To that free feast which in their Prophet's name
Rapine and Lust proclaim'd. Nor were the chiefs
Of victory less assured, by long success
Elate, and proud of that o'erwhelming strength,
Which, surely they believed, as it had roll'd
Thus far uncheck'd, would roll victorious on,
Till, like the Orient, the subjected West
Should bow in reverence at Mahommed's name;
And pilgrims, from remotest Arctic shores,
Tread with religious feet the burning sands
Of Araby, and Mecca's stony soil.
Proud of his part in Roderick's overthrow,
Their leader Abulcacem came, a man
Immitigable, long in war renown'd.
Plighted to him so long, so long withheld,
Till she had found a fitting hour to fly
With that audacious Prince, who now, in arms,
Defied the Caliph's power; - for who could doubt
That in his company she fled, perhaps
The mover of his flight? What if the Count
Himself had plann'd the evasion which he feign'd
In sorrow to condemn? What if she went,
A pledge assured, to tell the mountaineers
That when they met the Mussulmen in the heat
Of fight, her father, passing to their side,
Would draw the victory with him?- Thus be
breathed
Fiend-like in Abulcacem's ear his schemes
Erelong, in part approving his discourse,
Aided his aim, and gave his wishes weight.
For scarce on the Asturian territory
Here Magued comes, who on the conquer'd walls Of murderous malice; and the course of things,
Of Cordoba, by treacherous fear betray'd,
Planted the moony standard: Ibrahim here,
He, who, by Genil and in Darro's vales,
Had for the Moors the fairest portion won
Of all their spoils, fairest and best maintain'd,
And to the Alpuxarras given in trust
His other name, through them preserved in song.
Here too Alcahman, vaunting his late deeds
At Auria, all her children by the sword
Cut off, her bulwarks razed, her towers laid low,
Her dwellings by devouring flames consumed,
Bloody and hard of heart, he little ween'd,
Vain-boastful chief! that from those fatal flames
The fire of retribution had gone forth,
Which soon should wrap him round.
The renegades
Here too were seen, Ebba and Sisibert;
A spurious brood, but of their parent's crimes
True heirs, in guilt begotten, and in ill
Train'd up. The same unnatural rage that turn'd
Their swords against their country, made them seek,
Unmindful of their wretched mother's end,
Pelayo's life. No enmity is like
Domestic hatred. For his blood they thirst,
As if that sacrifice might satisfy
Witiza's guilty ghost, efface the shame
Of their adulterous birth, and one crime more
Crowning a hideous course, emancipate
Thenceforth their spirits from all earthly fear.
This was their only care; but other thoughts
Were rankling in that elder villain's mind,
Their kinsman Orpas, he of all the crew
Who in this fatal visitation fell,
The foulest and the falsest wretch that e'er
Renounced his baptism. From his cherish'd views
Of royalty cut off, he coveted
Count Julian's wide domains, and hopeless now
To gain them through the daughter, laid his toils
Against the father's life, - the instrument
Of his ambition first, and now design'd
Its victim. To this end, with cautious hints,
At favoring season ventured, he possess'd
The leader's mind; then, subtly fostering
The doubts himself had sown, with bolder charge
He bade him warily regard the Count,
Lest underneath an outward show of faith
The heart uncircumcised were Christian still;
Else, wherefore had Florinda not obey'd
Her dear-loved sire's example, and embraced
The saving truth? Else, wherefore was her hand,
Had they set foot, when, with the speed of fear,
Count Eudon, nothing doubting that their force
Would like a flood sweep all resistance down,
Hasten'd to plead his merits; - he alone,
Found faithful in obedience through reproach
And danger, when the madden'd multitude
Hurried their chiefs along, and high and low
With one infectious frenzy seized, provoked
The invincible in arms. Pelayo led
The raging crew, - he doubtless the prime spring
Of all these perilous movements; and 'twas said
He brought the assurance of a strong support,
Count Julian's aid, for in his company
From Cordoba, Count Julian's daughter came.
