XV.RODERICK AT CANGAS.

How calmly gliding through the dark-blue skyThe midnight Moon ascends! Her placid beamsThrough thinly scatter’d leaves and boughs grotesque,Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;Here, o’er the chesnut’s fretted foliage greyAnd massy, motionless they spread; here shineUpon the crags, deepening with blacker nightTheir chasms; and there the glittering argentryRipples and glances on the confluent streams.A lovelier, purer light than that of dayRests on the hills; and oh how awefullyInto that deep and tranquil firmamentThe summits of Auseva rise serene!The watchman on the battlements partakesThe stillness of the solemn hour; he feelsThe silence of the earth, the endless soundOf flowing water soothes him, and the stars,Which in that brightest moon-light well-nigh quench’dScarce visible, as in the utmost depthOf yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,Draw on with elevating influenceToward eternity the attemper’d mind.Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands,And to the Virgin Mother silentlyPrefers her hymn of praise.The mountaineersBefore the castle, round their mouldering fires,Lie on the hearth outstretch’d. Pelayo’s hallIs full, and he upon his careful couchHears all around the deep and long-drawn breathOf sleep: for gentle night hath brought to thesePerfect and undisturb’d repose, alikeOf corporal powers and inward faculty.Wakeful the while he lay, yet more by hopeThan grief or anxious thoughts possess’d, ... though griefFor Guisla’s guilt, which freshen’d in his heartThe memory of their wretched mother’s crime,Still made its presence felt, like the dull senseOf some perpetual inward malady;And the whole peril of the future layBefore him clearly seen. He had heard all;How that unworthy sister, obstinateIn wrong and shameless, rather seem’d to wooThe upstart renegado than to waitHis wooing; how, as guilt to guilt led on,Spurning at gentle admonition first,When Gaudiosa hopelessly forboreFrom farther counsel, then in sullen moodResentful, Guisla soon began to hateThe virtuous presence before which she feltHer nature how inferior, and her faultHow foul. Despiteful thus she grew, becauseHumbled yet unrepentant. Who could sayTo what excess bad passions might impelA woman thus possess’d? She could not failTo mark Siverian’s absence, for what endHer conscience but too surely had divined;And Gaudiosa, well aware that allTo the vile paramour was thus made known,Had to safe hiding-place with timely fearRemoved her children. Well the event had provedHow needful was that caution; for at nightShe sought the mountain solitudes, and mornBeheld Numacian’s soldiers at the gate.Yet did not sorrow in Pelayo’s heartFor this domestic shame prevail that hour,Nor gathering danger weigh his spirit down.The anticipated meeting put to flightThese painful thoughts; to-morrow will restoreAll whom his heart holds dear; his wife beloved,No longer now remember’d for regret,Is present to his soul with hope and joy;His inward eye beholds Favila’s formIn opening youth robust, and Hermesind,His daughter, lovely as a budding rose;Their images beguile the hours of night,Till with the earliest morning he may seekTheir secret hold.The nightingale not yetHad ceased her song, nor had the early larkHer dewy nest forsaken, when the PrinceUpward beside Pionia took his wayToward Auseva. Heavily to him,Impatient for the morrow’s happiness,Long night had linger’d, but it seem’d more longTo Roderick’s aching heart. He too had watch’dFor dawn, and seen the earliest break of day,And heard its earliest sounds; and when the PrinceWent forth, the melancholy man was seenWith pensive pace upon Pionia’s sideWandering alone and slow. For he had leftThe wearying place of his unrest, that mornWith its cold dews might bathe his throbbing brow,And with its breath allay the feverish heatThat burnt within. Alas! the gales of mornReach