Roderick, the last of the Goths — Background and Themes

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.

“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,

“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._

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.

WITIZA, King of the Wisi-Goths; dethroned and blinded by Roderick. THEODOFRED, son of King Chindasuintho, blinded by King Witiza. FAVILA, his brother; put to death by Witiza. The Wife of Favila, Witiza’s adulterous mistress.

(_These four persons are dead before the action of the poem commences._)

RODERICK, the last King of the Wisi-Goths: son of Theodofred. PELAYO, the founder of the Spanish Monarchy: son of Favila. GAUDIOSA, his wife. GUISLA, his sister. FAVILA, his son. HERMESIND, his daughter. RUSILLA, widow of Theodofred, and mother of Roderick. COUNT PEDRO, } powerful Lords of Cantabria. COUNT EUDON, } ALPHONSO, Count Pedro’s son, afterwards King. URBAN, Archbishop of Toledo. ROMANO, a Monk of the Caulian Schools, near Merida. ABDALAZIZ, the Moorish Governor of Spain. EGILONA, formerly the wife of Roderick, now of Abdalaziz. ABULCACEM, } ALCAHMAN, } AYUB, } Moorish Chiefs. IBRAHIM, } MAGUED, } ORPAS, brother to Witiza, and formerly Archbishop of Seville, now a renegade. SISIBERT, } sons of Witiza and of Pelayo’s mother. EBBA, } NUMACIAN, a renegade, governor of Gegio. COUNT JULIAN, a powerful Lord among the Wisi-Goths, now a renegade. FLORINDA, his daughter, violated by King Roderick.

ADOSINDA, daughter of the Governor of Auria. ODOAR, Abbot of St. Felix. SIVERIAN, Roderick’s foster-father. FAVINIA, Count Pedro’s wife.

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.

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.