Count, said Pelayo, Nature hath assign’d
Two sovereign remedies for human grief;
Religion, surest, firmest, first and best,
Strength to the weak and to the wounded balm;
And strenuous action next. Think not I came
With unprovided heart. My noble wife,
In the last solemn words, the last farewell
With which she charged her secret messenger,
Told me that whatsoe’er was my resolve,
She bore a mind prepared. And well I know
The evil, be it what it may, hath found
In her a courage equal to the hour.
Captivity, or death, or what worse pangs,
She in her children may be doom’d to feel,
Will never make that steady soul repent
Its virtuous purpose. I too did not cast
My single life into the lot, but knew
These dearer pledges on the die were set;
And if the worst have fallen, I shall but bear
That in my breast, which, with transfiguring power
Of piety, makes chastening sorrow take
The form of hope, and sees, in Death, the friend
And the restoring Angel. We must rest
Perforce, and wait what tidings night may bring,
Haply of comfort. Ho there! kindle fires,
And see if aught of hospitality
Can yet within these mournful walls be found!
Thus while he spake, lights were descried far off
Moving among the trees, and coming sounds
Were heard as of a distant multitude.
Anon a company of horse and foot,
Advancing in disorderly array,
Came up the vale; before them and beside
Their torches flash’d on Sella’s rippling stream;
Now gleam’d through chesnut groves, emerging now,
O’er their huge boughs and radiated leaves
Cast broad and bright a transitory glare.
That sight inspired with strength the mountaineers;
All sense of weariness, all wish for rest
At once were gone; impatient in desire
Of second victory alert they stood;
And when the hostile symbols, which from far
Imagination to their wish had shaped,
Vanish’d in nearer vision, high-wrought hope
Departing, left the spirit pall’d and blank.
No turban’d race, no sons of Africa
Were they who now came winding up the vale,
As waving wide before their horses’ feet
The torch-light floated, with its hovering glare
Blackening the incumbent and surrounding night.
Helmet and breast-plate glitter’d as they came,
And spears erect; and nearer as they drew
Were the loose folds of female garments seen
On those who led the company. Who then
Had stood beside Pelayo, might have heard
The beating of his heart.
But vainly there
Sought he with wistful eye the well-known forms
Beloved; and plainly might it now be seen
That from some bloody conflict they return’d
Victorious, ... for at every saddle-bow
A gorey head was hung. Anon they stopt,
Levelling in quick alarm their ready spears.
Hold! who goes there? cried one. A hundred tongues
Sent forth with one accord the glad reply,
Friends and Asturians. Onward moved the lights, ...
The people knew their Lord.
Then what a shout
Rung through the valley! From their clay-built nests,
Beneath the overbrowing battlements,
Now first disturb’d, the affrighted martins flew,
And uttering notes of terror short and shrill,
Amid the yellow glare and lurid smoke
Wheel’d giddily. Then plainly was it shown
How well the vassals loved their generous Lord,
How like a father the Asturian Prince
Was dear. They crowded round; they claspt his knees;
They snatch’d his hand; they fell upon his neck, ...
They wept; ... they blest Almighty Providence,
Which had restored him thus from bondage free;
God was with them and their good cause, they said;
His hand was here.... His shield was over them, ...
His spirit was abroad, ... His power display’d:
And pointing to their bloody trophies then,
They told Pelayo there he might behold
The first-fruits of the harvest they should soon
Reap in the field of war! Benignantly,
With voice and look and gesture, did the Prince
To these warm greetings of tumultuous joy
Respond; and sure if at that moment aught
Could for awhile have overpower’d those fears
Which from the inmost heart o’er all his frame
Diffused their chilling influence, worthy pride,
And sympathy of love and joy and hope,
Had then possess’d him wholly. Even now
His spirit rose; the sense of power, the sight
Of his brave people, ready where he led
To fight their country’s battles, and the thought
Of instant action, and deliverance, ...
If Heaven, which thus far had protected him,
Should favour still, ... revived his heart, and gave
Fresh impulse to its spring. In vain he sought
Amid that turbulent greeting to enquire
Where Gaudiosa was, his children where,
Who call’d them to the field, who captain’d them;
And how these women, thus with arms and death
Environ’d, came amid their company?
For yet, amid the fluctuating light
And tumult of the crowd, he knew them not.
Guisla was one. The Moors had found in her
A willing and concerted prisoner.
Gladly to Gegio, to the renegade
On whom her loose and shameless love was bent,
Had she set forth; and in her heart she cursed
The busy spirit, who, with powerful call
Rousing Pelayo’s people, led them on
In quick pursual, and victoriously
Achieved the rescue, to her mind perverse
Unwelcome as unlook’d for. With dismay
She recognized her brother, dreaded now
More than he once was dear; her countenance
Was turn’d toward him, ... not with eager joy
To court his sight, and meeting its first glance,
Exchange delightful welcome, soul with soul;
Hers was the conscious eye, that cannot chuse
But look to what it fears. She could not shun
His presence, and the rigid smile constrain’d,
With which she coldly drest her features, ill
Conceal’d her inward thoughts, and the despite
Of obstinate guilt and unrepentant shame.
Sullenly thus upon her mule she sate,
Waiting the greeting which she did not dare
Bring on. But who is she that at her side,
Upon a stately war-horse eminent,
Holds the loose rein with careless hand? A helm
Presses the clusters of her flaxen hair;
The shield is on her arm; her breast is mail’d;
A sword-belt is her girdle, and right well
It may be seen that sword hath done its work
To-day, for upward from the wrist her sleeve
Is stiff with blood. An unregardant eye,
As one whose thoughts were not of earth, she cast
Upon the turmoil round. One countenance
So strongly mark’d, so passion-worn was there,
That it recall’d her mind. Ha! Maccabee!
Lifting her arm, exultingly she cried,
Did I not tell thee we should meet in joy?
Well, Brother, hast thou done thy part, ... I too
Have not been wanting! Now be His the praise,
From whom the impulse came!
That startling call,
That voice so well remember’d, touch’d the Goth
With timely impulse now; for he had seen
His Mother’s face, ... and at her sight, the past
And present mingled like a frightful dream,
Which from some dread reality derives
Its deepest horror. Adosinda’s voice
Dispersed the waking vision. Little deem’d
Rusilla at that moment that the child,
For whom her supplications day and night
Were offer’d, breathed the living air. Her heart
Was calm; her placid countenance, though grief
Deeper than time had left its traces there,
Retain’d its dignity serene; yet when
Siverian, pressing through the people, kiss’d
Her reverend hand, some quiet tears ran down.
As she approach’d the Prince, the crowd made way
Respectful. The maternal smile which bore
Her greeting, from Pelayo’s heart at once
Dispell’d its boding. What he would have ask’d
She knew, and bending from her palfrey down,
Told him that they for whom he look’d were safe,
And that in secret he should hear the rest.