Thus long had Roderick heard her powerful words

In silence, awed before her; but his heart

Was fill’d the while with swelling sympathy,

And now with impulse not to be restrain’d

The feeling overpower’d him. Hear me too,

Auria, and Spain, and Heaven! he cried; and thou

Who risest thus above mortality,

Sufferer and patriot, saint and heroine,

The servant and the chosen of the Lord,

For surely such thou art, ... receive in me

The first-fruits of thy calling. Kneeling then,

And placing as he spake his hand in her’s,

As thou hast sworn, the royal Goth pursued,

Even so I swear; my soul hath found at length

Her rest and refuge; in the invader’s blood

She must efface her stains of mortal sin,

And in redeeming this lost land, work out

Redemption for herself. Herein I place

My penance for the past, my hope to come,

My faith and my good works; here offer up

All thoughts and passions of mine inmost heart,

My days and night, ... this flesh, this blood, this life,

Yea, this whole being, do I here devote

For Spain. Receive the vow, all Saints in Heaven,

And prosper its good end!... Clap now your wings,

The Goth with louder utterance as he rose

Exclaim’d, ... clap now your wings exultingly

Ye ravenous fowl of Heaven; and in your dens

Set up, ye wolves of Spain, a yell of joy;

For, lo! a nation hath this day been sworn

To furnish forth your banquet; for a strife

Hath been commenced, the which from this day forth

Permits no breathing-time, and knows no end

Till in this land the last invader bow

His neck beneath the exterminating sword.

Said I not rightly? Adosinda cried;

The will which goads me on is not mine own,

’Tis from on high, ... yea, verily of Heaven!

But who art thou who hast profess’d with me,

My first sworn brother in the appointed rule?

Tell me thy name.

Ask any thing but that!

The fallen King replied. My name was lost

When from the Goths the sceptre pass’d away.

The nation will arise regenerate;

Strong in her second youth and beautiful,

And like a spirit which hath shaken off

The clog of dull mortality, shall Spain

Arise in glory. But for my good name

No resurrection is appointed here.

Let it be blotted out on earth: in Heaven

There shall be written with it penitence

And grace and saving faith and such good deeds

Wrought in atonement as my soul this day

Hath sworn to offer up.

Then be thy name,

She answer’d, Maccabee, from this day forth:

For this day art thou born again; and like

Those brethren of old times, whose holy names

Live in the memory of all noble hearts

For love and admiration, ever young, ...

So for our native country, for her hearths

And altars, for her cradles and her graves,

Hast thou thyself devoted. Let us now

Each to our work. Among the neighbouring hills,

I to the vassals of my father’s house;

Thou to Visonia. Tell the Abbot there

What thou hast seen at Auria; and with him

Take counsel who of all our Baronage

Is worthiest to lead on the sons of Spain,

And wear upon his brow the Spanish crown.

Now, brother, fare thee well! we part in hope,

And we shall meet again, be sure, in joy.

So saying, Adosinda left the King

Alone amid the ruins. There he stood,

As when Elisha, on the farther bank

Of Jordan, saw that elder prophet mount

The fiery chariot, and the steeds of fire,

Trampling the whirlwind, bear him up the sky:

Thus gazing after her did Roderick stand;

And as the immortal Tishbite left behind

His mantle and prophetic power, even so

Had her inspiring presence left infused

The spirit which she breathed. Gazing he stood,

As at a heavenly visitation there

Vouchsafed in mercy to himself and Spain;

And when the heroic mourner from his sight

Had pass’d away, still reverential awe

Held him suspended there and motionless.

Then turning from the ghastly scene of death

Up murmuring Lona, he began toward

The holy Bierzo his obedient way.

Sil’s ample stream he crost, where through the vale

Of Orras, from that sacred land it bears

The whole collected waters; northward then,

Skirting the heights of Aguiar, he reach’d

That consecrated pile amid the wild,

Which sainted Fructuoso in his zeal

Rear’d to St. Felix, on Visonia’s banks.

In commune with a priest of age mature,

Whose thoughtful visage and majestic mien

Bespake authority and weight of care,

Odoar, the venerable Abbot, sate,

When ushering Roderick in, the Porter said,

A stranger came from Auria, and required

His private ear. From Auria? said the old man,

Comest thou from Auria, brother? I can spare

Thy painful errand then, ... we know the worst.

