XXV.RODERICK IN BATTLE.

Eight thousand men had to Asturias march’dBeneath Count Julian’s banner; the remainsOf that brave army which in AfricaSo well against the Musselman made head,Till sense of injuries insupportable,And raging thirst of vengeance, overthrewTheir leader’s noble spirit. To revengeHis quarrel, twice that number left their bones,Slain in unnatural battle, on the fieldOf Xeres, when the sceptre from the GothsBy righteous Heaven was reft. Others had fallenConsumed in sieges, alway by the MoorTo the front of war opposed. The policy,With whatsoever show of honour cloak’d,Was gross, and this surviving band had oftAt their carousals, of the flagrant wrong,Held such discourse as stirs the mounting blood,The common danger with one discontentAffecting chiefs and men. Nor had the bondsOf rooted discipline and faith attach’d,Thus long restrain’d them, had they not known wellThat Julian in their just resentment shared,And fix’d their hopes on him. Slight impulse nowSufficed to make these fiery martialistsBreak forth in open fury; and though firstCount Pedro listen’d with suspicious earTo Julian’s dying errand, deeming itSome new decoy of treason, ... when he foundA second legate follow’d Virimar,And then a third, and saw the turbulenceOf the camp, and how against the Moors in hasteThey form’d their lines, he knew that ProvidenceThis hour had for his country interposed,And in such faith advanced to use the aidThus wondrously ordain’d. The eager ChiefsHasten to greet him, Cottila and Paul,Basil and Miro, Theudered, Gunderick,Felix, and all who held authority;The zealous services of their brave hostThey proffer’d, and besought him instantlyTo lead against the African their forceCombined, and in good hour assail a foeDivided, nor for such attack prepared.While thus they communed, Roderick from the churchCame forth, and seeing Pedro, bent his wayToward them. Sirs, said he, the Count is dead;He died a Christian, reconciled to Heaven,In faith; and when his daughter had receivedHis dying breath, her spirit too took flight.One sacrament, one death, united them;And I beseech ye, ye who from the workOf blood which lies before us may return, ...If, as I think, it should not be my fate ...That in one grave with Christian ceremoniesYe lay them side by side. In Heaven I weenThey are met through mercy: ... ill befall the manWho should in death divide them!... Then he turn’dHis speech to Pedro in an under voice;The King, said he, I know with noble mindWill judge of the departed; Christian-likeHe died, and with a manly penitence:They who condemn him most should call to mindHow grievous was the wrong which madden’d him;Be that remember’d in his history,And let no shame be offer’d his remains.As Pedro would have answer’d, a loud cryOf menacing imprecation from the troopsArose; for Orpas, by the Moorish ChiefSent to allay the storm his villainyHad stirr’d, came hastening on a milk-white steed,And at safe distance having check’d the rein,Beckon’d for parley. ’Twas OrelioOn which he rode, Roderick’s own battle-horse,Who from his master’s hand had wont to feed,And with a glad docility obeyHis voice familiar. At the sight the GothStarted, and indignation to his soulBrought back the thoughts and feelings of old times.Suffer me, Count, he cried, to answer him,And hold these back the while! Thus having said,He waited no reply, but as he was,Bareheaded, in his weeds, and all unarm’d,Advanced toward the renegade. Sir Priest,Quoth Orpas as he came, I hold no talkWith thee; my errand is with GunderickAnd the Captains of the host, to whom I bringSuch liberal offers and clear proof....The Goth,Breaking with scornful voice his speech, exclaim’d,What, could no steed but Roderick’s serve thy turn?I should have thought some sleek and sober muleLong train’d in shackles to procession pace,More suited to my lord of Seville’s useThan this good war-horse, ... he who never boreA villain, until Orpas cross’d his back!...Wretch! cried the astonish’d renegade, and stoopt,Foaming with anger, from the saddle-bowTo reach his weapon. Ere the hasty handTrembling in passion could perform its will,Roderick had seized the reins. How now, he cried,Orelio! old companion, ... my good horse, ...Off with this recreant burthen!... And with thatHe raised his hand, and rear’d and back’d the steed,To that remember’d voice and arm of powerObedient. Down the helpless traitor fellViolently thrown, and Roderick over himThrice led with just and unrelenting handThe trampling hoofs. Go join Witiza now,Where he lies howling, the avenger cried,And tell him Roderick sent thee!At that sight,Count Julian’s soldiers and the Asturian hostSet up a shout, a joyful shout, which rungWide through the welkin. Their exulting cryWith louder acclamation was renew’d,When from the expiring miscreant’s neck they sawThat Roderick took the shield, and round his ownHung it, and vaulted in the seat. My horse!My noble horse! he cried, with flattering handPatting his high-arch’d neck! the renegade,I thank him for’t, hath kept thee daintily!Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still,Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse,Once more thou bearest to the field thy Lord,He who so oft hath fed and cherish’d thee,He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen,Thou wert by all men honour’d. Once againThou hast thy proper master! Do thy partAs thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously,My beautiful Orelio, ... to the last ...The happiest of his fields!... Then he drew forthThe scymitar, and waving it aloft,Rode toward the troops; its unaccustom’d shapeDisliked him; Renegade in all things! criedThe Goth, and cast it from him; to the ChiefsThen said, If I have done ye service here,Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword!The trustiest blade that e’er in BilbilisWas dipt, would not to-day be misbestowedOn this right hand!... Go some one, Gunderick cried,And bring Count Julian’s sword. Whoe’er thou art,The worth which thou hast shown avenging himEntitles thee to wear it. But thou goestFor battle unequipp’d; ... haste there and stripYon villain of his armour!Late he spake,So fast the Moors came on. It matters not,Replied the Goth; there’s many a mountaineer,Who in no better armour cased this dayThan his wonted leathern gipion, will be foundIn the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch’dThe unguarded life he ventures.... Taking thenCount Julian’s sword, he fitted round his wristThe chain, and eyeing the elaborate steelWith stern regard of joy, The AfricanUnder unhappy stars was born, he cried,Who tastes thy edge!... Make ready for the charge!They come ... they come!... On, brethren, to the field!...The word is Vengeance!Vengeance was the word;From man to man, and rank to rank it pass’d,By every heart enforced, by every voiceSent forth in loud defiance of the foe.The enemy in shriller sounds return’dTheir Akbar and the Prophet’s trusted name.The horsemen lower’d their spears, the infantryDeliberately with slow and steady stepAdvanced; the bow-strings twang’d, and arrows hiss’d,And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hostsMet in the shock of battle, horse and manConflicting; shield struck shield, and sword and maceAnd curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung;Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged,And many a spirit from its mortal holdHurried to bliss or bale. Well did the ChiefsOf Julian’s army in that hour supportTheir old esteem; and well Count Pedro thereEnhanced his former praise; and by his side,Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife,Alphonso through the host of infidelsBore on his bloody lance dismay and death.But there was worst confusion and uproar,There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proudOf his recover’d Lord, Orelio plungedThrough thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feetThe living and the dead. Where’er he turnsThe Moors divide and fly. What man is this,Appall’d they say, who to the front of warBareheaded offers thus his naked life?Replete with power he is, and terrible,Like some destroying Angel! Sure his lipsHave drank of Kaf’s dark fountain, and he comesStrong in his immortality! Fly! fly!They said, this is no human foe!... Nor lessOf wonder fill’d the Spaniards when they sawHow flight and terror went before his way,And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one,With what command and knightly ease he sitsThe intrepid steed, and deals from side to sideHis dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his powerBestrode with such command and majestyThat noble war-horse. His loose robe this dayIs death’s black banner, shaking from its foldsDismay and ruin. Of no mortal mouldIs he who in that garb of peace affrontsWhole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns!Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some SaintRevisits earth!Aye, cries another, HeavenHath ever with especial bounty blestAbove all other lands its favour’d Spain;Chusing her children forth from all mankindFor its peculiar people, as of yoreAbraham’s ungrateful race beneath the Law.Who knows not how on that most holy nightWhen peace on Earth by Angels was proclaim’d,The light which o’er the fields of Bethlehem shone,Irradiated whole Spain? not just display’d,As to the Shepherds, and again withdrawn;All the long winter hours from eve till mornHer forests and her mountains and her plains,Her hills and valleys were embathed in light,A light which came not from the sun or moonOr stars, by secondary powers dispensed,But from the fountain-springs, the Light of LightEffluent. And wherefore should we not believeThat this may be some Saint or Angel, chargedTo lead us to miraculous victory?Hath not the Virgin Mother oftentimesDescending, clothed in glory, sanctifiedWith feet adorable our happy soil?...Mark’d ye not, said another, how he castIn wrath the unhallow’d scymitar away,And called for Christian weapon? Oh be sureThis is the aid of Heaven! On, comrades, on!A miracle to-day is wrought for Spain!Victory and Vengeance! Hew the miscreants down,And spare not! hew them down in sacrifice!God is with us! his Saints are in the field!Victory! miraculous Victory!Thus theyInflamed with wild belief the keen desireOf vengeance on their enemies abhorr’d,The Moorish chief, meantime, o’erlooked the fightFrom an eminence, and cursed the renegadeWhose counsels sorting to such ill effectHad brought this danger on. Lo, from the EastComes fresh alarm! a few poor fugitivesWell-nigh with fear exanimate came up,From Covadonga flying, and the rearOf that destruction, scarce with breath to tellTheir dreadful tale. When Abulcacem heard,Stricken with horror, like a man bereftOf sense, he stood. O Prophet, he exclaim’d,A hard and cruel fortune hast thou broughtThis day upon thy servant! Must I thenHere with disgrace and ruin close a lifeOf glorious deeds? But how should man resistFate’s irreversible decrees, or whyMurmur at what must be? They who surviveMay mourn the evil which this day begins:My part will soon be done!... Grief then gave wayTo rage, and cursing Guisla, he pursued,Oh that that treacherous woman were but here!It were a consolation to give herThe evil death she merits!That rewardShe hath had, a Moor replied. For when we reach’dThe entrance of the vale, it was her choiceThere in the farthest dwellings to be left,Lest she should see her brother’s face; but thenceWe found her flying at the overthrow,And visiting the treason on her head,Pierced her with wounds.... Poor vengeance for a hostDestroyed! said Abulcacem in his soul.Howbeit, resolving to the last to doHis office, he roused up his spirit. Go,Strike off Count Eudon’s head! he cried; the fearWhich brought him to our camp will bring him elseIn arms against us now; For SisibertAnd Ebba, he continued thus in thought,Their uncle’s fate for ever bars all plotsOf treason on their part; no hope have theyOf safety but with us. He call’d them thenWith chosen troops to join him in the frontOf battle, that by bravely making head,Retreat might now be won. Then fiercer ragedThe conflict, and more frequent cries of death,Mingling with imprecations and with prayers,Rose through the din of war.By this the bloodWhich Deva down her fatal channel pour’d,Purpling Pionia’s course, had reach’d and stain’dThe wider stream of Sella. Soon far offThe frequent glance of spears and gleam of armsWere seen, which sparkled to the westering orb,Where down the vale, impatient to completeThe glorious work so well that day begun,Pelayo led his troops. On foot they came,Chieftains