LITMIR.BIZ

        But of their Monarch’s person keeping ward,

          Since last the deep-mouthed bell of vespers tolled,

        The chosen soldiers of the royal guard

          The post beneath the proud Cathedral hold:

        A band unlike their Gothic sires of old,

          Who, for the cap of steel and iron mace,

        Bear slender darts, and casques bedecked with gold,

          While silver-studded belts their shoulders grace,

      Where ivory quivers ring in the broad falchion’s place.

        In the light language of an idle court,

          They murmured at their master’s long delay,

        And held his lengthened orisons in sport: -

          “What! will Don Roderick here till morning stay,

        To wear in shrift and prayer the night away?

          And are his hours in such dull penance past,

        For fair Florinda’s plundered charms to pay?”

          Then to the east their weary eyes they cast,

      And wished the lingering dawn would glimmer forth at last.

        But, far within, Toledo’s Prelate lent

          An ear of fearful wonder to the King;

        The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent,

          So long that sad confession witnessing:

        For Roderick told of many a hidden thing,

          Such as are lothly uttered to the air,

        When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the bosom wring,

          And Guilt his secret burden cannot bear,

      And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair.

        Full on the Prelate’s face, and silver hair,

          The stream of failing light was feebly rolled:

        But Roderick’s visage, though his head was bare,

          Was shadowed by his hand and mantle’s fold.

        While of his hidden soul the sins he told,

          Proud Alaric’s descendant could not brook,

        That mortal man his bearing should behold,

          Or boast that he had seen, when Conscience shook,

      Fear tame a monarch’s brow, Remorse a warrior’s look.

        The old man’s faded cheek waxed yet more pale,

          As many a secret sad the King bewrayed;

        As sign and glance eked out the unfinished tale,

          When in the midst his faltering whisper stayed.

        “Thus royal Witiza was slain,” – he said;

          “Yet, holy Father, deem not it was I.”

        Thus still Ambition strives her crimes to shade. -

          “Oh, rather deem ’twas stern necessity!

      Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or die.

        “And if Florinda’s shrieks alarmed the air,

          If she invoked her absent sire in vain,

        And on her knees implored that I would spare,

          Yet, reverend Priest, thy sentence rash refrain!

        All is not as it seems – the female train

          Know by their bearing to disguise their mood:”

        But Conscience here, as if in high disdain,

          Sent to the Monarch’s cheek the burning blood -

      He stayed his speech abrupt – and up the Prelate stood.

        “O hardened offspring of an iron race!

          What of thy crimes, Don Roderick, shall I say?

        What alms, or prayers, or penance can efface

          Murder’s dark spot, wash treason’s stain away!

        For the foul ravisher how shall I pray,

          Who, scarce repentant, makes his crime his boast?

        How hope Almighty vengeance shall delay,

          Unless, in mercy to yon Christian host,

      He spare the shepherd, lest the guiltless sheep be lost?”

        Then kindled the dark tyrant in his mood,

          And to his brow returned its dauntless gloom;

        “And welcome then,” he cried, “be blood for blood,

          For treason treachery, for dishonour doom!

        Yet will I know whence come they, or by whom.

          Show, for thou canst – give forth the fated key,

        And guide me, Priest, to that mysterious room,

          Where, if aught true in old tradition be,

      His nation’s future fates a Spanish King shall see.”

        “Ill-fated Prince! recall the desperate word,

          Or pause ere yet the omen thou obey!

        Bethink, yon spell-bound portal would afford

          Never to former Monarch entrance-way;

        Nor shall it ever ope, old records say,

          Save to a King, the last of all his line,

        What time his empire totters to decay,

          And treason digs, beneath, her fatal mine,

      And, high above, impends avenging wrath divine.” -

        “Prelate! a Monarch’s fate brooks no delay;

          Lead on!” – The ponderous key the old man took,

        And held the winking lamp, and led the way,

          By winding stair, dark aisle, and secret nook,

        Then on an ancient gateway bent his look;

          And, as the key the desperate King essayed,

        Low muttered thunders the Cathedral shook,

          And twice he stopped, and twice new effort made,

      Till the huge bolts rolled back, and the loud hinges brayed.

        Long, large, and lofty was that vaulted hall;

          Roof, walls, and floor were all of marble stone,

        Of polished marble, black as funeral pall,

          Carved

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