RODERICK,
THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.

A Tragic Poem.

TOLEDO.

Painted by T. Creswick. Engraved by E. Finden.

LONDON; LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN & LONGMANS.

Cordoval.

Painted by T. Creswick. Engraved by W. Finden.

LONDON.
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN & LONGMANS.
PATERNOSTER ROW.

RODERICK,
THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.

A Tragic Poem.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

A NEW EDITION.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS.
MDCCCXLIV.

RODERICK,
THE LAST OF THE GOTHS:

A Tragic Poem.

Tanto acrior apud majores, sicut virtutibus gloria, ita flagitiis pœnitentia, fuit. Sed hæc aliaque, ex veteri memorià petita, quotiens res locusque exempla recti, aut solatia mali, poscet, haud absurdè memorabimus.

Taciti Hist. lib. 3. c. 51.

TO
GROSVENOR CHARLES BEDFORD,
THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED,
IN LASTING MEMORIAL OF A LONG AND UNINTERRUPTED FRIENDSHIP,
BY HIS OLD SCHOOLFELLOW,
ROBERT SOUTHEY.

CONTENTS.

As the ample Moon,

In the deep stillness of a summer even

Rising behind a thick and lofty Grove,

Burns like an unconsuming fire of light

In the green trees; and kindling on all sides

Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil

Into a substance glorious as her own,

Yea, with her own incorporated, by power

Capacious and serene: Like power abides

In Man’s celestial Spirit; Virtue thus

Sets forth and magnifies herself: thus feeds

A calm, a beautiful and silent fire,

From the incumbrances of mortal life,

From error, disappointment, ... nay from guilt;

And sometimes, so relenting Justice wills,

From palpable oppressions of Despair.

Wordsworth.

PREFACE.

This poem was commenced at Keswick, Dec. 2. 1809, and finished there July 14. 1814.

A French translation, by M. B. de S., in three volumes 12mo., was published in 1820, and another by M. le Chevalier ⸺ in one volume 8vo., 1821. Both are in prose.

When the latest of these versions was nearly ready for publication, the publisher, who was also the printer, insisted upon having a life of the author prefixed. The French public, he said, knew nothing of M. Southey, and in order to make the book sell, it must be managed to interest them for the writer. The Chevalier represented as a conclusive reason for not attempting any thing of the kind, that he was not acquainted with M. Southey’s private history. “Would you believe it?” says a friend of the translator’s, from whose letter I transscribe what follows; “this was his answer verbatim: ‘N’importe, écrivez toujours; brodez, brodez-la un peu; que ce soit vrai ou non ce ne fait rien; qui prendra la peine de s’informer?’” Accordingly a Notice sur M. Southey was composed, not exactly in conformity with the publisher’s notions of biography, but from such materials as could be collected from magazines and other equally unauthentic sources.

In one of these versions a notable mistake occurs, occasioned by the French pronunciation of an English word. The whole passage indeed, in both versions, may be regarded as curiously exemplifying the difference between French and English poetry.

“The lamps and tapers now grew pale,

And through the eastern windows slanting fell

The roseate ray of morn. Within those walls

Returning day restored no cheerful sounds

Or joyous motions of awakening life;

But in the stream of light the speckled motes

As if in mimicry of insect play,

Floated with mazy movement. Sloping down

Over the altar pass’d the pillar’d beam,

And rested on the sinful woman’s grave

As if it enter’d there, a light from Heaven.

So be it! cried Pelayo, even so!

As in a momentary interval,

When thought expelling thought, had left his mind

Open and passive to the influxes

Of outward sense, his vacant eye was there, ...

So be it, Heavenly Father, even so I

Thus may thy vivifying goodness shed

Forgiveness there; for let not thou the groans

Of dying penitence, nor my bitter prayers

Before thy mercy-seat, be heard in vain!

And thou, poor soul, who from the dolorous house

Of weeping and of pain, dost look to me

To shorten and assuage thy penal term,

Pardon me that these hours in other thoughts

And other duties than this garb, this night

Enjoin, should thus have past! Our mother-land

Exacted of my heart the sacrifice;

And many a vigil must thy son perform

Henceforth in woods and mountain fastnesses,

And tented fields, outwatching for her sake

The starry host, and ready for the work

Of day, before the sun begins his course.”[1]