and men alike; the Oaken CrossTriumphant borne on high, precedes their march,And broad and bright the argent banner shone.Roderick, who dealing death from side to side,Had through the Moorish army now made way,Beheld it flash, and judging well what aidApproach’d, with sudden impulse that way rode,To tell of what had pass’d, ... lest in the strifeThey should engage with Julian’s men, and marThe mighty consummation. One ran onTo meet him fleet of foot, and having givenHis tale to this swift messenger, the GothHalted awhile to let Orelio breathe.Siverian, quoth Pelayo, if mine eyesDeceive me not, yon horse, whose reeking sidesAre red with slaughter, is the same on whomThe apostate Orpas in his vaunteryWont to parade the streets of Cordoba.But thou shouldst know him best; regard him well:Is’t not Orelio?Either it is he,The old man replied, or one so like to him,Whom all thought matchless, that similitudeWould be the greater wonder. But behold,What man is he who in that disarrayDoth with such power and majesty bestrideThe noble steed, as if he felt himselfIn his own proper seat? Look how he leansTo cherish him; and how the gallant horseCurves up his stately neck, and bends his head,As if again to court that gentle touch,And answer to the voice which praises him.Can it be Maccabee? rejoin’d the King,Or are the secret wishes of my soulIndeed fulfill’d, and hath the grave given upIts dead?... So saying, on the old man he turn’dEyes full of wide astonishment, which toldThe incipient thought that for incredibleHe spake no farther. But enough had pass’d,For old Siverian started at the wordsLike one who sees a spectre, and exclaim’d,Blind that I was to know him not till now!My Master, O my Master!He meantimeWith easy pace moved on to meet their march.King, to Pelayo he began, this dayBy means scarce less than miracle, thy throneIs stablish’d, and the wrongs of Spain revenged.Orpas the accursed, upon yonder fieldLies ready for the ravens. By the MoorsTreacherously slain, Count Julian will be foundBefore Saint Peter’s altar; unto himGrace was vouchsafed; and by that holy powerWhich at Visonia from the Primate’s handOf his own proper act to me was given,Unworthy as I am, ... yet sure I thinkNot without mystery, as the event hath shown, ...Did I accept Count Julian’s penitence,And reconcile the dying man to Heaven.Beside him hath his daughter fallen asleep;Deal honourably with his remains, and letOne grave with Christian rites receive them both.Is it not written that as the Tree fallsSo it shall lie?In this and all things else,Pelayo answer’d, looking wistfullyUpon the Goth, thy pleasure shall be done.Then Roderick saw that he was known, and turn’dHis head away in silence. But the old manLaid hold upon his bridle, and look’d upIn his master’s face, weeping and silently.Thereat the Goth with fervent pressure tookHis hand, and bending down toward him, said,My good Siverian, go not thou this dayTo war! I charge thee keep thyself from harm!Thou art past the age for battles, and with whomHereafter should thy mistress talk of meIf thou wert gone?... Thou seest I am unarm’d;Thus disarray’d as thou beholdest me,Clean through yon miscreant army have I cutMy way unhurt; but being once by HeavenPreserved, I would not perish with the guiltOf having wilfully provoked my death.Give me thy helmet and thy cuirass!... nay, ...Thou wert not wont to let me ask in vain,Nor to gainsay me when my will was known!To thee methinks I should be still the King.Thus saying, they withdrew a little wayWithin the trees. Roderick alighted there,And in the old man’s armour dight himself.Dost thou not marvel by what wonderous chance,Said he, Orelio to his master’s handHath been restored? I found the renegadeOf Seville on his back, and hurl’d him downHeadlong to the earth. The noble animalRejoicingly obey’d my hand to shakeHis recreant burthen off, and trample outThe life which once I spared in evil hour.Now let me meet Witiza’s viperous sonsIn yonder field, and then I may go restIn peace, ... my work is done!And nobly done!Exclaim’d the old man. Oh! thou art greater nowThan in that glorious hour of victoryWhen grovelling in the dust Witiza lay,The prisoner of thy hand!... Roderick replied,O good Siverian, happier victoryThy son hath now achieved, ... the victoryOver the world, his sins and his despair.If on the field my body should be found,See it, I charge thee, laid in Julian’s grave,And let no idle ear be told for whomThou mournest. Thou wilt use OrelioAs doth beseem the steed which hath so oftCarried a King to battle; ... he hath doneGood service for his rightful Lord to-day,And better yet must do. Siverian, nowFarewell! I think we shall not meet again,Till it be in that world where never changeIs known, and they who love shall part no more.Commend me to my mother’s prayers, and sayThat never man enjoy’d a heavenlier peaceThan Roderick at this hour. O faithful friend,How dear thou art to me these tears may tell!With that he fell upon the old man’s neck;Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins,And soon rejoin’d the host. On, comrades, on!Victory and Vengeance! he exclaim’d, and tookThe lead on that good charger, he aloneHorsed for the onset. They with one consentGave all their voices to the inspiring cry,Victory and Vengeance! and the hills and rocksCaught the prophetic shout and roll’d it round.Count Pedro’s people heard amid the heatOf battle, and return’d the glad acclaim.The astonish’d Musselmen, on all sides charged,Hear that tremendous cry; yet manfullyThey stood, and every where with gallant frontOpposed in fair array the shock of war.Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms,And knowing that no safety could be found,Save from their own right hands. No former dayOf all his long career had seen their chiefApproved so well; nor had Witiza’s sonsEver before this hour achieved in fightSuch feats of resolute valour. SisibertBeheld Pelayo in the field afoot,And twice essay’d beneath his horse’s feetTo thrust him down. Twice did the Prince evadeThe shock, and twice upon his shield receivedThe fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more,Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief,Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth!Go meet thy death from any hand but mine.He said, and turn’d aside. Fitliest from me!Exclaim’d a dreadful voice, as through the throngOrelio forced his way; fitliest from meReceive the rightful death too long withheld!’Tis Roderick strikes the blow! And as he spake,Upon the traitor’s shoulder fierce he droveThe weapon, well-bestow’d. He in the seatTotter’d and fell. The Avenger hasten’d onIn search of Ebba; and in the heat of fightRejoicing and forgetful of all else,Set up his cry as he was wont in youth,Roderick the Goth!... his war-cry known so well.Pelayo eagerly took up the word,And shouted out his kinsman’s name beloved,Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;Urban repeated it, and through his ranksCount Pedro sent the cry. Not from the fieldOf his great victory, when Witiza fell,With louder acclamations had that nameBeen borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.The unreflecting throng, who yesterday,If it had pass’d their lips, would with a curseHave clogg’d it, echoed it as if it cameFrom some celestial voice in the air, reveal’dTo be the certain pledge of all their hopes.Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!Roderick and Vengeance! O’er the field it spread,All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on,Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and smote,And overthrew, and scatter’d, and destroy’d,And trampled down; and still at every blowExultingly he sent the war-cry forth,Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!Roderick and Vengeance!Thus he made his way,Smiting and slaying through the astonish’d ranks,Till he beheld, where on a fiery barb,Ebba, performing well a soldier’s part,Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows.With mutual rage they met. The renegadeDisplays a scymitar, the splendid giftOf Walid from Damascus sent; its hiltEmboss’d with gems, its blade of perfect steel,Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sunWith dazzling splendour, flash’d. The Goth objectsHis shield, and on its rim received the edgeDriven from its aim aside, and of its forceDiminish’d. Many a frustrate stroke was dealtOn either part, and many a foin and thrustAim’d and rebated; many a deadly blowStraight, or reverse, delivered and repell’d.Roderick at length with better speed hath reach’dThe apostate’s turban, and through all its foldsThe true Cantabrian weapon making wayAttain’d his forehead. Wretch! the avenger cried,It comes from Roderick’s hand! Roderick the Goth,Who spared, who trusted thee, and was betray’d!Go tell thy father now how thou hast spedWith all thy treasons! Saying thus he seizedThe miserable, who, blinded now with blood,Reel’d in the saddle; and with sidelong stepBacking Orelio, drew him to the ground.He shrieking, as beneath the horse’s feetHe fell, forgot his late-learnt creed, and call’dOn Mary’s name. The dreadful Goth pass’d on,Still plunging through the thickest war, and stillScattering, where’er he turn’d, the affrighted ranks.O who could tell what deeds were wrought that day,Or who endure to hear the tale of rage,Hatred, and madness, and despair, and fear,Horror, and wounds, and agony, and death,The cries, the blasphemies, the shrieks, and groans,And prayers, which mingled with the din of armsIn one wild uproar of terrific sounds;While over all predominant was heard,Reiterate from the conquerors o’er the field,Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!Roderick and Vengeance!... Woe for Africa!Woe for the circumcised! Woe for the faithOf the lying Ishmaelite that hour! The ChiefsHave fallen; the Moors, confused and captainless,And panic-stricken, vainly seek to escapeThe inevitable fate. Turn where they will,Strong in his cause, rejoicing in success,Insatiate at the banquet of revenge,The enemy is there; look where they will,Death hath environed their devoted ranks;Fly where they will, the avenger and the swordAwait them, ... wretches! whom the righteous armHath overtaken!... Join’d in bonds of faithAccurs’d, the most flagitious of mankindFrom all parts met are here; the apostate Greek,The vicious Syrian, and the sullen Copt,The Persian cruel and corrupt of soul,The Arabian robber, and the prowling sonsOf Africa, who from their thirsty sandsPray that the locusts on the peopled plainMay settle and prepare their way. Conjoin’dBeneath an impious faith, which sanctifiesTo them all deeds of wickedness and blood, ...Yea, and halloos them on, ... here are they metTo be conjoin’d in punishment this hour.For plunder, violation, massacre,All hideous, all unutterable things,The righteous, the immitigable swordExacts due vengeance now! the cry of bloodIs heard, the measure of their crimes is full;Such mercy as the Moor at Auria gave,Such mercy hath he found this dreadful hour!The evening darken’d, but the avenging swordTurn’d not away its edge till night had closedUpon the field of blood. The Chieftains thenBlew the recall, and from their perfect workReturn’d rejoicing, all but he for whomAll look’d with most expectance. He full sureHad thought upon that field to find his endDesired, and with Florinda in the graveRest, in indissoluble union join’d.But still where through the press of war he wentHalf-arm’d, and like a lover seeking death,The arrows past him by to right and left,The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitarGlanced from his helmet; he, when he beheldThe rout complete, saw that the shield of HeavenHad been extended over him once more,And bowed before its will. Upon the banksOf Sella was Orelio found, his legsAnd flanks incarnadined, his poitral smearedWith froth and foam and gore, his silver maneSprinkled with blood, which hung on every hair,Aspersed like dew-drops; trembling there he stoodFrom the toil of battle, and at times sent forthHis tremulous voice far echoing loud and shrill,A frequent anxious cry, with which he seem’dTo call the master whom he loved so well,And who had thus again forsaken him.Siverian’s helm and cuirass on the grassLay near; and Julian’s sword, its hilt and chainClotted with blood; but where was he whose handHad wielded it so well that glorious day?...Days, months, and years, and generations pass’d,And centuries held their course, before, far offWithin a hermitage near Viseu’s wallsA humble tomb was found, which bore inscribedIn ancient characters King Roderick’s name.