Thus Eudon spake before the assembled chiefs;
When instantly a stern and wrathful voice
Replied, I know Pelayo never made
That senseless promise! He who raised the tale
Lies foully; but the bitterest enemy
That ever hunted for Pelayo's life
Hath never with the charge of falsehood touch'd
His name.
The Baron had not recognized
Till then, beneath the turban's shadowing folds,
Julian's swart visage, where the fiery skies
Of Africa, through many a year's long course,
Had set their hue inburnt. Something he sought
In quick excuse to say of common fame,
Lightly believed and busily diffused,
And that no enmity had moved his speech
Repeating rumor's tale. Julian replied,
Count Eudon, neither for thyself nor me
Excuse is needed here. The path I tread
Is one wherein there can be no return,
No pause, no looking back! A choice like mine
For time and for eternity is made,
Once and forever! and as easily
The breath of vain report might build again
The throne which my just vengeance overthrew,
As in the Caliph and his Captain's mind
Affect the opinion of my well-tried truth.
The tidings which thou givest me of my child
Touch me more vitally; bad though they be,
A secret apprehension of aught worse
Makes me with joy receive them.
To Abulcacem turn'd his speech, and said,
I pray thee, Chief, give me a messenger
By whom I may to this unhappy child
Despatch a father's bidding, such as yet
May win her back. What I would say requires
No veil of privacy; before ye all
The errand shall be given.
Boldly he spake,
Yet wary in that show of open truth,
For well he knew what dangers girt him round
Amid the faithless race. Blind with revenge,
For them in madness had he sacrificed
His name, his baptism, and his native land,
To feel, still powerful as he was, that life
Hung on their jealous favor. But his heart
Approved him now, where love, too long restrain'd,
Resumed its healing influence, leading him
Right on with no misgiving. Chiefs, he said,
Hear me, and let your wisdom judge between
Me and Prince Orpas! - Known it is to all,
Too well, what mortal injury provoked
My spirit to that vengeance which your aid
So signally hath given. A covenant
We made when first our purpose we combined,
That he should have Florinda for his wife,
My only child; so should she be, I thought,
Revenged and honor'd best. My word was given
Truly, nor did I cease to use all means
Of counsel or command, entreating her
Sometimes with tears, seeking sometimes with
Of an offended father's curse to enforce
Obedience; that, she said, the Christian law
Forbade; moreover she had vow'd herself
A servant to the Lord. In vain I strove
To win her to the Prophet's saving faith,
Using perhaps a rigor to that end
Beyond permitted means, and to my heart,
Which loved her dearer than its own life-blood,
Abhorrent. Silently she suffer'd all;
Or, when I urged her with most vehemence,
Only replied, I knew her fix'd resolve,
And craved my patience but a little while,
And holy zeal upon thy daughter's mind
The truths of Islam.
And scowling on the insidious renegade,
He answer'd, By what reasoning my poor mind
Was from the old idolatry reclaim'd,
None better knows than Seville's mitred chief,
Who, first renouncing errors which he taught,
Led me his follower to the Prophet's pale.
Thy lessons I repeated as I could;
Of graven images, unnatural vows,
False records, fabling creeds, and juggling priests,
Who, making sanctity the cloak of sin,
Laugh'd at the fools on whose credulity
They fatten'd. To these arguments, whose worth
Prince Orpas, least of all men, should impeach,
I added, like a soldier bred in arms,
And to the subtleties of schools unused,
The flagrant fact, that Heaven with victory,
Where'er they turn'd, attested and approved
The chosen Prophet's arms. If thou wert still
The mitred Metropolitan, and I
Some wretch of Arian or of Hebrew race,
Thy proper business then might be to pry
And question me for lurking flaws of faith.
We Mussulmen, Prince Orpas, live beneath
A wiser law, which with the iniquities
Of thine old craft, hath abrogated this
Its foulest practice!
