X.RODERICK AND FLORINDA.
With sword and breast-plate, under rustic weedsConceal’d, at dusk Pelayo pass’d the gate,Florinda following near, disguised alike.Two peasants on their mules they seem’d, at eveReturning from the town. Not distant far,Alphonso by the appointed orange-grove,With anxious eye and agitated heart,Watch’d for the Prince’s coming. EagerlyAt every foot-fall through the gloom he strain’dHis sight, nor did he recognize him whenThe Chieftain thus accompanied drew nigh;And when the expected signal called him on,Doubting this female presence, half in fearObey’d the call. Pelayo too perceivedThe boy was not alone; he not for thatDelay’d the summons, but lest need should be,Laying hand upon his sword, toward him bentIn act soliciting speech, and low of voiceEnquired if friend or foe. Forgive me, criedAlphonso, that I did not tell thee this,Full as I was of happiness, before.’Tis Hoya, servant of my father’s house,Unto whose dutiful care and love, when sentTo this vile bondage, I was given in charge.How could I look upon my father’s faceIf I had in my joy deserted him,Who was to me found faithful?... Right! repliedThe Prince; and viewing him with silent joy,Blessed the Mother, in his heart he said,Who gave thee birth! but sure of womankindMost blessed she whose hand her happy starsShall link with thine! and with that thought the formOf Hermesind, his daughter, to his soulCame in her beauty.Soon by devious tracksThey turn’d aside. The favouring moon arose,To guide them on their flight through upland pathsRemote from frequentage, and dales retired,Forest and mountain glen. Before their feetThe fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade,Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their way;The timorous blackbird, starting at their step,Fled from the thicket with shrill note of fear;And far below them in the peopled dell,When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased,The distant watch-dog’s voice at times was heard,Answering the nearer wolf. All through the nightAmong the hills they travell’d silently;Till when the stars were setting, at what hourThe breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheldWithin a lonely grove the expected fire,Where Roderick and his comrade anxiouslyLook’d for the appointed meeting. Halting there,They from the burthen and the bit relievedTheir patient bearers, and around the firePartook of needful food and grateful rest.Bright rose the flame replenish’d; it illumedThe cork-tree’s furrow’d rind, its rifts and swellsAnd redder scars, ... and where its aged boughsO’erbower’d the travellers, cast upon the leavesA floating, grey, unrealizing gleam.Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heathLay carelessly dispread, in happy dreamsOf home; his faithful Hoya slept beside.Years and fatigue to old Siverian broughtEasy oblivion; and the Prince himself,Yielding to weary nature’s gentle will,Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sateBeholding Roderick with fix’d eyes intent,Yet unregardant of the countenanceWhereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb’d,Collecting fortitude for what she yearn’d,Yet trembled to perform. Her steady lookDisturb’d the Goth, albeit he little ween’dWhat agony awaited him that hour.Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was nowHalf-hidden, and the lustre of her eyeExtinct; nor did her voice awaken in himOne startling recollection when she spake,So altered were its tones.Father, she said,All thankful as I am to leave behindThe unhappy walls of Cordoba, not lessOf consolation doth my heart receiveAt sight of one to whom I may discloseThe sins which trouble me, and at his feetLay down repentantly, in Jesu’s name,The burthen of my spirit. In his nameHear me, and pour into a wounded soulThe balm of pious counsel.... Saying thus,She drew toward the minister ordain’d,And kneeling by him, Father, dost thou knowThe wretch who kneels beside thee? she enquired,He answered, Surely we are each to eachEqually unknown.Then said she, Here thou seestOne who is known too fatally for all, ...The daughter of Count Julian.... Well it wasFor Roderick that no eye beheld him now;From head to foot a sharper pang than deathThrill’d him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke,Ceased from its functions: his breath fail’d, and whenThe power of life recovering set its springsAgain in action, cold and clammy sweatStarting at every pore suffused his frame.Their presence help’d him to subdue himself;For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallenBefore Florinda prostrate on the earth,And in that mutual agony belikeBoth souls had taken flight. She mark’d him not,For having told her name, she bow’d her head,Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven,While, as a penitent, she wrought herselfTo open to his eye her hidden wounds.Father, at length she said, all tongues amidThis general ruin shed their bitternessOn Roderick, load his memory with reproach,And with their curses persecute his soul....Why shouldst thou tell me this? exclaim’d the Goth,From his cold forehead wiping as he spakeThe death-like moisture; ... Why of Roderick’s guiltTell me? Or thinkest thou I know it not?Alas! who hath not heard the hideous taleOf Roderick’s shame! Babes learn it from their nurses,And children, by their mothers unreproved,Link their first execrations to his name.Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy,That, like Iscariot’s, through all time shall last,Reeking and fresh for ever!There! she cried,Drawing her body backward where she knelt,And stretching forth her arms with head upraised,There! it pursues me still!... I came to thee,Father, for comfort, and thou heapest fireUpon my head. But hear me patiently,And let me undeceive thee; self-abased,Not to arraign another, do I come;I come a self-accuser, self-condemn’dTo take upon myself the pain deserved;For I have drank the cup of bitterness,And having drank therein of heavenly grace,I must not put away the cup of shame.Thus as she spake she falter’d at the close,And in that dying fall her voice sent forthSomewhat of its original sweetness. Thou!...Thou self-abased! exclaim’d the astonish’d King; ...Thou self-condemn’d!... The cup of shame for thee!Thee ... thee, Florinda!... But the very excessOf passion check’d his speech, restraining thusFrom farther transport, which had haply elseMaster’d him; and he sate like one entranced,Gazing upon that countenance so fallen,So changed: her face, raised from its muffler now,Was turn’d toward him, and the fire-light shoneFull on its mortal paleness; but the shadeConceal’d the King.She roused him from the spellWhich held him like a statue motionless.Thou too, quoth she, dost join the general curse,Like one who when he sees a felon’s grave,Casting a stone there as he passes by,Adds to the heap of shame. Oh what are we,Frail creatures as we are, that we should sitIn judgement man on man! and what were we,If the All-merciful should mete to usWith the same rigorous measure wherewithalSinner to sinner metes! But God beholdsThe secrets of the heart, ... therefore his nameIs Merciful. Servant of God, see thouThe hidden things of mine, and judge thou thenIn charity thy brother who hath fallen....Nay, hear me to the end! I loved the King, ...Tenderly, passionately, madly loved him.Sinful it was to love a child of earthWith such entire devotion as I lovedRoderick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth!And yet methought this was its only crime,The imaginative passion seem’d so pure:Quiet and calm like duty, hope nor fearDisturb’d the deep contentment of that love;He was the sunshine of my soul, and likeA flower, I lived and flourish’d in his light.Oh bear not with me thus impatiently!No tale of weakness this, that in the actOf penitence, indulgent to itself,With garrulous palliation half repeatsThe sin it ill repents. I will be brief,And shrink not from confessing how the loveWhich thus began in innocence, betray’dMy unsuspecting heart; nor me alone,But him, before whom, shining as he shoneWith whatsoe’er is noble, whatsoe’erIs lovely, whatsoever good and great,I was as dust and ashes, ... him, alas!This glorious being, this exalted Prince,Even him, with all his royalty of soul,Did this ill-omen’d, this accursëd love,To his most lamentable fall betrayAnd utter ruin. Thus it was: The King,By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised,To an unworthy mate had bound himselfIn politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tellHow Nature upon Egilona’s form,Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts,Left, like a statue from the graver’s hands,Deformity and