Eight thousand men had to Asturias march’d

Beneath Count Julian’s banner; the remains

Of that brave army which in Africa

So well against the Musselman made head,

Till sense of injuries insupportable,

And raging thirst of vengeance, overthrew

Their leader’s noble spirit. To revenge

His quarrel, twice that number left their bones,

Slain in unnatural battle, on the field

Of Xeres, when the sceptre from the Goths

By righteous Heaven was reft. Others had fallen

Consumed in sieges, alway by the Moor

To the front of war opposed. The policy,

With whatsoever show of honour cloak’d,

Was gross, and this surviving band had oft

At their carousals, of the flagrant wrong,

Held such discourse as stirs the mounting blood,

The common danger with one discontent

Affecting chiefs and men. Nor had the bonds

Of rooted discipline and faith attach’d,

Thus long restrain’d them, had they not known well

That Julian in their just resentment shared,

And fix’d their hopes on him. Slight impulse now

Sufficed to make these fiery martialists

Break forth in open fury; and though first

Count Pedro listen’d with suspicious ear

To Julian’s dying errand, deeming it

Some new decoy of treason, ... when he found

A second legate follow’d Virimar,

And then a third, and saw the turbulence

Of the camp, and how against the Moors in haste

They form’d their lines, he knew that Providence

This hour had for his country interposed,

And in such faith advanced to use the aid

Thus wondrously ordain’d. The eager Chiefs

Hasten to greet him, Cottila and Paul,

Basil and Miro, Theudered, Gunderick,

Felix, and all who held authority;

The zealous services of their brave host

They proffer’d, and besought him instantly

To lead against the African their force

Combined, and in good hour assail a foe

Divided, nor for such attack prepared.

While thus they communed, Roderick from the churchCame forth, and seeing Pedro, bent his wayToward them. Sirs, said he, the Count is dead;He died a Christian, reconciled to Heaven,In faith; and when his daughter had receivedHis dying breath, her spirit too took flight.One sacrament, one death, united them;And I beseech ye, ye who from the workOf blood which lies before us may return, ...If, as I think, it should not be my fate ...That in one grave with Christian ceremoniesYe lay them side by side. In Heaven I weenThey are met through mercy: ... ill befall the manWho should in death divide them!... Then he turn’dHis speech to Pedro in an under voice;The King, said he, I know with noble mindWill judge of the departed; Christian-likeHe died, and with a manly penitence:They who condemn him most should call to mindHow grievous was the wrong which madden’d him;Be that remember’d in his history,And let no shame be offer’d his remains.