not the fever of a wounded heart!How shall he meet his Mother’s eye, how makeHis secret known, and from that voice reveredObtain forgiveness, ... all that he has nowTo ask, ere on the lap of earth in peaceHe lay his head resign’d? In silent prayerHe supplicated Heaven to strengthen himAgainst that trying hour, there seeking aidWhere all who seek shall find; and thus his soulReceived support, and gather’d fortitude,Never than now more needful, for the hourWas nigh. He saw Siverian drawing near,And with a dim but quick foreboding metThe good old man; yet when he heard him sayMy Lady sends to seek thee, like a knellTo one expecting and prepared for death,But fearing the dread point that hastens on,It smote his heart. He follow’d silently,And knit his suffering spirit to the proof.He went resolved to tell his Mother all,Fall at her feet, and drinking the last dregsOf bitterness, receive the only goodEarth had in store for him. Resolved for thisHe went; yet was it a relief to findThat painful resolution must awaitA fitter season, when no eye but Heaven’sMight witness to their mutual agony.Count Julian’s daughter with Rusilla sate;Both had been weeping, both were pale, but calm.With head as for humility abasedRoderick approach’d, and bending, on his breastHe cross’d his humble arms. Rusilla roseIn reverence to the priestly character,And with a mournful eye regarding him,Thus she began. Good Father, I have heardFrom my old faithful servant and true friend,Thou didst reprove the inconsiderate tongue,That in the anguish of its spirit pour’dA curse upon my poor unhappy child.O Father Maccabee, this is a hard world,And hasty in its judgements! Time has been,When not a tongue within the PyreneesDared whisper in dispraise of Roderick’s name,Lest, if the conscious air had caught the sound,The vengeance of the honest multitudeShould fall upon the traitorous head, or brandFor life-long infamy the lying lips.Now if a voice be raised in his behalf,’Tis noted for a wonder, and the manWho utters the strange speech shall be admiredFor such excess of Christian charity.Thy Christian charity hath not been lost; ...Father, I feel its virtue: ... it hath beenBalm to my heart; ... with words and grateful tears, ...All that is left me now for gratitude, ...I thank thee, and beseech thee in thy prayersThat thou wilt still remember Roderick’s name.Roderick so long had to this hour look’d on,That when the actual point of trial came,Torpid and numb’d it found him; cold he grew,And as the vital spirits to the heartRetreated, o’er his wither’d countenance,Deathy and damp, a whiter paleness spread.Unmoved the while, the inward feeling seem’d,Even in such dull insensibilityAs gradual age brings on, or slow disease,Beneath whose progress lingering life survivesThe power of suffering. Wondering at himself,Yet gathering confidence, he raised his eyes,Then slowly shaking as he bent his head,O venerable Lady, he replied,If aught may comfort that unhappy soul,It must be thy compassion, and thy prayers.She whom he most hath wrong’d, she who aloneOn earth can grant forgiveness for his crime,She hath forgiven him; and thy blessing nowWere all that he could ask, ... all that could bringProfit or consolation to his soul,If he hath been as sure we may believe,A penitent sincere.Oh had he lived,Replied Rusilla, never penitenceHad equall’d his! full well I know his heart,Vehement in all things. He would on himselfHave wreak’d such penance as had reach’d the heightOf fleshly suffering ... yea, which being toldWith its portentuous rigour should have madeThe memory of his fault, o’erpower’d and lostIn shuddering pity and astonishment,Fade like a feebler horror. OtherwiseSeem’d good to Heaven. I murmur not, nor doubtThe boundless mercy of redeeming love.For sure I trust that not in his offenceHarden’d and reprobate was my lost son,A child of wrath, cut off!... that dreadful thought,Not