Nay, answer’d Roderick, but thou hast not heard

My tale. Where that devoted city lies

In ashes, mid the ruins and the dead

I found a woman, whom the Moors had borne

Captive away; but she, by Heaven inspired

And her good heart, with her own arm had wrought

Her own deliverance, smiting in his tent

A lustful Moorish miscreant, as of yore

By Judith’s holy deed the Assyrian fell.

And that same spirit which had strengthen’d her

Work’d in her still. Four walls with patient toil

She rear’d, wherein, as in a sepulchre,

With her own hands she laid her murder’d babe,

Her husband and her parents, side by side;

And when we cover’d in this shapeless tomb,

There on the grave of all her family,

Did this courageous mourner dedicate

All thoughts and actions of her future life

To her poor country. For she said, that Heaven

Supporting her, in mercy had vouchsafed

A foretaste of revenge; that, like the grace

Of God, revenge had saved her; that in it

Spain must have her salvation; and henceforth

That passion, thus sublimed and sanctified,

Must be to all the loyal sons of Spain

The pole-star of their faith, their rule and rite,

Observances and worthiest sacrifice.

I took the vow, unworthy as I am,

Her first sworn follower in the appointed rule;

And then we parted; she among the hills

To rouse the vassals of her father’s house:

I at her bidding hitherward, to ask

Thy counsel, who of our old Baronage

Shall place upon his brow the Spanish crown.

The Lady Adosinda? Odoar cried.

Roderick made answer, So she call’d herself.

Oh none but she! exclaim’d the good old man,

Clasping his hands, which trembled as he spake

In act of pious passion raised to Heaven, ...

Oh none but Adosinda!... none but she, ...

None but that noble heart, which was the heart

Of Auria while it stood, its life and strength,

More than her father’s presence, or the arm

Of her brave husband, valiant as he was.

Hers was the spirit which inspired old age,

Ambitious boyhood, girls in timid youth,

And virgins in the beauty of their spring,

And youthful mothers, doting like herself

With ever-anxious love: She breathed through all

That zeal and that devoted faithfulness,

Which to the invader’s threats and promises

Turn’d a deaf ear alike; which in the head

And flood of prosperous fortune check’d his course,

Repell’d him from the walls, and when at length

His overpowering numbers forced their way,

Even in that uttermost extremity

Unyielding, still from street to street, from house

To house, from floor to floor, maintain’d the fight:

Till by their altars falling, in their doors,

And on their household hearths, and by their beds

And cradles, and their fathers’ sepulchres,

This noble army, gloriously revenged,

Embraced their martyrdom. Heroic souls!

Well have ye done, and righteously discharged

Your arduous part! Your service is perform’d,

Your earthly warfare done! Ye have put on

The purple robe of everlasting peace!

Ye have received your crown! Ye bear the palm

Before the throne of Grace!

With that he paused,

Checking the strong emotions of his soul.

Then with a solemn tone addressing him

Who shared his secret thoughts, thou knowest, he said,

O Urban, that they have not fallen in vain;

For by this virtuous sacrifice they thinn’d

Alcahman’s thousands; and his broken force,

Exhausted by their dear-bought victory,

Turn’d back from Auria, leaving us to breathe

Among our mountains yet. We lack not here

Good hearts, nor valiant hands. What walls or towers

Or battlements are like these fastnesses,

These rocks and glens and everlasting hills?

Give but that Aurian spirit, and the Moors

Will spend their force as idly on these holds,

As round the rocky girdle of the land

The wild Cantabrian billows waste their rage.

Give but that spirit!... Heaven hath given it us,

If Adosinda thus, as from the dead,

Be granted to our prayers!

And who art thou,

Said Urban, who hast taken on thyself

This rule of warlike faith? Thy countenance

And those poor weeds bespeak a life ere this

Devoted to austere observances.

Roderick replied, I am a sinful man,

One who in solitude hath long deplored

A life mis-spent; but never bound by vows,

Till Adosinda taught me where to find

Comfort, and how to work forgiveness out.

When that exalted woman took my vow,

She call’d me Maccabee; from this day forth

Be that my earthly name. But tell me now,

Whom shall we rouse to take upon his head

The crown of Spain? Where are the Gothic Chiefs?