While thus they communed, Roderick from the church

Came forth, and seeing Pedro, bent his way

Toward them. Sirs, said he, the Count is dead;

He died a Christian, reconciled to Heaven,

In faith; and when his daughter had received

His dying breath, her spirit too took flight.

One sacrament, one death, united them;

And I beseech ye, ye who from the work

Of blood which lies before us may return, ...

If, as I think, it should not be my fate ...

That in one grave with Christian ceremonies

Ye lay them side by side. In Heaven I ween

They are met through mercy: ... ill befall the man

Who should in death divide them!... Then he turn’d

His speech to Pedro in an under voice;

The King, said he, I know with noble mind

Will judge of the departed; Christian-like

He died, and with a manly penitence:

They who condemn him most should call to mind

How grievous was the wrong which madden’d him;

Be that remember’d in his history,

And let no shame be offer’d his remains.

As Pedro would have answer’d, a loud cryOf menacing imprecation from the troopsArose; for Orpas, by the Moorish ChiefSent to allay the storm his villainyHad stirr’d, came hastening on a milk-white steed,And at safe distance having check’d the rein,Beckon’d for parley. ’Twas OrelioOn which he rode, Roderick’s own battle-horse,Who from his master’s hand had wont to feed,And with a glad docility obeyHis voice familiar. At the sight the GothStarted, and indignation to his soulBrought back the thoughts and feelings of old times.Suffer me, Count, he cried, to answer him,And hold these back the while! Thus having said,He waited no reply, but as he was,Bareheaded, in his weeds, and all unarm’d,Advanced toward the renegade. Sir Priest,Quoth Orpas as he came, I hold no talkWith thee; my errand is with GunderickAnd the Captains of the host, to whom I bringSuch liberal offers and clear proof....The Goth,Breaking with scornful voice his speech, exclaim’d,What, could no steed but Roderick’s serve thy turn?I should have thought some sleek and sober muleLong train’d in shackles to procession pace,More suited to my lord of Seville’s useThan this good war-horse, ... he who never boreA villain, until Orpas cross’d his back!...Wretch! cried the astonish’d renegade, and stoopt,Foaming with anger, from the saddle-bowTo reach his weapon. Ere the hasty handTrembling in passion could perform its will,Roderick had seized the reins. How now, he cried,Orelio! old companion, ... my good horse, ...Off with this recreant burthen!... And with thatHe raised his hand, and rear’d and back’d the steed,To that remember’d voice and arm of powerObedient. Down the helpless traitor fellViolently thrown, and Roderick over himThrice led with just and unrelenting handThe trampling hoofs. Go join Witiza now,Where he lies howling, the avenger cried,And tell him Roderick sent thee!At that sight,Count Julian’s soldiers and the Asturian hostSet up a shout, a joyful shout, which rungWide through the welkin. Their exulting cryWith louder acclamation was renew’d,When from the expiring miscreant’s neck they sawThat Roderick took the shield, and round his ownHung it, and vaulted in the seat. My horse!My noble horse! he cried, with flattering handPatting his high-arch’d neck! the renegade,I thank him for’t, hath kept thee daintily!Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still,Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse,Once more thou bearest to the field thy Lord,He who so oft hath fed and cherish’d thee,He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen,Thou wert by all men honour’d. Once againThou hast thy proper master! Do thy partAs thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously,My beautiful Orelio, ... to the last ...The happiest of his fields!... Then he drew forthThe scymitar, and waving it aloft,Rode toward the troops; its unaccustom’d shapeDisliked him; Renegade in all things! criedThe Goth, and cast it from him; to the ChiefsThen said, If I have done ye service here,Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword!The trustiest blade that e’er in BilbilisWas dipt, would not to-day be misbestowedOn this right hand!... Go some one, Gunderick cried,And bring Count Julian’s sword. Whoe’er thou art,The worth which thou hast shown avenging himEntitles thee to wear it. But thou goestFor battle unequipp’d; ... haste there and stripYon villain of his armour!Late he spake,So fast the Moors came on. It matters not,Replied the Goth; there’s many a mountaineer,Who in no better armour cased this dayThan his wonted leathern gipion, will be foundIn the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch’dThe unguarded life he ventures.... Taking thenCount Julian’s sword, he fitted round his wristThe chain, and eyeing the elaborate steelWith stern regard of joy, The AfricanUnder unhappy stars was born, he cried,Who tastes thy edge!... Make ready for the charge!They come ... they come!... On, brethren, to the field!...The word is Vengeance!Vengeance was the word;From man to man, and rank to rank it pass’d,By every heart enforced, by every voiceSent forth in loud defiance of the foe.The enemy in shriller sounds return’dTheir Akbar and the Prophet’s trusted name.The horsemen lower’d their spears, the infantryDeliberately with slow and steady stepAdvanced; the bow-strings twang’d, and arrows hiss’d,And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hostsMet in the shock of battle, horse and manConflicting; shield struck shield, and sword and maceAnd curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung;Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged,And many a spirit from its mortal holdHurried to bliss or bale. Well did the ChiefsOf Julian’s army in that hour supportTheir old esteem; and well Count Pedro thereEnhanced his former praise; and by his side,Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife,Alphonso through the host of infidelsBore on his bloody lance dismay and death.But there was worst confusion and uproar,There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proudOf his recover’d Lord, Orelio plungedThrough thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feetThe living and the dead. Where’er he turnsThe Moors divide and fly. What man is this,Appall’d they say, who to the front of warBareheaded offers thus his naked life?Replete with power he is, and terrible,Like some destroying Angel! Sure his lipsHave drank of Kaf’s dark fountain, and he comesStrong in his immortality! Fly! fly!They said, this is no human foe!... Nor lessOf wonder fill’d the Spaniards when they sawHow flight and terror went before his way,And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one,With what command and knightly ease he sitsThe intrepid steed, and deals from side to sideHis dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his powerBestrode with such command and majestyThat noble war-horse. His loose robe this dayIs death’s black banner, shaking from its foldsDismay and ruin. Of no mortal mouldIs he who in that garb of peace affrontsWhole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns!Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some SaintRevisits earth!Aye, cries another, HeavenHath ever with especial bounty blestAbove all other lands its favour’d Spain;Chusing her children forth from all mankindFor its peculiar people, as of yoreAbraham’s ungrateful race beneath the Law.Who knows not how on that most holy nightWhen peace on Earth by Angels was proclaim’d,The light which o’er the fields of Bethlehem shone,Irradiated whole Spain? not just display’d,As to the Shepherds, and again withdrawn;All the long winter hours from eve till mornHer forests and her mountains and her plains,Her hills and valleys were embathed in light,A light which came not from the sun or moonOr stars, by secondary powers dispensed,But from the fountain-springs, the Light of LightEffluent. And wherefore should we not believeThat this may be some Saint or Angel, chargedTo lead us to miraculous victory?Hath not the Virgin Mother oftentimesDescending, clothed in glory, sanctifiedWith feet adorable our happy soil?...Mark’d ye not, said another, how he castIn wrath the unhallow’d scymitar away,And called for Christian weapon? Oh be sureThis is the aid of Heaven! On, comrades, on!A miracle to-day is wrought for Spain!Victory and Vengeance! Hew the miscreants down,And spare not! hew them down in sacrifice!God is with us! his Saints are in the field!Victory! miraculous Victory!Thus theyInflamed with wild belief the keen desireOf vengeance on their enemies abhorr’d,The Moorish chief, meantime, o’erlooked the fightFrom an eminence, and cursed the renegadeWhose counsels sorting to such ill effectHad brought this danger on. Lo, from the EastComes fresh alarm! a few poor fugitivesWell-nigh with fear exanimate came up,From Covadonga flying, and the rearOf that destruction, scarce with breath to tellTheir dreadful tale. When Abulcacem heard,Stricken with horror, like a man bereftOf sense, he stood. O Prophet, he exclaim’d,A hard and cruel fortune hast thou broughtThis day upon thy servant! Must I thenHere with disgrace and ruin close a lifeOf glorious deeds? But how should man resistFate’s irreversible decrees, or whyMurmur at what must be? They who surviveMay mourn the evil which this day begins:My part will soon be done!... Grief then gave wayTo rage, and cursing Guisla, he pursued,Oh that that treacherous woman were but here!It were a consolation to give herThe evil death she merits!That rewardShe hath had, a Moor replied. For when we reach’dThe entrance of the vale, it was her choiceThere in the farthest dwellings to be left,Lest she should see her brother’s face; but thenceWe found her flying at the overthrow,And visiting the treason on her head,Pierced her with wounds.... Poor vengeance for a hostDestroyed! said Abulcacem in his soul.Howbeit, resolving to the last to doHis office, he roused up his spirit. Go,Strike off Count Eudon’s head! he cried; the fearWhich brought him to our camp will bring him elseIn arms against us now; For SisibertAnd Ebba, he continued thus in thought,Their uncle’s fate for ever bars all plotsOf treason on their part; no hope have theyOf safety but with us. He call’d them thenWith chosen troops to join him in the frontOf battle, that by bravely making head,Retreat might now be won. Then fiercer ragedThe conflict, and more frequent cries of death,Mingling with imprecations and with prayers,Rose through the din of war.By this the bloodWhich Deva down her fatal channel pour’d,Purpling Pionia’s course, had reach’d and stain’dThe wider stream of Sella. Soon far offThe frequent glance of spears and gleam of armsWere seen, which sparkled to the westering orb,Where down the vale, impatient to completeThe glorious work so well that day begun,Pelayo led his troops. On foot they came,Chieftains and men alike; the Oaken CrossTriumphant borne on high, precedes their march,And broad and bright the argent banner shone.Roderick, who dealing death from side to side,Had through the Moorish army now made way,Beheld it flash, and judging well what aidApproach’d, with sudden impulse that way rode,To tell of what had pass’d, ... lest in the strifeThey should engage with Julian’s men, and marThe mighty consummation. One ran onTo meet him fleet of foot, and having givenHis tale to this swift messenger, the GothHalted awhile to let Orelio breathe.Siverian, quoth Pelayo, if mine eyesDeceive me not, yon horse, whose reeking sidesAre red with slaughter, is the same on whomThe apostate Orpas in his vaunteryWont to parade the streets of Cordoba.But thou shouldst know him best; regard him well:Is’t not Orelio?Either it is he,The old man replied, or one so like to him,Whom all thought matchless, that similitudeWould be the greater wonder. But behold,What man is he who in that disarrayDoth with such power and majesty bestrideThe noble steed, as if he felt himselfIn his own proper seat? Look how he leansTo cherish him; and how the gallant horseCurves up his stately neck, and bends his head,As if again to court that gentle touch,And answer to the voice which praises him.Can it be Maccabee? rejoin’d the King,Or are the secret wishes of my soulIndeed fulfill’d, and hath the grave given upIts dead?... So saying, on the old man he turn’dEyes full of wide astonishment, which toldThe incipient thought that for incredibleHe spake no farther. But enough had pass’d,For old Siverian started at the wordsLike one who sees a spectre, and exclaim’d,Blind that I was to know him not till now!My Master, O my Master!He meantimeWith easy pace moved on to meet their march.King, to Pelayo he began, this dayBy means scarce less than miracle, thy throneIs stablish’d, and the wrongs of Spain revenged.Orpas the accursed, upon yonder fieldLies ready for the ravens. By the MoorsTreacherously slain, Count Julian will be foundBefore Saint Peter’s altar; unto himGrace was vouchsafed; and by that holy powerWhich at Visonia from the Primate’s handOf his own proper act to me was given,Unworthy as I am, ... yet sure I thinkNot without mystery, as the event hath shown, ...Did I accept Count Julian’s penitence,And reconcile the dying man to Heaven.Beside him hath his daughter fallen asleep;Deal honourably with his remains, and letOne grave with Christian rites receive them both.Is it not written that as the Tree fallsSo it shall lie?In this and all things else,Pelayo answer’d, looking wistfullyUpon the Goth, thy pleasure shall be done.Then Roderick saw that he was known, and turn’dHis head away in silence. But the old manLaid hold upon his bridle, and look’d upIn his master’s face, weeping and silently.Thereat the Goth with fervent pressure tookHis hand, and bending down toward him, said,My good Siverian, go not thou this dayTo war! I charge thee keep thyself from harm!Thou art past the age for battles, and with whomHereafter should thy mistress talk of meIf thou wert gone?... Thou seest I am unarm’d;Thus disarray’d as thou beholdest me,Clean through yon miscreant army have I cutMy way unhurt; but being once by HeavenPreserved, I would not perish with the guiltOf having wilfully provoked my death.Give me thy helmet and thy cuirass!... nay, ...Thou wert not wont to let me ask in vain,Nor to gainsay me when my will was known!To thee methinks I should be still the King.

