III.

ADOSINDA.

’Twas now the earliest morning; soon the Sun, Rising above Albardos, pour’d his light Amid the forest, and with ray aslant Entering its depth, illumed the branchless pines, Brighten’d their bark, tinged with a redder hue Its rusty stains, and cast along the floor Long lines of shadow, where they rose erect Like pillars of the temple. With slow foot Roderick pursued his way; for penitence, Remorse which gave no respite, and the long And painful conflict of his troubled soul, Had worn him down. Now brighter thoughts arose, And that triumphant vision floated still Before his sight with all her blazonry, Her castled helm, and the victorious sword That flash’d like lightning o’er the field of blood. Sustain’d by thoughts like these, from morn till eve He journey’d, and drew near Leyria’s walls. ’Twas even-song time, but not a bell was heard Instead thereof, on her polluted towers, Bidding the Moors to their unhallow’d prayer, The cryer stood, and with his sonorous voice Fill’d the delicious vale where Lena winds Thro’ groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight Of turban, girdle, robe, and scymitar, And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth; The face of human-kind so long unseen Confused him now, and through the streets he went With haggëd mien, and countenance like one Crazed or bewilder’d. All who met him turn’d, And wonder’d as he pass’d. One stopt him short. Put alms into his hand, and then desired In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man To bless him. With a look of vacancy Roderick received the alms; his wandering eye Fell on the money, and the fallen King, Seeing his own royal impress on the piece, Broke out into a quick convulsive voice, That seem’d like laughter first, but ended soon In hollow groans supprest; the Musselman Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified The name of Allah as he hasten’d on. A Christian woman spinning at her door Beheld him, and, with sudden pity touch’d She laid her spindle by, and running in Took bread, and following after call’d him back, And placing in his passive hands the loaf, She said, Christ Jesus for his mother’s sake Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem’d Like idiotcy he heard her, and stood still, Staring awhile; then bursting into tears Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart, Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts. So through the streets, and through the northern gate Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place, With feeble yet with hurried step pursue His agitated way; and when he reach’d The open fields, and found himself alone Beneath the starry canopy of Heaven, The sense of solitude, so dreadful late, Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf; And shedding o’er that long untasted food Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul He breathed thanksgiving forth, then made his bed On heath and myrtle. But when he arose At day-break and pursued his way, his heart Felt lighten’d that the shock of mingling first Among his fellow-kind was overpast; And journeying on, he greeted whom he met With such short interchange of benison As each to other gentle travellers give, Recovering thus the power of social speech Which he had long disused. When hunger prest He ask’d for alms: slight supplication served; A countenance so pale and woe-begone Moved all to pity; and the marks it bore Of rigorous penance and austerest life, With something too of majesty that still Appear’d amid the wreck, inspired a sense Of reverence too. The goat-herd on the hills Open’d his scrip for him; the babe in arms, Affrighted at his visage, turn’d away, And clinging to the mother’s neck in tears Would yet again look up and then again, Shrink back, with cry renew’d. The bolder imps Sporting beside the way, at his approach Brake off their games for wonder, and stood still In silence; some among them cried, A Saint! The village matron when she gave him food Besought his prayers; and one entreated