XV.

RODERICK AT CANGAS.

How calmly gliding through the dark-blue sky The midnight Moon ascends! Her placid beams Through thinly scatter’d leaves and boughs grotesque, Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope; Here, o’er the chesnut’s fretted foliage grey And massy, motionless they spread; here shine Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry Ripples and glances on the confluent streams. A lovelier, purer light than that of day Rests on the hills; and oh how awefully Into that deep and tranquil firmament The summits of Auseva rise serene! The watchman on the battlements partakes The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels The silence of the earth, the endless sound Of flowing water soothes him, and the stars, Which in that brightest moon-light well-nigh quench’d Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen, Draw on with elevating influence Toward eternity the attemper’d mind. Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands, And to the Virgin Mother silently Prefers her hymn of praise. The mountaineers Before the castle, round their mouldering fires, Lie on the hearth outstretch’d. Pelayo’s hall Is full, and he upon his careful couch Hears all around the deep and long-drawn breath Of sleep: for gentle night hath brought to these Perfect and undisturb’d repose, alike Of corporal powers and inward faculty. Wakeful the while he lay, yet more by hope Than grief or anxious thoughts possess’d, ... though grief For Guisla’s guilt, which freshen’d in his heart The memory of their wretched mother’s crime, Still made its presence felt, like the dull sense Of some perpetual inward malady; And the whole peril of the future lay Before him clearly seen. He had heard all; How that unworthy sister, obstinate In wrong and shameless, rather seem’d to woo The upstart renegado than to wait His wooing; how, as guilt to guilt led on, Spurning at gentle admonition first, When Gaudiosa hopelessly forbore From farther counsel, then in sullen mood Resentful, Guisla soon began to hate The virtuous presence before which she felt Her nature how inferior, and her fault How foul. Despiteful thus she grew, because Humbled yet unrepentant. Who could say To what excess bad passions might impel A woman thus possess’d? She could not fail To mark Siverian’s absence, for what end Her conscience but too surely had divined; And Gaudiosa, well aware that all To the vile paramour was thus made known, Had to safe hiding-place with timely fear Removed her children. Well the event had proved How needful was that caution; for at night She sought the mountain solitudes, and morn Beheld Numacian’s soldiers at the gate. Yet did not sorrow in Pelayo’s heart For this domestic shame prevail that hour, Nor gathering danger weigh his spirit down. The anticipated meeting put to flight These painful thoughts; to-morrow will restore All whom his heart holds dear; his wife beloved, No longer now remember’d for regret, Is present to his soul with hope and joy; His inward eye beholds Favila’s form In opening youth robust, and Hermesind, His daughter, lovely as a budding rose; Their images beguile the hours of night, Till with the earliest morning he may seek Their secret hold. The nightingale not yet Had ceased her song, nor had the early lark Her dewy nest forsaken, when the Prince Upward beside Pionia took his way Toward Auseva. Heavily to him, Impatient for the morrow’s happiness, Long night had linger’d, but it seem’d more long To Roderick’s aching heart. He too had watch’d For dawn, and seen the earliest break of day, And heard its earliest sounds; and when the Prince Went forth, the melancholy man was seen With pensive pace upon Pionia’s side Wandering alone and slow. For he had left The wearying place of his unrest, that morn With its cold dews might bathe his throbbing brow, And with its breath allay the feverish heat That burnt within. Alas! the gales of morn Reach not the fever of a wounded heart! How shall he meet his Mother’s eye, how make His secret known, and from that voice revered Obtain forgiveness, ... all that he has now To ask, ere on the lap of earth in peace He lay his head resign’d? In silent prayer He supplicated Heaven to strengthen him Against that trying hour, there seeking aid Where all who seek shall find; and thus his soul Received support, and gather’d fortitude, Never than now more needful, for the hour Was nigh. He saw Siverian drawing near, And with a dim but quick foreboding met The good old man; yet when he heard him say My Lady sends to seek thee, like a knell To one expecting and prepared for death, But fearing the dread point that hastens on, It smote his heart. He follow’d silently, And knit his suffering spirit to the proof.

He went resolved to tell his Mother all, Fall at her feet, and drinking the last dregs Of bitterness, receive the only good Earth had in store for him. Resolved for this He went; yet was it a relief to find That painful resolution must await A fitter season, when no eye but Heaven’s Might witness to their mutual agony. Count Julian’s daughter with Rusilla sate; Both had been weeping, both were pale, but calm. With head as for humility abased Roderick approach’d, and bending, on his breast He cross’d his humble arms. Rusilla rose In reverence to the priestly character, And with a mournful eye regarding him, Thus she began. Good Father, I have heard From my old faithful servant and true friend, Thou didst reprove the inconsiderate tongue, That in the anguish of its spirit pour’d A curse upon my poor unhappy child. O Father Maccabee, this is a hard world, And hasty in its judgements! Time has been, When not a tongue within the Pyrenees Dared whisper in dispraise of Roderick’s name, Lest, if the conscious air had caught the sound, The vengeance of the honest multitude Should fall upon the traitorous head, or brand For life-long infamy the lying lips. Now if a voice be raised in his behalf, ’Tis noted for a wonder, and the man Who utters the strange speech shall be admired For such excess of Christian charity. Thy Christian charity hath not been lost; ... Father, I feel its virtue: ... it hath been Balm to my heart; ... with words and grateful tears, ... All that is left me now for gratitude, ... I thank thee, and beseech thee in thy prayers That thou wilt still remember Roderick’s name.

