VI. RODERICK IN TIMES PAST.

The mansion whitherward they went, was one

Which in his youth Theodofred had built:

Thither had he brought home in happy hour

His blooming bride; there fondled on his knee

The lovely boy she bore him. Close beside,

A temple to that Saint he rear’d, who first,

As old tradition tells, proclaim’d to Spain

The gospel-tidings; and in health and youth,

There mindful of mortality, he saw

His sepulchre prepared. Witiza took

For his adulterous leman and himself

The stately pile: but to that sepulchre,

When from captivity and darkness death

Enlarged him, was Theodofred consign’d;

For that unhappy woman, wasting then

Beneath a mortal malady, at heart

Was smitten, and the Tyrant at her prayer

This poor and tardy restitution made.

Soon the repentant sinner follow’d him;

And calling on Pelayo ere she died,

For his own wrongs, and for his father’s death,

Implored forgiveness of her absent child, ...

If it were possible he could forgive

Crimes black as her’s, she said. And by the pangs

Of her remorse, ... by her last agonies, ...

The unutterable horrors of her death, ...

And by the blood of Jesus on the cross

For sinners given, did she beseech his prayers

In aid of her most miserable soul.

Thus mingling sudden shrieks with hopeless vows,

And uttering franticly Pelayo’s name,

And crying out for mercy in despair,

Here had she made her dreadful end, and here

Her wretched body was deposited.

That presence seem’d to desecrate the place:

Thenceforth the usurper shunn’d it with the heart

Of conscious guilt; nor could Rusilla bear

These groves and bowers, which, like funereal shades,

Opprest her with their monumental forms:

One day of bitter and severe delight,

When Roderick came for vengeance, she endured,

And then for ever left her bridal halls.

Oh when I last beheld yon princely pile,

Exclaim’d Siverian, with what other thoughts

Full, and elate of spirit, did I pass

Its joyous gates! The weedery which through

The interstices of those neglected courts

Uncheck’d had flourish’d long, and seeded there,

Was trampled then and bruised beneath the feet

Of thronging crowds. Here drawn in fair array,

The faithful vassals of my master’s house,

Their javelins sparkling to the morning sun,

Spread their triumphant banners; high-plumed helms

Rose o’er the martial ranks, and prancing steeds

Made answer to the trumpet’s stirring voice;

While yonder towers shook the dull silence off

Which long to their deserted walls had clung,

And with redoubling echoes swell’d the shout

That hail’d victorious Roderick. Louder rose

The acclamation, when the dust was seen

Rising beneath his chariot-wheels far off;

But nearer as the youthful hero came,

All sounds of all the multitude were hush’d,

And from the thousands and ten thousands here,

Whom Cordoba and Hispalis sent forth, ...

Yea whom all Bætica, all Spain pour’d out

To greet his triumph, ... not a whisper rose

To Heaven, such awe and reverence master’d them,

Such expectation held them motionless.

Conqueror and King he came; but with no joy

Of conquest, and no pride of sovereignty

That day display’d; for at his father’s grave

Did Roderick come to offer up his vow

Of vengeance well perform’d. Three coal-black steed

Drew on his ivory chariot: by his side,

Still wrapt in mourning for the long-deceased,

Rusilla state; a deeper paleness blanch’d

Her faded countenance, but in her eye

The light of her majestic nature shone.

Bound, and expecting at their hands the death

So well deserved, Witiza follow’d them;

Aghast and trembling, first he gazed around,

Wildly from side to side; then from the face

Of universal execration shrunk,

Hanging his wretched head abased; and poor

Of spirit, with unmanly tears deplored

His fortune, not his crimes. With bolder front,

Confiding in his priestly character,

Came Orpas next; and then the spurious race

Whom in unhappy hour Favila’s wife

Brought forth for Spain. O mercy ill bestow’d,

When Roderick, in compassion for their youth,

And for Pelayo’s sake, forebore to crush

The brood of vipers!

Err perchance he might,

Replied the Goth, suppressing as he spake

All outward signs of pain, though every word

Went like a dagger to his bleeding heart; ...

But sure, I ween, that error is not placed

Among his sins. Old man, thou mayest regret

The mercy ill deserved, and worse return’d,

But not for this wouldst thou reproach the King!

Reproach him? cried Siverian; ... I reproach

My child, ... my noble boy, ... whom every tongue

Bless’d at that hour, ... whose love fill’d every heart

With joy, and every eye with joyful tears!

My brave, my beautiful, my generous boy!