even amid the first fresh wretchedness,When the ruin burst around me like a flood,Assail’d my soul. I ever deem’d his fallAn act of sudden madness; and this dayHath in unlook’d-for confirmation givenA livelier hope, a more assurëd faith.Smiling benignant then amid her tears,She took Florinda by the hand, and said,I little thought that I should live to blessCount Julian’s daughter! She hath brought to meThe last, the best, the only comfort earthCould minister to this afflicted heart,And my grey hairs may now unto the graveGo down in peace.Happy, Florinda cried,Are they for whom the grave hath peace in store!The wrongs they have sustain’d, the woes they bear,Pass not that holy threshold, where Death healsThe broken heart. O Lady, thou may’st trustIn humble hope, through Him who on the CrossGave his atoning blood for lost mankind,To meet beyond the grave thy child forgiven.I too with Roderick there may interchangeForgiveness. But the grief which wastes awayThis mortal frame, hastening the happy hourOf my enlargement, is but a light partOf what my soul endures!... that grief hath lostIts sting: ... I have a keener sorrow here, ...One which, ... but God forefend that dire event, ...May pass with me the portals of the grave,And with a thought, like sin which cannot die,Embitter Heaven. My father hath renouncedHis hope in Christ! It was his love for meWhich drove him to perdition.... I was bornTo ruin all who loved me, ... all I loved!Perhaps I sinn’d in leaving him; ... that fearRises within me to disturb the peaceWhich I should else have found.To Roderick thenThe pious mourner turn’d her suppliant eyes:O Father, there is virtue in thy prayers!...I do beseech thee offer them to HeavenIn his behalf! For Roderick’s sake, for mine,Wrestle with Him whose name is Merciful,That Julian may with penitence be touch’d,And clinging to the Cross, implore that graceWhich ne’er was sought in vain. For Roderick’s sakeAnd mine, pray for him! We have been the causeOf his offence! What other miseriesMay from that same unhappy source have risen,Are earthly, temporal, reparable all; ...But if a soul be lost through our misdeeds,That were eternal evil! Pray for him,Good Father Maccabee, and be thy prayersMore fervent, as the deeper is the crime.While thus Florinda spake, the dog who layBefore Rusilla’s feet, eyeing him longAnd wistfully, had recognised at length,Changed as he was and in those sordid weeds,His royal master. And he rose and lick’dHis wither’d hand, and earnestly look’d upWith eyes whose human meaning did not needThe aid of speech; and moan’d, as if at onceTo court and chide the long-withheld caress.A feeling uncommix’d with sense of guiltOr shame, yet painfulest, thrill’d through the King;But he to self-controul now long inured,Represt his rising heart, nor other tears,Full as his struggling bosom was, let fallThan seem’d to follow on Florinda’s words.Looking toward her then, yet so that stillHe shunn’d the meeting of her eye, he said,Virtuous and pious as thou art, and ripeFor Heaven, O Lady, I must think the manHath not by his good Angel been cast offFor whom thy supplications rise. The LordWhose justice doth in its unerring courseVisit the children for the sire’s offence,Shall He not in his boundless mercy hearThe daughter’s prayer, and for her sake restoreThe guilty parent? My soul shall with thineIn earnest and continual duty join....How deeply, how devoutly, He will knowTo whom the cry is raised!Thus having said,Deliberately, in self-possession still,Himself from that most painful interviewDispeeding, he withdrew. The watchful dogFollow’d his footsteps close. But he retiredInto the thickest grove; there yielding wayTo his o’erburthen’d nature, from all eyesApart, he cast himself upon the ground,And threw his arms around the dog, and cried,While tears stream’d down, Thou, Theron, then hast knownThy poor lost master, ... Theron, none but thou!

