The Poetical Works of Robert Southey

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 rumour'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!
For time and for eternity is made,
Once and for ever! 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.

A choice like mine

Then the Count

To Abulcacem turn'd his speech, and said,
I pray thee, Chief, give me a messenger
By whom I may to this unhappy child
Dispatch 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 favour. 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 honour'd best. My word was given
Truly, nor did I cease to use all means
Of counsel or command, entreating her

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
Till death should set her free. Touch'd as I was
I yet persisted, till at length to escape
The ceaseless importunity, she fled :
And verily I fear'd until this hour,

My rigour to some fearfuller 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
And holy zeal upon thy daughter's mind
The truths of Islam.

Julian knit his brow,
And scowling on the insidious renegade,
He answered, 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 Musselmen, 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

Sometimes with tears, seeking sometimes with threats Bore to the heart of that false renegade

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 rigour to that end

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 may'st assure
Thy daughter that the Prophet's holy law
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

Of Fire, moss grows, and reptiles leave their slime;
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 valour, or in flight escape their rage!

1 "The Moors have a peculiar manner of hunting the partridge. In the plains of Akkermute and Jibbel Hidded in Shedma, they take various kinds of dogs with them, from the greyhound to the shepherd's dog, and following the birds on horseback, and allowing them no time to rest, they soon

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.
Ere long 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. There is no God
But God, he cried; there is no God but God!
Mahommed is the Prophet of the Lord!
Come ye to prayer! to prayer! The Lord is great!
There is no God but God!.. Thus he pronounced
His ritual form, mingling with holiest truth
The audacious name accurs'd. 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,
Or if an insect skimm'd it with its wing,
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 across.
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 hasten'd to the glen below.
Diana might have loved in that sweet spot

fatigue them, when they are taken by the dogs. But as the Mooselmin eats nothing but what has had its throat cut, he takes out his knife, and exclaiming Bismillah, in the name of God, cuts the throat of the game."- Jackson's Morocco,

p. 121.

To take her noontide rest; and when she stoopt
Hot from the chase to drink, well pleased had seen
Her own bright crescent, and the brighter face
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 more,
Here or hereafter, never let us part!

And breathing then a prayer in silence forth,
The name of Jesus trembled on her tongue.

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 Musselman.
How then should I reply?.. Safely, rejoin'd
The renegade, and freely may'st thou speak
To all that Julian asks. Is not the yoke

Of Mecca easy, and its burden light?...
Spain hath not found it so, the Goth replied,
And groaning, turn'd away his countenance.

Count Julian knit his brow, and stood awhile

Whom hast thou there? cried Julian, and drew back, Regarding him with meditative eye
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.

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,
Not from the hardness of the heart, he speaks!
Hear him! and in your goodness give the scoff
The virtue of a prayer! So saying, she raised

A Priest exclaimed the Count, and drawing back, Her hands in fervent action clasp'd to Heaven: Stoopt for his turban that he might not lack Some outward symbol of apostacy; For still in war his wonted arms he wore, Nor for the scymitar had changed the sword Accustomed to his hand. He covered now His short grey 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 heart,..
It answers to the call of duty here,

He said, nor canst thou better serve the Lord

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 villainy makes honest men turn Moors,
Thou then wilt answer with unbiass'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 colours: neither after death
Shall we be sorted into languages

And tints,..white, black, and tawny, Greek and Goth,
Northmen and offspring of hot Africa;

The All-Father, He in whom we live and move,
He the indifferent Judge of all, regards
Nations, and hues, and dialects alike;
According to their works shall they be judged,
When even-handed Justice in the scale

Their good and evil weighs. All creeds, I ween,
Agree in this, and hold it orthodox.

Roderick, perceiving here that Julian paused, As if he waited for acknowledgement

Of that plain truth, in motion of assent
Inclined his brow complacently, and said,

Of mercy for his sins should argue thus
Of error! Thou hast said that thou and I,
Thou dying in name a Musselman, 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 judgement 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 burthen 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

Even so: What follows?.. This; resumed the Count, That wounded thee!.. but whither didst thou go
That creeds like colours being but accident,
Are therefore in the scale imponderable; ..
Thou seest my meaning; . . that from every faith
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 judgement, 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 subtleties 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

For healing? Thou hast turn'd away from Him,
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 may'st 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
Raised toward the sky, the supplicant exclaim'd,
Redeemer, heal his heart! It is the grief
Which festers there that hath bewilder'd him!
Save him, Redeemer! by thy precious death
Save, save him, O my God! Then on her face
She fell, and thus with bitterness pursued
In silent throes her agonizing prayer.

