Part 4

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

Nay, answer’d Roderick, but thou hast not heard My tale. Where that devoted city lies In ashes, mid the ruins and the dead I found a woman, whom the Moors had borne Captive away; but she, by Heaven inspired And her good heart, with her own arm had wrought Her own deliverance, smiting in his tent A lustful Moorish miscreant, as of yore By Judith’s holy deed the Assyrian fell. And that same spirit which had strengthen’d her Work’d in her still. Four walls with patient toil She rear’d, wherein, as in a sepulchre, With her own hands she laid her murder’d babe, Her husband and her parents, side by side; And when we cover’d in this shapeless tomb, There on the grave of all her family, Did this courageous mourner dedicate All thoughts and actions of her future life To her poor country. For she said, that Heaven Supporting her, in mercy had vouchsafed A foretaste of revenge; that, like the grace Of God, revenge had saved her; that in it Spain must have her salvation; and henceforth That passion, thus sublimed and sanctified, Must be to all the loyal sons of Spain The pole-star of their faith, their rule and rite, Observances and worthiest sacrifice. I took the vow, unworthy as I am, Her first sworn follower in the appointed rule; And then we parted; she among the hills To rouse the vassals of her father’s house: I at her bidding hitherward, to ask Thy counsel, who of our old Baronage Shall place upon his brow the Spanish crown.

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.

Odoar and Urban eyed him while he spake, As if they wonder’d whose the tongue might be Familiar thus with Chiefs and thoughts of state. They scann’d his countenance, but not a trace Betray’d the Royal Goth: sunk was that eye Of sovereignty, and on the emaciate cheek Had penitence and anguish deeply drawn Their furrows premature, ... forestalling time, And shedding upon thirty’s brow more snows Than threescore winters in their natural course Might else have sprinkled there. It seems indeed That thou hast pass’d thy days in solitude, Replied the Abbot, or thou would’st not ask Of things so long gone by. Athanagild And Theudemir have taken on their necks The yoke. Sacaru play’d a nobler part. Long within Merida did he withstand The invader’s hot assault; and when at length, Hopeless of all relief, he yielded up The gates, disdaining in his father’s land To breathe the air of bondage, with a few Found faithful till the last, indignantly Did he toward the ocean bend his way, And shaking from his feet the dust of Spain, Took ship, and hoisted sail through seas unknown To seek for freedom. Our Cantabrian Chiefs All have submitted, but the wary Moor Trusteth not all alike: At his own Court He holds Pelayo, as suspecting most That calm and manly spirit; Pedro’s son There too is held as hostage, and secures His father’s faith; Count Eudon is despised, And so lives unmolested. When he pays His tribute, an uncomfortable thought May then perhaps disturb him: ... or more like He meditates how profitable ’twere To be a Moor; and if apostacy Were all, and to be unbaptized might serve, ... But I waste breath upon a wretch like this; Pelayo is the only hope of Spain, Only Pelayo. If, as we believe, Said Urban then, the hand of Heaven is here, And dreadful though they be, yet for wise end Of good, these visitations do its work; And dimly as our mortal sight may scan The future, yet methinks my soul descries How in Pelayo should the purposes Of Heaven be best accomplish’d. All too long, Here in their own inheritance, the sons Of Spain have groan’d beneath a foreign yoke, Punic and Roman, Kelt, and Goth, and Greek: This latter tempest comes to sweep away All proud distinctions which commingling blood And time’s long course have fail’d to efface; and now Perchance it is the will of Fate to rear Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne, Restoring in Pelayo’s native line The sceptre to the Spaniard. Go thou, then, And seek Pelayo at the Conqueror’s court. Tell him the mountaineers are unsubdued; The precious time they needed hath been gain’d By Auria’s sacrifice, and all they ask Is him to guide them on. In Odoar’s name And Urban’s, tell him that the hour is come.

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!

V.

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 hornëd 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, darëst 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 Heathèn’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 goëst not An idle gazer to the Conqueror’s court.