How calmly gliding through the dark-blue sky

The midnight Moon ascends! Her placid beams

Through thinly scatter’d leaves and boughs grotesque,

Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;

Here, o’er the chesnut’s fretted foliage grey

And massy, motionless they spread; here shine

Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night

Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry

Ripples and glances on the confluent streams.

A lovelier, purer light than that of day

Rests on the hills; and oh how awefully

Into that deep and tranquil firmament

The summits of Auseva rise serene!

The watchman on the battlements partakes

The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels

The silence of the earth, the endless sound

Of flowing water soothes him, and the stars,

Which in that brightest moon-light well-nigh quench’d

Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth

Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,

Draw on with elevating influence

Toward eternity the attemper’d mind.

Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands,

And to the Virgin Mother silently

Prefers her hymn of praise.

The mountaineers

Before the castle, round their mouldering fires,

Lie on the hearth outstretch’d. Pelayo’s hall

Is full, and he upon his careful couch

Hears all around the deep and long-drawn breath

Of sleep: for gentle night hath brought to these

Perfect and undisturb’d repose, alike

Of corporal powers and inward faculty.

Wakeful the while he lay, yet more by hope

Than grief or anxious thoughts possess’d, ... though grief

For Guisla’s guilt, which freshen’d in his heart

The memory of their wretched mother’s crime,

Still made its presence felt, like the dull sense

Of some perpetual inward malady;

And the whole peril of the future lay

Before him clearly seen. He had heard all;

How that unworthy sister, obstinate

In wrong and shameless, rather seem’d to woo

The upstart renegado than to wait

His wooing; how, as guilt to guilt led on,

Spurning at gentle admonition first,

When Gaudiosa hopelessly forbore

From farther counsel, then in sullen mood

Resentful, Guisla soon began to hate

The virtuous presence before which she felt

Her nature how inferior, and her fault

How foul. Despiteful thus she grew, because

Humbled yet unrepentant. Who could say

To what excess bad passions might impel

A woman thus possess’d? She could not fail

To mark Siverian’s absence, for what end

Her conscience but too surely had divined;

And Gaudiosa, well aware that all

To the vile paramour was thus made known,

Had to safe hiding-place with timely fear

Removed her children. Well the event had proved

How needful was that caution; for at night

She sought the mountain solitudes, and morn

Beheld Numacian’s soldiers at the gate.

Yet did not sorrow in Pelayo’s heart

For this domestic shame prevail that hour,

Nor gathering danger weigh his spirit down.

The anticipated meeting put to flight

These painful thoughts; to-morrow will restore

All whom his heart holds dear; his wife beloved,

No longer now remember’d for regret,

Is present to his soul with hope and joy;

His inward eye beholds Favila’s form

In opening youth robust, and Hermesind,

His daughter, lovely as a budding rose;

Their images beguile the hours of night,

Till with the earliest morning he may seek

Their secret hold.

The nightingale not yet

Had ceased her song, nor had the early lark

Her dewy nest forsaken, when the Prince

Upward beside Pionia took his way

Toward Auseva. Heavily to him,

Impatient for the morrow’s happiness,

Long night had linger’d, but it seem’d more long

To Roderick’s aching heart. He too had watch’d

For dawn, and seen the earliest break of day,

And heard its earliest sounds; and when the Prince

Went forth, the melancholy man was seen

With pensive pace upon Pionia’s side

Wandering alone and slow. For he had left

The wearying place of his unrest, that morn

With its cold dews might bathe his throbbing brow,

And with its breath allay the feverish heat

That burnt within. Alas! the gales of morn

Reach not the fever of a wounded heart!

How shall he meet his Mother’s eye, how make

His secret known, and from that voice revered

Obtain forgiveness, ... all that he has now

To ask, ere on the lap of earth in peace

He lay his head resign’d? In silent prayer

He supplicated Heaven to strengthen him

Against that trying hour, there seeking aid

Where all who seek shall find; and thus his soul

Received support, and gather’d fortitude,

Never than now more needful, for the hour

Was nigh. He saw Siverian drawing near,

And with a dim but quick foreboding met

The good old man; yet when he heard him say

My Lady sends to seek thee, like a knell

To one expecting and prepared for death,

But fearing the dread point that hastens on,

It smote his heart. He follow’d silently,

And knit his suffering spirit to the proof.

He went resolved to tell his Mother all,Fall at her feet, and drinking the last dregsOf bitterness, receive the only goodEarth had in store for him. Resolved for thisHe went; yet was it a relief to findThat painful resolution must awaitA fitter season, when no eye but Heaven’sMight witness to their mutual agony.Count Julian’s daughter with Rusilla sate;Both had been weeping, both were pale, but calm.With head as for humility abasedRoderick approach’d, and bending, on his breastHe cross’d his humble arms. Rusilla roseIn reverence to the priestly character,And with a mournful eye regarding him,Thus she began. Good Father, I have heardFrom my old faithful servant and true friend,Thou didst reprove the inconsiderate tongue,That in the anguish of its spirit pour’dA curse upon my poor unhappy child.O Father Maccabee, this is a hard world,And hasty in its judgements! Time has been,When not a tongue within the PyreneesDared whisper in dispraise of Roderick’s name,Lest, if the conscious air had caught the sound,The vengeance of the honest multitudeShould fall upon the traitorous head, or brandFor life-long infamy the lying lips.Now if a voice be raised in his behalf,’Tis noted for a wonder, and the manWho utters the strange speech shall be admiredFor such excess of Christian charity.Thy Christian charity hath not been lost; ...Father, I feel its virtue: ... it hath beenBalm to my heart; ... with words and grateful tears, ...All that is left me now for gratitude, ...I thank thee, and beseech thee in thy prayersThat thou wilt still remember Roderick’s name.

