The Vision of Don Roderick, XVII–XXXII

For they might spy, beyond that mighty breach, Realms as of Spain in visioned prospect laid, Castles and towers, in due proportion each, As by some skilful artist’s hand portrayed: Here, crossed by many a wild Sierra’s shade, And boundless plains that tire the traveller’s eye; There, rich with vineyard and with olive glade, Or deep-embrowned by forests huge and high, Or washed by mighty streams, that slowly murmured by.

And here, as erst upon the antique stage Passed forth the band of masquers trimly led, In various forms, and various equipage, While fitting strains the hearer’s fancy fed; So, to sad Roderick’s eye in order spread, Successive pageants filled that mystic scene, Showing the fate of battles ere they bled, And issue of events that had not been; And, ever and anon, strange sounds were heard between.

First shrilled an unrepeated female shriek!— It seemed as if Don Roderick knew the call, For the bold blood was blanching in his cheek.— Then answered kettle-drum and attabal, Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear appal, The Tecbir war-cry, and the Lelie’s yell, Ring wildly dissonant along the hall. Needs not to Roderick their dread import tell— “The Moor!” he cried, “the Moor!—ring out the Tocsin bell!

“They come! they come! I see the groaning lands White with the turbans of each Arab horde; Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving bands, Alla and Mahomet their battle-word, The choice they yield, the Koran or the Sword— See how the Christians rush to arms amain!— In yonder shout the voice of conflict roared, The shadowy hosts are closing on the plain— Now, God and Saint Iago strike, for the good cause of Spain!

“By Heaven, the Moors prevail! the Christians yield! Their coward leader gives for flight the sign! The sceptred craven mounts to quit the field— Is not yon steed Orelio?—Yes, ’tis mine! But never was she turned from battle-line: Lo! where the recreant spurs o’er stock and stone!— Curses pursue the slave, and wrath divine! Rivers ingulph him!”—“Hush,” in shuddering tone, The Prelate said; “rash Prince, yon visioned form’s thine own.”

Just then, a torrent crossed the flier’s course; The dangerous ford the Kingly Likeness tried; But the deep eddies whelmed both man and horse, Swept like benighted peasant down the tide; And the proud Moslemah spread far and wide, As numerous as their native locust band; Berber and Ismael’s sons the spoils divide, With naked scimitars mete out the land, And for the bondsmen base the free-born natives brand.

Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose The loveliest maidens of the Christian line; Then, menials, to their misbelieving foes, Castile’s young nobles held forbidden wine; Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation’s sign, By impious hands was from the altar thrown, And the deep aisles of the polluted shrine Echoed, for holy hymn and organ-tone, The Santon’s frantic dance, the Fakir’s gibbering moan.

How fares Don Roderick?—E’en as one who spies Flames dart their glare o’er midnight’s sable woof, And hears around his children’s piercing cries, And sees the pale assistants stand aloof; While cruel Conscience brings him bitter proof, His folly, or his crime, have caused his grief; And while above him nods the crumbling roof, He curses earth and Heaven—himself in chief— Desperate of earthly aid, despairing Heaven’s relief!

That scythe-armed Giant turned his fatal glass And twilight on the landscape closed her wings; Far to Asturian hills the war-sounds pass, And in their stead rebeck or timbrel rings; And to the sound the bell-decked dancer springs, Bazars resound as when their marts are met, In tourney light the Moor his jerrid flings, And on the land as evening seemed to set, The Imaum’s chant was heard from mosque or minaret.

So passed that pageant. Ere another came, The visionary scene was wrapped in smoke Whose sulph’rous wreaths were crossed by sheets of flame; With every flash a bolt explosive broke, Till Roderick deemed the fiends had burst their yoke, And waved ’gainst heaven the infernal gonfalone! For War a new and dreadful language spoke, Never by ancient warrior heard or known; Lightning and smoke her breath, and thunder was her tone.

From the dim landscape rolled the clouds away— The Christians have regained their heritage; Before the Cross has waned the Crescent’s ray, And many a monastery decks the stage, And lofty church, and low-browed hermitage. The land obeys a Hermit and a Knight,— The Genii those of Spain for many an age; This clad in sackcloth, that in armour bright, And that was VALOUR named, this BIGOTRY was hight.

VALOUR was harnessed like a chief of old, Armed at all points, and prompt for knightly gest; His sword was tempered in the Ebro cold, Morena’s eagle plume adorned his crest, The spoils of Afric’s lion bound his breast. Fierce he stepped forward and flung down his gage; As if of mortal kind to brave the best. Him followed his Companion, dark and sage, As he, my Master, sung the dangerous Archimage.

Haughty of heart and brow the Warrior came, In look and language proud as proud might be, Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights, and fame: Yet was that barefoot Monk more proud than he: And as the ivy climbs the tallest tree, So round the loftiest soul his toils he wound, And with his spells subdued the fierce and free, Till ermined Age and Youth in arms renowned, Honouring his scourge and haircloth, meekly kissed the ground.

And thus it chanced that VALOUR, peerless knight, Who ne’er to King or Kaiser vailed his crest, Victorious still in bull-feast or in fight, Since first his limbs with mail he did invest, Stooped ever to that Anchoret’s behest; Nor reasoned of the right, nor of the wrong, But at his bidding laid the lance in rest, And wrought fell deeds the troubled world along, For he was fierce as brave, and pitiless as strong.

Oft his proud galleys sought some new-found world, That latest sees the sun, or first the morn; Still at that Wizard’s feet their spoils he hurled,— Ingots of ore from rich Potosi borne, Crowns by Caciques, aigrettes by Omrahs worn, Wrought of rare gems, but broken, rent, and foul; Idols of gold from heathen temples torn, Bedabbled all with blood.—With grisly scowl The Hermit marked the stains, and smiled beneath his cowl.

Then did he bless the offering, and bade make Tribute to Heaven of gratitude and praise; And at his word the choral hymns awake, And many a hand the silver censer sways, But with the incense-breath these censers raise, Mix steams from corpses smouldering in the fire; The groans of prisoned victims mar the lays, And shrieks of agony confound the quire; While, ’mid the mingled sounds, the darkened scenes expire.