hollowness beneathThe rich external? For the love of pompAnd emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr’dThe grief and wonder of good men, the gibesOf vulgar ribaldry, the reproach of all;Profaning the most holy sacramentOf marriage, to become chief of the wivesOf Abdalaziz, of the Infidel,The Moor, the tyrant-enemy of Spain!All know her now; but they alone who knewWhat Roderick was can judge his wretchedness,To that light spirit and unfeeling heartIn hopeless bondage bound. No children roseFrom this unhappy union, towards whomThe springs of love within his soul confinedMight flow in joy and fulness; nor was heOne, like Witiza, of the vulgar crew,Who in promiscuous appetite can findAll their vile nature seeks. Alas for man!Exuberant health diseases him, frail worm!And the slight bias of untoward chanceMakes his best virtue from the even line,With fatal declination, swerve aside.Aye, thou mayest groan for poor mortality, ...Well, Father, mayest thou groan!My evil fateMade me an inmate of the royal house,And Roderick found in me, if not a heartLike his, ... for who was like the heroic Goth?...One which at least felt his surpassing worth,And loved him for himself.... A little yetBear with me, reverend Father, for I touchUpon the point, and this long prologue goes,As justice bids, to palliate his offence,Not mine. The passion, which I fondly thoughtSuch as fond sisters for a brother feel,Grew day by day, and strengthen’d in its growth,Till the beloved presence had becomeNeedful as food or necessary sleep,My hope, light, sunshine, life, and every thing.Thus lapt in dreams of bliss, I might have livedContented with this pure idolatry,Had he been happy: but I saw and knewThe inward discontent and household griefsWhich he subdued in silence; and alas!Pity with admiration mingling then,Alloy’d and lower’d and humanized my love,Till to the level of my lowlinessIt brought him down; and in this treacherous heartToo often the repining thought arose,That if Florinda had been Roderick’s Queen,Then might domestic peace and happinessHave bless’d his home and crown’d our wedded loves.Too often did that sinful thought recur,Too feebly the temptation was repell’d.See, Father, I have probed my inmost soul;Have search’d to its remotest source the sin;And tracing it through all its specious formsOf fair disguisement, I present it now,Even as it lies before the eye of God,Bare and exposed, convicted and condemn’d.One eve, as in the bowers which overhangThe glen where Tagus rolls between his rocksI roam’d alone, alone I met the King.His countenance was troubled, and his speechLike that of one whose tongue to light discourseAt fits constrain’d, betrays a heart disturb’d:I too, albeit unconscious of his thoughts,With anxious looks reveal’d what wandering wordsIn vain essay’d to hide. A little whileDid this oppressive intercourse endure,Till our eyes met in silence, each to eachTelling their mutual tale, then consciouslyTogether fell abash’d. He took my handAnd said, Florinda, would that thou and IEarlier had met! oh what a blissful lotHad then been mine, who might have found in theeThe sweet companion and the friend endear’d,A fruitful wife and crown of earthly joys!Thou too shouldst then have been of womankindHappiest, as now the loveliest.... And with that,First giving way to passion first disclosed,He press’d upon my lips a guilty kiss, ...Alas! more guiltily received than given.Passive and yielding, and yet self-reproach’d,Trembling I stood, upheld in his embrace;When coming steps were heard, and Roderick said,Meet me to-morrow, I beseech thee, here,Queen of my heart! Oh meet me here again,My own Florinda, meet me here again!...Tongue, eye, and pressure of the impassion’d handSolicited and urged the ardent suit,And from my hesitating hurried lipsThe word of promise fatally was drawn.O Roderick, Roderick! hadst thou told me allThy purpose at that hour, from what a worldOf woe had thou and I.... The bitternessOf that reflection overcame her then,And choak’d her speech. But Roderick sate the whileCovering his face with both his hands close-prest,His head bow’d down, his spirit to such pointOf sufferance knit, as one who patientlyAwaits the uplifted sword.Till now, said she,Resuming her confession, I had lived,If not in innocence, yet self-deceived,And of my perilous and sinful stateUnconscious. But this fatal hour reveal’dTo my awakening soul her guilt and shame;And in those agonies with which remorse,Wrestling with weakness and with cherish’d sin,Doth triumph o’er the lacerated heart,That night ... that miserable night ... I vow’d,A virgin dedicate, to pass my lifeImmured; and, like redeemëd Magdalen,Or that Egyptian penitent, whose tearsFretted the rock, and moisten’d round her caveThe thirsty desert, so to mourn my fall.The struggle ending thus, the victoryThus, as I thought, accomplish’d, I believedMy soul was calm, and that the peace of HeavenDescended to accept and bless my vowAnd in this faith, prepared to consummateThe sacrifice, I went to meet the King.See, Father, what a snare had Satan laid!For Roderick came to tell me that the ChurchFrom his unfruitful bed would set him free,And I should be his Queen.O let me closeThe dreadful tale! I told him of my vow;And from sincere and scrupulous piety,But more, I fear me, in that desperate moodOf obstinate will perverse, the which, with prideAnd shame and self-reproach, doth sometimes makeA woman’s tongue, her own worst enemy,Run counter to her dearest heart’s desire, ...In that unhappy mood did I resistAll his most earnest prayers to let the powerOf holy Church, never more rightfullyInvoked, he said, than now in our behalf,Release us from our fatal bonds. He urgedWith kindling warmth his suit, like one whose lifeHung on the issue; I dissembled notMy cruel self-reproaches, nor my grief,Yet desperately maintain’d the rash resolve;Till in the passionate argument he grewIncensed, inflamed, and madden’d or possess’d, ...For Hell too surely at that hour prevail’d,And with such subtile toils enveloped him,That even in the extremity of guiltNo guilt he purported, but rather meantAn amplest recompence of life-long loveFor transitory wrong, which fate perverse,Thus madly he deceived himself, compell’d,And therefore stern necessity excused.Here then, O Father, at thy feet I ownMyself the guiltier; for full well I knewThese were his thoughts, but vengeance master’d me,And in my agony I cursed the manWhom I loved best.Dost thou recall that curse?Cried Roderick, in a deep and inward voice,Still with his head depress’d, and covering stillHis countenance. Recall it? she exclaim’d;Father, I come to thee because I gaveThe reins to wrath too long, ... because I wroughtHis ruin, death, and infamy.... O God,Forgive the wicked vengeance thus indulged,As I forgive the King!... But teach me thouWhat reparation more than tears and prayersMay now be made; ... how shall I vindicateHis injured name, and take upon myself....Daughter of Julian, firmly he replied,Speak not of that, I charge thee! On his fameThe Ethiop dye, fixed ineffaceably,For ever will abide; so it must be,So should be: ’tis his rightful punishment;And if to the full measure of his sinThe punishment hath fallen, the more our hopeThat through the blood of Jesus he may findThat sin forgiven him.Pausing then, he raisedHis hand, and pointed where Siverian layStretch’d on the heath. To that old man, said he,And to the mother of the unhappy Goth,Tell, if it please thee, ... not what thou hast pour’dInto my secret ear, but that the childFor whom they mourn with anguish unallay’d,Sinn’d not from vicious will, or heart corrupt,But fell by fatal circumstance betray’d.And if in charity to them thou sayestSomething to palliate, something to excuseAn act of sudden frenzy when the FiendO’ercame him, thou wilt do for RoderickAll he could ask thee, all that can be doneOn earth, and all his spirit could endure.Venturing towards her an imploring look,Wilt thou join with me for his soul in prayer?He said, and trembled as he spake. That voiceOf sympathy was like Heaven’s influence,Wounding at once and comforting the soul.O Father, Christ requite thee! she exclaim’d;Thou hast set free the springs which withering griefsHave closed too long. Forgive me, for I thoughtThou wert a rigid and unpitying judge;One whose stern virtue, feeling in itselfNo flaw of frailty, heard impatientlyOf weakness and of guilt. I wrong’d thee Father!...With that she took his hand, and kissing it,Bathed it with tears. Then in a firmer speech,For Roderick, for Count Julian and myself,Three wretchedest of all the human race,Who have destroyed each other and ourselves,Mutually wrong’d and wronging, let us pray!