He went resolved to tell his Mother all,

Fall at her feet, and drinking the last dregs

Of bitterness, receive the only good

Earth had in store for him. Resolved for this

He went; yet was it a relief to find

That painful resolution must await

A fitter season, when no eye but Heaven’s

Might witness to their mutual agony.

Count Julian’s daughter with Rusilla sate;

Both had been weeping, both were pale, but calm.

With head as for humility abased

Roderick approach’d, and bending, on his breast

He cross’d his humble arms. Rusilla rose

In reverence to the priestly character,

And with a mournful eye regarding him,

Thus she began. Good Father, I have heard

From my old faithful servant and true friend,

Thou didst reprove the inconsiderate tongue,

That in the anguish of its spirit pour’d

A curse upon my poor unhappy child.

O Father Maccabee, this is a hard world,

And hasty in its judgements! Time has been,

When not a tongue within the Pyrenees

Dared whisper in dispraise of Roderick’s name,

Lest, if the conscious air had caught the sound,

The vengeance of the honest multitude

Should fall upon the traitorous head, or brand

For life-long infamy the lying lips.

Now if a voice be raised in his behalf,

’Tis noted for a wonder, and the man

Who utters the strange speech shall be admired

For such excess of Christian charity.

Thy Christian charity hath not been lost; ...

Father, I feel its virtue: ... it hath been

Balm to my heart; ... with words and grateful tears, ...

All that is left me now for gratitude, ...

I thank thee, and beseech thee in thy prayers

That thou wilt still remember Roderick’s name.

Roderick so long had to this hour look’d on,That when the actual point of trial came,Torpid and numb’d it found him; cold he grew,And as the vital spirits to the heartRetreated, o’er his wither’d countenance,Deathy and damp, a whiter paleness spread.Unmoved the while, the inward feeling seem’d,Even in such dull insensibilityAs gradual age brings on, or slow disease,Beneath whose progress lingering life survivesThe power of suffering. Wondering at himself,Yet gathering confidence, he raised his eyes,Then slowly shaking as he bent his head,O venerable Lady, he replied,If aught may comfort that unhappy soul,It must be thy compassion, and thy prayers.She whom he most hath wrong’d, she who aloneOn earth can grant forgiveness for his crime,She hath forgiven him; and thy blessing nowWere all that he could ask, ... all that could bringProfit or consolation to his soul,If he hath been as sure we may believe,A penitent sincere.Oh had he lived,Replied Rusilla, never penitenceHad equall’d his! full well I know his heart,Vehement in all things. He would on himselfHave wreak’d such penance as had reach’d the heightOf fleshly suffering ... yea, which being toldWith its portentuous rigour should have madeThe memory of his fault, o’erpower’d and lostIn shuddering pity and astonishment,Fade like a feebler horror. OtherwiseSeem’d good to Heaven. I murmur not, nor doubtThe boundless mercy of redeeming love.For sure I trust that not in his offenceHarden’d and reprobate was my lost son,A child of wrath, cut off!... that dreadful thought,Not even amid the first fresh wretchedness,When the ruin burst around me like a flood,Assail’d my soul. I ever deem’d his fallAn act of sudden madness; and this dayHath in unlook’d-for confirmation givenA livelier hope, a more assurëd faith.Smiling benignant then amid her tears,She took Florinda by the hand, and said,I little thought that I should live to blessCount Julian’s daughter! She hath brought to meThe last, the best, the only comfort earthCould minister to this afflicted heart,And my grey hairs may now unto the graveGo down in peace.Happy, Florinda cried,Are they for whom the grave hath peace in store!The wrongs they have sustain’d, the woes they bear,Pass not that holy threshold, where Death healsThe broken heart. O Lady, thou may’st trustIn humble hope, through Him who on the CrossGave his atoning blood for lost mankind,To meet beyond the grave thy child forgiven.I too with Roderick there may interchangeForgiveness. But the grief which wastes awayThis mortal frame, hastening the happy hourOf my enlargement, is but a light partOf what my soul endures!... that grief hath lostIts sting: ... I have a keener sorrow here, ...One which, ... but God forefend that dire event, ...May pass with me the portals of the grave,And with a thought, like sin which cannot die,Embitter Heaven. My father hath renouncedHis hope in Christ! It was his love for meWhich drove him to perdition.... I was bornTo ruin all who loved me, ... all I loved!Perhaps I sinn’d in leaving him; ... that fearRises within me to disturb the peaceWhich I should else have found.To Roderick thenThe pious mourner turn’d her suppliant eyes:O Father, there is virtue in thy prayers!...I do beseech thee offer them to HeavenIn his behalf! For Roderick’s sake, for mine,Wrestle with Him whose name is Merciful,That Julian may with penitence be touch’d,And clinging to the Cross, implore that graceWhich ne’er was sought in vain. For Roderick’s sakeAnd mine, pray for him! We have been the causeOf his offence! What other miseriesMay from that same unhappy source have risen,Are earthly, temporal, reparable all; ...But if a soul be lost through our misdeeds,That were eternal evil! Pray for him,Good Father Maccabee, and be thy prayersMore fervent, as the deeper is the crime.

