Fell from the oak's high bower. The mountain roe, When, having drank there, he would bound across, Drew up upon the bank his meeting feet,
And put forth half his force. With silent lapse From thence through mossy banks the water stole, Then murmuring hastened to the glen below. Diana might have loved in that sweet spot
To take her noontide rest! and when she stoopt Hot from the chase to drink, well pleased had seen Her own bright crescent, and the brighter face
It crowned, reflectëd there.
Count Julian's tent was pitched upon the green;
There his ablutions Moor-like he had made,
And Moor-like knelt in prayer, bowing his head
Upon the mossy bank. There was a sound
Of voices at the tent when he arose;
And lo! with hurried step a woman came
Toward him; rightly then his heart presaged,
And ere he could behold her countenance,
Florinda knelt, and with uplifted arms
Embraced her sire. He raised her from the ground,
Kissed her, and claspt her to his heart, and said,
Thou hast not then forsaken me, my child;
Howe'er the inexorable will of Fate
May in the world which is to come divide
Our everlasting destinies, in this
Thou wilt not, O my child, abandon me!
And then with deep and interrupted voice,
Nor seeking to restrain his copious tears,
My blessing be upon thy head, he cried,
A father's blessing! Though all faiths were false,
It should not lose its worth!... She locked her hands
Around his neck, and gazing in his face
Through streaming tears, exclaimed, Oh never more,
Here or hereafter, never let us part!
And breathing then a prayer in silence forth,
The name of Jesus trembled on her tongue.
Whom hast thou there? cried Julian, and drew back,
Seeing that near them stood a meagre man
In humble garb, who rested with raised hands
On a long staff, bending his head, like one
Who, when he hears the distant vesper-bell,
Halts by the way, and, all unseen of men,
Offers his homage in the eye of Heaven.
She answered, Let not my dear father frown anger on his child! Thy messenger
Told me that I should be restrained no more
From liberty of faith, which the new law
Indulged to all: how soon my hour might come
I knew not, and although that hour will bring
Few terrors, yet methinks I would not be
Without a Christian comforter in death.
A Priest! exclaimed the Count, and drawing back,
Stoopt for his turban, that he might not lack
Some outward symbol of apostacy;
For still in war his wonted arms he wore,
Nor for the scymitar had changed the sword
Accustomed to his hand. He covered now
His short grey hair, and under the white folds
His swarthy brow, which gathered as he rose,
Darkened. Oh frown not thus! Florinda cried,
A kind and gentle counsellor is this,
One who pours balm into a wounded soul,
And mitigates the griefs he cannot heal.
I told him I had vowed to pass my days
A servant of the Lord, yet that my heart,
Hearing the message of thy love, was drawn.
With powerful yearnings back. Follow thy heart.. It answers to the call of duty here,
He said, nor canst thou better serve the Lord
Than at thy father's side.
While thus she spake, insensibly relaxed.
A Priest, cried he, and thus with even hand
Weigh vows and natural duty in the scale!
In what old heresy hath he been trained?
Or in what wilderness hath he escaped
The domineering Prelate's fire and sword?
Come hither, man, and tell me who thou art!
A sinner, Roderick, drawing nigh, replied;
Brought to repentance by the grace of God,
And trusting for forgiveness through the blood
Of Christ in humble hope.
A smile of scorn
Julian assumed, but merely from the lips
for he was troubled while he gazed
It came;
On the strong countenance and thoughtful eye
Before him. A new law hath been proclaimed,
Said he, which overthrows in its career
The Christian altars of idolatry.
What think'st thou of the Prophet?.. Roderick
Made answer, I am in the Moorish camp,
And he who asketh is a Mussleman.
How then should I reply?... Safely, rejoined
The renegade, and freely may'st thou speak
To all that Julian asks. Is not the yoke
Of Mecca easy, and its burthen light?...
Spain hath not found it so, the Goth replied,
And groaning, turned away his countenance.
Count Julian knit his brow, and stood awhile
Regarding him with meditative eye
In silence. Thou art honest too! he cried;
Why 'twas in quest of such a man as this
That the old Grecian searched by lanthorn light
In open day the city's crowded streets,
So rare he deemed the virtue. Honesty
And sense of natural duty in a Priest!
Now for a miracle, ye Saints of Spain!
I shall not pry too closely for the wires,
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