Classic Poem

'Twas now the earliest morning; soon the Sun,
Rising above Albardos, pour'd his light
Amid the forest, and with ray aslant
Entering its depth, illumed the branchless pines,
Brighten'd their bark, tinged with a redder hue
Its rusty stains, and cast along the floor
Long lines of shadow, where they rose erect
Like pillars of the temple. With slow foot
Roderick pursued his way; for penitence,
Remorse which gave no respite, and the long
And painful conflict of his troubled soul,
Had worn him down. Now, brighter thoughts arose,
And that triumphant vision floated still
Before his sight with all her blazonry,
Her castled helm, and the victorious sword
That flash'd like lightning o'er the field of blood.
Sustain'd by thoughts like these, from morn till eve
He journey'd, and drew near Leyria's walls.
'Twas even-song time, but not a bell was heard;
Instead thereof, on her polluted towers,
Bidding the Moors to their unhallow'd prayer,
The crier stood, and with his sonorous voice
Fill'd the delicious vale where Lena winds
Through groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight
Of turban, girdle, robe, and cimeter,
And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts
Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth;
The face of human-kind so long unseen
Confused him now, and through the streets he went
With haggid mien; and countenance like one
Crazed or bewilder'd. All who met him turn'd
And wonder'd as he pass'd. One stopp'd him short
Put alms into his hand, and then desired,
In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man
To bless him. With a look of vacancy
Roderick received the alms; his wandering eye
Fell on the money; and the fallen King,
Seeing his own royal impress on the piece,
Broke out into a quick, convulsive voice,
That seem'd like laughter first, but ended soon
In hollow groans suppress'd: the Mussulman
Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified
The name of Allah as he hasten'd on.
A Christian woman, spinning at her door,
Beheld him, and, with sudden pity touch'd,
She laid her spindle by, and running in,
Took bread, and following after, call'd him back,
And placing in his passive hands the loaf,
She said, Christ Jesus for his mother's sake
Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem'd
Like idiotcy he heard her, and stood still,
Staring awhile; then, bursting into tears,
Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart,
Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts
So through the streets, and through the northern gate,
Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place,
With feeble yet with hurried step pursue
His agitated way; and when he reach'd
The open fields, and found himself alone
Beneath the starry canopy of Heaven,
The sense of solitude, so dreadful late,
Was then repose and comfort. There he stopp'd
Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf;
And shedding o'er that long untasted food
Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul
He breathed thanksgiving forth, then made his bed
On heath and myrtle.
But when he arose
At day-break, and pursued his way, his heart
Felt lighten'd that the shock of mingling first
Among his fellow-kind was overpast;
And journeying on, he greeted whom he met
With such short interchange of benison
As each to other gentle travellers give,
Recovering thus the power of social speech
Which he had long disused. When hunger press'd,
He ask'd for alms: slight supplication served;
A countenance so pale and woe-begone
Moved all to pity; and the marks it bore
Of rigorous penance and austerest life,
With something, too, of majesty that still
Appear'd amid the wreck, inspired a sense
Of reverence too. The goat-herd on the hills
Open'd his scrip for him; the babe in arms,
Affrighted at his visage, turn'd away,
And clinging to the mother's neck in tears,
Would yet again look up, and then again
Shrink back, with cry renew'd. The bolder imps
Sporting beside the way, at his approach
Brake off their games for wonder, and stood still
In silence; some among them cried, A Saint
The village matron, when she gave him food,
Besought his prayers; and one entreated him
To lay his healing hands upon her child,
For with a sore and hopeless malady.
Wasting it long had lain, — and sure, she said
He was a man of God.
Thus travelling on,
He pass'd the vale where wild Arunca pours
Its wintry torrents; and the happier site
Of old Conimbrica, whose ruin'd towers
Bore record of the fierce Alani's wrath.
Mondego, too, he cross'd, not yet renown'd
In poet's amorous lay; and left behind
The walls at whose foundation pious hands
Of Priest, and Monk, and Bishop meekly toil'd, —
So had the insulting Arian given command.