Il se livrait à toutes ces réflexions, quand la lumière des lampes et des cierges commença à pâlir, et que les premières teintes de l’aurore se montrèrent à travers les hautes croisées tournées vers l’orient. Le retour du jour ne ramena point dans ces murs des sons joyeux ni les mouvemens de la vie qui se réveille; les seuls papillons de nuit, agitant leurs ailes pesantes, bourdonnaient encore sous les voûtes ténébreuses. Bientôt le premier rayon du soleil glissant obliquement par-dessus l’autel, vint s’arrêter sur la tombe de la femme pécheresse, et la lumière du ciel sembla y pénétrer. “Que ce présage s’accomplisse,” s’écria Pelage, qui absorbé dans ses méditations, fixait en ce moment ses yeux sur le tombeau de sa mere; “Dieu de miséricorde, qu’il en soit ainsi! Puisse ta bonté vivifiante y verser de même le pardon! Que les sanglots de la pénitence expirante, et que mes prières amères ne montent point en vain devant le trône éternel. Et toi, pauvre âme, qui de ton séjour douloureux de souffrances et de larmes, espères en moi pour abréger et adoucir ton supplice, temporaire, pardonne moi d’avoir, sous ces habits et dans cette nuit, détourné mes pensées sur d’autres devoirs. Notre patrie commune a exigé de moi ce sacrifice, et ton fils doit dorénavant accomplir plus d’une veille dans la profondeur des forêts, sur la cime des monts, dans les plaines couvertes de tentes, observant, pour l’amour de l’Espagne, la marche des astres de la nuit, et préparant l’ouvrage de sa journée avant que le soleil ne commence sa course.”—T. i. pp. 175-177.

In the other translation the motes are not converted into moths,—but the image is omitted.

Consumées dans des soins pareils les rapides heures s’écouloient, les lampes et les torches commençoient à pâlir, et l’oblique rayon du matin doroit déjà les vitraux élevés qui regardoient vers l’Orient: le retour du jour ne ramenoit point, dans cette sombre enceinte, les sons joyeux, ni le tableau mouvant de la vie qui se reveille; mais, tombant d’en haut, le céleste rayon, passant au-dessus de l’autel, vint frapper le tombeau de la femme pécheresse. “Ainsi soit-il,” s’écria Pelage; “ainsi soit-il, ô divin Créateur! Puisse ta vivifiante bonté verser ainsi le pardon en ce lieu! Que les gémissemens d’une mort pénitente, que mes amères prières ne soient pas arrivées en vain devant le trône de miséricorde! Et toi, qui, de ton séjour de souffrances et de larmes, regardes vers ton fils, pour abréger et soulager tes peines, pardonne, si d’autres devoirs ont rempli les heures que cette nuit et cet habit m’enjoignoient de te consacrer! Notre patrie exigeoit ce sacrifice; d’autres vigiles m’attendent dans les bois et les défilés de nos montagnes; et bientôt sous la tente, il me faudra veiller, le soir, avant que le ciel ne se couvre d’étoiles, être prêt pour le travail du jour, avant que le soleil ne commence sa course.”—pp. 92, 93.

A very good translation in Dutch verse, was published in two volumes, 8vo. 1823-4, with this title:—“Rodrigo de Goth, Koning van Spanje. Naar het Engelsch van Southey gevolgd, door Vrouwe Katharina Wilhelmina Bilderdijk. Te ’s Gravenhage.” It was sent to me with the following epistle from her husband, Mr. Willem Bilderdijk.

“Roberto Southey, viro spectatissimo,
Gulielmus Bilderdijk, S. P. D.

“Etsi ea nunc temporis passim invaluerit opinio, poetarum genus quam maxima gloriæ cupiditate flagrare, mihi tamen contraria semper insedit persuasio, qui divinæ Poëseos altitudinem veramque laudem non nisi ab iis cognosci putavi quorum præ cæteris e meliori luto finxerit præcordia Titan, neque aut verè aut justè judicari vatem nisi ab iis qui eodem afflatu moveantur. Sexagesimus autem jam agitur annus ex quo et ipse meos inter æquales poëta salutor, eumque locum quem ineunte adolescentia occupare contigit, in hunc usque diem tenuisse videor, popularis auræ nunquam captator, quin immo perpetuus contemptor; parcus ipse laudator, censor gravis et nonnunquam molestus. Tuum vero nomen, Vir celeberrime ac spectatissime, jam antea veneratus, perlecto tuo de Roderico rege poëmate, non potui non summis extollere laudibus, quo doctissimo simul ac venustissimo opere, si minus divinam Aeneida, saltem immortalem Tassonis Epopeiam tentasse, quin et certo respectu ita superasse videris, ut majorum perpaucos, æqualium neminem, cum vera fide ac pietate in Deum, tum ingenio omnique poëtica dote tibi comparandum existimem. Ne mireris itaque, carminis tui gravitate ac dulcedine captam, meoque judicio fultam, non illaudatam in nostratibus Musam tuum illud nobile poëma fœminea manu sed non insueto labore attrectasse, Belgicoque sermone reddidisse. Hanc certe, per quadrantem seculi et quod excurrit felicissimo connubio mihi junctam, meamque in Divina arte alumnam ac sociam, nimium in eo sibi sumpsisse nemo facile arbitrabitur cui vel minimum Poëseos nostræ sensum usurpare contigerit; nec ego hos ejus conatus quos illustri tuo nomini dicandos putavit, tibi mea manu offerre dubitabam. Hæc itaque utriusque nostrum in te observantiæ specimina accipe, Vir illustrissime, ac si quod communium studiorum, si quod veræ pietatis est vinculum, nos tibi ex animo habe addictissimos. Vale.