him To lay his healing hands upon her child, For with a sore and hopeless malady Wasting, it long had lain, ... and sure, she said, He was a man of God. Thus travelling on He past the vale where wild Arunca pours Its wintry torrents; and the happier site Of old Conimbrica, whose ruin’d towers Bore record of the fierce Alani’s wrath. Mondego too he cross’d, not yet renown’d In poets’ amorous lay; and left behind The walls at whose foundation pious hands Of Priest and Monk and Bishop meekly toil’d, ... So had the insulting Arian given command. Those stately palaces and rich domains Were now the Moor’s, and many a weary age Must Coimbra wear the misbeliever’s yoke, Before Fernando’s banner through her gate Shall pass triumphant, and her hallow’d Mosque Behold the hero of Bivar receive The knighthood which he glorified so oft In his victorious fields. Oh if the years To come might then have risen on Roderick’s soul, How had they kindled and consoled his heart!... What joy might Douro’s haven then have given, Whence Portugal, the faithful and the brave, Shall take her name illustrious!... what, those walls Where Mumadona one day will erect Convent and town and towers, which shall become The cradle of that famous monarchy! What joy might these prophetic scenes have given, ... What ample vengeance on the Musselman, Driven out with foul defeat, and made to feel In Africa the wrongs he wrought to Spain; And still pursued by that relentless sword, Even to the farthest Orient, where his power Received its mortal wound. O years of pride! In undiscoverable futurity, Yet unevolved, your destined glories lay; And all that Roderick in these fated scenes Beheld, was grief and wretchedness, ... the waste Of recent war, and that more mournful calm Of joyless, helpless, hopeless servitude. ’Twas not the ruin’d walls of church or tower, Cottage or hall or convent, black with smoke; ’Twas not the unburied bones, which where the dogs And crows had strewn them, lay amid the field Bleaching in sun or shower, that wrung his heart With keenest anguish: ’twas when he beheld The turban’d traitor shew his shameless front In the open eye of Heaven, ... the renegade, On whose base brutal nature unredeem’d Even black apostacy itself could stamp No deeper reprobation, at the hour Assign’d fall prostrate; and unite the names Of God and the Blasphemer, ... impious prayer, ... Most impious, when from unbelieving lips The accursëd utterance came. Then Roderick’s heart With indignation burnt, and then he long’d To be a King again, that so, for Spain Betray’d and his Redeemer thus renounced, He might inflict due punishment, and make These wretches feel his wrath. But when he saw The daughters of the land, ... who, as they went With cheerful step to church, were wont to shew Their innocent faces to all passers eyes, Freely, and free from sin as when they look’d In adoration and in praise to Heaven, ... Now mask’d in Moorish mufflers, to the Mosque Holding uncompanied their jealous way, His spirit seem’d at that unhappy sight To die away within him, and he too Would fain have died, so death could bring with it Entire oblivion. Rent with thoughts like these, He reach’d that city, once the seat renown’d Of Suevi kings, where, in contempt of Rome Degenerate long, the North’s heroic race Raised first a rival throne; now from its state Of proud regality debased and fallen. Still bounteous nature o’er the lovely vale, Where like a Queen rose Bracara august, Pour’d forth her gifts profuse; perennial springs Flow’d for her habitants, and genial suns, With kindly showers to bless the happy clime, Combined in vain their gentle influences: For patient servitude was there, who bow’d His neck beneath the Moor, and silent grief That eats into the soul. The walls and stones Seem’d to reproach their dwellers; stately piles Yet undecay’d, the mighty monuments Of Roman pomp, Barbaric palaces, And Gothic halls, where haughty Barons late Gladden’d their faithful vassals with the feast And flowing bowl, alike the spoiler’s now.

