Classic Poem

Twelve months they sojourn'd in their solitude,
And then beneath the burden of old age
Romano sunk. No brethren were there here
To spread the sackcloth, and with ashes strow
That penitential bed, and gather round
To sing his requiem, and with prayer and psalm
Assist him in his hour of agony.
He lay on the bare earth, which long had been
His only couch; beside him Roderick knelt,
Moisten'd from time to time his blacken'd lips,
Received a blessing with his latest breath,
Then closed his eyes, and by the nameless grave
Of the fore-tenant of that holy place
Consign'd him, earth to earth.
Two graves are here;
And Roderick, transverse at their feet, began
To break the third. In all his intervals
Of prayer, save only when he search'd the woods
And fill'd the water-cruise, he labor'd there;
And when the work was done, and he had laid
Himself at length within its narrow sides
And measured it, he shook his head to think
There was no other business now for him.
Poor wretch, thy bed is ready, he exclaim'd,
And would that night were come! — It was a task,
All gloomy as it was, which had beguiled
The sense of solitude; but now he felt
The burden of the solitary hours:
The silence of that lonely hermitage
Lay on him like a spell; and at the voice
Of his own prayers, he started, half aghast.
Then, too, as on Romano's grave he sat
And pored upon his own, a natural thought
Arose within him, — well might he have spared
That useless toil; the sepulchre would be
No hiding-place for him; no Christian hands
Were here who should compose his decent corpse
And cover it with earth. There he might drag
His wretched body at its passing hour;
But there the Sea-Birds of her heritage
Would rob the worm, or peradventure seize,
Ere death had done its work, their helpless prey.
Even now they did not fear him: when he walk'd
Beside them on the beach, regardlessly
They saw his coming; and their whirring wings
Upon the height had sometimes fann'd his chaek
As if, being thus alone, humanity
Had lost its rank, and the prerogative
Of man were done away.
For his lost crown
And sceptre never had he felt a thought
Of pain; repentance had no pangs to spare
For trifles such as these, — the loss of these
Was a cheap penalty; — that he had fallen
Down to the lowest depth of wretchedness,
His hope and consolation. But to lose
His human station in the scale of things, —
To see brute nature scorn him, and renounce
Its homage to the human form divine; —
Had then Almighty vengeance thus reveal'd
His punishment, and was he fallen indeed
Below fallen man, below redemption's reach,
Made lower than the beasts, and like the beasts
To perish! — Such temptations troubled him
By day, and in the visions of the night;
And even in sleep he struggled with the thought,
And waking with the effort of his prayers,
The dream assail'd him still.
A wilder form
Sometimes his poignant penitence assumed,
Starting with force revived from intervals
Of calmer passion, or exhausted rest;
When floating back upon the tide of thought
Remembrance to a self-excusing strain
Beguiled him, and recall'd in long array
The sorrows and the secret impulses
Which to the abyss of wretchedness and guilt
Led their unwary victim. The evil hour
Return'd upon him, when reluctantly
Yielding to worldly counsel his assent,
In wedlock to an ill-assorted mate
He gave his cold, unwilling hand: then came
The disappointment of the barren bed,
The hope deceived, the soul dissatisfied,
Home without love, and privacy from which
Delight was banish'd first, and peace too soon
Departed. Was it strange that, when he met
A heart attuned, — a spirit like his own,
Of lofty pitch, yet in affection mild,
And tender as a youthful mother's joy, —
Oh, was it strange if, at such sympathy,
The feelings, which within his breast repell'd
And chill'd, had shrunk, should open forth like flowers
After cold winds of night, when gentle gales
Restore the genial sun? If all were known,
Would it indeed be not to be forgiven? —
(Thus would he lay the unction to his soul,)
If all were truly known, as Heaven knows all,
Heaven, that is merciful as well as just, —
A passion slow and mutual in its growth,
Pure as fraternal love, long self-conceal'd,
And when confess'd in silence, long-controll'd;
Treacherous occasion, human frailty, fear
Of endless separation, worse than death, —
The purpose and the hope with which the Fiend
Tempted, deceived, and madden'd him; — but then
As at a new temptation would he start,
Shuddering beneath the intolerable shame,
And clinch in agony his matted hair;
While in his soul the perilous thought arose,
How easy 'twere to plunge where yonder waves
Invited him to rest.
Oh for a voice
Of comfort, — for a ray of hope from Heaven!
A hand that from these billows of despair
May reach and snatch him ere he sink ingulf'd!
At length, as life, when it hath lain long time
Oppress'd beneath some grievous malady,
Seems to rouse up with re-collected strength,
And the sick man doth feel within himself
A second spring, so Roderick's better mind
Arose to save him. Lo! the western sun
Flames o'er the broad Atlantic; on the verge
Of glowing ocean rests; retiring then
Draws with it all its rays, and sudden night
Fills the whole cope of heaven. The penitent
Knelt by Romano's grave, and falling prone,
Clasp'd with extended arms the funeral mould.
Father! he cried; Companion! only friend,
When all beside was lost! thou too art gone,
And the poor sinner whom from utter death
Thy providential hand preserved, once more
Totters upon the gulf. I am too weak
For solitude, — too vile a wretch to bear
This everlasting commune with myself.