Afflict not thus thyself, my child, the Count
Exclaim'd; O dearest, be thou comforted;
Set but thy heart at rest, I ask no more!
Peace, dearest, peace!.. and weeping as he spake,
He knelt to raise her. Roderick also knelt;
Be comforted, he cried, and rest in faith
That God will hear thy prayers! they must be heard.
He who could doubt the worth of prayers like thine
May doubt of all things! Sainted as thou art
In sufferings here, this miracle will be
Thy work and thy reward!

Then raising her,
They seated her upon the fountain's brink,
And there beside her sate. The moon had risen,
And that fair spring lay blacken'd half in shade,
Half like a burnish'd mirror in her light.

By that reflected light Count Julian saw

Or reckless Fortune, still the effect the same,
A world of evil and of misery!

Look where we will we meet it; wheresoe'er
We go we bear it with us. Here we sit
Upon the margin of this peaceful spring,
And oh what volumes of calamity
Would be unfolded here, if either heart
Laid open its sad records! Tell me not
of goodness! Either in some freak of power
This frame of things was fashion'd, then cast off
To take its own wild course, the sport of chance;
Or the bad Spirit o'er the Good prevails,
And in the eternal conflict hath arisen
Lord of the ascendant!

Rightly would'st thou say
Were there no world but this! the Goth replied.
The happiest child of earth that e'er was mark'd
To be the minion of prosperity,

Richest in corporal gifts and wealth of mind,
Honour and fame attending him abroad,
Peace and all dear domestic joys at home,
And sunshine till the evening of his days
Closed in without a cloud, . . even such a man
Would from the gloom and horror of his heart
Confirm thy fatal thought, were this world all,
Oh! who could bear the haunting mystery,
If death and retribution did not solve
The riddle, and to heavenliest harmony
Reduce the seeming chaos!... Here we see
The water at its well-head; clear it is,
Not more transpicuous the invisible air;
Pure as an infant's thoughts; and here to life
And good directed all its uses serve.

The herb grows greener on its brink; sweet flowers
Bend o'er the stream that feeds their freshened roots;
The red-breast loves it for his wintry haunts;
And when the buds begin to open forth,
Builds near it with his mate their brooding nest;
The thirsty stag with widening nostrils there
Invigorated draws his copious draught;
And there amid its flags the wild-boar stands,
Nor suffering wrong nor meditating hurt.
Through woodlands wild and solitary fields
Unsullied thus it holds its bounteous course;
But when it reaches the resorts of men,

That Roderick's face was bathed with tears, and pale, The service of the city there defiles

As monumental marble. Friend, said he,
Whether thy faith be fabulous, or sent
Indeed from Heaven, its dearest gift to man,
Thy heart is true: and had the mitred Priest
Of Seville been like thee, or hadst thou held
The place he fill'd;... but this is idle talk,...
Things are as they will be; and we, poor slaves,
Fret in the harness as we may, must drag
The Car of Destiny where'er she drives,
Inexorable and blind!

Oh wretched man!

Cried Roderick, if thou seekest to assuage
Thy wounded spirit with that deadly drug,
Hell's subtlest venom; look to thine own heart,
Where thou hast Will and Conscience to belie
This juggling sophistry, and lead thee yet
Through penitence to Heaven!

Whate'er it be

That governs us, in mournful tone the Count
Replied, Fate, Providence, or Allah's will,

The tainted stream; corrupt and foul it flows
Through loathsome banks and o'er a bed impure,
Till in the sea, the appointed end to which
Through all its way it hastens, 'tis received,
And, losing all pollution, mingles there
In the wide world of waters. So is it

With the great stream of things, if all were seen;
Good the beginning, good the end shall be,
And transitory evil only make

The good end happier. Ages pass away,
Thrones fall, and nations disappear, and worlds
Grow old and go to wreck; the soul alone
Endures, and what she chuseth for herself,
The arbiter of her own destiny,
That only shall be permanent.

But guilt,

And all our suffering? said the Count. The Goth
Replied, Repentance taketh sin away,

Death remedies the rest....Soothed by the strain
Of such discourse, Julian was silent then,

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The Poetical Works of Robert Southey, 第 10 卷