As Count Julian ceased,
From underneath his black and gather'd brow
There went a look, which with these wary words
Bore to the heart of that false renegade
Their whole envenom'd meaning. Haughtily
Withdrawing then his alter'd eyes, he said,
Too much of this! Return we to the sum
Of my discourse. Let Abulcacem say,
In whom the Caliph speaks, if with all faith
Having essay'd in vain all means to win
My child's consent, I may not hold henceforth
The covenant discharged.
The Moor replied, Well hast thou said, and rightly mayst assure
Till death should set her free. Touch'd as I was, Thy daughter that the Prophet's holy law
I yet persisted, till at length, to escape
The ceaseless importunity, she fled:
And verily I fear'd, until this hour,
My rigor to some fearfuler resolve
Than flight, had driven my child. Chiefs, I appeal
To each and all, and, Orpas, to thyself
Especially, if, having thus essay'd
All means that law and nature have allow'd
To bend her will, I may not rightfully
Hold myself free, that promise being void
Which cannot be fulfill'd.
Thou sayest then,
Orpas replied, that from her false belief
Her stubborn opposition drew its force.
I should have thought that from the ways corrupt
Of these idolatrous Christians, little care
Might have sufficed to wean a duteous child,
The example of a parent so beloved
Leading the way; and yet I will not doubt
Thou didst enforce with all sincerity
Forbids compulsion. Give thine errand now; The messenger is here.
Then Julian said, Go to Pelayo, and from him entreat Admittance to my child, where'er she be. Say to her, that her father solemnly Annuls the covenant with Orpas pledged, Nor with solicitations, nor with threats, Will urge her more, nor from that liberty Of faith restrain her, which the Prophet's law, Liberal as Heaven from whence it came, to all Indulges. Tell her that her father says His days are number'd, and beseeches her By that dear love, which from her infancy Still he hath borne her, growing as she grew, Nursed in our weal and strengthen'd in our woe, She will not in the evening of his life Leave him forsaken and alone. Enough Of sorrow, tell her, have her injuries Brought on her father's head; let not her act Thus aggravate the burden. Tell her, too,
That when he pray'd her to return, he wept
Profusely as a child; but bitterer tears
Than ever fell from childhood's eyes, were those
Which traced his hardy cheeks.
With faltering voice
He spake, and after he had ceased from speech
His lip was quivering still. The Moorish chief
Then to the messenger his bidding gave.
Say, cried he, to these rebel infidels,
Thus Abulcacem, in the Caliph's name
Exhorteth them: Repent and be forgiven!
Nor think to stop the dreadful storm of war,
Which, conquering and to conquer, must fulfil
Its destined circle, rolling eastward now,
Back from the subjugated west, to sweep
Thrones and dominions down, till in the bond
Of unity all nations join, and Earth
Acknowledge, as she sees one Sun in heaven,
One God, one Chief, one Prophet, and one Law.
Jerusalem, the holy City, bows
To holier Mecca's creed; the Crescent shines
Triumphant o'er the eternal pyramids;
On the cold altars of the worshippers
Come ye to prayer! to prayer! The Lord
There is no God but God! - Thus he pronounced
His ritual form, mingling with holiest truth
The audacious name accursed. The multitude
Made their ablutions in the mountain stream
Obedient, then their faces to the earth
Bent in formality of easy prayer.
An arrow's flight above that mountain stream
There was a little glade, where underneath
A long, smooth, mossy stone a fountain rose.
An oak grew near, and with its ample boughs
O'ercanopied the spring; its fretted roots
Emboss'd the bank, and on their tufted bark
Grew plants which love the moisture and the
shade;
Short ferns, and longer leaves of wrinkled green
Which bent toward the spring, and when the wind
Made itself felt, just touch'd with gentle dip
The glassy surface, ruffled ne'er but then,
Save when a bubble rising from the depth
Burst, and with faintest circles mark'd its place,
Of Fire, moss grows, and reptiles leave their slime; Or if an insect skimm'd it with its wing,
The African idolatries are fallen,
And Europe's senseless gods of stone and wood
Have had their day. Tell these misguided men,
A moment for repentance yet is left,
And mercy the submitted neck will spare
Before the sword is drawn; but once unsheath'd,
Let Auria witness how that dreadful sword
Accomplisheth its work! They little know
The Moors, who hope in battle to withstand
Their valor, or in flight escape their rage!