As Pedro would have answer’d, a loud cry

Of menacing imprecation from the troops

Arose; for Orpas, by the Moorish Chief

Sent to allay the storm his villainy

Had stirr’d, came hastening on a milk-white steed,

And at safe distance having check’d the rein,

Beckon’d for parley. ’Twas Orelio

On which he rode, Roderick’s own battle-horse,

Who from his master’s hand had wont to feed,

And with a glad docility obey

His voice familiar. At the sight the Goth

Started, and indignation to his soul

Brought back the thoughts and feelings of old times.

Suffer me, Count, he cried, to answer him,

And hold these back the while! Thus having said,

He waited no reply, but as he was,

Bareheaded, in his weeds, and all unarm’d,

Advanced toward the renegade. Sir Priest,

Quoth Orpas as he came, I hold no talk

With thee; my errand is with Gunderick

And the Captains of the host, to whom I bring

Such liberal offers and clear proof....

The Goth,

Breaking with scornful voice his speech, exclaim’d,

What, could no steed but Roderick’s serve thy turn?

I should have thought some sleek and sober mule

Long train’d in shackles to procession pace,

More suited to my lord of Seville’s use

Than this good war-horse, ... he who never bore

A villain, until Orpas cross’d his back!...

Wretch! cried the astonish’d renegade, and stoopt,

Foaming with anger, from the saddle-bow

To reach his weapon. Ere the hasty hand

Trembling in passion could perform its will,

Roderick had seized the reins. How now, he cried,

Orelio! old companion, ... my good horse, ...

Off with this recreant burthen!... And with that

He raised his hand, and rear’d and back’d the steed,

To that remember’d voice and arm of power

Obedient. Down the helpless traitor fell

Violently thrown, and Roderick over him

Thrice led with just and unrelenting hand

The trampling hoofs. Go join Witiza now,

Where he lies howling, the avenger cried,

And tell him Roderick sent thee!

At that sight,

Count Julian’s soldiers and the Asturian host

Set up a shout, a joyful shout, which rung

Wide through the welkin. Their exulting cry

With louder acclamation was renew’d,

When from the expiring miscreant’s neck they saw

That Roderick took the shield, and round his own

Hung it, and vaulted in the seat. My horse!

My noble horse! he cried, with flattering hand

Patting his high-arch’d neck! the renegade,

I thank him for’t, hath kept thee daintily!

Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still,

Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse,

Once more thou bearest to the field thy Lord,

He who so oft hath fed and cherish’d thee,

He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen,

Thou wert by all men honour’d. Once again

Thou hast thy proper master! Do thy part

As thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously,

My beautiful Orelio, ... to the last ...

The happiest of his fields!... Then he drew forth

The scymitar, and waving it aloft,

Rode toward the troops; its unaccustom’d shape

Disliked him; Renegade in all things! cried

The Goth, and cast it from him; to the Chiefs

Then said, If I have done ye service here,

Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword!

The trustiest blade that e’er in Bilbilis

Was dipt, would not to-day be misbestowed

On this right hand!... Go some one, Gunderick cried,

And bring Count Julian’s sword. Whoe’er thou art,

The worth which thou hast shown avenging him

Entitles thee to wear it. But thou goest

For battle unequipp’d; ... haste there and strip

Yon villain of his armour!

Late he spake,

So fast the Moors came on. It matters not,

Replied the Goth; there’s many a mountaineer,

Who in no better armour cased this day

Than his wonted leathern gipion, will be found

In the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch’d

The unguarded life he ventures.... Taking then

Count Julian’s sword, he fitted round his wrist

The chain, and eyeing the elaborate steel

With stern regard of joy, The African

Under unhappy stars was born, he cried,

Who tastes thy edge!... Make ready for the charge!

