'Twas now the earliest morning; soon the Sun, Rising above Albardos, pour'd his light Amid the forest, and with ray aslant
Entering its depth, illumed the branchless pines, Brighten'd their bark, tinged with a redder hue Its rusty stains, and cast along the floor Long lines of shadow, where they rose erect Like pillars of the temple. With slow foot Roderick pursued his way; for penitence, Remorse which gave no respite, and the long And painful conflict of his troubled soul, Had worn him down.
He journey'd, and drew near Leyria's walls. 'Twas even-song time, but not a bell was heard : Instead thereof, on her polluted towers,
Bidding the Moors to their unhallow'd prayer, The cryer stood, and with his sonorous voice Fill'd the delicious vale where Lena winds Thro'groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight Of turban, girdle, robe, and scymitar,
And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth; The face of human-kind so long unseen
Confused him now, and through the streets he went With hagged mien, and countenance like one Crazed or bewilder'd. All who met him turn'd, And wonder'd as he pass'd. One stopt him short, Put alms into his hand, and then desired,
In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man With a look of vacancy
Roderick received the alms; his wandering eye Fell on the money, and the fallen King,
Seeing his own royal impress on the piece, Broke out into a quick convulsive voice,
That seem'd like laughter first, but ended soon In hollow groans supprest: the Musselman Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified The name of Allah as he hasten'd on. A Christian woman spinning at her door Beheld him, and, with sudden pity touch'd, She laid her spindle by, and running in Took bread, and following after call'd him back, And placing in his passive hands the loaf,
She said, Christ Jesus for his mother's sake Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem'd Like idiotcy he heard her, and stood still, Staring awhile; then bursting into tears
Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart, Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts. So through the streets, and through the northern gate Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place, With feeble yet with hurried step, pursue His agitated way: and when he reached The open fields, and found himself alone Beneath the starry canopy of Heaven, The sense of solitude, so dreadful late, Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf; And shedding o'er that long untasted food Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul
He breathed thanksgiving forth, then made his bed On heath and myrtle.
Beholding Roderick with fix'd eyes intent,
Yet unregardant of the countenance
Whereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb'd, Collecting fortitude for what she yearn'd, Yet trembled to perform. Her steady look Disturb'd the Goth, albeit he little ween'd What agony awaited him that hour.
Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was now Half-hidden, and the lustre of her eye Extinct; nor did her voice awaken in him One startling recollection when she spake, So altered were its tones.
All thankful as I am to leave behind The unhappy walls of Cordoba, not less Of consolation doth my heart receive At sight of one to whom I may disclose The sins which trouble me, and at his feet Lay down repentantly, in Jesu's name, The burthen of my spirit. In his name Hear me, and pour into a wounded soul The balm of pious counsel.
One who is known too fatally for all, The daughter of Count Julian.-Well it was For Roderick that no eye beheld him now: From head to foot a sharper pang than death Thrill'd him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke,
Ceased from its functions: his breath fail'd, and when The power of life recovering set its springs Again in action, cold and clammy sweat Starting at every pore suffused his frame. Their presence help'd him to subdue himself; For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallen Before Florinda prostrate on the earth,
And in that mutual agony belike
Both souls had taken flight. She mark'd him not: For having told her name, she bow'd her head; Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven, While, as the penitent, she wrought herself To open to his eye her hidden wounds.
Father, at length she said, all tongues amid This general ruin shed their bitterness On Roderick, load his memory with reproach, And with their curses persecute his soul.- Why shouldst thou tell me this? exclaim'd the Goth, From his cold forehead wiping as he spake The death-like moisture :-Why of Roderick's guilt Tell me? Or thinkëst thou I know it not?
Alas! who hath not heard the hideous tale
Of Roderick's shame! Babes learn it from their nurses, And children, by their mothers unreproved,
Link their first execrations to his name.
Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy,
That, like Iscariot's, through all time shall last, Reeking and fresh for ever!
Thou too, quoth she, dost join the general curse, Like one who when he sees a felon's grave, Casting a stone there as he passes by,
Adds to the heap of shame. Oh what are we, Frail creatures as we are, that we should sit
Tenderly, passionately, madly loved him.
Sinful it was to love a child of earth
With such entire devotion as I loved
Roderick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth! And yet methought this was its only crime, The imaginative passion seem'd so pure: Quiet and calm like duty, hope nor fear Disturb'd the deep contentment of that love: He was the sunshine of my soul, and like A flower, I lived and flourish'd in his light. Oh bear not with me thus impatiently! No tale of weakness this, that in the act Of penitence, indulgent to itself, With garrulous palliation half repeats The sin it ill repents. I will be brief, And shrink not from confessing how the love Which thus began in innocence, betray'd My unsuspecting heart; nor me alone, But him, before whom, shining as he shone With whatsoe'er is noble, whatsoe'er
Is lovely, whatsoever good and great, I was as dust and ashes.
By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised, To an unworthy mate had bound himself In politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tell How Nature upon Egilona's form, Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts, Left, like a statue from the graver's hands, Deformity and hollowness beneath The rich external? For the love of pomp And emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr'd
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