VII.

RODERICK AND PELAYO.

’Twas not in vain that on her absent son, Pelayo’s mother from the bed of death Call’d for forgiveness, and in agony Besought his prayers; all guilty as she was, Sure he had not been human, if that cry Had fail’d to pierce him. When he heard the tale He bless’d the messenger, even while his speech Was faltering, ... while from head to foot he shook With icey feelings from his inmost heart Effused. It changed the nature of his woe, Making the burthen more endurable: The life-long sorrow that remain’d, became A healing and a chastening grief, and brought His soul, in close communion, nearer Heaven. For he had been her first-born, and the love Which at her breast he drew, and from her smiles, And from her voice of tenderness imbibed, Gave such unnatural horror to her crimes, That when the thought came over him, it seem’d As if the milk which with his infant life Had blended, thrill’d like poison through his frame. It was a woe beyond all reach of hope, Till with the dreadful tale of her remorse Faith touch’d his heart; and ever from that day Did he for her who bore him, night and morn, Pour out the anguish of his soul in prayer: But chiefly as the night return’d, which heard Her last expiring groans of penitence, Then through the long and painful hours, before The altar, like a penitent himself, He kept his vigils; and when Roderick’s sword Subdued Witiza, and the land was free, Duly upon her grave he offer’d up His yearly sacrifice of agony And prayer. This was the night, and he it was Who now before Siverian and the King Stood up in sackcloth. The old man, from fear Recovering and from wonder, knew him first. It is the Prince! he cried, and bending down Embraced his knees. The action and the word Awaken’d Roderick; he shook off the load Of struggling thoughts, which pressing on his heart, Held him like one entranced; yet, all untaught To bend before the face of man, confused Awhile he stood, forgetful of his part. But when Siverian cried, My Lord, my Lord, Now God be praised that I have found thee thus, My Lord and Prince, Spain’s only hope and mine! Then Roderick, echoing him, exclaim’d, My Lord, And Prince, Pelayo!... and approaching near, He bent his knee obeisant: but his head Earthward inclined; while the old man, looking up From his low gesture to Pelayo’s face, Wept at beholding him for grief and joy.

Siverian! cried the chief, ... of whom hath Death Bereaved me, that thou comest to Cordoba?... Children, or wife?... Or hath the merciless scythe Of this abhorr’d and jealous tyranny Made my house desolate at one wide sweep?

They are as thou couldst wish, the old man replied, Wert thou but lord of thine own house again, And Spain were Spain once more. A tale of ill I bear, but one that touches not the heart Like what thy fears forebode. The renegade Numacian woos thy sister, and she lends To the vile slave, unworthily, her ear: The Lady Gaudiosa hath in vain Warn’d her of all the evils which await A union thus accurst: she sets at nought Her faith, her lineage, and thy certain wrath.

Pelayo hearing him, remain’d awhile Silent; then turning to his mother’s grave, ... O thou poor dust, hath then the infectious taint Survived thy dread remorse, that it should run In Guisla’s veins? he cried; ... I should have heard This shameful sorrow any where but here!... Humble thyself, proud heart; thou, gracious Heaven, Be merciful!... it is the original flaw, ... And what are we?... a weak unhappy race, Born to our sad inheritance of sin And death!... He smote his forehead as he spake, And from his head the ashes fell, like snow Shaken from some dry beech-leaves, when a bird Lights on the bending spray. A little while In silence, rather than in thought, he stood Passive beneath the sorrow: turning then, And what doth Gaudiosa counsel me? He ask’d the old man; for she hath ever been My wise and faithful counsellor.... He replied, The Lady Gaudiosa bade me say She sees the danger which on every part Besets her husband’s house.... Here she had ceased; But when my noble Mistress gave in charge, How I should tell thee that in evil times The bravest counsels ever are the best; Then that high-minded Lady thus rejoin’d, Whatever be my Lord’s resolve, he knows I bear a mind prepared. Brave spirits! cried Pelayo, worthy to remove all stain Of weakness from their sex! I should be less Than man, if, drawing strength where others find Their hearts most open to assault of fear, I quail’d at danger. Never be it said Of Spain, that in the hour of her distress Her women were as heroes, but her men Perform’d the woman’s part. Roderick at that Look’d up, and taking up the word, exclaim’d, O Prince, in better days the pride of Spain, And prostrate as she lies, her surest hope, Hear now my tale. The fire which seem’d extinct Hath risen revigorate: a living spark From Auria’s ashes, by a woman’s hand Preserved and quicken’d, kindles far and wide The beacon-flame o’er all the Asturian hills. There hath a vow been offer’d up, which binds Us and our children’s children to the work Of holy hatred. In the name of Spain That vow hath been pronounced, and register’d Above, to be the bond whereby we stand For condemnation or acceptance. Heaven Received the irrevocable vow, and Earth Must witness its fulfilment; Earth and Heaven Call upon thee, Pelayo! Upon thee The spirits of thy royal ancestors Look down expectant; unto thee, from fields Laid waste, and hamlets burnt, and cities sack’d, The blood of infancy and helpless age Cries out; thy native mountains call for thee, Echoing from all their armed sons thy name. And deem not thou that hot impatience goads Thy countrymen to counsels immature. Odoar and Urban from Visonia’s banks Send me, their sworn and trusted messenger, To summon thee, and tell thee in their name That now the hour is come: For sure it seems, Thus saith the Primate, Heaven’s high will to rear Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne, Restoring in thy native line, O Prince, The sceptre to the Spaniard. Worthy son Of that most ancient and heroic race, Which with unweariable endurance still Hath striven against its mightier enemies, Roman or Carthaginian, Greek or Goth; So often by superior arms oppress’d, More often by superior arts beguiled; Yet amid all its sufferings, all the waste Of sword and fire remorselessly employ’d, Unconquer’d and unconquerable still; ... Son of that injured and illustrious stock, Stand forward thou, draw forth the sword of Spain, Restore them to their rights, too long withheld, And place upon thy brow the Spanish crown.

When Roderick ceased, the princely Mountaineer Gazed on the passionate orator awhile, With eyes intently fix’d, and thoughtful brow; Then turning to the altar, he let fall The sackcloth robe, which late with folded arms Against his heart was prest; and stretching forth His hands toward the crucifix, exclaim’d, My God and my Redeemer! where but here, Before thy aweful presence, in this garb, With penitential ashes thus bestrewn, Could I so fitly answer to the call Of Spain; and for her sake, and in thy name, Accept the Crown of Thorns she proffers me!

And where but here, said Roderick in his heart, Could I so properly, with humbled knee And willing soul, confirm my forfeiture?... The action follow’d on that secret thought: He knelt, and took Pelayo’s hand, and cried, First of the Spaniards, let me with this kiss Do homage to thee here, my Lord and King!... With voice unchanged and steady countenance He spake; but when Siverian follow’d him, The old man trembled as his lips pronounced The faltering vow; and rising he exclaim’d, God grant thee, O my Prince, a better fate Than thy poor kinsman’s, who in happier days Received thy homage here! Grief choak’d his speech And, bursting into tears, he sobb’d aloud. Tears too adown Pelayo’s manly cheek Roll’d silently. Roderick alone appear’d Unmoved and calm; for now the royal Goth Had offer’d his accepted sacrifice, And therefore in his soul he felt that peace Which follows painful duty well perform’d, ... Perfect and heavenly peace, ... the peace of God.