Those stately palaces and rich domains
Were now the Moor's; and many a weary age
Must Coimbra wear the misbeliever's yoke,
Before Fernando's banner through her gate
Shall pass triumphant, and her hallow'd Mosque
Behold the hero of Bivar receive
The knighthood which he glorified so oft
In his victorious fields. Oh, if the years
To come might then have risen on Roderick's soul,
How had they kindled and consoled his heart! —
What joy might Douro's haven then have given,
Whence Portugal, the faithful and the brave,
Shall take her name illustrious! — what, those walls
Where Mumadona one day will erect
Convent, and town, and towers, which shall become
The cradle of that famous monarchy!
What joy might these prophetic scenes have given, —
What ample vengeance on the Mussulman,
Driven out with foul defeat, and made to feel
In Africa the wrongs he wrought to Spain;
And still pursued by that relentless sword,
Even to the farthest Orient, where his power
Received its mortal wound!
Oh years of pride!
In undiscoverable futurity,
Yet unevolved, your destined glories lay;
And all that Roderick in these fated scenes
Beheld, was grief and wretchedness, — the waste
Of recent war, and that more mournful calm
Of joyless, helpless, hopeless servitude.
'Twas not the ruin'd walls of church or tower,
Cottage, or hall, or convent, black with smoke;
'Twas not the unburied bones, which, where the dogs
And crows had strown then, lay amid the field
Bleaching in sun or shower, that wrung his heart
With keenest anguish: 'twas when he beheld
The turban'd traitor show his shameless front
In the open eye of Heaven, — the renegade,
On whose base, brutal nature, unredeem'd,
Even black apostasy itself could stamp
No deeper reprobation at the hour
Assign'd fall prostrate; and unite the names
Of God and the Blasphemer, — impious prayer, —
Most impious, when from unbelieving lips
The accursid utterance came. Then Roderick's heart
With indignation burnt, and then he long'd
To be a King again, that so, for Spain
Betray'd and his Redeemer thus renounced,
He might inflict due punishment, and make
These wretches feel his wrath. But when he saw
The daughters of the land, — who, as they went
With cheerful step to church, were wont to show
Their innocent faces to all passers' eyes,
Freely, and free from sin as when they look'd
In adoration and in praise to Heaven, —
Now mask'd in Moorish mufflers, to the Mosque
Holding uncompanied their jealous way,
His spirit seem'd at that unhappy sight
To die away within him, and he, too,
Would fain have died, so death could bring with it
Entire oblivion.
Rent with thoughts like these,
He reach'd that city, once the seat renown'd
Of Suevi kings, where, in contempt of Rome
Degenerate long, the North's heroic race
Raised first a rival throne; now from its state
Of proud regality debased and fallen.
Still bounteous nature o'er the lovely vale,
Where like a Queen rose Bracara august,
Pour'd forth her gifts profuse; perennial springs
Flow'd for her habitants, and genial suns,
With kindly showers to bless the happy clime,
Combined in vain their gentle influences;
For patient servitude was there, who bow'd
His neck beneath the Moor, and silent grief
That eats into the soul. The walls and stones
Seem'd to reproach their dwellers; stately piles
Yet undecay'd, the mighty monuments
Of Roman pomp, Barbaric palaces,
And Gothic halls, where haughty Barons late
Gladden'd their faithful vassals with the feast
And flowing bowl, alike the spoiler's now.

Leaving these captive scenes behind, he cross'd
Cavado's silver current, and the banks
Of Lima, through whose groves, in after years,
Mournful yet sweet, Diogo's amorous lute
Prolong'd its tuneful echoes. But when now,
Beyond Arnoya's tributary tide,
He came where Minho roll'd its ampler stream
By Auria's ancient walls, fresh horrors met
His startled view; for prostrate in the dust
Those walls were laid, and towers and temples stood
Tottering in frightful ruins, as the flame
Had left them black and bare; and through the streets,
All with the recent wreck of war bestrown,
Helmet and turban, cimeter and sword,
Christian and Moor in death promiscuous lay,
Each where they fell; and blood-flakes, parch'd and crack'd
Like the dry slime of some receding flood;
And half-burnt bodies, which allured from far
The wolf and raven, and to impious food
Tempted the houseless dog.
A thrilling pang,
A sweat like death, a sickness of the soul,
Came over Roderick. Soon they pass'd away,
And admiration in their stead arose,
Stern joy and inextinguishable hope,
With wrath, and hate, and sacred vengeance now
Indissolubly link'd. O valiant race,
O people excellently brave, he cried,
True Goths ye fell, and faithful to the last;
Though overpower'd, triumphant, and in death
Unconquer'd! Holy be your memory!