They come ... they come!... On, brethren, to the field!...

The word is Vengeance!

Vengeance was the word;

From man to man, and rank to rank it pass’d,

By every heart enforced, by every voice

Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe.

The enemy in shriller sounds return’d

Their Akbar and the Prophet’s trusted name.

The horsemen lower’d their spears, the infantry

Deliberately with slow and steady step

Advanced; the bow-strings twang’d, and arrows hiss’d,

And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts

Met in the shock of battle, horse and man

Conflicting; shield struck shield, and sword and mace

And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung;

Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged,

And many a spirit from its mortal hold

Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the Chiefs

Of Julian’s army in that hour support

Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there

Enhanced his former praise; and by his side,

Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife,

Alphonso through the host of infidels

Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death.

But there was worst confusion and uproar,

There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud

Of his recover’d Lord, Orelio plunged

Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet

The living and the dead. Where’er he turns

The Moors divide and fly. What man is this,

Appall’d they say, who to the front of war

Bareheaded offers thus his naked life?

Replete with power he is, and terrible,

Like some destroying Angel! Sure his lips

Have drank of Kaf’s dark fountain, and he comes

Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly!

They said, this is no human foe!... Nor less

Of wonder fill’d the Spaniards when they saw

How flight and terror went before his way,

And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one,

With what command and knightly ease he sits

The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side

His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power

Bestrode with such command and majesty

That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day

Is death’s black banner, shaking from its folds

Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mould

Is he who in that garb of peace affronts

Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns!

Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some Saint

Revisits earth!

Aye, cries another, Heaven

Hath ever with especial bounty blest

Above all other lands its favour’d Spain;

Chusing her children forth from all mankind

For its peculiar people, as of yore

Abraham’s ungrateful race beneath the Law.

Who knows not how on that most holy night

When peace on Earth by Angels was proclaim’d,

The light which o’er the fields of Bethlehem shone,

Irradiated whole Spain? not just display’d,

As to the Shepherds, and again withdrawn;

All the long winter hours from eve till morn

Her forests and her mountains and her plains,

Her hills and valleys were embathed in light,

A light which came not from the sun or moon

Or stars, by secondary powers dispensed,

But from the fountain-springs, the Light of Light

Effluent. And wherefore should we not believe

That this may be some Saint or Angel, charged

To lead us to miraculous victory?

Hath not the Virgin Mother oftentimes

Descending, clothed in glory, sanctified

With feet adorable our happy soil?...

Mark’d ye not, said another, how he cast

In wrath the unhallow’d scymitar away,

And called for Christian weapon? Oh be sure

This is the aid of Heaven! On, comrades, on!

A miracle to-day is wrought for Spain!

Victory and Vengeance! Hew the miscreants down,

And spare not! hew them down in sacrifice!

God is with us! his Saints are in the field!

Victory! miraculous Victory!

Thus they

Inflamed with wild belief the keen desire

Of vengeance on their enemies abhorr’d,

The Moorish chief, meantime, o’erlooked the fight

From an eminence, and cursed the renegade

Whose counsels sorting to such ill effect

Had brought this danger on. Lo, from the East

Comes fresh alarm! a few poor fugitives

Well-nigh with fear exanimate came up,

From Covadonga flying, and the rear

Of that destruction, scarce with breath to tell

Their dreadful tale. When Abulcacem heard,

Stricken with horror, like a man bereft

Of sense, he stood. O Prophet, he exclaim’d,

A hard and cruel fortune hast thou brought

This day upon thy servant! Must I then

Here with disgrace and ruin close a life

Of glorious deeds? But how should man resist

Fate’s irreversible decrees, or why

Murmur at what must be? They who survive

May mourn the evil which this day begins:

My part will soon be done!... Grief then gave way

To rage, and cursing Guisla, he pursued,

Oh that that treacherous woman were but here!

It were a consolation to give her

The evil death she merits!

That reward

She hath had, a Moor replied. For when we reach’d

The entrance of the vale, it was her choice

There in the farthest dwellings to be left,

Lest she should see her brother’s face; but thence

We found her flying at the overthrow,

And visiting the treason on her head,

Pierced her with wounds.... Poor vengeance for a host

Destroyed! said Abulcacem in his soul.

Howbeit, resolving to the last to do

His office, he roused up his spirit. Go,

Strike off Count Eudon’s head! he cried; the fear

Which brought him to our camp will bring him else

In arms against us now; For Sisibert

And Ebba, he continued thus in thought,

Their uncle’s fate for ever bars all plots

Of treason on their part; no hope have they

Of safety but with us. He call’d them then

With chosen troops to join him in the front

Of battle, that by bravely making head,

Retreat might now be won. Then fiercer raged

The conflict, and more frequent cries of death,

Mingling with imprecations and with prayers,

Rose through the din of war.

By this the blood

Which Deva down her fatal channel pour’d,

Purpling Pionia’s course, had reach’d and stain’d

The wider stream of Sella. Soon far off

The frequent glance of spears and gleam of arms

Were seen, which sparkled to the westering orb,

Where down the vale, impatient to complete

The glorious work so well that day begun,

Pelayo led his troops. On foot they came,

Chieftains and men alike; the Oaken Cross

Triumphant borne on high, precedes their march,

And broad and bright the argent banner shone.

Roderick, who dealing death from side to side,

Had through the Moorish army now made way,

Beheld it flash, and judging well what aid

Approach’d, with sudden impulse that way rode,

To tell of what had pass’d, ... lest in the strife

They should engage with Julian’s men, and mar

The mighty consummation. One ran on

To meet him fleet of foot, and having given

His tale to this swift messenger, the Goth

Halted awhile to let Orelio breathe.

Siverian, quoth Pelayo, if mine eyes

Deceive me not, yon horse, whose reeking sides

Are red with slaughter, is the same on whom

The apostate Orpas in his vauntery

Wont to parade the streets of Cordoba.

But thou shouldst know him best; regard him well:

Is’t not Orelio?

Either it is he,

The old man replied, or one so like to him,

Whom all thought matchless, that similitude

Would be the greater wonder. But behold,

What man is he who in that disarray

Doth with such power and majesty bestride

The noble steed, as if he felt himself

In his own proper seat? Look how he leans

To cherish him; and how the gallant horse

Curves up his stately neck, and bends his head,

As if again to court that gentle touch,

And answer to the voice which praises him.

Can it be Maccabee? rejoin’d the King,

Or are the secret wishes of my soul

Indeed fulfill’d, and hath the grave given up

Its dead?... So saying, on the old man he turn’d

Eyes full of wide astonishment, which told

The incipient thought that for incredible

He spake no farther. But enough had pass’d,

For old Siverian started at the words

Like one who sees a spectre, and exclaim’d,

Blind that I was to know him not till now!

My Master, O my Master!

He meantime

With easy pace moved on to meet their march.

King, to Pelayo he began, this day

By means scarce less than miracle, thy throne

Is stablish’d, and the wrongs of Spain revenged.

Orpas the accursed, upon yonder field

Lies ready for the ravens. By the Moors

Treacherously slain, Count Julian will be found

Before Saint Peter’s altar; unto him

Grace was vouchsafed; and by that holy power

Which at Visonia from the Primate’s hand

Of his own proper act to me was given,

Unworthy as I am, ... yet sure I think

Not without mystery, as the event hath shown, ...

Did I accept Count Julian’s penitence,

And reconcile the dying man to Heaven.

Beside him hath his daughter fallen asleep;

Deal honourably with his remains, and let

One grave with Christian rites receive them both.

Is it not written that as the Tree falls

So it shall lie?

In this and all things else,

Pelayo answer’d, looking wistfully

Upon the Goth, thy pleasure shall be done.

Then Roderick saw that he was known, and turn’d

His head away in silence. But the old man

Laid hold upon his bridle, and look’d up

In his master’s face, weeping and silently.

Thereat the Goth with fervent pressure took

His hand, and bending down toward him, said,

My good Siverian, go not thou this day

To war! I charge thee keep thyself from harm!

Thou art past the age for battles, and with whom

Hereafter should thy mistress talk of me

If thou wert gone?... Thou seest I am unarm’d;

Thus disarray’d as thou beholdest me,

Clean through yon miscreant army have I cut

My way unhurt; but being once by Heaven

Preserved, I would not perish with the guilt

Of having wilfully provoked my death.