Amid our deserts, we hunt down the birds
Or when in heavier drops the gather'd rain
Fell from the oak's high bower. The mountain roe,
When, having drank there, he would bound
Drew up upon the bank his meeting feet,
And put forth half his force. With silent lapse
From thence through mossy banks the water stole,
Then murmuring hastened to the glen below.
Diana might have loved in that sweet spot
To take her noontide rest; and when she stoop'd
Hot from the chase to drink, well pleased had seen
Of heaven, -wings do not save them! Nor shall Her own bright crescent, and the brighter face
And holds, and fastnesses, avail to save
These mountaineers. Is not the Earth the Lord's?
And we, his chosen people, whom he sends
To conquer and possess it in his name?
THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST.
THE second eve had closed upon their march
Within the Asturian border, and the Moors
Had pitch'd their tents amid an open wood
Upon the mountain side. As day grew dim,
Their scatter'd fires shone with distincter light
Among the trees, above whose top the smoke
Diffused itself, and stain'd the evening sky.
Erelong the stir of occupation ceased,
And all the murmur of the busy host,
Subsiding, died away, as through the camp
The crier, from a knoll, proclaim'd the hour
For prayer appointed, and with sonorous voice,
Thrice, in melodious modulation full,
Pronounced the highest name.
But God, he cried; there is no God but God!
Mahommed is the Prophet of the Lord!
It crown'd, reflected there.
Beside that spring
Count Julian's tent was pitch'd upon the glade;
There his ablutions Moor-like he perform'd,
And Moor-like knelt in prayer, bowing his head
Upon the mossy bank. There was a sound
Of voices at the tent when he arose.
And lo! with hurried step a woman came
Toward him; rightly then his heart presaged,
And ere he could behold her countenance,
Florinda knelt, and with uplifted arms
Embraced her sire. He raised her from the ground,
Kiss'd her, and clasp'd her to his heart, and said,
Thou hast not then forsaken me, my child!
Howe'er the inexorable will of Fate
May, in the world which is to come, divide
Our everlasting destinies, in this
Thou wilt not, O my child, abandon me!
And then, with deep and interrupted voice,
Nor seeking to restrain his copious tears,
My blessing be upon thy head, he cried,
A father's blessing! Though all faiths were false,
It should not lose its worth! - She lock'd her hands
Around his neck, and gazing in his face
Through streaming tears, exclaim'd, Oh, never
Here or hereafter, never let us part!
And breathing then a prayer in silence forth,
The name of Jesus trembled on her tongue.
Whom hast thou there? cried Julian, and drew | Spain hath not found it so, the Goth replied,
Seeing that near them stood a meagre man
In humble garb, who rested with raised hands
On a long staff, bending his head like one
Who, when he hears the distant vesper-bell,
Halts by the way, and, all unseen of men,
Offers his homage in the eye of Heaven.
She answered, Let not my dear father frown
In anger on his child! Thy messenger
Told me that I should be restrain'd no more
From liberty of faith, which the new law
Indulged to all; how soon my hour might come
I knew not, and although that hour will bring
Few terrors, yet methinks I would not be
Without a Christian comforter in death.
And groaning, turn'd away his countenance.
Count Julian knit his brow, and stood awhile
Regarding him with meditative eye
In silence. Thou art honest too! he cried;
Why, 'twas in quest of such a man as this
That the old Grecian search'd by lantern light,
In open day, the city's crowded streets;
So rare he deem'd the virtue. Honesty,
And sense of natural duty in a Priest!
Now for a miracle, ye Saints of Spain!
I shall not pry too closely for the wires,
For, seeing what I see, ye have me now
In the believing mood!