With sword and breast-plate, under rustic weedsConceal’d, at dusk Pelayo pass’d the gate,Florinda following near, disguised alike.Two peasants on their mules they seem’d, at eveReturning from the town. Not distant far,Alphonso by the appointed orange-grove,With anxious eye and agitated heart,Watch’d for the Prince’s coming. EagerlyAt every foot-fall through the gloom he strain’dHis sight, nor did he recognize him whenThe Chieftain thus accompanied drew nigh;And when the expected signal called him on,Doubting this female presence, half in fearObey’d the call. Pelayo too perceivedThe boy was not alone; he not for thatDelay’d the summons, but lest need should be,Laying hand upon his sword, toward him bentIn act soliciting speech, and low of voiceEnquired if friend or foe. Forgive me, criedAlphonso, that I did not tell thee this,Full as I was of happiness, before.’Tis Hoya, servant of my father’s house,Unto whose dutiful care and love, when sentTo this vile bondage, I was given in charge.How could I look upon my father’s faceIf I had in my joy deserted him,Who was to me found faithful?... Right! repliedThe Prince; and viewing him with silent joy,Blessed the Mother, in his heart he said,Who gave thee birth! but sure of womankindMost blessed she whose hand her happy starsShall link with thine! and with that thought the formOf Hermesind, his daughter, to his soulCame in her beauty.Soon by devious tracksThey turn’d aside. The favouring moon arose,To guide them on their flight through upland pathsRemote from frequentage, and dales retired,Forest and mountain glen. Before their feetThe fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade,Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their way;The timorous blackbird, starting at their step,Fled from the thicket with shrill note of fear;And far below them in the peopled dell,When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased,The distant watch-dog’s voice at times was heard,Answering the nearer wolf. All through the nightAmong the hills they travell’d silently;Till when the stars were setting, at what hourThe breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheldWithin a lonely grove the expected fire,Where Roderick and his comrade anxiouslyLook’d for the appointed meeting. Halting there,They from the burthen and the bit relievedTheir patient bearers, and around the firePartook of needful food and grateful rest.Bright rose the flame replenish’d; it illumedThe cork-tree’s furrow’d rind, its rifts and swellsAnd redder scars, ... and where its aged boughsO’erbower’d the travellers, cast upon the leavesA floating, grey, unrealizing gleam.Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heathLay carelessly dispread, in happy dreamsOf home; his faithful Hoya slept beside.Years and fatigue to old Siverian broughtEasy oblivion; and the Prince himself,Yielding to weary nature’s gentle will,Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sateBeholding Roderick with fix’d eyes intent,Yet unregardant of the countenanceWhereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb’d,Collecting fortitude for what she yearn’d,Yet trembled to perform. Her steady lookDisturb’d the Goth, albeit he little ween’dWhat agony awaited him that hour.Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was nowHalf-hidden, and the lustre of her eyeExtinct; nor did her voice awaken in himOne startling recollection when she spake,So altered were its tones.Father, she said,All thankful as I am to leave behindThe unhappy walls of Cordoba, not lessOf consolation doth my heart receiveAt sight of one to whom I may discloseThe sins which trouble me, and at his feetLay down repentantly, in Jesu’s name,The burthen of my spirit. In his nameHear me, and pour into a wounded soulThe balm of pious counsel.... Saying thus,She drew toward the minister ordain’d,And kneeling by him, Father, dost thou knowThe wretch who kneels beside thee? she enquired,He answered, Surely we are each to eachEqually unknown.Then said she, Here thou seestOne who is known too fatally for all, ...The daughter of Count Julian.... Well it wasFor Roderick that no eye beheld him now;From head to foot a sharper pang than deathThrill’d him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke,Ceased from its functions: his breath fail’d, and whenThe power of life recovering set its springsAgain in action, cold and clammy sweatStarting at every pore suffused his frame.Their presence help’d him to subdue himself;For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallenBefore Florinda prostrate on the earth,And in that mutual agony belikeBoth souls had taken flight. She mark’d him not,For having told her name, she bow’d her head,Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven,While, as a penitent, she wrought herselfTo open to his eye her hidden wounds.Father, at length she said, all tongues amidThis general ruin shed their bitternessOn Roderick, load his memory with reproach,And with their curses persecute his soul....Why shouldst thou tell me this? exclaim’d the Goth,From his cold forehead wiping as he spakeThe death-like moisture; ... Why of Roderick’s guiltTell me? Or thinkest thou I know it not?Alas! who hath not heard the hideous taleOf Roderick’s shame! Babes learn it from their nurses,And children, by their mothers unreproved,Link their first execrations to his name.Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy,That, like Iscariot’s, through all time shall last,Reeking and fresh for ever!There! she cried,Drawing her body backward where she knelt,And stretching forth her arms with head upraised,There! it pursues me still!... I came to thee,Father, for comfort, and thou heapest fireUpon my head. But hear me patiently,And let me undeceive thee; self-abased,Not to arraign another, do I come;I come a self-accuser, self-condemn’dTo take upon myself the pain deserved;For I have drank the cup of bitterness,And having drank therein of heavenly grace,I must not put away the cup of shame.Thus as she spake she falter’d at the close,And in that dying fall her voice sent forthSomewhat of its original sweetness. Thou!...Thou self-abased! exclaim’d the astonish’d King; ...Thou self-condemn’d!... The cup of shame for thee!Thee ... thee, Florinda!... But the very excessOf passion check’d his speech, restraining thusFrom farther transport, which had haply elseMaster’d him; and he sate like one entranced,Gazing upon that countenance so fallen,So changed: her face, raised from its muffler now,Was turn’d toward him, and the fire-light shoneFull on its mortal paleness; but the shadeConceal’d the King.She roused him from the spellWhich held him like a statue motionless.Thou too, quoth she, dost join the general curse,Like one who when he sees a felon’s grave,Casting a stone there as he passes by,Adds to the heap of shame. Oh what are we,Frail creatures as we are, that we should sitIn judgement man on man! and what were we,If the All-merciful should mete to usWith the same rigorous measure wherewithalSinner to sinner metes! But God beholdsThe secrets of the heart, ... therefore his nameIs Merciful. Servant of God, see thouThe hidden things of mine, and judge thou thenIn charity thy brother who hath fallen....Nay, hear me to the end! I loved the King, ...Tenderly, passionately, madly loved him.Sinful it was to love a child of earthWith such entire devotion as I lovedRoderick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth!And yet methought this was its only crime,The imaginative passion seem’d so pure:Quiet and calm like duty, hope nor fearDisturb’d the deep contentment of that love;He was the sunshine of my soul, and likeA flower, I lived and flourish’d in his light.Oh bear not with me thus impatiently!No tale of weakness this, that in the actOf penitence, indulgent to itself,With garrulous palliation half repeatsThe sin it ill repents. I will be brief,And shrink not from confessing how the loveWhich thus began in innocence, betray’dMy unsuspecting heart; nor me alone,But him, before whom, shining as he shoneWith whatsoe’er is noble, whatsoe’erIs lovely, whatsoever good and great,I was as dust and ashes, ... him, alas!This glorious being, this exalted Prince,Even him, with all his royalty of soul,Did this ill-omen’d, this accursëd love,To his most lamentable fall betrayAnd utter ruin. Thus it was: The King,By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised,To an unworthy mate had bound himselfIn politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tellHow Nature upon Egilona’s form,Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts,Left, like a statue from the graver’s hands,Deformity and hollowness