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.