Of Julian's army in that hour support
Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there Enhanced his former praise; and by his side, Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife, Alphonso through the host of infidels
Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death. But there was worst confusion and uproar, There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud Of his recovered Lord, Orelio plunged
Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet The living and the dead. Where'er he turns
The Moors divide and fly.
Appalled they say, who to the front of war Bareheaded offers thus his naked life?
Replete with power he is, and terrible,
Like some destroying Angel! Sure his lips Have drank of Kaf's dark fountain, and he comes
Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly!
They said, this is no human foe!.. Nor less
Of wonder filled the Spaniards when they saw How flight and terror went before his way, And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one, With what command and knightly ease he sits
The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power Bestrode with such command and majesty That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day Is death's black banner, shaking from its folds Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mold
Is he who in that garb of peace
Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns! Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some Saint
Aye, cries another, Heaven
Hath ever with especial bounty blest
Above all other lands its favoured Spain; Chusing her children forth from all mankind For its peculiar people, as of yore Abraham's ungrateful race beneath the Law. Who knows not how on that most holy night When Peace on Earth by Angels was proclaimed, The light which o'er the fields of Bethlehem shone, Irradiated whole Spain? not just displayed, As to the Shepherds, and again withdrawn ; All the long winter hours from eve till morn Her forests and her mountains and her plains,
Her hills and vallies were embathed in light, A light which came not from the sun or moon Or stars, by secondary powers dispensed, But from the fountain-springs, the Light of Light Effluent. And wherefore should we not believe That this may be some Saint or Angel, charged To lead us to miraculous victory?
Hath not the Virgin Mother oftentimes Descending, clothed in glory, sanctified With feet adorable our happy soil?... Marked ye not, said another, how he cast In wrath the unhallowed scymitar away, And called for Christian weapon? Oh be sure This is the aid of Heaven! On, comrades, on! A miracle to-day is wrought for Spain! Victory and Vengeance! Hew the miscreants down, And spare not! hew them down in sacrifice! God is with us! his Saints are in the field!
Victory! miraculous Victory!
Inflamed with wild belief the keen desire
Of vengeance on their enemies abhorred.
The Moorish chief, meantime, o'erlooked the fight
From an eminence, and cursed the renegade Whose counsels sorting to such ill effect
Had brought this danger on. Lo, from the East Comes fresh alarm! a few poor fugitives Well-nigh with fear exanimate came up, From Covadonga flying, and the rear
Of that destruction, scarce with breath to tell - Their dreadful tale. When Abulcacem heard, Stricken with horror, like a man bereft
Of sense, he stood. O Prophet, he exclaimed, A hard and cruel fortune hast thou brought This day upon thy servant! Must I then Here with disgrace and ruin close a life Of glorious deeds? But how should man resist Fate's irreversible decrees, or why
Murmur at what must be! They who survive
May mourn the evil which this day begins:
My part will soon be done! ... Grief then gave way
To rage, and cursing Guisla, he pursued,
Oh that that treacherous woman were but here!
It were a consolation to give her
The evil death she merits!
She hath had, a Moor replied. For when we reached The entrance of the vale, it was her choice
There in the farthest dwellings to be left,
Lest she should see her brother's face; but thence We found her, flying at the overthrow,
And, visiting the treason on her head,
Pierced her with wounds... Poor vengeance for a host Destroyed! said Abulcacem in his soul.
Howbeit, resolving to the last to do
His office, he roused up his spirit. Go,
Strike off Count Eudon's head! he cried; the fear Which brought him to our camp will bring him else In arms against us now! For Sisibert
And Ebba, he continued thus in thought, Their uncle's fate for ever bars all plots Of treason on their part; no hope have they Of safety but with us. He called them then With chosen troops to join him in the front Of battle, that by bravely making head, Retreat might now be won. Then fiercer raged The conflict, and more frequent cries of death,
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