beneathThe rich external? For the love of pompAnd emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr’dThe grief and wonder of good men, the gibesOf vulgar ribaldry, the reproach of all;Profaning the most holy sacramentOf marriage, to become chief of the wivesOf Abdalaziz, of the Infidel,The Moor, the tyrant-enemy of Spain!All know her now; but they alone who knewWhat Roderick was can judge his wretchedness,To that light spirit and unfeeling heartIn hopeless bondage bound. No children roseFrom this unhappy union, towards whomThe springs of love within his soul confinedMight flow in joy and fulness; nor was heOne, like Witiza, of the vulgar crew,Who in promiscuous appetite can findAll their vile nature seeks. Alas for man!Exuberant health diseases him, frail worm!And the slight bias of untoward chanceMakes his best virtue from the even line,With fatal declination, swerve aside.Aye, thou mayest groan for poor mortality, ...Well, Father, mayest thou groan!My evil fateMade me an inmate of the royal house,And Roderick found in me, if not a heartLike his, ... for who was like the heroic Goth?...One which at least felt his surpassing worth,And loved him for himself.... A little yetBear with me, reverend Father, for I touchUpon the point, and this long prologue goes,As justice bids, to palliate his offence,Not mine. The passion, which I fondly thoughtSuch as fond sisters for a brother feel,Grew day by day, and strengthen’d in its growth,Till the beloved presence had becomeNeedful as food or necessary sleep,My hope, light, sunshine, life, and every thing.Thus lapt in dreams of bliss, I might have livedContented with this pure idolatry,Had he been happy: but I saw and knewThe inward discontent and household griefsWhich he subdued in silence; and alas!Pity with admiration mingling then,Alloy’d and lower’d and humanized my love,Till to the level of my lowlinessIt brought him down; and in this treacherous heartToo often the repining thought arose,That if Florinda had been Roderick’s Queen,Then might domestic peace and happinessHave bless’d his home and crown’d our wedded loves.Too often did that sinful thought recur,Too feebly the temptation was repell’d.See, Father, I have probed my inmost soul;Have search’d to its remotest source the sin;And tracing it through all its specious formsOf fair disguisement, I present it now,Even as it lies before the eye of God,Bare and exposed, convicted and condemn’d.One eve, as in the bowers which overhangThe glen where Tagus rolls between his rocksI roam’d alone, alone I met the King.His countenance was troubled, and his speechLike that of one whose tongue to light discourseAt fits constrain’d, betrays a heart disturb’d:I too, albeit unconscious of his thoughts,With anxious looks reveal’d what wandering wordsIn vain essay’d to hide. A little whileDid this oppressive intercourse endure,Till our eyes met in silence, each to eachTelling their mutual tale, then consciouslyTogether fell abash’d. He took my handAnd said, Florinda, would that thou and IEarlier had met! oh what a blissful lotHad then been mine, who might have found in theeThe sweet companion and the friend endear’d,A fruitful wife and crown of earthly joys!Thou too shouldst then have been of womankindHappiest, as now the loveliest.... And with that,First giving way to passion first disclosed,He press’d upon my lips a guilty kiss, ...Alas! more guiltily received than given.Passive and yielding, and yet self-reproach’d,Trembling I stood, upheld in his embrace;When coming steps were heard, and Roderick said,Meet me to-morrow, I beseech thee, here,Queen of my heart! Oh meet me here again,My own Florinda, meet me here again!...Tongue, eye, and pressure of the impassion’d handSolicited and urged the ardent suit,And from my hesitating hurried lipsThe word of promise fatally was drawn.O Roderick, Roderick! hadst thou told me allThy purpose at that hour, from what a worldOf woe had thou and I.... The bitternessOf that reflection overcame her then,And choak’d her speech. But Roderick sate the whileCovering his face with both his hands close-prest,His head bow’d down, his spirit to such pointOf sufferance knit, as one who patientlyAwaits the uplifted sword.Till now, said she,Resuming her confession, I had lived,If not in innocence, yet self-deceived,And of my perilous and sinful stateUnconscious. But this fatal hour reveal’dTo my awakening soul her guilt and shame;And in those agonies with which remorse,Wrestling with weakness and with cherish’d sin,Doth triumph o’er the lacerated heart,That night ... that miserable night ... I vow’d,A virgin dedicate, to pass my lifeImmured; and, like redeemëd Magdalen,Or that Egyptian penitent, whose tearsFretted the rock, and moisten’d round her caveThe thirsty desert, so to mourn my fall.The struggle ending thus, the victoryThus, as I thought, accomplish’d, I believedMy soul was calm, and that the peace of HeavenDescended to accept and bless my vowAnd in this faith, prepared to consummateThe sacrifice, I went to meet the King.See, Father, what a snare had Satan laid!For Roderick came to tell me that the ChurchFrom his unfruitful bed would set him free,And I should be his Queen.O let me closeThe dreadful tale! I told him of my vow;And from sincere and scrupulous piety,But more, I fear me, in that desperate moodOf obstinate will perverse, the which, with prideAnd shame and self-reproach, doth sometimes makeA woman’s tongue, her own worst enemy,Run counter to her dearest heart’s desire, ...In that unhappy mood did I resistAll his most earnest prayers to let the powerOf holy Church, never more rightfullyInvoked, he said, than now in our behalf,Release us from our fatal bonds. He urgedWith kindling warmth his suit, like one whose lifeHung on the issue; I dissembled notMy cruel self-reproaches, nor my grief,Yet desperately maintain’d the rash resolve;Till in the passionate argument he grewIncensed, inflamed, and madden’d or possess’d, ...For Hell too surely at that hour prevail’d,And with such subtile toils enveloped him,That even in the extremity of guiltNo guilt he purported, but rather meantAn amplest recompence of life-long loveFor transitory wrong, which fate perverse,Thus madly he deceived himself, compell’d,And therefore stern necessity excused.Here then, O Father, at thy feet I ownMyself the guiltier; for full well I knewThese were his thoughts, but vengeance master’d me,And in my agony I cursed the manWhom I loved best.Dost thou recall that curse?Cried Roderick, in a deep and inward voice,Still with his head depress’d, and covering stillHis countenance. Recall it? she exclaim’d;Father, I come to thee because I gaveThe reins to wrath too long, ... because I wroughtHis ruin, death, and infamy.... O God,Forgive the wicked vengeance thus indulged,As I forgive the King!... But teach me thouWhat reparation more than tears and prayersMay now be made; ... how shall I vindicateHis injured name, and take upon myself....Daughter of Julian, firmly he replied,Speak not of that, I charge thee! On his fameThe Ethiop dye, fixed ineffaceably,For ever will abide; so it must be,So should be: ’tis his rightful punishment;And if to the full measure of his sinThe punishment hath fallen, the more our hopeThat through the blood of Jesus he may findThat sin forgiven him.Pausing then, he raisedHis hand, and pointed where Siverian layStretch’d on the heath. To that old man, said he,And to the mother of the unhappy Goth,Tell, if it please thee, ... not what thou hast pour’dInto my secret ear, but that the childFor whom they mourn with anguish unallay’d,Sinn’d not from vicious will, or heart corrupt,But fell by fatal circumstance betray’d.And if in charity to them thou sayestSomething to palliate, something to excuseAn act of sudden frenzy when the FiendO’ercame him, thou wilt do for RoderickAll he could ask thee, all that can be doneOn earth, and all his spirit could endure.Venturing towards her an imploring look,Wilt thou join with me for his soul in prayer?He said, and trembled as he spake. That voiceOf sympathy was like Heaven’s influence,Wounding at once and comforting the soul.O Father, Christ requite thee! she exclaim’d;Thou hast set free the springs which withering griefsHave closed too long. Forgive me, for I thoughtThou wert a rigid and unpitying judge;One whose stern virtue, feeling in itselfNo flaw of frailty, heard impatientlyOf weakness and of guilt. I wrong’d thee Father!...With that she took his hand, and kissing it,Bathed it with tears. Then in a firmer speech,For Roderick, for Count Julian and myself,Three wretchedest of all the human race,Who have destroyed each other and ourselves,Mutually wrong’d and wronging, let us pray!