The Tempter hath assail'd me; my own heart
Is leagued with him; Despair hath laid the nets
To take my soul, and Memory, like a ghost,
Haunts me, and drives me to the toils. O Saint,
While I was bless'd with thee, the hermitage
Was my sure haven! Look upon me still,
For from thy heavenly mansion thou canst see
The suppliant; look upon thy child in Christ.
Is there no other way for penitence?
I ask not martyrdom; for what am I
That I should pray for triumphs, the fit meed
Of a long life of holy works like thine;
Or how should I presumptuously aspire
To wear the heavenly crown resign'd by thee,
For my poor sinful sake? Oh point me thou
Some humblest, painfulest, severest path, —
Some new austerity, unheard of yet
In Syrian fields of glory, or the sands
Of holiest Egypt. Let me bind my brow
With thorns, and barefoot seek Jerusalem,
Tracking the way with blood; there, day by day,
Inflict upon this guilty flesh the scourge,
Drink vinegar and gall, and for my bed
Hang with extended limbs upon the Cross,
A nightly crucifixion! — any thing
Of action, difficulty, bodily pain,
Labor, and outward suffering, — any thing
But stillness and this dreadful solitude!
Romano! Father! let me hear thy voice
In dreams, O sainted Soul! or from the grave
Speak to thy penitent; even from the grave
Thine were a voice of comfort.
Thus he cried,
Pasing the pressure of his burden'd heart
With passionate prayer; thus pour'd his spirit forth,
Till, with the long, impetuous effort spent,
His spirit fail'd, and, laying on the grave
His weary head as on a pillow, sleep
Fell on him. He had pray'd to hear a voice
Of consolation, and in dreams a voice
Of consolation came. Roderick, it said, —
Roderick, my poor, unhappy, sinful child,
Jesus have mercy on thee! — Not if Heaven
Had opened, and Romano, visible
In his beatitude, had breathed that prayer; —
Not if the grave had spoken, had it pierced
So deeply in his soul, nor wrung his heart
With such compunctious visitings, nor given
So quick, so keen a pang. It was that voice
Which sung his fretful infancy to sleep
So patiently; which soothed his childish griefs,
Counsell'd, with anguish and prophetic tears,
His headstrong youth. And lo! his Mother stood
Before him in the vision; in those weeds
Which never from the hour when to the grave
She follow'd her dear lord Theodofred
Rusilla laid aside; but in her face
A sorrow that bespake a heavier load
At heart, and more unmitigated woe, —
Yea, a more mortal wretchedness than when
Witiza's ruffians and the red-hot brass
Had done their work, and in her arms she held
Her eyeless husband; wiped away the sweat
Which still his tortures forced from every pore;
Cool'd his scorch'd lids with medicinal herbs,
And pray'd the while for patience for herself
And him, and pray'd for vengeance too, and found
Best comfort in her curses. In his dream,
Groaning he knelt before her to beseech
Her blessing, and she raised her hands to lay
A benediction on him. But those hands
Were chain'd, and casting a wild look around,
With thrilling voice she cried, Will no one break
These shameful fetters? Pedro, Theudemir,
Athanagild, where are ye? Roderick's arm
Is wither'd; — Chiefs of Spain, but where are ye?
And thou, Pelayo, thou our surest hope,
Dost thou, too, sleep? — Awake, Pelayo! — up! —
Why tarriest thou, Deliverer? — But with that
She broke her bonds, and, lo! her form was changed!
Radiant in arms she stood! a bloody Cross
Gleam'd on her breastplate; in her shield display'd,
Erect a lion ramp'd; her helmed head
Rose like the Berecynthian Goddess crown'd
With towers, and in her dreadful hand the sword
Red as a firebrand blazed. Anon the tramp
Of horsemen, and the din of multitudes
Moving to mortal conflict, rang around;
The battle-song, the clang of sword and shield,
War-cries, and tumult, strife, and hate, and rage,
Blasphemous prayers, confusion, agony,
Rout, and pursuit, and death; and over all
The shout of victory, — Spain and Victory!
Roderick, as the strong vision master'd him,
Rush'd to the fight rejoicing: starting then,
As his own effort burst the charm of sleep,
He found himself upon that lonely grave
In moonlight and in silence. But the dream
Wrought in him still; for still he felt his heart
Pant, and his wither'd arm was trembling still;
And still that voice was in his ear which call'd
On Jesus for his sake.
Oh, might he hear
That actual voice! and if Rusilla lived, —
If shame and anguish for his crimes not yet
Had brought her to the grave, — sure she would bless
Her penitent child, and pour into his heart
Prayers and forgiveness, which like precious balm
Would heal the wounded soul. Nor to herself
Less precious, or less healing, would the voice
That spake forgiveness flow. She wept her son
Forever lost, cut off with all the weight
Of unrepented sin upon his head,
Sin which had weigh'd a nation down — what joy
To know that righteous Heaven had in its wrath
Remember'd mercy, and she yet might meet
The child whom she had borne, redeem'd, in bliss!
The sudden impulse of such thoughts confirm'd
That unacknowledged purpose, which till now
Vainly had sought its end. He girt his loins,
Laid holiest Mary's image in a cleft
Of the rock, where, shelter'd from the elements,
It might abide till happier days came on,
From all defilement safe; pour'd his last prayer
Upon Romano's grave, and kiss'd the earth
Which cover'd his remains, and wept as if
At long leave-taking, then began his way.