O blessed Saints,
Florinda cried, 'tis from the bitterness,
A Priest! exclaimed the Count, and drawing Not from the hardness of the heart, he speaks! back,
Stoop'd for his turban, that he might not lack
Some outward symbol of apostasy;
For still in war his wonted arms he wore,
Nor for the cimeter had changed the sword
Accustomed to his hand. He covered now
His short, gray hair, and under the white folds,
His swarthy brow, which gather'd as he rose,
Darken'd. Oh, frown not thus! Florinda said;
A kind and gentle counsellor is this,
One who pours balm into a wounded soul,
And mitigates the griefs he cannot heal.
I told him I had vow'd to pass my days
A servant of the Lord, yet that my heart,
Hearing the message of thy love, was drawn
With powerful yearnings back. Follow thy
It answers to the call of duty here,
He said, nor canst thou better serve the Lord
Than at thy father's side.
Count Julian's brow,
While thus she spake, insensibly relax'd.
A Priest, cried he, and thus with even hand
Weigh vows and natural duty in the scale?
In what old heresy hath he been train'd?
Or in what wilderness hath he escaped
The domineering Prelate's fire and sword?
Come hither, man, and tell me who thou art!
A sinner, Roderick, drawing nigh, replied,
Brought to repentance by the grace of God,
And trusting for forgiveness through the blood
Of Christ in humble hope.
A smile of scorn
Julian assumed, but merely from the lips
It came; for he was troubled while he gazed
On the strong countenance and thoughtful eye
Before him. A new law hath been proclaim'd,
Said he, which overthrows in its career
The Christian altars of idolatry.
What think'st thou of the Prophet? - Roderick
Made answer, I am in the Moorish camp,
And he who asketh is a Mussulman.
How then should I reply?- Safely, rejoin'd
The renegade, and freely mayst thou speak
To all that Julian asks. Is not the yoke
Of Mecca easy, and its burden light? —
Hear him! and in your goodness give the scoff
The virtue of a prayer! So saying, she raised
Her hands, in fervent action clasp'd, to Heaven,
Then as, still clasp'd, they fell, toward her sire
She turn'd her eyes, beholding him through tears.
The look, the gesture, and that silent woe,
Soften'd her father's heart, which in this hour
Was open to the influences of love.
Priest, thy vocation were a blessed one,
Said Julian, if its mighty power were used
To lessen human misery, not to swell
The mournful sum, already all-too-great.
If, as thy former counsel should imply,
Thou art not one who would for his craft's sake
Fret with corrosives and inflame the wound,
Which the poor sufferer brings to thee in trust
That thou with virtuous balm wilt bind it up,-
If, as I think, thou art not one of those
Whose villany makes honest men turn Moors,
Thou then wilt answer with unbias'd mind
What I shall ask thee, and exorcise thus
The sick and feverish conscience of my child,
From inbred phantoms, fiend-like, which possess
Her innocent spirit. Children we are all
Of one great Father, in whatever clime
Nature or chance hath cast the seeds of life,
All tongues, all colors; neither after death
Shall we be sorted into languages
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Thou seest my meaning; - That from every faith, | For healing? Thou hast turn'd away from Him
As every clime, there is a way to Heaven;
And thou and I may meet in Paradise.
Oh grant it, God! cried Roderick fervently,
And smote his breast. Oh grant it, gracious God!
Through the dear blood of Jesus, grant that he
And I may meet before the mercy-throne!
That were a triumph of Redeeming Love,
For which admiring Angels would renew
Their hallelujahs through the choir of Heaven!
Man! quoth Count Julian, wherefore art thou
moved
To this strange passion? I require of thee
Thy judgment, not thy prayers!
Be not displeased!
In gentle voice subdued the Goth replies;
A prayer, from whatsoever lips it flow,
By thine own rule should find the way to Heaven,
So that the heart in its sincerity
Straight forward breathe it forth. I, like thyself,
Am all untrain'd to subtilties of speech,
Nor competent of this great argument
Thou openest; and perhaps shall answer thee
Wide of the words, but to the purport home.