Give me thy helmet and thy cuirass!... nay, ...

Thou wert not wont to let me ask in vain,

Nor to gainsay me when my will was known!

To thee methinks I should be still the King.

Thus saying, they withdrew a little wayWithin the trees. Roderick alighted there,And in the old man’s armour dight himself.Dost thou not marvel by what wonderous chance,Said he, Orelio to his master’s handHath been restored? I found the renegadeOf Seville on his back, and hurl’d him downHeadlong to the earth. The noble animalRejoicingly obey’d my hand to shakeHis recreant burthen off, and trample outThe life which once I spared in evil hour.Now let me meet Witiza’s viperous sonsIn yonder field, and then I may go restIn peace, ... my work is done!And nobly done!Exclaim’d the old man. Oh! thou art greater nowThan in that glorious hour of victoryWhen grovelling in the dust Witiza lay,The prisoner of thy hand!... Roderick replied,O good Siverian, happier victoryThy son hath now achieved, ... the victoryOver the world, his sins and his despair.If on the field my body should be found,See it, I charge thee, laid in Julian’s grave,And let no idle ear be told for whomThou mournest. Thou wilt use OrelioAs doth beseem the steed which hath so oftCarried a King to battle; ... he hath doneGood service for his rightful Lord to-day,And better yet must do. Siverian, nowFarewell! I think we shall not meet again,Till it be in that world where never changeIs known, and they who love shall part no more.Commend me to my mother’s prayers, and sayThat never man enjoy’d a heavenlier peaceThan Roderick at this hour. O faithful friend,How dear thou art to me these tears may tell!

Thus saying, they withdrew a little way

Within the trees. Roderick alighted there,

And in the old man’s armour dight himself.

Dost thou not marvel by what wonderous chance,

Said he, Orelio to his master’s hand

Hath been restored? I found the renegade

Of Seville on his back, and hurl’d him down

Headlong to the earth. The noble animal

Rejoicingly obey’d my hand to shake

His recreant burthen off, and trample out

The life which once I spared in evil hour.

Now let me meet Witiza’s viperous sons

In yonder field, and then I may go rest

In peace, ... my work is done!

And nobly done!

Exclaim’d the old man. Oh! thou art greater now

Than in that glorious hour of victory

When grovelling in the dust Witiza lay,

The prisoner of thy hand!... Roderick replied,

O good Siverian, happier victory

Thy son hath now achieved, ... the victory

Over the world, his sins and his despair.

If on the field my body should be found,

See it, I charge thee, laid in Julian’s grave,

And let no idle ear be told for whom

Thou mournest. Thou wilt use Orelio

As doth beseem the steed which hath so oft

Carried a King to battle; ... he hath done

Good service for his rightful Lord to-day,

And better yet must do. Siverian, now

Farewell! I think we shall not meet again,

Till it be in that world where never change

Is known, and they who love shall part no more.

Commend me to my mother’s prayers, and say

That never man enjoy’d a heavenlier peace

Than Roderick at this hour. O faithful friend,

How dear thou art to me these tears may tell!

With that he fell upon the old man’s neck;Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins,And soon rejoin’d the host. On, comrades, on!Victory and Vengeance! he exclaim’d, and tookThe lead on that good charger, he aloneHorsed for the onset. They with one consentGave all their voices to the inspiring cry,Victory and Vengeance! and the hills and rocksCaught the prophetic shout and roll’d it round.Count Pedro’s people heard amid the heatOf battle, and return’d the glad acclaim.The astonish’d Musselmen, on all sides charged,Hear that tremendous cry; yet manfullyThey stood, and every where with gallant frontOpposed in fair array the shock of war.Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms,And knowing that no safety could be found,Save from their own right hands. No former dayOf all his long career had seen their chiefApproved so well; nor had Witiza’s sonsEver before this hour achieved in fightSuch feats of resolute valour. SisibertBeheld Pelayo in the field afoot,And twice essay’d beneath his horse’s feetTo thrust him down. Twice did the Prince evadeThe shock, and twice upon his shield receivedThe fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more,Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief,Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth!Go meet thy death from any hand but mine.He said, and turn’d aside. Fitliest from me!Exclaim’d a dreadful voice, as through the throngOrelio forced his way; fitliest from meReceive the rightful death too long withheld!’Tis Roderick strikes the blow! And as he spake,Upon the traitor’s shoulder fierce he droveThe weapon, well-bestow’d. He in the seatTotter’d and fell. The Avenger hasten’d onIn search of Ebba; and in the heat of fightRejoicing and forgetful of all else,Set up his cry as he was wont in youth,Roderick the Goth!... his war-cry known so well.Pelayo eagerly took up the word,And shouted out his kinsman’s name beloved,Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;Urban repeated it, and through his ranksCount Pedro sent the cry. Not from the fieldOf his great victory, when Witiza fell,With louder acclamations had that nameBeen borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.The unreflecting throng, who yesterday,If it had pass’d their lips, would with a curseHave clogg’d it, echoed it as if it cameFrom some celestial voice in the air, reveal’dTo be the certain pledge of all their hopes.Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!Roderick and Vengeance! O’er the field it spread,All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on,Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and smote,And overthrew, and scatter’d, and destroy’d,And trampled down; and still at every blowExultingly he sent the war-cry forth,Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!Roderick and Vengeance!Thus he made his way,Smiting and slaying through the astonish’d ranks,Till he beheld, where on a fiery barb,Ebba, performing well a soldier’s part,Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows.With mutual rage they met. The renegadeDisplays a scymitar, the splendid giftOf Walid from Damascus sent; its hiltEmboss’d with gems, its blade of perfect steel,Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sunWith dazzling splendour, flash’d. The Goth objectsHis shield, and on its rim received the edgeDriven from its aim aside, and of its forceDiminish’d. Many a frustrate stroke was dealtOn either part, and many a foin and thrustAim’d and rebated; many a deadly blowStraight, or reverse, delivered and repell’d.Roderick at length with better speed hath reach’dThe apostate’s turban, and through all its foldsThe true Cantabrian weapon making wayAttain’d his forehead. Wretch! the avenger cried,It comes from Roderick’s hand! Roderick the Goth,Who spared, who trusted thee, and was betray’d!Go tell thy father now how thou hast spedWith all thy treasons! Saying thus he seizedThe miserable, who, blinded now with blood,Reel’d in the saddle; and with sidelong stepBacking Orelio, drew him to the ground.He shrieking, as beneath the horse’s feetHe fell, forgot his late-learnt creed, and call’dOn Mary’s name. The dreadful Goth pass’d on,Still plunging through the thickest war, and stillScattering, where’er he turn’d, the affrighted ranks.

With that he fell upon the old man’s neck;

Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins,

And soon rejoin’d the host. On, comrades, on!

Victory and Vengeance! he exclaim’d, and took

The lead on that good charger, he alone

Horsed for the onset. They with one consent

Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry,

Victory and Vengeance! and the hills and rocks

Caught the prophetic shout and roll’d it round.

Count Pedro’s people heard amid the heat

Of battle, and return’d the glad acclaim.

The astonish’d Musselmen, on all sides charged,

Hear that tremendous cry; yet manfully

They stood, and every where with gallant front

Opposed in fair array the shock of war.

Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms,

And knowing that no safety could be found,

Save from their own right hands. No former day

Of all his long career had seen their chief

Approved so well; nor had Witiza’s sons

Ever before this hour achieved in fight

Such feats of resolute valour. Sisibert

Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot,

And twice essay’d beneath his horse’s feet

To thrust him down. Twice did the Prince evade

The shock, and twice upon his shield received

The fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more,

Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief,

Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth!

Go meet thy death from any hand but mine.

He said, and turn’d aside. Fitliest from me!

Exclaim’d a dreadful voice, as through the throng

Orelio forced his way; fitliest from me

Receive the rightful death too long withheld!

’Tis Roderick strikes the blow! And as he spake,

Upon the traitor’s shoulder fierce he drove

The weapon, well-bestow’d. He in the seat

Totter’d and fell. The Avenger hasten’d on

In search of Ebba; and in the heat of fight

Rejoicing and forgetful of all else,

Set up his cry as he was wont in youth,

Roderick the Goth!... his war-cry known so well.