“Dabam Lugduni in Batavis. Ipsis idib. Februar. CIↃIↃCCCXXIV.”

I went to Leyden in 1825, for the purpose of seeing the writer of this epistle, and the lady who had translated my poem, and addressed it to me in some very affecting stanzas. It so happened, that on my arrival in that city, I was laid up under a surgeon’s care; they took me into their house, and made the days of my confinement as pleasurable as they were memorable. I have never been acquainted with a man of higher intellectual power, nor of greater learning, nor of more various and extensive knowledge than Bilderdijk, confessedly the most distinguished man of letters in his own country. His wife was worthy of him. I paid them another visit the following year. They are now both gone to their rest, and I shall not look upon their like again.

Soon after the publication of Roderick, I received the following curious letter from the Ettrick Shepherd, (who had passed a few days with me in the preceding autumn,) giving me an account of his endeavours to procure a favourable notice of the poem in the Edinburgh Review.

“Edinburgh, Dec. 15. 1814.

“My dear Sir,

“I was very happy at seeing the post-mark of Keswick, and quite proud of the pleasure you make me believe my “Wake” has given to the beauteous and happy groupe at Greta Hall. Indeed few things could give me more pleasure, for I left my heart a sojourner among them. I have had a higher opinion of matrimony since that period than ever I had before, and I desire that you will positively give my kindest respects to each of them individually.

“The Pilgrim of the Sun is published, as you will see by the Papers, and if I may believe some communications that I have got, the public opinion of it is high; but these communications to an author are not to be depended on.

“I have read Roderick over and over again, and am the more and more convinced that it is the noblest epic poem of the age. I have had some correspondence and a good deal of conversation with Mr. Jeffrey about it, though he does not agree with me in every particular. He says it is too long, and wants elasticity, and will not, he fears, be generally read, though much may be said in its favour. I had even teazed him to let me review it for him, on account, as I said, that he could not appreciate its merits. I copy one sentence out of the letter he sent in answer to mine:—

“‘For Southey I have, as well as you, great respect, and when he will let me, great admiration; but he is a most provoking fellow, and at least as conceited as his neighbour Wordsworth. I cannot just trust you with his Roderick; but I shall be extremely happy to talk over that and other kindred subjects with you; for I am every way disposed to give Southey a lavish allowance of praise, and few things would give me greater pleasure than to find he had afforded me a fair opportunity. But I must do my duty according to my own apprehensions of it.’

“I supped with him last night, but there was so many people that I got but little conversation with him, but what we had was solely about you and Wordsworth. I suppose you have heard what a crushing review he has given the latter. I still found him persisting in his first asseveration, that it was heavy; but what was my pleasure to find that he had only got to the seventeenth division. I assured him he had the marrow of the thing to come at as yet, and in that I was joined by Mr. Alison. There was at the same time a Lady M⸺ joined us at the instant; short as her remark was, it seemed to make more impression on Jeffrey than all our arguments:—“Oh, I do love Southey!” that was all.

“I have no room to tell you more. But I beg that you will not do any thing, nor publish any thing that will nettle Jeffrey for the present, knowing as you do how omnipotent he is with the fashionable world, and seemingly so well disposed toward you.

“I am ever your’s most truly,

“James Hogg.

“I wish the Notes may be safe enough. I never looked at them. I wish these large quartos were all in hell burning.”

The reader will be as much amused as I was with poor Hogg’s earnest desire that I would not say any thing which might tend to frustrate his friendly intentions.

But what success the Shepherd met

Is to the world a secret yet.