There are to whom the light of gospel truth
Hath never reach'd; of such I needs must deem
As of the sons of men who had their day
Before the light was given. But, Count, for those
Who, born amid the light, to darkness turn,
Wilful in error, I dare only say,
God doth not leave the unhappy soul without
An inward monitor, and till the grave
Open, the gate of mercy is not closed.
Priest-like the renegade replied, and shook
His head in scorn. What is not in the craft
Is error, and for error there shall be
No mercy found in Him whom yet ye name
The Merciful!
Now God forbid, rejoin'd
The fallen King, that one who stands in need
Of mercy for his sins should argue thus
Of error! Thou hast said that thou and I,
Thou dying in name a Mussulman, and I
A servant of the Cross, may meet in Heaven.
Time was when in our fathers' ways we walk'd
Regardlessly alike; faith being to each-
For so far thou hast reason'd rightly-like
Our country's fashion and our mother-tongue,
Of mere inheritance, -no thing of choice
In judgment fix'd, nor rooted in the heart.
Me have the arrows of calamity
Sore stricken; sinking underneath the weight
Of sorrow, yet more heavily oppress'd
Beneath the burden of my sins, I turn'd
In that dread hour to Him who from the Cross
Calls to the heavy-laden. There I found
Relief and comfort; there I have my hope,
My strength, and my salvation; there, the grave
Ready beneath my feet, and Heaven in view,
I to the King of Terrors say, Come, Death, -
Come quickly! Thou too wert a stricken deer,
Julian, God pardon the unhappy hand
That wounded thee! - but whither didst thou go
Who saith, Forgive, as ye would be forgiven;
And, that the Moorish sword might do thy work,
Received the creed of Mecca: with what fruit
For Spain, let tell her cities sack'd, her sons
Slaughter'd, her daughters than thine own dear
child
More foully wrong'd, more wretched! For thyself,
Thou hast had thy fill of vengeance, and, perhaps,
The cup was sweet; but it hath left behind
A bitter relish! Gladly would thy soul
Forget the past; as little canst thou bear
To send into futurity thy thoughts.
And for this Now, what is it, Count, but fear,—
However bravely thou mayst bear thy front, -
Danger, remorse, and stinging obloquy?
One only hope, one only remedy,
One only refuge yet remains. My life
Is at thy mercy, Count! Call, if thou wilt,
Thy men, and to the Moors deliver me!
Or strike thyself! Death were from any hand
A welcome gift; from thine, and in this cause,
A boon indeed! My latest words on earth
Should tell thee that all sins may be effaced,
Bid thee repent, have faith, and be forgiven!
Strike, Julian, if thou wilt, and send my soul
To intercede for thine, that we may meet,
Thou, and thy child, and I, beyond the grave.
Thus Roderick spake, and spread his arms as if
He offer'd to the sword his willing breast,
With looks of passionate persuasion fix'd
Upon the Count, who, in his first access
Of anger, seem'd as though he would have call'd
His guards to seize the Priest. The attitude
Disarm'd him, and that fervent zeal sincere,
And more than both, the look and voice, which
like
A mystery troubled him. Florinda too
Hung on his arm with both her hands, and cried,
O father, wrong him not! he speaks from God!
Life and salvation are upon his tongue!
Judge thou the value of that faith whereby,
Reflecting on the past, I murmur not,
And to the end of all look on with joy
Of hope assured!
Peace, innocent! replied
The Count, and from her hold withdrew his arm;
Then, with a gather'd brow of mournfulness
Rather than wrath, regarding Roderick, said,
Thou preachest that all sins may be effaced;
Is there forgiveness, Christian, in thy creed
For Roderick's crime? - For Roderick and for thee,
Count Julian, said the Goth, and, as he spake,
Trembled through every fibre of his frame,
The gate of Heaven is open. Julian threw
His wrathful hand aloft, and cried, Away!
Earth could not hold us both, nor can one Heaven
Contain my deadliest enemy and me!
My father, say not thus! Florinda cried; I have forgiven him! I have pray'd for him! For him, for thee, and for myself I pour One constant prayer to Heaven! In passion then She knelt, and bending back, with arms and face
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