hands Were chain’d, and casting a wild look around, With thrilling voice she cried, Will no one break These shameful fetters? Pedro, Theudemir, Athanagild, where are ye? Roderick’s arm Is wither’d; ... Chiefs of Spain, but where are ye? And thou, Pelayo, thou our surest hope, Dost thou too sleep?... Awake, Pelayo!... up!... Why tarriest thou, Deliverer?... But with that She broke her bonds, and lo! her form was changed! Radiant in arms she stood! a bloody Cross Gleam’d on her breast-plate, in her shield display’d Erect a lion ramp’d; her helmed head Rose like the Berecynthian Goddess crown’d With towers, and in her dreadful hand the sword Red as a fire-brand blazed. Anon the tramp Of horsemen, and the din of multitudes Moving to mortal conflict, rang around; The battle-song, the clang of sword and shield, War-cries and tumult, strife and hate and rage, Blasphemous prayers, confusion, agony, Rout and pursuit and death; and over all The shout of victory ... Spain and Victory! Roderick, as the strong vision master’d him, Rush’d to the fight rejoicing: starting then, As his own effort burst the charm of sleep, He found himself upon that lonely grave In moonlight and in silence. But the dream Wrought in him still; for still he felt his heart Pant, and his wither’d arm was trembling still; And still that voice was in his ear which call’d On Jesus for his sake. Oh, might he hear That actual voice! and if Rusilla lived, ... If shame and anguish for his crimes not yet Had brought her to the grave, ... sure she would bless Her penitent child, and pour into his heart Prayers and forgiveness, which like precious balm, Would heal the wounded soul. Nor to herself Less precious, or less healing, would the voice That spake forgiveness flow. She wept her son For ever lost, cut off with all the weight Of unrepented sin upon his head, Sin which had weigh’d a nation down ... what joy To know that righteous Heaven had in its wrath Remember’d mercy, and she yet might meet The child whom she had borne, redeem’d, in bliss. The sudden impulse of such thoughts confirm’d That unacknowledged purpose, which till now Vainly had sought its end. He girt his loins, Laid holiest Mary’s image in a cleft Of the rock, where, shelter’d from the elements, It might abide till happier days came on, From all defilement safe; pour’d his last prayer Upon Romano’s grave, and kiss’d the earth Which cover’d his remains, and wept as if At long leave-taking, then began his way.

III.

ADOSINDA.