With sword and breast-plate, under rustic weedsConceal’d, at dusk Pelayo pass’d the gate,Florinda following near, disguised alike.Two peasants on their mules they seem’d, at eveReturning from the town. Not distant far,Alphonso by the appointed orange-grove,With anxious eye and agitated heart,Watch’d for the Prince’s coming. EagerlyAt every foot-fall through the gloom he strain’dHis sight, nor did he recognize him whenThe Chieftain thus accompanied drew nigh;And when the expected signal called him on,Doubting this female presence, half in fearObey’d the call. Pelayo too perceivedThe boy was not alone; he not for thatDelay’d the summons, but lest need should be,Laying hand upon his sword, toward him bentIn act soliciting speech, and low of voiceEnquired if friend or foe. Forgive me, criedAlphonso, that I did not tell thee this,Full as I was of happiness, before.’Tis Hoya, servant of my father’s house,Unto whose dutiful care and love, when sentTo this vile bondage, I was given in charge.How could I look upon my father’s faceIf I had in my joy deserted him,Who was to me found faithful?... Right! repliedThe Prince; and viewing him with silent joy,Blessed the Mother, in his heart he said,Who gave thee birth! but sure of womankindMost blessed she whose hand her happy starsShall link with thine! and with that thought the formOf Hermesind, his daughter, to his soulCame in her beauty.Soon by devious tracksThey turn’d aside. The favouring moon arose,To guide them on their flight through upland pathsRemote from frequentage, and dales retired,Forest and mountain glen. Before their feetThe fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade,Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their way;The timorous blackbird, starting at their step,Fled from the thicket with shrill note of fear;And far below them in the peopled dell,When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased,The distant watch-dog’s voice at times was heard,Answering the nearer wolf. All through the nightAmong the hills they travell’d silently;Till when the stars were setting, at what hourThe breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheldWithin a lonely grove the expected fire,Where Roderick and his comrade anxiouslyLook’d for the appointed meeting. Halting there,They from the burthen and the bit relievedTheir patient bearers, and around the firePartook of needful food and grateful rest.
With sword and breast-plate, under rustic weeds
Conceal’d, at dusk Pelayo pass’d the gate,
Florinda following near, disguised alike.
Two peasants on their mules they seem’d, at eve
Returning from the town. Not distant far,
Alphonso by the appointed orange-grove,
With anxious eye and agitated heart,
Watch’d for the Prince’s coming. Eagerly
At every foot-fall through the gloom he strain’d
His sight, nor did he recognize him when
The Chieftain thus accompanied drew nigh;
And when the expected signal called him on,
Doubting this female presence, half in fear
Obey’d the call. Pelayo too perceived
The boy was not alone; he not for that
Delay’d the summons, but lest need should be,
Laying hand upon his sword, toward him bent
In act soliciting speech, and low of voice
Enquired if friend or foe. Forgive me, cried
Alphonso, that I did not tell thee this,
Full as I was of happiness, before.
’Tis Hoya, servant of my father’s house,
Unto whose dutiful care and love, when sent
To this vile bondage, I was given in charge.
How could I look upon my father’s face
If I had in my joy deserted him,
Who was to me found faithful?... Right! replied
The Prince; and viewing him with silent joy,
Blessed the Mother, in his heart he said,
Who gave thee birth! but sure of womankind
Most blessed she whose hand her happy stars
Shall link with thine! and with that thought the form
Of Hermesind, his daughter, to his soul
Came in her beauty.
Soon by devious tracks
They turn’d aside. The favouring moon arose,
To guide them on their flight through upland paths
Remote from frequentage, and dales retired,
Forest and mountain glen. Before their feet
The fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade,
Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their way;
The timorous blackbird, starting at their step,
Fled from the thicket with shrill note of fear;
And far below them in the peopled dell,
When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased,
The distant watch-dog’s voice at times was heard,
Answering the nearer wolf. All through the night
Among the hills they travell’d silently;
Till when the stars were setting, at what hour
The breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheld
Within a lonely grove the expected fire,
Where Roderick and his comrade anxiously
Look’d for the appointed meeting. Halting there,
They from the burthen and the bit relieved
Their patient bearers, and around the fire
Partook of needful food and grateful rest.
Bright rose the flame replenish’d; it illumedThe cork-tree’s furrow’d rind, its rifts and swellsAnd redder scars, ... and where its aged boughsO’erbower’d the travellers, cast upon the leavesA floating, grey, unrealizing gleam.Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heathLay carelessly dispread, in happy dreamsOf home; his faithful Hoya slept beside.Years and fatigue to old Siverian broughtEasy oblivion; and the Prince himself,Yielding to weary nature’s gentle will,Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sateBeholding Roderick with fix’d eyes intent,Yet unregardant of the countenanceWhereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb’d,Collecting fortitude for what she yearn’d,Yet trembled to perform. Her steady lookDisturb’d the Goth, albeit he little ween’dWhat agony awaited him that hour.Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was nowHalf-hidden, and the lustre of her eyeExtinct; nor did her voice awaken in himOne startling recollection when she spake,So altered were its tones.Father, she said,All thankful as I am to leave behindThe unhappy walls of Cordoba, not lessOf consolation doth my heart receiveAt sight of one to whom I may discloseThe sins which trouble me, and at his feetLay down repentantly, in Jesu’s name,The burthen of my spirit. In his nameHear me, and pour into a wounded soulThe balm of pious counsel.... Saying thus,She drew toward the minister ordain’d,And kneeling by him, Father, dost thou knowThe wretch who kneels beside thee? she enquired,He answered, Surely we are each to eachEqually unknown.Then said she, Here thou seestOne who is known too fatally for all, ...The daughter of Count Julian.... Well it wasFor Roderick that no eye beheld him now;From head to foot a sharper pang than deathThrill’d him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke,Ceased from its functions: his breath fail’d, and whenThe power of life recovering set its springsAgain in action, cold and clammy sweatStarting at every pore suffused his frame.Their presence help’d him to subdue himself;For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallenBefore Florinda prostrate on the earth,And in that mutual agony belikeBoth souls had taken flight. She mark’d him not,For having told her name, she bow’d her head,Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven,While, as a penitent, she wrought herselfTo open to his eye her hidden wounds.
Bright rose the flame replenish’d; it illumed
The cork-tree’s furrow’d rind, its rifts and swells
And redder scars, ... and where its aged boughs
O’erbower’d the travellers, cast upon the leaves
A floating, grey, unrealizing gleam.
Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heath
Lay carelessly dispread, in happy dreams
Of home; his faithful Hoya slept beside.
Years and fatigue to old Siverian brought
Easy oblivion; and the Prince himself,
Yielding to weary nature’s gentle will,
Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sate
Beholding Roderick with fix’d eyes intent,
Yet unregardant of the countenance
Whereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb’d,
Collecting fortitude for what she yearn’d,
Yet trembled to perform. Her steady look
Disturb’d the Goth, albeit he little ween’d
What agony awaited him that hour.
Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was now
Half-hidden, and the lustre of her eye
Extinct; nor did her voice awaken in him
One startling recollection when she spake,
So altered were its tones.
Father, she said,
All thankful as I am to leave behind
The unhappy walls of Cordoba, not less
Of consolation doth my heart receive
At sight of one to whom I may disclose
The sins which trouble me, and at his feet
Lay down repentantly, in Jesu’s name,
The burthen of my spirit. In his name
Hear me, and pour into a wounded soul
The balm of pious counsel.... Saying thus,
She drew toward the minister ordain’d,
And kneeling by him, Father, dost thou know
The wretch who kneels beside thee? she enquired,
He answered, Surely we are each to each
Equally unknown.
Then said she, Here thou seest
One who is known too fatally for all, ...
The daughter of Count Julian.... Well it was
For Roderick that no eye beheld him now;
From head to foot a sharper pang than death
Thrill’d him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke,
Ceased from its functions: his breath fail’d, and when
The power of life recovering set its springs
Again in action, cold and clammy sweat
Starting at every pore suffused his frame.
Their presence help’d him to subdue himself;
For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallen
Before Florinda prostrate on the earth,
And in that mutual agony belike
Both souls had taken flight. She mark’d him not,
For having told her name, she bow’d her head,
Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven,
While, as a penitent, she wrought herself
To open to his eye her hidden wounds.