Roderick so long had to this hour look’d on, That when the actual point of trial came, Torpid and numb’d it found him; cold he grew, And as the vital spirits to the heart Retreated, o’er his wither’d countenance, Deathy and damp, a whiter paleness spread. Unmoved the while, the inward feeling seem’d, Even in such dull insensibility As gradual age brings on, or slow disease, Beneath whose progress lingering life survives The power of suffering. Wondering at himself, Yet gathering confidence, he raised his eyes, Then slowly shaking as he bent his head, O venerable Lady, he replied, If aught may comfort that unhappy soul, It must be thy compassion, and thy prayers. She whom he most hath wrong’d, she who alone On earth can grant forgiveness for his crime, She hath forgiven him; and thy blessing now Were all that he could ask, ... all that could bring Profit or consolation to his soul, If he hath been as sure we may believe, A penitent sincere. Oh had he lived, Replied Rusilla, never penitence Had equall’d his! full well I know his heart, Vehement in all things. He would on himself Have wreak’d such penance as had reach’d the height Of fleshly suffering ... yea, which being told With its portentuous rigour should have made The memory of his fault, o’erpower’d and lost In shuddering pity and astonishment, Fade like a feebler horror. Otherwise Seem’d good to Heaven. I murmur not, nor doubt The boundless mercy of redeeming love. For sure I trust that not in his offence Harden’d and reprobate was my lost son, A child of wrath, cut off!... that dreadful thought, Not even amid the first fresh wretchedness, When the ruin burst around me like a flood, Assail’d my soul. I ever deem’d his fall An act of sudden madness; and this day Hath in unlook’d-for confirmation given A livelier hope, a more assurëd faith. Smiling benignant then amid her tears, She took Florinda by the hand, and said, I little thought that I should live to bless Count Julian’s daughter! She hath brought to me The last, the best, the only comfort earth Could minister to this afflicted heart, And my grey hairs may now unto the grave Go down in peace. Happy, Florinda cried, Are they for whom the grave hath peace in store! The wrongs they have sustain’d, the woes they bear, Pass not that holy threshold, where Death heals The broken heart. O Lady, thou may’st trust In humble hope, through Him who on the Cross Gave his atoning blood for lost mankind, To meet beyond the grave thy child forgiven. I too with Roderick there may interchange Forgiveness. But the grief which wastes away This mortal frame, hastening the happy hour Of my enlargement, is but a light part Of what my soul endures!... that grief hath lost Its sting: ... I have a keener sorrow here, ... One which, ... but God forefend that dire event, ... May pass with me the portals of the grave, And with a thought, like sin which cannot die, Embitter Heaven. My father hath renounced His hope in Christ! It was his love for me Which drove him to perdition.... I was born To ruin all who loved me, ... all I loved! Perhaps I sinn’d in leaving him; ... that fear Rises within me to disturb the peace Which I should else have found. To Roderick then The pious mourner turn’d her suppliant eyes: O Father, there is virtue in thy prayers!... I do beseech thee offer them to Heaven In his behalf! For Roderick’s sake, for mine, Wrestle with Him whose name is Merciful, That Julian may with penitence be touch’d, And clinging to the Cross, implore that grace Which ne’er was sought in vain. For Roderick’s sake And mine, pray for him! We have been the cause Of his offence! What other miseries May from that same unhappy source have risen, Are earthly, temporal, reparable all; ... But if a soul be lost through our misdeeds, That were eternal evil! Pray for him, Good Father Maccabee, and be thy prayers More fervent, as the deeper is the crime.

While thus Florinda spake, the dog who lay Before Rusilla’s feet, eyeing him long And wistfully, had recognised at length, Changed as he was and in those sordid weeds, His royal master. And he rose and lick’d His wither’d hand, and earnestly look’d up With eyes whose human meaning did not need The aid of speech; and moan’d, as if at once To court and chide the long-withheld caress. A feeling uncommix’d with sense of guilt Or shame, yet painfulest, thrill’d through the King; But he to self-controul now long inured, Represt his rising heart, nor other tears, Full as his struggling bosom was, let fall Than seem’d to follow on Florinda’s words. Looking toward her then, yet so that still He shunn’d the meeting of her eye, he said, Virtuous and pious as thou art, and ripe For Heaven, O Lady, I must think the man Hath not by his good Angel been cast off For whom thy supplications rise. The Lord Whose justice doth in its unerring course Visit the children for the sire’s offence, Shall He not in his boundless mercy hear The daughter’s prayer, and for her sake restore The guilty parent? My soul shall with thine In earnest and continual duty join.... How deeply, how devoutly, He will know To whom the cry is raised! Thus having said, Deliberately, in self-possession still, Himself from that most painful interview Dispeeding, he withdrew. The watchful dog Follow’d his footsteps close. But he retired Into the thickest grove; there yielding way To his o’erburthen’d nature, from all eyes Apart, he cast himself upon the ground, And threw his arms around the dog, and cried, While tears stream’d down, Thou, Theron, then hast known Thy poor lost master, ... Theron, none but thou!