Classic Poem

When all had been perform'd, the royal Goth
Look'd up towards the chamber in the tower,
Where, gazing on the multitude below,
Alone Rusilla stood. He met her eye,
For it was singling him amid the crowd;
Obeying then the hand which beckon'd him,
He went with heart prepared, nor shrinking now,
But arm'd with self-approving thoughts that hour.
Entering in tremulous haste, he closed the door,
And turn'd to clasp her knees; but lo, she spread
Her arms, and catching him in close embrace,
Fell on his neck, and cried, My Son, my Son! —
Erelong, controlling that first agony
With effort of strong will, backward she bent,
And gazing on his head, now shorn and gray,
And on his furrow'd countenance, exclaim'd,
Still, still my Roderick! the same noble mind!
The same heroic heart! Still, still my Son! — —
Changed, — yet not wholly fallen, — not wholly lost,
He cried, — not wholly in the sight of Heaven
Unworthy, O my Mother, nor in thine!
She lock'd her arms again around his neck,
Saying, Lord, let me now depart in peace!
And bow'd her head again, and silently
Gave way to tears.
When that first force was spent,
And passion in exhaustment found relief, —
I knew thee, said Rusilla, when the dog
Rose from my feet, and lick'd his master's hand.
All flash'd upon me then; the instinctive sense
That goes unerringly where reason fails, —
The voice, the eye, — a mother's thoughts are quick, —
Miraculous as it seem'd, — Siverian's tale, —
Florinda's, — every action, — every word, —
Each strengthening each, and all confirming all,
Reveal'd thee, O my Son! but I restrain'd
My heart, and yielded to thy holier will
The thoughts which rose to tempt a soul not yet
Wean'd wholly from the world.
What thoughts? replied
Roderick. That I might see thee yet again
Such as thou wert, she answer'd; not alone
To Heaven and me restored, but to thyself, —
Thy Crown, — thy Country, — all within thy reach;
Heaven so disposing all things, that the means
Which wrought the ill, might work the remedy.
Methought I saw thee once again the hope, —
The strength, — the pride of Spain! The miracle
Which I beheld made all things possible.
I know the inconstant people, how their mind,
With every breath of good or ill report,
Fluctuates, like summer corn before the breeze;
Quick in their hatred, quicker in their love,
Generous and hasty, soon would they redress
All wrongs of former obloquy. — I thought
Of happiness restored, — the broken heart
Heal'd, — and Count Julian, for his daughter's sake,
Turning in thy behalf against the Moors
His powerful sword: — all possibilities,
That could be found or fancied, built a dream
Before me; such as easiest might illude
A lofty spirit train'd in palaces,
And not alone amid the flatteries
Of youth with thoughts of high ambition fed
When all is sunshine, but through years of woe,
When sorrows sanctified their use, upheld
By honorable pride and earthly hopes.
I thought I yet might nurse upon my knee
Some young Theodofred, and see in him
Thy Father's image and thine own renew'd,
And love to think the little hand which there
Play'd with the bauble should in after days
Wield the transmitted sceptre; — that through him
The ancient seed should be perpetuate, —
That precious seed revered so long, desired
So dearly, and so wondrously preserved.

Nay, he replied, Heaven hath not with its bolts
Scathed the proud summit of the tree, and left
The trunk unflaw'd; ne'er shall it clothe its boughs
Again, nor push again its scions forth,
Head, root, and branch, all mortified alike! —
Long ere these locks were shorn had I cut off
The thoughts of royalty! Time might renew
Their growth, as for Manoah's captive son,
And I too on the miscreant race, like him,
Might prove my strength regenerate; but the hour,
When, in its second best nativity,
My soul was born again through grace, this heart
Died to the world. Dreams such as thine pass now
Like evening clouds before me; if I think
How beautiful they seem, 'tis but to feel
How soon they fade, how fast the night shuts in.
But in that World to which my hopes look on,
Time enters not, nor Mutability;
Beauty and goodness are unfading there;
Whatever there is given us to enjoy,
That we enjoy forever, still the same. —
Much might Count Julian's sword achieve for Spain
And me, but more will his dear daughter's soul
Effect in Heaven; and soon will she be there,
An Angel at the throne of Grace, to plead
In his behalf and mine.
I knew thy heart,
She answer'd, and subdued the vain desire.
It was the World's last effort. Thou hast chosen
The better part. Yes, Roderick, even on earth
There is a praise above the monarch's fame,
A higher, holier, more enduring praise,
And this will yet be thine!
O tempt me not,
Mother! he cried; nor let ambition take
That specious form to cheat us! What but this,
Fallen as I am, have I to offer Heaven?
The ancestral sceptre, public fame, content
Of private life, the general good report,
Power, reputation, happiness, — whate'er
The heart of man desires to constitute
His earthly weal, — unerring Justice claim'd
In forfeiture. I with submitted soul
Bow to the righteous law and kiss the rod.
Only while thus submitted, suffering thus, —
Only while offering up that name on earth,
Perhaps in trial offer'd to my choice,
Could I present myself before thy sight;
Thus only could endure myself, or fix
My thoughts upon that fearful pass, where Death
Stands in the Gate of Heaven! — Time passes on,
The healing work of sorrow is complete;
All vain desires have long been weeded out,
All vain regrets subdued; the heart is dead,
The soul is ripe and eager for her birth.
Bless me, my Mother! and come when it will
The inevitable hour, we die in peace.

So saying, on her knees he bow'd his head;
She raised her hands to Heaven and blest her child
Then bending forward, as he rose, embraced
And clasp'd him to her heart, and cried, Once more
Theodofred, with pride behold thy son!

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 chestnut 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 breastplate 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 gory head was hung. Anon, they stopp'd,
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 clasp'd 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 displayed;
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 a while 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 favor still, — revived his heart, and gave
Fresh impulse to its spring. In vain he sought,
Amid that turbulent greeting, to inquire
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 curs'd
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 choose
But look to what it fears. She could not shun
His presence, and the rigid smile constrain'd,
With which she coldly dress'd her features, ill
Conceal'd her inward thoughts, and the despite
Of obstinate guilt and unrepentant shame.
Sullenly thus, upon her mule she sat,
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.