Father, at length she said, all tongues amidThis general ruin shed their bitternessOn Roderick, load his memory with reproach,And with their curses persecute his soul....Why shouldst thou tell me this? exclaim’d the Goth,From his cold forehead wiping as he spakeThe death-like moisture; ... Why of Roderick’s guiltTell me? Or thinkest thou I know it not?Alas! who hath not heard the hideous taleOf Roderick’s shame! Babes learn it from their nurses,And children, by their mothers unreproved,Link their first execrations to his name.Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy,That, like Iscariot’s, through all time shall last,Reeking and fresh for ever!There! she cried,Drawing her body backward where she knelt,And stretching forth her arms with head upraised,There! it pursues me still!... I came to thee,Father, for comfort, and thou heapest fireUpon my head. But hear me patiently,And let me undeceive thee; self-abased,Not to arraign another, do I come;I come a self-accuser, self-condemn’dTo take upon myself the pain deserved;For I have drank the cup of bitterness,And having drank therein of heavenly grace,I must not put away the cup of shame.
Father, at length she said, all tongues amid
This general ruin shed their bitterness
On Roderick, load his memory with reproach,
And with their curses persecute his soul....
Why shouldst thou tell me this? exclaim’d the Goth,
From his cold forehead wiping as he spake
The death-like moisture; ... Why of Roderick’s guilt
Tell me? Or thinkest thou I know it not?
Alas! who hath not heard the hideous tale
Of Roderick’s shame! Babes learn it from their nurses,
And children, by their mothers unreproved,
Link their first execrations to his name.
Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy,
That, like Iscariot’s, through all time shall last,
Reeking and fresh for ever!
There! she cried,
Drawing her body backward where she knelt,
And stretching forth her arms with head upraised,
There! it pursues me still!... I came to thee,
Father, for comfort, and thou heapest fire
Upon my head. But hear me patiently,
And let me undeceive thee; self-abased,
Not to arraign another, do I come;
I come a self-accuser, self-condemn’d
To take upon myself the pain deserved;
For I have drank the cup of bitterness,
And having drank therein of heavenly grace,
I must not put away the cup of shame.
Thus as she spake she falter’d at the close,And in that dying fall her voice sent forthSomewhat of its original sweetness. Thou!...Thou self-abased! exclaim’d the astonish’d King; ...Thou self-condemn’d!... The cup of shame for thee!Thee ... thee, Florinda!... But the very excessOf passion check’d his speech, restraining thusFrom farther transport, which had haply elseMaster’d him; and he sate like one entranced,Gazing upon that countenance so fallen,So changed: her face, raised from its muffler now,Was turn’d toward him, and the fire-light shoneFull on its mortal paleness; but the shadeConceal’d the King.She roused him from the spellWhich held him like a statue motionless.Thou too, quoth she, dost join the general curse,Like one who when he sees a felon’s grave,Casting a stone there as he passes by,Adds to the heap of shame. Oh what are we,Frail creatures as we are, that we should sitIn judgement man on man! and what were we,If the All-merciful should mete to usWith the same rigorous measure wherewithalSinner to sinner metes! But God beholdsThe secrets of the heart, ... therefore his nameIs Merciful. Servant of God, see thouThe hidden things of mine, and judge thou thenIn charity thy brother who hath fallen....Nay, hear me to the end! I loved the King, ...Tenderly, passionately, madly loved him.Sinful it was to love a child of earthWith such entire devotion as I lovedRoderick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth!And yet methought this was its only crime,The imaginative passion seem’d so pure:Quiet and calm like duty, hope nor fearDisturb’d the deep contentment of that love;He was the sunshine of my soul, and likeA flower, I lived and flourish’d in his light.Oh bear not with me thus impatiently!No tale of weakness this, that in the actOf penitence, indulgent to itself,With garrulous palliation half repeatsThe sin it ill repents. I will be brief,And shrink not from confessing how the loveWhich thus began in innocence, betray’dMy unsuspecting heart; nor me alone,But him, before whom, shining as he shoneWith whatsoe’er is noble, whatsoe’erIs lovely, whatsoever good and great,I was as dust and ashes, ... him, alas!This glorious being, this exalted Prince,Even him, with all his royalty of soul,Did this ill-omen’d, this accursëd love,To his most lamentable fall betrayAnd utter ruin. Thus it was: The King,By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised,To an unworthy mate had bound himselfIn politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tellHow Nature upon Egilona’s form,Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts,Left, like a statue from the graver’s hands,Deformity and hollowness beneathThe rich external? For the love of pompAnd emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr’dThe grief and wonder of good men, the gibesOf vulgar ribaldry, the reproach of all;Profaning the most holy sacramentOf marriage, to become chief of the wivesOf Abdalaziz, of the Infidel,The Moor, the tyrant-enemy of Spain!All know her now; but they alone who knewWhat Roderick was can judge his wretchedness,To that light spirit and unfeeling heartIn hopeless bondage bound. No children roseFrom this unhappy union, towards whomThe springs of love within his soul confinedMight flow in joy and fulness; nor was heOne, like Witiza, of the vulgar crew,Who in promiscuous appetite can findAll their vile nature seeks. Alas for man!Exuberant health diseases him, frail worm!And the slight bias of untoward chanceMakes his best virtue from the even line,With fatal declination, swerve aside.Aye, thou mayest groan for poor mortality, ...Well, Father, mayest thou groan!My evil fateMade me an inmate of the royal house,And Roderick found in me, if not a heartLike his, ... for who was like the heroic Goth?...One which at least felt his surpassing worth,And loved him for himself.... A little yetBear with me, reverend Father, for I touchUpon the point, and this long prologue goes,As justice bids, to palliate his offence,Not mine. The passion, which I fondly thoughtSuch as fond sisters for a brother feel,Grew day by day, and strengthen’d in its growth,Till the beloved presence had becomeNeedful as food or necessary sleep,My hope, light, sunshine, life, and every thing.Thus lapt in dreams of bliss, I might have livedContented with this pure idolatry,Had he been happy: but I saw and knewThe inward discontent and household griefsWhich he subdued in silence; and alas!Pity with admiration mingling then,Alloy’d and lower’d and humanized my love,Till to the level of my lowlinessIt brought him down; and in this treacherous heartToo often the repining thought arose,That if Florinda had been Roderick’s Queen,Then might domestic peace and happinessHave bless’d his home and crown’d our wedded loves.Too often did that sinful thought recur,Too feebly the temptation was repell’d.
Thus as she spake she falter’d at the close,
And in that dying fall her voice sent forth
Somewhat of its original sweetness. Thou!...
Thou self-abased! exclaim’d the astonish’d King; ...
Thou self-condemn’d!... The cup of shame for thee!
Thee ... thee, Florinda!... But the very excess
Of passion check’d his speech, restraining thus
From farther transport, which had haply else
Master’d him; and he sate like one entranced,
Gazing upon that countenance so fallen,
So changed: her face, raised from its muffler now,
Was turn’d toward him, and the fire-light shone
Full on its mortal paleness; but the shade
Conceal’d the King.
She roused him from the spell
Which held him like a statue motionless.
Thou too, quoth she, dost join the general curse,
Like one who when he sees a felon’s grave,
Casting a stone there as he passes by,
Adds to the heap of shame. Oh what are we,
Frail creatures as we are, that we should sit
In judgement man on man! and what were we,
If the All-merciful should mete to us
With the same rigorous measure wherewithal
Sinner to sinner metes! But God beholds
The secrets of the heart, ... therefore his name
Is Merciful. Servant of God, see thou
The hidden things of mine, and judge thou then
In charity thy brother who hath fallen....
Nay, hear me to the end! I loved the King, ...
Tenderly, passionately, madly loved him.