Bless'd and glorious now and evermore
Be your heroic names! — Led by the sound,
As thus he cried aloud, a woman came
Toward him from the ruins. For the love
Of Christ, she said, lend me a little while
Thy charitable help! — Her words, her voice,
Her look, more horror to his heart convey'd
Than all the havock round; for though she spake
With the calm utterance of despair, in tones
Deep breathed and low, yet never sweeter voice
Pour'd forth its hymns in ecstasy to Heaven.
Her hands were bloody, and her garments stain'd
With blood, her face with blood and dust defiled.
Beauty and youth, and grace and majesty,
Had every charm of form and feature given;
But now upon her rigid countenance
Severest anguish set a fixedness
Ghastlier than death.
She led him through the streets
A little way along, where four low walls,
Heap'd rudely from the ruins round, enclosed
A narrow space: and there upon the ground
Four bodies, decently composed, were laid,
Though horrid all with wounds and clotted gore:
A venerable ancient, by his side
A comely matron, for whose middle age,
(If ruthless slaughter had not intervened,)
Nature, it seem'd, and gentle Time, might well
Have many a calm declining year in store;
The third an armed warrior, on his breast
An infant, over whom his arms were cross'd.
There, — with firm eye and steady countenance,
Unfaltering, she address'd him, — there they lie,
Child, Husband, Parents, — Adosinda's all!
I could not break the earth with these poor hands,
Nor other tomb provide, — but let that pass!
Auria itself is now but one wide tomb
For all its habitants: — What better grave?
What worthier monument? — Oh, cover not
Their blood, thou Earth! and ye, ye blessed Souls
Of Heroes and of murder'd Innocents,
Oh, never let your everlasting cries
Cease round the Eternal Throne, till the Most High
For all these unexampled wrongs hath given
Full, overflowing vengeance!
While she spake,
She raised her lofty hands to Heaven, as if
Calling for justice on the Judgment-seat;
Then laid them on her eyes, and, leaning on,
Bent o'er the open sepulchre.
But soon,
With quiet mien collectedly, like one
Who from intense devotion, and the act
Of ardent prayer, arising, girds himself
For this world's daily business she arose,
And said to Roderick, Help me now to raise
The covering of the tomb.
With half-burnt planks,
Which she had gather'd for this funeral use,
They roof'd the vault; then, laying stones above,
They closed it down; last, rendering all secure,
Stones upon stones they piled, till all appear'd
A huge and shapeless heap. Enough, she cried,
And taking Roderick's hands in both her own,
And wringing them with fervent thankfulness,
May God show mercy to thee, she exclaim'd,
When most thou needest mercy! Who thou art
I know not; not of Auria, — for of all
Her sons and daughters, save the one who stands
Before thee, not a soul is left alive.
But thou hast render'd to me, in my hour
Of need, the only help which man could give.
What else of consolation may be found
For one so utterly bereft, from Heaven
And from myself must come. For deem not thou
That I shall sink beneath calamity:
This visitation, like a lightning-stroke,
Hath scathed the fruit and blossom of my youth,
One hour hath orphan'd me, and widow'd me,
And made me childless. In this sepulchre
Lie buried all my earthward hopes and fears;
All human loves and natural charities; —
All womanly tenderness, all gentle thoughts,
All female weakness too, I bury here,
Yea, all my former nature. There remain
Revenge and death: — the bitterness of death
Is past, and Heaven already hath vouchsafed
A foretaste of revenge.
Look here! she cried,
And drawing back, held forth her bloody hands,
'Tis Moorish! — In the day of massacre,
A captain of Alcahman's murderous host
Reserved me from the slaughter. Not because
My rank and station tempted him with thoughts
Of ransom, for amid the general waste
Of ruin all was lost; — nor yet, be sure,
That pity moved him, — they who from this race
Accurs'd for pity look, such pity find
As ravenous wolves show the defenceless flock.
