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Though overpowered, triumphant; and in death
Unconquer'd! Holy be your memory;
Blessed and glorious, now and evermore,
Be your heroic names," P. 37.

The sound of his voice, where all had for some time been silent, seems to waken one at least, from the dead around him; a woman comes to him from the ruins, and implores his charitable assistance. We should be inexcusable if we described this personage, so important afterwards, in any but the following magnificent lines:

"though she spake

With the calm utterance of despair, in tones
Deep-breath'd and low, yet never sweeter voice
Pour'd forth its hymn of ecstacy to Heaven.
Her hands were bloody, and her garments stain'd
With blood, her face with blood and dust defil'd,
Beauty and youth, and grace and majesty
Had every charm of form and feature given;
But now upon her rigid countenance
Severest anguish set a fixedness

Ghastlier than death." P. 37.

Adosinda, for so this heroine is named, leads him to a spot, where, within four walls rudely raised, lie the bodies of her husband, folding his child on his breast, her father, and mother, whom the Moors had slain all in one day. She relates how a Moorish captain had reserved her from the slaughter to gratify his lustful passions; the "very horror of that thought" had made her calm and collected, and, like the matron of Bethulia, she sayed her honour by the death of her enslaver. After the execution of this exemplary revenge, she left the Moor's tent under cover of the night, and had since employed herself in the burial of her relations. To complete this task, she implores Roderick's assistance, which he readily granted. The tale of Adosinda " prevails upon the Goth as a spell;" he listens with an intenseness which wakes before him the glorious vision of his hermitage, and drowns all recollection of former sorrows.

"On his brow

The pride and power of former majesty

Dawned once again, but changed and purified;

Duty and high heroic purposes

Now hallow'd it, and, as with inward light,
Illumed his meagre countenance austere."

P. 44.

Adosinda rejoicing at the effect of her tale on this, the first heart to which she has revealed it, draws an happy presage from it, and discloses to him her determination of devoting her life and

and

and being to a holy revenge for the wrongs of Spain, and her own. In Roderick's hands she makes her solemn vows to that effect; and he, in whom the same heroic resolution is now created, or confirmed, makes the same vow; and having finished it,

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Clap now your wings,

The Goth with louder utterance, as he rose,
Exclaimed; clap now your wings exultingly,
Ye ravenous fowl of heaven, and in your dens
Set up, ye wolves of Spain, a yell of joy!
For lo! a nation hath this day been sworn
To furnish forth your banquet: for a strife

Hath been commenced, the which, from this day forth,
Permits no breathing time, and knows no end,

Till in this land the last invader bow

His neck beneath the exterminating sword." P. 48.

The vowed deliverers part; he charged by her to the Abbot of St. Felix, on the banks of the Visonia, and she to the hill country, to stir up to revolt the vassals of her father's house.

Roderick pursues his lonely way, a journey, like the former, described very beautifully, and with a perfect knowledge of the country, to the monastery, where he finds the venerable Odsar, and Urban, the Archbishop of Toledo, in deep consultation. To them he relates all that he had done and witnessed at Auria; and on the part of Adosinda demands, whom of the old Baronage of Spain they deemed most worthy of the crown? They commission him to seek Pelayo at Cordoba, the seat of the Moorish court; to invite him to fly to the Asturias, and accept the vacant crown. At parting, Urban remembers the state of many an apostate, whom it is probable he will meet; that they

have

"Their lonely hours, when sorrow, or the touch
Of sickness, and that awful Power divine,
Which hath its dwelling in the heart of man,
Life of his soul, his monitor, and judge,
Move them with silent impulse; but they look
For help, and finding none to succour them,
The irrevocable moment passeth by." P. 61.

With a moderation and charity, therefore, which makes his character very interesting, Urban consecrates him to the priesthood, that he may be able to afford that relief so much to be desired, and restore these doubting souls to the pale of the Church.

No character can be

Here we should pause for a moment. conceived of deeper interest than that of Roderick at this moment;-unknown to all his subjects, his memory almost univer

sally

sally detested by them, yet, receiving from one of them in highest humility the order of priesthood, he sets out, not merely to restore his fallen country, and die, if necessary, for her sake; (for a generous spirit, who deemed himself the cause of her fall, that were an easy repentance, a cheap and delightful sacrifice ;) but he goes to smother for ever all princely recollections, to unlearn all royal habitudes, to renounce all birth-right, to bow the knee to his own subject, and himself tender him his own crown. Nor is this all; no one is ever to be witness of his devotion; the world is to pay him no tribute of applause--is to give him not even pardon for his errors; in the sacrifice which he is to perform, he is himself priest and victim, and none are to behold the rite. Totally divested of all selfish motives, it is the pure effort of the most perfectly imagined heroism.

The trials which assail him in his way are very severe; at the inn which he entered in the evening, each individual of the party round the fire, has his own cause for lamentation, and imprecations on the soul of Roderick conclude their mourning. Roderick's shuddering reply, in which he prays them not to curse the soul for which our Saviour died, rouses an old man, who proves to be the favourite servant of his mother Rusilla, and the attendant on his own childhood, Siverian. From him, and from the conversation, he derives information of many events which had occurred since his retirement to solitude; among others, the apostacy of many of the chief nobles, and, above all, the marriage of his queen, Egilona, to the Moorish viceroy. But then, (and here again, how truly are pourtrayed the natural workings of the heart!) anxiety for his mother overcomes all other feelings; Siverian's presence there, who never would have deserted her, if living, seems to argue that she is dead, and then his first, perhaps his dearest object is frustrate;-he can never soothe her anguish, nor obtain her forgiveness on earth.