There can be no reason, however, for withholding what was said in my reply of the crushing review which had been given to Mr. Wordsworth’s poem:—“He crush the Excursion!! Tell him he might as easily crush Skiddaw!”

Keswick, 15 June, 1838.

ORIGINAL PREFACE.

The history of the Wisi-Goths for some years before their overthrow is very imperfectly known. It is, however, apparent, that the enmity between the royal families of Chindasuintho and Wamba was one main cause of the destruction of the kingdom, the latter party having assisted in betraying their country to the Moors for the gratification of their own revenge. Theodofred and Favila were younger sons of King Chindasuintho; King Witiza, who was of Wamba’s family, put out the eyes of Theodofred, and murdered Favila, at the instigation of that Chieftain’s wife, with whom he lived in adultery. Pelayo, the son of Favila, and afterwards the founder of the Spanish monarchy, was driven into exile. Roderick, the son of Theodofred, recovered the throne, and put out Witiza’s eyes in vengeance for his father; but he spared Orpas, the brother of the tyrant, as being a Priest, and Ebba and Sisibert, the two sons of Witiza, by Pelayo’s mother. It may be convenient thus briefly to premise these circumstances of an obscure portion of history, with which few readers can be supposed to be familiar; and a list of the principal persons who are introduced, or spoken of, may as properly be prefixed to a Poem as to a Play.

The four latter persons are imaginary. All the others are mentioned in history. I ought, however, to observe, that Romano is a creature of monkish legends; that the name of Pelayo’s sister has not been preserved; and that that of Roderick’s mother, Ruscilo, has been altered to Rusilla, for the sake of euphony.

RODERICK,
THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.

I.
RODERICK AND ROMANO.

Long had the crimes of Spain cried out to Heaven;

At length the measure of offence was full.

Count Julian call’d the invaders; not because

Inhuman priests with unoffending blood

Had stain’d their country; not because a yoke

Of iron servitude oppress’d and gall’d

The children of the soil; a private wrong

Roused the remorseless Baron. Mad to wreak

His vengeance for his violated child

On Roderick’s head, in evil hour for Spain,

For that unhappy daughter and himself,

Desperate apostate ... on the Moors he call’d;

And like a cloud of locusts, whom the South

Wafts from the plains of wasted Africa,

The Musselmen upon Iberia’s shore

Descend. A countless multitude they came,

Syrian, Moor, Saracen, Greek renegade,

Persian and Copt and Tatar, in one bond

Of erring faith conjoin’d, ... strong in the youth

And heat of zeal, ... a dreadful brotherhood,

In whom all turbulent vices were let loose;

While Conscience, with their impious creed accurst

Drunk as with wine, had sanctified to them

All bloody, all abominable things.

Thou, Calpe, saw’st their coming; ancient Rock

Renown’d, no longer now shalt thou be call’d

From Gods and Heroes of the years of yore,

Kronos, or hundred-handed Briareus,

Bacchus or Hercules; but doom’d to bear

The name of thy new conqueror, and thenceforth

To stand his everlasting monument.

Thou saw’st the dark-blue waters flash before

Their ominous way, and whiten round their keels;

Their swarthy myriads darkening o’er thy sands.

There on the beach the Misbelievers spread

Their banners, flaunting to the sun and breeze;

Fair shone the sun upon their proud array,

White turbans, glittering armour, shields engrail’d

With gold, and scymitars of Syrian steel;

And gently did the breezes, as in sport,

Curl their long flags outrolling, and display

The blazon’d scrolls of blasphemy. Too soon

The gales of Spain from that unhappy land

Wafted, as from an open charnel-house,

The taint of death; and that bright sun, from fields,

Of slaughter, with the morning dew drew up

Corruption through the infected atmosphere.

Then fell the kingdom of the Goths; their hour

Was come, and Vengeance, long withheld, went loose.

Famine and Pestilence had wasted them,

And Treason, like an old and eating sore,

Consumed the bones and sinews of their strength;

And worst of enemies, their Sins were arm’d

Against them. Yet the sceptre from their hands

Pass’d not away inglorious, nor was shame

Left for their children’s lasting heritage;

Eight summer days, from morn till latest eve,

The fatal fight endured, till perfidy

Prevailing to their overthrow, they sunk

Defeated, not dishonour’d. On the banks

Of Chrysus, Roderick’s royal car was found,

His battle-horse Orelio, and that helm

Whose horns, amid the thickest of the fray

Eminent, had mark’d his presence. Did the stream

Receive him with the undistinguish’d dead,

Christian and Moor, who clogg’d its course that day?