Sinful it was to love a child of earth
With such entire devotion as I loved
Roderick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth!
And yet methought this was its only crime,
The imaginative passion seem’d so pure:
Quiet and calm like duty, hope nor fear
Disturb’d the deep contentment of that love;
He was the sunshine of my soul, and like
A flower, I lived and flourish’d in his light.
Oh bear not with me thus impatiently!
No tale of weakness this, that in the act
Of penitence, indulgent to itself,
With garrulous palliation half repeats
The sin it ill repents. I will be brief,
And shrink not from confessing how the love
Which thus began in innocence, betray’d
My unsuspecting heart; nor me alone,
But him, before whom, shining as he shone
With whatsoe’er is noble, whatsoe’er
Is lovely, whatsoever good and great,
I was as dust and ashes, ... him, alas!
This glorious being, this exalted Prince,
Even him, with all his royalty of soul,
Did this ill-omen’d, this accursëd love,
To his most lamentable fall betray
And utter ruin. Thus it was: The King,
By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised,
To an unworthy mate had bound himself
In politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tell
How Nature upon Egilona’s form,
Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts,
Left, like a statue from the graver’s hands,
Deformity and hollowness beneath
The rich external? For the love of pomp
And emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr’d
The grief and wonder of good men, the gibes
Of vulgar ribaldry, the reproach of all;
Profaning the most holy sacrament
Of marriage, to become chief of the wives
Of Abdalaziz, of the Infidel,
The Moor, the tyrant-enemy of Spain!
All know her now; but they alone who knew
What Roderick was can judge his wretchedness,
To that light spirit and unfeeling heart
In hopeless bondage bound. No children rose
From this unhappy union, towards whom
The springs of love within his soul confined
Might flow in joy and fulness; nor was he
One, like Witiza, of the vulgar crew,
Who in promiscuous appetite can find
All their vile nature seeks. Alas for man!
Exuberant health diseases him, frail worm!
And the slight bias of untoward chance
Makes his best virtue from the even line,
With fatal declination, swerve aside.
Aye, thou mayest groan for poor mortality, ...
Well, Father, mayest thou groan!
My evil fate
Made me an inmate of the royal house,
And Roderick found in me, if not a heart
Like his, ... for who was like the heroic Goth?...
One which at least felt his surpassing worth,
And loved him for himself.... A little yet
Bear with me, reverend Father, for I touch
Upon the point, and this long prologue goes,
As justice bids, to palliate his offence,
Not mine. The passion, which I fondly thought
Such as fond sisters for a brother feel,
Grew day by day, and strengthen’d in its growth,
Till the beloved presence had become
Needful as food or necessary sleep,
My hope, light, sunshine, life, and every thing.
Thus lapt in dreams of bliss, I might have lived
Contented with this pure idolatry,
Had he been happy: but I saw and knew
The inward discontent and household griefs
Which he subdued in silence; and alas!
Pity with admiration mingling then,
Alloy’d and lower’d and humanized my love,
Till to the level of my lowliness
It brought him down; and in this treacherous heart
Too often the repining thought arose,
That if Florinda had been Roderick’s Queen,
Then might domestic peace and happiness
Have bless’d his home and crown’d our wedded loves.
Too often did that sinful thought recur,
Too feebly the temptation was repell’d.
See, Father, I have probed my inmost soul;Have search’d to its remotest source the sin;And tracing it through all its specious formsOf fair disguisement, I present it now,Even as it lies before the eye of God,Bare and exposed, convicted and condemn’d.One eve, as in the bowers which overhangThe glen where Tagus rolls between his rocksI roam’d alone, alone I met the King.His countenance was troubled, and his speechLike that of one whose tongue to light discourseAt fits constrain’d, betrays a heart disturb’d:I too, albeit unconscious of his thoughts,With anxious looks reveal’d what wandering wordsIn vain essay’d to hide. A little whileDid this oppressive intercourse endure,Till our eyes met in silence, each to eachTelling their mutual tale, then consciouslyTogether fell abash’d. He took my handAnd said, Florinda, would that thou and IEarlier had met! oh what a blissful lotHad then been mine, who might have found in theeThe sweet companion and the friend endear’d,A fruitful wife and crown of earthly joys!Thou too shouldst then have been of womankindHappiest, as now the loveliest.... And with that,First giving way to passion first disclosed,He press’d upon my lips a guilty kiss, ...Alas! more guiltily received than given.Passive and yielding, and yet self-reproach’d,Trembling I stood, upheld in his embrace;When coming steps were heard, and Roderick said,Meet me to-morrow, I beseech thee, here,Queen of my heart! Oh meet me here again,My own Florinda, meet me here again!...Tongue, eye, and pressure of the impassion’d handSolicited and urged the ardent suit,And from my hesitating hurried lipsThe word of promise fatally was drawn.O Roderick, Roderick! hadst thou told me allThy purpose at that hour, from what a worldOf woe had thou and I.... The bitternessOf that reflection overcame her then,And choak’d her speech. But Roderick sate the whileCovering his face with both his hands close-prest,His head bow’d down, his spirit to such pointOf sufferance knit, as one who patientlyAwaits the uplifted sword.Till now, said she,Resuming her confession, I had lived,If not in innocence, yet self-deceived,And of my perilous and sinful stateUnconscious. But this fatal hour reveal’dTo my awakening soul her guilt and shame;And in those agonies with which remorse,Wrestling with weakness and with cherish’d sin,Doth triumph o’er the lacerated heart,That night ... that miserable night ... I vow’d,A virgin dedicate, to pass my lifeImmured; and, like redeemëd Magdalen,Or that Egyptian penitent, whose tearsFretted the rock, and moisten’d round her caveThe thirsty desert, so to mourn my fall.The struggle ending thus, the victoryThus, as I thought, accomplish’d, I believedMy soul was calm, and that the peace of HeavenDescended to accept and bless my vowAnd in this faith, prepared to consummateThe sacrifice, I went to meet the King.See, Father, what a snare had Satan laid!For Roderick came to tell me that the ChurchFrom his unfruitful bed would set him free,And I should be his Queen.O let me closeThe dreadful tale! I told him of my vow;And from sincere and scrupulous piety,But more, I fear me, in that desperate moodOf obstinate will perverse, the which, with prideAnd shame and self-reproach, doth sometimes makeA woman’s tongue, her own worst enemy,Run counter to her dearest heart’s desire, ...In that unhappy mood did I resistAll his most earnest prayers to let the powerOf holy Church, never more rightfullyInvoked, he said, than now in our behalf,Release us from our fatal bonds. He urgedWith kindling warmth his suit, like one whose lifeHung on the issue; I dissembled notMy cruel self-reproaches, nor my grief,Yet desperately maintain’d the rash resolve;Till in the passionate argument he grewIncensed, inflamed, and madden’d or possess’d, ...For Hell too surely at that hour prevail’d,And with such subtile toils enveloped him,That even in the extremity of guiltNo guilt he purported, but rather meantAn amplest recompence of life-long loveFor transitory wrong, which fate perverse,Thus madly he deceived himself, compell’d,And therefore stern necessity excused.Here then, O Father, at thy feet I ownMyself the guiltier; for full well I knewThese were his thoughts, but vengeance master’d me,And in my agony I cursed the manWhom I loved best.Dost thou recall that curse?Cried Roderick, in a deep and inward voice,Still with his head depress’d, and covering stillHis countenance. Recall it? she exclaim’d;Father, I come to thee because I gaveThe reins to wrath too long, ... because I wroughtHis ruin, death, and infamy.... O God,Forgive the wicked vengeance thus indulged,As I forgive the King!... But teach me thouWhat reparation more than tears and prayersMay now be made; ... how shall I vindicateHis injured name, and take upon myself....Daughter of Julian, firmly he replied,Speak not of that, I charge thee! On his fameThe Ethiop dye, fixed ineffaceably,For ever will abide; so it must be,So should be: ’tis his rightful punishment;And if to the full measure of his sinThe punishment hath fallen, the more our hopeThat through the blood of Jesus he may findThat sin forgiven him.Pausing then, he raisedHis hand, and pointed where Siverian layStretch’d on the heath. To that old man, said he,And to the mother of the unhappy Goth,Tell, if it please thee, ... not what thou hast pour’dInto my secret ear, but that the childFor whom they mourn with anguish unallay’d,Sinn’d not from vicious will, or heart corrupt,But fell by fatal circumstance betray’d.And if in charity to them thou sayestSomething to palliate, something to excuseAn act of sudden frenzy when the FiendO’ercame him, thou wilt do for RoderickAll he could ask thee, all that can be doneOn earth, and all his spirit could endure.