Brave, beautiful, and generous as he was,

Never so brave, so beautiful, so great

As then, ... not even on that glorious day,

When on the field of victory, elevate

Amid the thousands who acclaim’d him King,

Firm on the shield above their heads upraised,

Erect he stood, and waved his bloody sword....

Why dost thou shake thy head as if in doubt?

I do not dream, nor fable! Ten short years

Have scarcely past away, since all within

The Pyrenean hills, and the three seas

Which girdle Spain, echoed in one response

The acclamation from that field of fight....

Or doth aught ail thee, that thy body quakes

And shudders thus?

’Tis but a chill, replied

The King, in passing from the open air

Under the shadow of this thick-set grove.

Oh! if this scene awoke in thee such thoughts

As swell my bosom here, the old man pursued,

Sunshine, or shade, and all things from without,

Would be alike indifferent. Gracious God,

Only but ten short years, ... and all so changed!

Ten little years since in yon court he check’d

His fiery steeds. The steeds obey’d his hand,

The whirling wheels stood still, and when he leapt

Upon the pavement, the whole people heard,

In their deep silence, open-ear’d, the sound.

With slower movement from the ivory seat

Rusilla rose, her arm, as down she stept,

Extended to her son’s supporting hand;

Not for default of firm or agile strength,

But that the feeling of that solemn hour

Subdued her then, and tears bedimm’d her sight.

Howbeit when to her husband’s grave she came,

On the sepulchral stone she bow’d her head

Awhile; then rose collectedly, and fix’d

Upon the scene her calm and steady eye.

Roderick, ... oh when did valour wear a form

So beautiful, so noble, so august?

Or vengeance, when did it put on before

A character so aweful, so divine?

Roderick stood up, and reaching to the tomb

His hands, my hero cried, Theodofred!

Father! I stand before thee once again,

According to thy prayer, when kneeling down

Between thy knees I took my last farewell;

And vow’d by all thy sufferings, all thy wrongs,

And by my mother’s days and nights of woe,

Her silent anguish, and the grief which then

Even from thee she did not seek to hide,

That if our cruel parting should avail

To save me from the Tyrant’s jealous guilt,

Surely should my avenging sword fulfil

Whate’er he omen’d. Oh that time, I cried,

Would give the strength of manhood to this arm,

Already would it find a manly heart

To guide it to its purpose! And I swore

Never again to see my father’s face,

Nor ask my mother’s blessing, till I brought,

Dead or in chains, the Tyrant to thy feet.

Boy as I was, before all Saints in Heaven,

And highest God, whose justice slumbereth not,

I made the vow. According to thy prayer,

In all things, O my father, is that vow

Perform’d, alas too well! for thou didst pray,

While looking up I felt the burning tears

Which from thy sightless sockets stream’d, drop down, ...

That to thy grave, and not thy living feet,

The oppressor might be led. Behold him there, ...

Father! Theodofred! no longer now

In darkness, from thy heavenly seat look down,

And see before thy grave thine enemy

In bonds, awaiting judgment at my hand!

Thus while the hero spake, Witiza stood

Listening in agony, with open mouth,

And head, half-raised, toward his sentence turn’d;

His eye-lids stiffen’d and pursed up, ... his eyes

Rigid, and wild, and wide; and when the King

Had ceased, amid the silence which ensued,

The dastard’s chains were heard, link against link

Clinking. At length upon his knees he fell,

And lifting up his trembling hands, outstretch’d

In supplication, ... Mercy! he exclaim’d....

Chains, dungeons, darkness, ... any thing but death!...

I did not touch his life.

Roderick replied,

His hour, whenever it had come, had found

A soul prepared: he lived in peace with Heaven,

And life prolong’d for him, was bliss delay’d.

But life, in pain and darkness and despair,

For thee, all leprous as thou art with crimes,

Is mercy.... Take him hence, and let him see

The light of day no more!

Such Roderick was

When last I saw these courts, ... his theatre

Of glory; ... such when last I visited

My master’s grave! Ten years have hardly held

Their course, ... ten little years ... break, break, old heart....

Oh why art thou so tough!

As thus he spake

They reach’d the church. The door before his hand

Gave way; both blinded with their tears, they went

Straight to the tomb; and there Siverian knelt,

And bow’d his face upon the sepulchre,

Weeping aloud; while Roderick, overpower’d,

And calling upon earth to cover him,

Threw himself prostrate on his father’s grave.

Thus as they lay, an aweful voice in tones

Severe address’d them. Who are ye, it said,

That with your passion thus, and on this night,

Disturb my prayers? Starting they rose; there stood

A man before them of majestic form

And stature, clad in sackcloth, bare of foot,

Pale, and in tears, with ashes on his head.