So thought the Conqueror, and from that day forth,

Memorial of his perfect victory,

He bade the river bear the name of Joy.

So thought the Goths; they said no prayer for him,

For him no service sung, nor mourning made,

But charged their crimes upon his head, and curs’d

His memory.

Bravely in that eight-days fight

The King had striven, ... for victory first, while hope

Remain’d, then desperately in search of death.

The arrows pass’d him by to right and left,

The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar

Glanced from his helmet. Is the shield of Heaven,

Wretch that I am, extended over me?

Cried Roderick; and he dropt Orelio’s reins,

And threw his hands aloft in frantic prayer, ...

Death is the only mercy that I crave,

Death soon and short, death and forgetfulness!

Aloud he cried; but in his inmost heart

There answer’d him a secret voice, that spake

Of righteousness and judgement after death,

And God’s redeeming love, which fain would save

The guilty soul alive. ’Twas agony,

And yet ’twas hope; ... a momentary light,

That flash’d through utter darkness on the Cross

To point salvation, then left all within

Dark as before. Fear, never felt till then,

Sudden and irresistible as stroke

Of lightning, smote him. From his horse he dropt,

Whether with human impulse, or by Heaven

Struck down, he knew not; loosen’d from his wrist

The sword-chain, and let fall the sword, whose hilt

Clung to his palm a moment ere it fell,

Glued there with Moorish gore. His royal robe,

His horned helmet and enamell’d mail,

He cast aside, and taking from the dead

A peasant’s garment, in those weeds involved

Stole like a thief in darkness from the field.

Evening closed round to favour him. All night

He fled, the sound of battle in his ear

Ringing, and sights of death before his eyes,

With forms more horrible of eager fiends

That seem’d to hover round, and gulphs of fire

Opening beneath his feet. At times the groan

Of some poor fugitive, who, bearing with him

His mortal hurt, had fallen beside the way,

Roused him from these dread visions, and he call’d

In answering groans on his Redeemer’s name,

That word the only prayer that pass’d his lips

Or rose within his heart. Then would he see

The Cross whereon a bleeding Saviour hung,

Who call’d on him to come and cleanse his soul

In those all-healing streams, which from his wounds,

As from perpetual springs, for ever flow’d.

No hart e’er panted for the water-brooks

As Roderick thirsted there to drink and live:

But Hell was interposed; and worse than Hell ...

Yea to his eyes more dreadful than the fiends

Who flock’d like hungry ravens round his head, ...

Florinda stood between, and warn’d him off

With her abhorrent hands, ... that agony

Still in her face, which, when the deed was done,

Inflicted on her ravisher the curse

That it invoked from Heaven.... Oh what a night

Of waking horrors! Nor when morning came

Did the realities of light and day

Bring aught of comfort; wheresoe’er he went

The tidings of defeat had gone before;

And leaving their defenceless homes to seek

What shelter walls and battlements might yield,

Old men with feeble feet, and tottering babes,

And widows with their infants in their arms,

Hurried along. Nor royal festival,

Nor sacred pageant, with like multitudes

E’er fill’d the public way. All whom the sword

Had spared were here; bed-rid infirmity

Alone was left behind; the cripple plied

His crutches, with her child of yesterday

The mother fled, and she whose hour was come

Fell by the road.

Less dreadful than this view

Of outward suffering which the day disclosed,

Had night and darkness seem’d to Roderick’s heart,

With all their dread creations. From the throng

He turn’d aside, unable to endure

This burthen of the general woe; nor walls,

Nor towers, nor mountain fastnesses he sought,

A firmer hold his spirit yearn’d to find,

A rock of surer strength. Unknowing where,

Straight through the wild he hasten’d on all day

And with unslacken’d speed was travelling still

When evening gather’d round. Seven days from morn

Till night he travell’d thus; the forest oaks,

The fig-grove by the fearful husbandman

Forsaken to the spoiler, and the vines,

Where fox and household dog together now

Fed on the vintage, gave him food; the hand

Of Heaven was on him, and the agony

Which wrought within, supplied a strength beyond

All natural force of man.

When the eighth eve

Was come, he found himself on Ana’s banks,

Fast by the Caulian Schools. It was the hour

Of vespers, but no vesper bell was heard,

Nor other sound, than of the passing stream,

Or stork, who flapping with wide wing the air,

Sought her broad nest upon the silent tower.

Brethren and pupils thence alike had fled

To save themselves within the embattled walls

Of neighbouring Merida. One aged Monk

Alone was left behind; he would not leave

The sacred spot beloved, for having served