See, Father, I have probed my inmost soul;
Have search’d to its remotest source the sin;
And tracing it through all its specious forms
Of fair disguisement, I present it now,
Even as it lies before the eye of God,
Bare and exposed, convicted and condemn’d.
One eve, as in the bowers which overhang
The glen where Tagus rolls between his rocks
I roam’d alone, alone I met the King.
His countenance was troubled, and his speech
Like that of one whose tongue to light discourse
At fits constrain’d, betrays a heart disturb’d:
I too, albeit unconscious of his thoughts,
With anxious looks reveal’d what wandering words
In vain essay’d to hide. A little while
Did this oppressive intercourse endure,
Till our eyes met in silence, each to each
Telling their mutual tale, then consciously
Together fell abash’d. He took my hand
And said, Florinda, would that thou and I
Earlier had met! oh what a blissful lot
Had then been mine, who might have found in thee
The sweet companion and the friend endear’d,
A fruitful wife and crown of earthly joys!
Thou too shouldst then have been of womankind
Happiest, as now the loveliest.... And with that,
First giving way to passion first disclosed,
He press’d upon my lips a guilty kiss, ...
Alas! more guiltily received than given.
Passive and yielding, and yet self-reproach’d,
Trembling I stood, upheld in his embrace;
When coming steps were heard, and Roderick said,
Meet me to-morrow, I beseech thee, here,
Queen of my heart! Oh meet me here again,
My own Florinda, meet me here again!...
Tongue, eye, and pressure of the impassion’d hand
Solicited and urged the ardent suit,
And from my hesitating hurried lips
The word of promise fatally was drawn.
O Roderick, Roderick! hadst thou told me all
Thy purpose at that hour, from what a world
Of woe had thou and I.... The bitterness
Of that reflection overcame her then,
And choak’d her speech. But Roderick sate the while
Covering his face with both his hands close-prest,
His head bow’d down, his spirit to such point
Of sufferance knit, as one who patiently
Awaits the uplifted sword.
Till now, said she,
Resuming her confession, I had lived,
If not in innocence, yet self-deceived,
And of my perilous and sinful state
Unconscious. But this fatal hour reveal’d
To my awakening soul her guilt and shame;
And in those agonies with which remorse,
Wrestling with weakness and with cherish’d sin,
Doth triumph o’er the lacerated heart,
That night ... that miserable night ... I vow’d,
A virgin dedicate, to pass my life
Immured; and, like redeemëd Magdalen,
Or that Egyptian penitent, whose tears
Fretted the rock, and moisten’d round her cave
The thirsty desert, so to mourn my fall.
The struggle ending thus, the victory
Thus, as I thought, accomplish’d, I believed
My soul was calm, and that the peace of Heaven
Descended to accept and bless my vow
And in this faith, prepared to consummate
The sacrifice, I went to meet the King.
See, Father, what a snare had Satan laid!
For Roderick came to tell me that the Church
From his unfruitful bed would set him free,
And I should be his Queen.
O let me close
The dreadful tale! I told him of my vow;
And from sincere and scrupulous piety,
But more, I fear me, in that desperate mood
Of obstinate will perverse, the which, with pride
And shame and self-reproach, doth sometimes make
A woman’s tongue, her own worst enemy,
Run counter to her dearest heart’s desire, ...
In that unhappy mood did I resist
All his most earnest prayers to let the power
Of holy Church, never more rightfully
Invoked, he said, than now in our behalf,
Release us from our fatal bonds. He urged
With kindling warmth his suit, like one whose life
Hung on the issue; I dissembled not
My cruel self-reproaches, nor my grief,
Yet desperately maintain’d the rash resolve;
Till in the passionate argument he grew
Incensed, inflamed, and madden’d or possess’d, ...
For Hell too surely at that hour prevail’d,
And with such subtile toils enveloped him,
That even in the extremity of guilt
No guilt he purported, but rather meant
An amplest recompence of life-long love
For transitory wrong, which fate perverse,
Thus madly he deceived himself, compell’d,
And therefore stern necessity excused.
Here then, O Father, at thy feet I own
Myself the guiltier; for full well I knew
These were his thoughts, but vengeance master’d me,
And in my agony I cursed the man
Whom I loved best.
Dost thou recall that curse?
Cried Roderick, in a deep and inward voice,
Still with his head depress’d, and covering still
His countenance. Recall it? she exclaim’d;
Father, I come to thee because I gave
The reins to wrath too long, ... because I wrought
His ruin, death, and infamy.... O God,
Forgive the wicked vengeance thus indulged,
As I forgive the King!... But teach me thou
What reparation more than tears and prayers
May now be made; ... how shall I vindicate
His injured name, and take upon myself....
Daughter of Julian, firmly he replied,
Speak not of that, I charge thee! On his fame
The Ethiop dye, fixed ineffaceably,
For ever will abide; so it must be,
So should be: ’tis his rightful punishment;
And if to the full measure of his sin
The punishment hath fallen, the more our hope
That through the blood of Jesus he may find
That sin forgiven him.
Pausing then, he raised
His hand, and pointed where Siverian lay
Stretch’d on the heath. To that old man, said he,
And to the mother of the unhappy Goth,
Tell, if it please thee, ... not what thou hast pour’d
Into my secret ear, but that the child
For whom they mourn with anguish unallay’d,
Sinn’d not from vicious will, or heart corrupt,
But fell by fatal circumstance betray’d.
And if in charity to them thou sayest
Something to palliate, something to excuse
An act of sudden frenzy when the Fiend
O’ercame him, thou wilt do for Roderick
All he could ask thee, all that can be done
On earth, and all his spirit could endure.
Venturing towards her an imploring look,Wilt thou join with me for his soul in prayer?He said, and trembled as he spake. That voiceOf sympathy was like Heaven’s influence,Wounding at once and comforting the soul.O Father, Christ requite thee! she exclaim’d;Thou hast set free the springs which withering griefsHave closed too long. Forgive me, for I thoughtThou wert a rigid and unpitying judge;One whose stern virtue, feeling in itselfNo flaw of frailty, heard impatientlyOf weakness and of guilt. I wrong’d thee Father!...With that she took his hand, and kissing it,Bathed it with tears. Then in a firmer speech,For Roderick, for Count Julian and myself,Three wretchedest of all the human race,Who have destroyed each other and ourselves,Mutually wrong’d and wronging, let us pray!
Venturing towards her an imploring look,
Wilt thou join with me for his soul in prayer?
He said, and trembled as he spake. That voice
Of sympathy was like Heaven’s influence,
Wounding at once and comforting the soul.
O Father, Christ requite thee! she exclaim’d;
Thou hast set free the springs which withering griefs
Have closed too long. Forgive me, for I thought
Thou wert a rigid and unpitying judge;
One whose stern virtue, feeling in itself
No flaw of frailty, heard impatiently
Of weakness and of guilt. I wrong’d thee Father!...
With that she took his hand, and kissing it,
Bathed it with tears. Then in a firmer speech,
For Roderick, for Count Julian and myself,
Three wretchedest of all the human race,
Who have destroyed each other and ourselves,
Mutually wrong’d and wronging, let us pray!