Sacaru, Theudemir, Athanagild,

All who survived that eight days’ obstinate fight,

When clogg’d with bodies Chrysus scarce could for

Its bloody stream along? Witiza’s sons,

Bad offspring of a stock accurst, I know,

Have put the turban on their recreant heads.

Where are your own Cantabrian Lords? I ween,

Eudon, and Pedro, and Pelayo now

Have ceased their rivalry. If Pelayo live,

His were the worthy heart and rightful hand

To wield the sceptre and the sword of Spain.

Odoar and Urban eyed him while he spake,

As if they wonder’d whose the tongue might be

Familiar thus with Chiefs and thoughts of state.

They scann’d his countenance, but not a trace

Betray’d the Royal Goth: sunk was that eye

Of sovereignty, and on the emaciate cheek

Had penitence and anguish deeply drawn

Their furrows premature, ... forestalling time,

And shedding upon thirty’s brow more snows

Than threescore winters in their natural course

Might else have sprinkled there. It seems indeed

That thou hast pass’d thy days in solitude,

Replied the Abbot, or thou would’st not ask

Of things so long gone by. Athanagild

And Theudemir have taken on their necks

The yoke. Sacaru play’d a nobler part.

Long within Merida did he withstand

The invader’s hot assault; and when at length,

Hopeless of all relief, he yielded up

The gates, disdaining in his father’s land

To breathe the air of bondage, with a few

Found faithful till the last, indignantly

Did he toward the ocean bend his way,

And shaking from his feet the dust of Spain,

Took ship, and hoisted sail through seas unknown

To seek for freedom. Our Cantabrian Chiefs

All have submitted, but the wary Moor

Trusteth not all alike: At his own Court

He holds Pelayo, as suspecting most

That calm and manly spirit; Pedro’s son

There too is held as hostage, and secures

His father’s faith; Count Eudon is despised,

And so lives unmolested. When he pays

His tribute, an uncomfortable thought

May then perhaps disturb him: ... or more like

He meditates how profitable ’twere

To be a Moor; and if apostacy

Were all, and to be unbaptized might serve, ...

But I waste breath upon a wretch like this;

Pelayo is the only hope of Spain,

Only Pelayo.

If, as we believe,

Said Urban then, the hand of Heaven is here,

And dreadful though they be, yet for wise end

Of good, these visitations do its work;

And dimly as our mortal sight may scan

The future, yet methinks my soul descries

How in Pelayo should the purposes

Of Heaven be best accomplish’d. All too long,

Here in their own inheritance, the sons

Of Spain have groan’d beneath a foreign yoke,

Punic and Roman, Kelt, and Goth, and Greek:

This latter tempest comes to sweep away

All proud distinctions which commingling blood

And time’s long course have fail’d to efface; and now

Perchance it is the will of Fate to rear

Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne,

Restoring in Pelayo’s native line

The sceptre to the Spaniard.

Go thou, then,

And seek Pelayo at the Conqueror’s court.

Tell him the mountaineers are unsubdued;

The precious time they needed hath been gain’d

By Auria’s sacrifice, and all they ask

Is him to guide them on. In Odoar’s name

And Urban’s, tell him that the hour is come.

Then pausing for a moment, he pursued:

The rule which thou hast taken on thyself

Toledo ratifies: ’tis meet for Spain,

And as the will divine, to be received,

Observed, and spread abroad. Come hither thou,

Who for thyself hath chosen the good part;

Let me lay hands on thee, and consecrate

Thy life unto the Lord.

Me! Roderick cried;

Me? sinner that I am!... and while he spake

His wither’d cheek grew paler, and his limbs

Shook. As thou goest among the infidels,

Pursued the Primate, many thou wilt find

Fallen from the faith; by weakness some betray’d,

Some led astray by baser hope of gain,

And haply too by ill example led

Of those in whom they trusted. Yet have these

Their lonely hours, when sorrow, or the touch

Of sickness, and that aweful power divine

Which hath its dwelling in the heart of man,

Life of his soul, his monitor and judge,

Move them with silent impulse; but they look

For help, and finding none to succour them,

The irrevocable moment passeth by.

Therefore, my brother, in the name of Christ

Thus I lay hands on thee, that in His name

Thou with His gracious promises may’st raise

The fallen, and comfort those that are in need,

And bring salvation to the penitent.

Now, brother, go thy way: the peace of God

Be with thee, and his blessing prosper us!