My husband at my feet had fallen; my babe, —
Spare me that thought, O God! — and then — even then,
Amid the maddening throes of agony
Which rent my soul, — when, if this solid Earth
Had open'd, and let out the central fire,
Before whose all-involving flames wide Heaven
Shall shrivel like a scroll, and be consumed,
The universal wreck had been to me
Relief and comfort; — even then this Moor
Turn'd on me his libidinous eyes, and bade
His men reserve me safely for an hour
Of dalliance, — me! — me in my agonies!
But when I found for what this miscreant child.
Of Hell had snatch'd me from the butchery,
The very horror of that monstrous thought
Saved me from madness; I was calm at once, —
Yet comforted and reconciled to life;
Hatred became to me the life of life,
Its purpose and its power.
The glutted Moors
At length broke up. This hell-dog turn'd aside
Toward his home; we travell'd fast and far;
Till by a forest edge at eve he pitched
His tents. I wash'd and ate at his command,
Forcing revolted nature; I composed
My garments, and bound up my scatter'd hair;
And when he took my hand, and to his couch
Would fain have drawn me, gently I retired
From that abominable touch, and said,
Forbear to-night, I pray thee, for this day
A widow, as thou seest me, am I made;
Therefore, according to our law, must watch
And pray to-night. The loathsome villain paused
Ere he assented, then laid down to rest;
While, at the door of the pavilion, I
Knelt on the ground, and bowed my face to earth;
But when the neighboring tents had ceased their stir,
The fires were out, and all were fast asleep,
Then I arose. The blessed Moon from Heaven
Lent me her holy light. I did not pray
For strength, for strength was given me as I drew
The cimeter, and standing o'er his couch,
Raised it in both my hands with steady aim,
And smote his neck. Upward, as from a spring
When newly open'd by the husbandman,
The villain's life-blood spouted. Twice I struck,
So making vengeance sure; then, praising God,
Retired amid the wood, and measured back
My patient way to Auria, to perform
This duty which thou seest
As thus she spake,
Roderick, intently listening, had forgot
His crown, his kingdom, his calamities,
His crimes, — so like a spell upon the Goth
Her powerful words prevail'd. With open lips,
And eager ear, and eyes which, while they watch'd
Her features, caught the spirit that she breathed,
Mute and enrapt he stood, and motionless;
The vision rose before him; and that shout,
Which, like a thunder-peal, victorious Spain
Sent through the welkin, rung within his soul
Its deep, prophetic echoes. On his brow
The pride and power of former majesty
Dawn'd once again, but changed and purified;
Duty and high heroic purposes
Now hallow'd it, and, as with inward light,
Illumed his meagre countenance austere.

A while in silence Adosinda stood,
Reading his alter'd visage and the thoughts
Which thus transfigured him. Ay, she exclaim'd,
My tale hath moved thee! it might move the dead,
Quicken captivity's dead soul, and rouse
This prostrate country from her mortal trance:
Therefore I live to tell it; and for this
Hath the Lord God Almighty given to me
A spirit not mine own and strength from Heaven;
Dealing with me as in the days of old
With that Bethulian Matron when she saved
His people from the spoiler. What remains
But that the life which he hath thus preserved
I consecrate to him? Not veil'd and vow'd
To pass my days in holiness and peace;
Nor yet between sepulchral walls immured,
Alive to penitence alone; my rule
He hath himself prescribed, and hath infused
A passion in this woman's breast, wherein
All passions and all virtues are combined;
Love, hatred, joy, and anguish, and despair,
And hope, and natural piety, and faith,
Make up the mighty feeling. Call it not
Revenge! thus sanctified, and thus sublimed,
'Tis duty, 'tis devotion. Like the grace
Of God, it came and saved me; and in it
Spain must have her salvation. In thy hands
Here, on the grave of all my family,
I make my vow.
She said, and, kneeling down,
Placed within Roderick's palms her folded hands.
This life, she cried, I dedicate to God,
Therewith to do him service in the way
Which he hath shown. To rouse the land against
This impious, this intolerable yoke, —
To offer up the invader's hateful blood, —
This shall be my employ, my rule and rite,
Observances and sacrifice of faith;
For this I hold the life which he hath given,
A sacred trust; for this, when it shall suit
His service, joyfully will lay it down.
So deal with me as I fulfil the pledge,
O Lord my God, my Savior, and my Judge.

Then rising from the earth, she spread her arms,
And looking round with sweeping eyes exclaim'd,
Auria, and Spain, and Heaven receive the vow!