Roderick so long had to this hour look’d on,

That when the actual point of trial came,

Torpid and numb’d it found him; cold he grew,

And as the vital spirits to the heart

Retreated, o’er his wither’d countenance,

Deathy and damp, a whiter paleness spread.

Unmoved the while, the inward feeling seem’d,

Even in such dull insensibility

As gradual age brings on, or slow disease,

Beneath whose progress lingering life survives

The power of suffering. Wondering at himself,

Yet gathering confidence, he raised his eyes,

Then slowly shaking as he bent his head,

O venerable Lady, he replied,

If aught may comfort that unhappy soul,

It must be thy compassion, and thy prayers.

She whom he most hath wrong’d, she who alone

On earth can grant forgiveness for his crime,

She hath forgiven him; and thy blessing now

Were all that he could ask, ... all that could bring

Profit or consolation to his soul,

If he hath been as sure we may believe,

A penitent sincere.

Oh had he lived,

Replied Rusilla, never penitence

Had equall’d his! full well I know his heart,

Vehement in all things. He would on himself

Have wreak’d such penance as had reach’d the height

Of fleshly suffering ... yea, which being told

With its portentuous rigour should have made

The memory of his fault, o’erpower’d and lost

In shuddering pity and astonishment,

Fade like a feebler horror. Otherwise

Seem’d good to Heaven. I murmur not, nor doubt

The boundless mercy of redeeming love.

For sure I trust that not in his offence

Harden’d and reprobate was my lost son,

A child of wrath, cut off!... that dreadful thought,

Not even amid the first fresh wretchedness,

When the ruin burst around me like a flood,

Assail’d my soul. I ever deem’d his fall

An act of sudden madness; and this day

Hath in unlook’d-for confirmation given

A livelier hope, a more assurëd faith.

Smiling benignant then amid her tears,

She took Florinda by the hand, and said,

I little thought that I should live to bless

Count Julian’s daughter! She hath brought to me

The last, the best, the only comfort earth

Could minister to this afflicted heart,

And my grey hairs may now unto the grave

Go down in peace.

Happy, Florinda cried,

Are they for whom the grave hath peace in store!

The wrongs they have sustain’d, the woes they bear,

Pass not that holy threshold, where Death heals

The broken heart. O Lady, thou may’st trust

In humble hope, through Him who on the Cross

Gave his atoning blood for lost mankind,

To meet beyond the grave thy child forgiven.

I too with Roderick there may interchange

Forgiveness. But the grief which wastes away

This mortal frame, hastening the happy hour

Of my enlargement, is but a light part

Of what my soul endures!... that grief hath lost

Its sting: ... I have a keener sorrow here, ...

One which, ... but God forefend that dire event, ...

May pass with me the portals of the grave,

And with a thought, like sin which cannot die,

Embitter Heaven. My father hath renounced

His hope in Christ! It was his love for me

Which drove him to perdition.... I was born

To ruin all who loved me, ... all I loved!