Leaving these captive scenes behind, he crost Cavado’s silver current, and the banks Of Lima, through whose groves in after years, Mournful yet sweet, Diogo’s amorous lute Prolong’d its tuneful echoes. But when now Beyond Arnoya’s tributary tide, He came where Minho roll’d its ampler stream By Auria’s ancient walls, fresh horrors met His startled view; for prostrate in the dust Those walls were laid, and towers and temples stood Tottering in frightful ruins, as the flame Had left them black and bare; and through the streets, All with the recent wreck of war bestrewn, Helmet and turban, scymitar and sword, Christian and Moor in death promiscuous lay Each where they fell; and blood-flakes, parch’d and crack’d Like the dry slime of some receding flood; And half-burnt bodies, which allured from far The wolf and raven, and to impious food Tempted the houseless dog. A thrilling pang, A sweat like death, a sickness of the soul, Came over Roderick. Soon they pass’d away, And admiration in their stead arose, Stern joy, and inextinguishable hope, With wrath, and hate, and sacred vengeance now Indissolubly link’d. O valiant race, O people excellently brave, he cried, True Goths ye fell, and faithful to the last; Though overpower’d, triumphant, and in death Unconquer’d! Holy be your memory! Bless’d and glorious now and evermore Be your heroic names!... Led by the sound, As thus he cried aloud, a woman came Toward him from the ruins. For the love Of Christ, she said, lend me a little while Thy charitable help!... Her words, her voice, Her look, more horror to his heart convey’d Than all the havoc round: for though she spake With the calm utterance of despair, in tones Deep-breathed and low, yet never sweeter voice Pour’d forth its hymns in ecstasy to Heaven. Her hands were bloody, and her garments stain’d With blood, her face with blood and dust defiled. Beauty and youth, and grace and majesty, Had every charm of form and feature given; But now upon her rigid countenance Severest anguish set a fixedness Ghastlier than death. She led him through the streets A little way along, where four low walls, Heapt rudely from the ruins round, enclosed A narrow space: and there upon the ground Four bodies, decently composed, were laid, Though horrid all with wounds and clotted gore; A venerable ancient, by his side A comely matron, for whose middle age, (If ruthless slaughter had not intervened,) Nature it seem’d, and gentle Time, might well Have many a calm declining year in store; The third an armëd warrior, on his breast An infant, over whom his arms were cross’d. There, ... with firm eye and steady countenance, Unfaltering, she addrest him, ... there they lie, Child, Husband, Parents, ... Adosinda’s all! I could not break the earth with these poor hands Nor other tomb provide, ... but let that pass! Auria itself is now but one wide tomb For all its habitants:—What better grave? What worthier monument?... Oh cover not Their blood, thou Earth! and ye, ye blessëd Souls Of Heroes and of murder’d Innocents, Oh never let your everlasting cries Cease round the Eternal Throne, till the Most High For all these unexampled wrongs hath given Full, ... overflowing vengeance! While she spake She raised her lofty hands to Heaven, as if Calling for justice on the Judgement-seat; Then laid them on her eyes, and leaning on Bent o’er the open sepulchre. But soon With quiet mien collectedly, like one Who from intense devotion, and the act Of ardent prayer, arising, girds himself For this world’s daily business, ... she arose, And said to Roderick, Help me now to raise The covering of the tomb. With half-burnt planks Which she had gather’d for this funeral use They roof’d the vault, then laying stones above They closed it down; last, rendering all secure, Stones upon stones they piled, till all appear’d A huge and shapeless heap. Enough, she cried; And taking Roderick’s hands in both her own, And wringing them with fervent thankfulness, May God shew mercy to thee, she exclaim’d, When most thou needest mercy! Who thou art I know not; not of Auria, ... for of all Her sons and daughters, save the one who stands Before thee, not a soul is left alive. But thou hast render’d to me, in my hour Of need, the only help which man could give. What else of consolation may be found For one so utterly bereft, from Heaven And from myself must come. For deem not thou That I shall sink beneath calamity: This visitation, like a lightning-stroke, Hath scathed the fruit and blossom of my youth; One hour hath orphan’d me, and widow’d me, And made me childless. In this sepulchre Lie buried all my earthward hopes and fears, All human loves and natural charities; ... All womanly tenderness, all gentle thoughts, All female weakness too, I bury here, Yea, all my former nature. There remain Revenge and death: ... the bitterness of death Is past, and Heaven already hath vouchsafed A foretaste of revenge. Look here! she cried, And drawing back, held forth her bloody hands, ... ’Tis Moorish!... In the day of massacre, A captain of