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.