Perhaps I sinn’d in leaving him; ... that fear

Rises within me to disturb the peace

Which I should else have found.

To Roderick then

The pious mourner turn’d her suppliant eyes:

O Father, there is virtue in thy prayers!...

I do beseech thee offer them to Heaven

In his behalf! For Roderick’s sake, for mine,

Wrestle with Him whose name is Merciful,

That Julian may with penitence be touch’d,

And clinging to the Cross, implore that grace

Which ne’er was sought in vain. For Roderick’s sake

And mine, pray for him! We have been the cause

Of his offence! What other miseries

May from that same unhappy source have risen,

Are earthly, temporal, reparable all; ...

But if a soul be lost through our misdeeds,

That were eternal evil! Pray for him,

Good Father Maccabee, and be thy prayers

More fervent, as the deeper is the crime.

While thus Florinda spake, the dog who layBefore Rusilla’s feet, eyeing him longAnd wistfully, had recognised at length,Changed as he was and in those sordid weeds,His royal master. And he rose and lick’dHis wither’d hand, and earnestly look’d upWith eyes whose human meaning did not needThe aid of speech; and moan’d, as if at onceTo court and chide the long-withheld caress.A feeling uncommix’d with sense of guiltOr shame, yet painfulest, thrill’d through the King;But he to self-controul now long inured,Represt his rising heart, nor other tears,Full as his struggling bosom was, let fallThan seem’d to follow on Florinda’s words.Looking toward her then, yet so that stillHe shunn’d the meeting of her eye, he said,Virtuous and pious as thou art, and ripeFor Heaven, O Lady, I must think the manHath not by his good Angel been cast offFor whom thy supplications rise. The LordWhose justice doth in its unerring courseVisit the children for the sire’s offence,Shall He not in his boundless mercy hearThe daughter’s prayer, and for her sake restoreThe guilty parent? My soul shall with thineIn earnest and continual duty join....How deeply, how devoutly, He will knowTo whom the cry is raised!Thus having said,Deliberately, in self-possession still,Himself from that most painful interviewDispeeding, he withdrew. The watchful dogFollow’d his footsteps close. But he retiredInto the thickest grove; there yielding wayTo his o’erburthen’d nature, from all eyesApart, he cast himself upon the ground,And threw his arms around the dog, and cried,While tears stream’d down, Thou, Theron, then hast knownThy poor lost master, ... Theron, none but thou!

While thus Florinda spake, the dog who lay

Before Rusilla’s feet, eyeing him long

And wistfully, had recognised at length,

Changed as he was and in those sordid weeds,

His royal master. And he rose and lick’d

His wither’d hand, and earnestly look’d up

With eyes whose human meaning did not need

The aid of speech; and moan’d, as if at once

To court and chide the long-withheld caress.

A feeling uncommix’d with sense of guilt

Or shame, yet painfulest, thrill’d through the King;

But he to self-controul now long inured,

Represt his rising heart, nor other tears,

Full as his struggling bosom was, let fall

Than seem’d to follow on Florinda’s words.

Looking toward her then, yet so that still

He shunn’d the meeting of her eye, he said,

Virtuous and pious as thou art, and ripe

For Heaven, O Lady, I must think the man

Hath not by his good Angel been cast off

For whom thy supplications rise. The Lord

Whose justice doth in its unerring course

Visit the children for the sire’s offence,

Shall He not in his boundless mercy hear

The daughter’s prayer, and for her sake restore

The guilty parent? My soul shall with thine

In earnest and continual duty join....

How deeply, how devoutly, He will know

To whom the cry is raised!

Thus having said,

Deliberately, in self-possession still,

Himself from that most painful interview

Dispeeding, he withdrew. The watchful dog

Follow’d his footsteps close. But he retired

Into the thickest grove; there yielding way

To his o’erburthen’d nature, from all eyes

Apart, he cast himself upon the ground,

And threw his arms around the dog, and cried,

While tears stream’d down, Thou, Theron, then hast known

Thy poor lost master, ... Theron, none but thou!

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