Alcahman’s murderous host Reserved me from the slaughter. Not because My rank and station tempted him with thoughts Of ransom, for amid the general waste Of ruin all was lost; ... Nor yet, be sure, That pity moved him, ... they who from this race Accurst for pity look, such pity find As ravenous wolves shew the defenceless flock. My husband at my feet had fallen; my babe, ... Spare me that thought, O God!... and then ... even then Amid the maddening throes of agony Which rent my soul, ... when if this solid Earth Had open’d and let out the central fire Before whose all-involving flames wide Heaven Shall shrivel like a scroll and be consumed, The universal wreck had been to me Relief and comfort; ... even then this Moor Turn’d on me his libidinous eyes, and bade His men reserve me safely for an hour Of dalliance, ... me!... me in my agonies! But when I found for what this miscreant child Of Hell had snatch’d me from the butchery, The very horror of that monstrous thought Saved me from madness; I was calm at once, ... Yet comforted and reconciled to life: Hatred became to me the life of life, Its purpose and its power. The glutted Moors At length broke up. This hell-dog turn’d aside Toward his home: we travell’d fast and far, Till by a forest edge at eve he pitched His tents. I wash’d and ate at his command, Forcing revolted nature; I composed My garments and bound up my scatter’d hair; And when he took my hand, and to his couch Would fain have drawn me, gently I retired From that abominable touch, and said, Forbear to-night I pray thee, for this day A widow, as thou seest me, am I made; Therefore, according to our law, must watch And pray to-night. The loathsome villain paused Ere he assented, then laid down to rest; While at the door of the pavilion, I Knelt on the ground, and bowed my face to earth; But when the neighbouring tents had ceased their stir, The fires were out, and all were fast asleep, Then I arose. The blessed Moon from Heaven Lent me her holy light. I did not pray For strength, for strength was given me as I drew The scymitar, and, standing o’er his couch, Raised it in both my hands with steady aim And smote his neck. Upward, as from a spring When newly open’d by the husbandman, The villain’s life-blood spouted. Twice I struck So making vengeance sure; then, praising God, Retired amid the wood, and measured back My patient way to Auria, to perform This duty which thou seest. As thus she spake, Roderick intently listening had forgot His crown, his kingdom, his calamities, His crimes, ... so like a spell upon the Goth Her powerful words prevail’d. With open lips, And eager ear, and eyes which, while they watch’d Her features, caught the spirit that she breathed, Mute and enrapt he stood, and motionless; The vision rose before him; and that shout, Which, like a thunder-peal, victorious Spain Sent through the welkin, rung within his soul Its deep prophetic echoes. On his brow The pride and power of former majesty Dawn’d once again, but changed and purified: Duty and high heroic purposes Now hallow’d it, and as with inward light Illumed his meagre countenance austere.

Awhile in silence Adosinda stood, Reading his alter’d visage and the thoughts Which thus transfigured him. Aye, she exclaim’d, My tale hath moved thee! it might move the dead, Quicken captivity’s dead soul, and rouse This prostrate country from her mortal trance: Therefore I live to tell it; and for this Hath the Lord God Almighty given to me A spirit not mine own and strength from Heaven; Dealing with me as in the days of old With that Bethulian Matron when she saved His people from the spoiler. What remains But that the life which he hath thus preserved I consecrate to him? Not veil’d and vow’d To pass my days in holiness and peace; Nor yet between sepulchral walls immured, Alive to penitence alone; my rule He hath himself prescribed, and hath infused A passion in this woman’s breast, wherein All passions and all virtues are combined; Love, hatred, joy, and anguish, and despair, And hope, and natural piety, and faith, Make up the mighty feeling. Call it not Revenge! thus sanctified and thus sublimed, ’Tis duty, ’tis devotion. Like the grace Of God, it came and saved me; and in it Spain must have her salvation. In thy hands Here, on the grave of all my family, I make my vow. She said, and kneeling down, Placed within Roderick’s palms her folded hands. This life, she cried, I dedicate to God, Therewith to do him service in the way Which he hath shown. To rouse the land against This impious, this intolerable yoke, ... To offer up the invader’s hateful blood, ... This shall be my employ, my rule and rite, Observances and sacrifice of faith; For this I hold the life which he hath given, A sacred trust; for this, when it shall suit His service, joyfully will lay it down. So deal with me as I fulfil the pledge, O Lord my God, my Saviour and my Judge.

Then rising from the earth, she spread her arms, And looking round with sweeping eyes exclaim’d, Auria, and Spain, and Heaven receive the vow!