To the cold moon a richer, stronger strain,
Than that with which the lyric lark salutes
The new-born day. Her deep and thrilling song
Seemed with its piercing melody to reach
The soul, and in mysterious unison
Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love.
Their hearts were open to the healing power
Of nature; and the splendour of the night,
The flow of waters, and that sweetest lay
Came to them like a copious evening dew,
Falling on vernal herbs which thirst for rain.
There was a stirring in the air, the sun
Prevailed, and gradually the brightening mist
Pegan to rise and melt. A jutting crag
Upon the right projected o'er the stream,
Not farther from the cave than a strong hand
Expert, with deadly aim, might cast the spear,
Or a strong voice, pitched to full compass, make
Its clear articulation heard distinct.
A venturous dalesman, once ascending there
To rob the eagle's nest, had fallen, and hung
Among the heather, wondrously preserved :
Therefore had he with pious gratitude
Flaced on that overhanging brow a cross,
Tall as the mast of some light fisher's skiff,
And from the vale conspicuous. As the Moors
Advanced, the chieftain in the van was seen,
Known by his arms, and from the crag a voice
Pronounced his name-Alcahman, hoa! look up,
Alcahman! As the floating mist drew up,
It had divided there, and opened round
The cross; part clinging to the rock beneath,
Hovering and waving part in fleecy folds,
A canopy of silver light, condensed
To shape and substance. In the midst there stood
A female form, one hand upon the cross,
The other raised in menacing act: below
Loose flowed her raiment, but her breast was armed,
And helmeted her head. The Moor turned pale;
For on the walls of Auria he had seen
That well-known figure, and had well believed
She rested with the dead. What, hoa! she cried;
Alcahman! In the name of all who fell
At Auria in the massacre, this hour
I summon thee before the throne of God,
To answer for the innocent blood!
Moor, Miscreant, Murderer, Child of Hell, this hour I summon thee to judgment! In the name
Of God! for Spain and vengeance!
Her speech; for, taking from the Primate's hand
That oaken cross, which at the sacring rites
Had served for crosier, at the cavern's mouth
Pelayo lifted it, and gave the word.
From voice to voice on either side it past
With rapid repetition-In the name
Of God! for Spain and vengeance! and forthwith
On either side, along the whole defile,
The Asturians shouting in the name of God,
Set the whole ruin loose! huge trunks and stones,
And loosened crags, down, down they rolled with rush
And bound, and thundering force. Such was the fall,
As when some city, by the labouring earth
Heaved from its strong foundations is cast down,
And all its dwellings, towers, and palaces
In one wide desolation prostrated.
Froin end to end of that long strait, the crash
Was heard continuous, and commixt with sounds
More dreadful-shrieks of horror, and despair,
And death-the wild and agonizing cry
Of that whole host in one destruction whelmed.
Vain was all valour there, all martial skill;
The valiant arm is helpless now; the feet
Swift in the race, avail not now to save;
They perish, all their thousands perish there;
Horsemen and infantry, they perish all,-
The outward armour, and the bones within,
Broken, and bruised, and crushed. Echo prolonged
The long uproar: a silence then ensued,
Through which the sound of Deva's stream was heard,
A lonely voice of waters, wild and sweet.
The lingering groan, the faintly-uttered prayer,
The louder curses of despairing death,
Ascended not so high. Down from the cave
Pelayo hastes, the Asturians hasten down;
Fierce and unmitigable, down they speed
On all sides, and along the vale of blood
The avenging sword did mercy's work that hour.
Aye, Idleness! the rich folks never fail
To find some reason why the poor deserve
Their miseries !-Is it idleness, I pray you,
That brings the fever or the ague fit?
That makes the sick one's sickly appetite
Turn at the dry bread and potato meal?
Is it idleness that makes small wages fail
For growing wants? Six years ago, these bells
Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told
What I might look for,-but I did not heed
Good counsel. I had lived in service, Sir,
Knew never what it was to want a meal;
Laid down without one thought to keep me sleepless,
Or trouble me in sleep; had for a Sunday
My linen gown, and when the pedlar came
Could buy me a new ribbon. And my husband,
A towardly young man and well to do.
He had his silver buckles and his watch;
There was not in the village one who looked
Sprucer on holidays. We married, Sir,
And we had children, but as wants increased
Wages did not. 'The silver buckles went,
So went the watch; and when the holiday coat
Was won to work, no new one in its place.
For me you see my rags! but I deserve them,
For wilfully, like this new-married pair,
Aye, it fills heavy there; and yet their pittance
Just serves to keep life in. A blessed prospect,
To slave while there is strength, in age the workhouse, A parish shell at last, and the little bell
Tolled hastily for a pauper's funeral!
Aye, Sir; and were he drest
And cleaned, he'd be as fine a boy to look on
As the Squire's young master.
Let comfortably in the summer wind;
But when the winter comes, it pinches me
To see the little wretch! I've three besides ;
And, God forgive me! but I often wish
To see them in their coffius.
"Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep
As undisturbed as Justice! but no more
The wretched slave, as on his native shore,
Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!
Though through the toil and anguish of the day
No tear escaped him, not one suffering groan
Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone
In bitterness; thinking that far away
Though the gay Negroes join the midnight song,
Though merriment resounds on Niger's shore,
She whom he loves, far from the cheerful throng
Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door
With dim-grown eye, silent and wo-begone,
And weeps for him who will return no more.
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