"with that he bent

Over the embers, and with head half-raised
Aslant, and shadowed by his hand, he said,

Where is King Roderick's mother? lives she still ?——.

God hath upheld her, the old man replied;

She bears this last, and heaviest of her griefs,

Not as she bore her husband's wrongs, when hope
And her indignant heart supported her,
But patiently, like one who finds from heaven
A comfort which the world can neither give
Nor take away. Roderick enquired no more;
He breathed a silent prayer in gratitude,
Then wrapt his cloak around him, and lay down
Where he might weep unseen.'' P. 70.

In the morning, Roderick and Siverian pursue their way toge ther, the former still unknown to the latter. Mr. Southey seems to have anticipated here an objection which many people will, we doubt not, raise against the possibility of his remaining undiscovered in a journey of several days, by the companion and attendant of his whole life. We say he seems to have anticipated it in the words of Siverian :

"The face is of a stranger, but thy voice
Disturbs me like a dream.” P. 73.

We are of opinion, however, that the objection is groundless. To reason on it fairly, Roderick must be taken as described by the poet; a man in the very flower of life, by the violence of suffering and sorrow, surprised (if we may so say) with grey hairs, and all the marks, though not with all the feebleness of old age. In such a personage, how should those who knew him most intimately recollect their young and beautiful king, even if they had entertained any idea of his having survived the fatal battle? but when, to all recollection of his former appearance and lofty habits, we add the thorough conviction of his death, we ought not to expect that Roderick, in 'a friar's garb, should be recognised even by Siverian. The case of Alvar, in the beautiful tragedy of Remorse, stands on a different footing; for Theresa, strong in the faith which love imparts, can never be said to have renounced all hopes of seeing him again. In that instance, perhaps, we could have wished for a different arrangement.

To return; the errands of both the travellers are to Pelayo; with that of the fallen monarch the reader is already acquainted. Siverian has been sent from Rusilla and Gaudiosa, the chieftain's wife, to inform him that his sister, the Lady Guisla, listens to the suit of the renegade Numacian, and to forewarn him of all the dangers that may result to him and his family from this disgraceful alliance. It is the time of evening when they arrive in sight of Cordoba; and we wish we had room for the lines which describe its first appearance; they have in them all that peculiar verity, that realising faithfulness, which we have before commented on, and at the same time unite a spirit and richness worthy of our best poets. The speech of Siverian follows, adding a pathetic melancholy, which not only flows most naturally from his mouth, but adds the only charm wanting to the whole picture.

Hard by their path was an edifice, which had been the scene of many important events in the history of Roderick and his family. It will not be necessary here to detail the antecedent history of the rival houses of Chendasuintho and Wamba; it is sufficient for the present to say, that the edifice had been a palace

built by Theodofred, the father of Roderick; that hither he had brought his bride Rusilla; and that here, after seasons of blindness and misery, he slept at peace. Roderick himself was born here; it had been the scene of his noblest triumph, when, having vindicated his rights, he had led to his father's grave, in chains, Wihza, his barbarous enemy and persecutor; finally, in this spot was buried the unnatural mother of Pelayo, the concubine of Wihza. Such a scene it was natural for Roderick to avoid; but Siverian, full of the recollections of his master's former glory, and still cherishing his memory with unabated love, constrains him to enter with him.

As they pass through the courts, the days gone by rush on the old man's mind, and in rapturous, yet broken narrative, he details many incidents of Roderick's former life, which are not only important to the conduct of the poem, but which serve to raise the hero in the estimation of the reader. In the episodes of "The last of the Goths," Mr. Southey has shewn great judgment; there is no one material fact of the foregoing history, which the reader does not become acquainted with in the course of the poem, in its right place, and yet without any seeming preparation or contrivance. It may seem extravagant praise to compare a poet of these "degenerate days" with either of the great lights of Greece or Rome; yet we think a severe critic might find some room for censure in the continuous episodes of the Odyssea and neid, if their execution did not shame all judgment into admiration. It is almost like heresy to say, that perhaps there is something unnatural in so long a story at once detailed, but at least we will venture to set Mr. Southey's skill, in this instance, fairly by the side of the other; nothing, in short, can be more judicious, in fact, more artless in appearance. The principle which regulates the introduction of antecedent matter in the epopee, seems to be the same with that of unfolding the characters, or the plot of the drama; in each case it is most proper, because most natural, that the reader should be informed rather by circumstances that arise casually, than by formal and continued description.

In talk upon the subjects above alluded to, they reach the church door attached to the palace; they enter, and seek the grave of Theodofred, on which Roderick, overcome by his emotions, throws himself prostrate, and weeps aloud. The violence of the sorrows of both, disturbs another innate of the building"there stood

A man before them of majestic form

And stature, clad in sackcloth, bare of foot,

Pale, and in tears, with ashes on his head." P. 89.

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