Pelayo eagerly took up the word,

And shouted out his kinsman’s name beloved,

Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!

Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;

Urban repeated it, and through his ranks

Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field

Of his great victory, when Witiza fell,

With louder acclamations had that name

Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.

The unreflecting throng, who yesterday,

If it had pass’d their lips, would with a curse

Have clogg’d it, echoed it as if it came

From some celestial voice in the air, reveal’d

To be the certain pledge of all their hopes.

Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!

Roderick and Vengeance! O’er the field it spread,

All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;

Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;

And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on,

Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and smote,

And overthrew, and scatter’d, and destroy’d,

And trampled down; and still at every blow

Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth,

Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!

Roderick and Vengeance!

Thus he made his way,

Smiting and slaying through the astonish’d ranks,

Till he beheld, where on a fiery barb,

Ebba, performing well a soldier’s part,

Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows.

With mutual rage they met. The renegade

Displays a scymitar, the splendid gift

Of Walid from Damascus sent; its hilt

Emboss’d with gems, its blade of perfect steel,

Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sun

With dazzling splendour, flash’d. The Goth objects

His shield, and on its rim received the edge

Driven from its aim aside, and of its force

Diminish’d. Many a frustrate stroke was dealt

On either part, and many a foin and thrust

Aim’d and rebated; many a deadly blow

Straight, or reverse, delivered and repell’d.

Roderick at length with better speed hath reach’d

The apostate’s turban, and through all its folds

The true Cantabrian weapon making way

Attain’d his forehead. Wretch! the avenger cried,

It comes from Roderick’s hand! Roderick the Goth,

Who spared, who trusted thee, and was betray’d!

Go tell thy father now how thou hast sped

With all thy treasons! Saying thus he seized

The miserable, who, blinded now with blood,

Reel’d in the saddle; and with sidelong step

Backing Orelio, drew him to the ground.

He shrieking, as beneath the horse’s feet

He fell, forgot his late-learnt creed, and call’d

On Mary’s name. The dreadful Goth pass’d on,

Still plunging through the thickest war, and still

Scattering, where’er he turn’d, the affrighted ranks.

O who could tell what deeds were wrought that day,Or who endure to hear the tale of rage,Hatred, and madness, and despair, and fear,Horror, and wounds, and agony, and death,The cries, the blasphemies, the shrieks, and groans,And prayers, which mingled with the din of armsIn one wild uproar of terrific sounds;While over all predominant was heard,Reiterate from the conquerors o’er the field,Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!Roderick and Vengeance!... Woe for Africa!Woe for the circumcised! Woe for the faithOf the lying Ishmaelite that hour! The ChiefsHave fallen; the Moors, confused and captainless,And panic-stricken, vainly seek to escapeThe inevitable fate. Turn where they will,Strong in his cause, rejoicing in success,Insatiate at the banquet of revenge,The enemy is there; look where they will,Death hath environed their devoted ranks;Fly where they will, the avenger and the swordAwait them, ... wretches! whom the righteous armHath overtaken!... Join’d in bonds of faithAccurs’d, the most flagitious of mankindFrom all parts met are here; the apostate Greek,The vicious Syrian, and the sullen Copt,The Persian cruel and corrupt of soul,The Arabian robber, and the prowling sonsOf Africa, who from their thirsty sandsPray that the locusts on the peopled plainMay settle and prepare their way. Conjoin’dBeneath an impious faith, which sanctifiesTo them all deeds of wickedness and blood, ...Yea, and halloos them on, ... here are they metTo be conjoin’d in punishment this hour.For plunder, violation, massacre,All hideous, all unutterable things,The righteous, the immitigable swordExacts due vengeance now! the cry of bloodIs heard, the measure of their crimes is full;Such mercy as the Moor at Auria gave,Such mercy hath he found this dreadful hour!

O who could tell what deeds were wrought that day,

Or who endure to hear the tale of rage,

Hatred, and madness, and despair, and fear,

Horror, and wounds, and agony, and death,

The cries, the blasphemies, the shrieks, and groans,

And prayers, which mingled with the din of arms

In one wild uproar of terrific sounds;

While over all predominant was heard,

Reiterate from the conquerors o’er the field,

Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!

Roderick and Vengeance!... Woe for Africa!

Woe for the circumcised! Woe for the faith

Of the lying Ishmaelite that hour! The Chiefs

Have fallen; the Moors, confused and captainless,

And panic-stricken, vainly seek to escape

The inevitable fate. Turn where they will,

Strong in his cause, rejoicing in success,

Insatiate at the banquet of revenge,

The enemy is there; look where they will,

Death hath environed their devoted ranks;

Fly where they will, the avenger and the sword

Await them, ... wretches! whom the righteous arm

Hath overtaken!... Join’d in bonds of faith

Accurs’d, the most flagitious of mankind

From all parts met are here; the apostate Greek,

The vicious Syrian, and the sullen Copt,

The Persian cruel and corrupt of soul,

The Arabian robber, and the prowling sons

Of Africa, who from their thirsty sands

Pray that the locusts on the peopled plain

May settle and prepare their way. Conjoin’d

Beneath an impious faith, which sanctifies

To them all deeds of wickedness and blood, ...

Yea, and halloos them on, ... here are they met

To be conjoin’d in punishment this hour.

For plunder, violation, massacre,

All hideous, all unutterable things,

The righteous, the immitigable sword

Exacts due vengeance now! the cry of blood

Is heard, the measure of their crimes is full;

Such mercy as the Moor at Auria gave,

Such mercy hath he found this dreadful hour!

The evening darken’d, but the avenging swordTurn’d not away its edge till night had closedUpon the field of blood. The Chieftains thenBlew the recall, and from their perfect workReturn’d rejoicing, all but he for whomAll look’d with most expectance. He full sureHad thought upon that field to find his endDesired, and with Florinda in the graveRest, in indissoluble union join’d.But still where through the press of war he wentHalf-arm’d, and like a lover seeking death,The arrows past him by to right and left,The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitarGlanced from his helmet; he, when he beheldThe rout complete, saw that the shield of HeavenHad been extended over him once more,And bowed before its will. Upon the banksOf Sella was Orelio found, his legsAnd flanks incarnadined, his poitral smearedWith froth and foam and gore, his silver maneSprinkled with blood, which hung on every hair,Aspersed like dew-drops; trembling there he stoodFrom the toil of battle, and at times sent forthHis tremulous voice far echoing loud and shrill,A frequent anxious cry, with which he seem’dTo call the master whom he loved so well,And who had thus again forsaken him.Siverian’s helm and cuirass on the grassLay near; and Julian’s sword, its hilt and chainClotted with blood; but where was he whose handHad wielded it so well that glorious day?...

The evening darken’d, but the avenging sword

Turn’d not away its edge till night had closed

Upon the field of blood. The Chieftains then

Blew the recall, and from their perfect work

Return’d rejoicing, all but he for whom

All look’d with most expectance. He full sure

Had thought upon that field to find his end

Desired, and with Florinda in the grave

Rest, in indissoluble union join’d.

But still where through the press of war he went

Half-arm’d, and like a lover seeking death,

The arrows past him by to right and left,

The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar

Glanced from his helmet; he, when he beheld

The rout complete, saw that the shield of Heaven

Had been extended over him once more,

And bowed before its will. Upon the banks

Of Sella was Orelio found, his legs

And flanks incarnadined, his poitral smeared

With froth and foam and gore, his silver mane

Sprinkled with blood, which hung on every hair,

Aspersed like dew-drops; trembling there he stood

From the toil of battle, and at times sent forth

His tremulous voice far echoing loud and shrill,

A frequent anxious cry, with which he seem’d

To call the master whom he loved so well,

And who had thus again forsaken him.

Siverian’s helm and cuirass on the grass

Lay near; and Julian’s sword, its hilt and chain

Clotted with blood; but where was he whose hand

Had wielded it so well that glorious day?...

Days, months, and years, and generations pass’d,And centuries held their course, before, far offWithin a hermitage near Viseu’s wallsA humble tomb was found, which bore inscribedIn ancient characters King Roderick’s name.

Days, months, and years, and generations pass’d,

And centuries held their course, before, far off

Within a hermitage near Viseu’s walls

A humble tomb was found, which bore inscribed

In ancient characters King Roderick’s name.

Back to Index Next