The timid ewe bleats not so mournfully, Its shepherd lost, nor cries the angry lion With such a fierceness for its stolen young, As I for Roderic.--My son! my son! Each shade I pass, amid the closing night, Seems still to wear thy form and mock my arms! O, why, why comes he not? I gave the sign,-- I marked the spot,--and yet he is not here! Has he neglected? Can he disobey? It may not be! A thousand terrors seize me. Perhaps some injury or accident Has made him turn aside his hastening step;-- Perhaps he may be slain, or hurt, or seized. The very thought freezes my breaking heart. O holy Heaven, how many ways for fear Can grief find out!--But hark! What do I hear? Is it his footstep? Can it be? O, no! I am not worthy such a happiness! ’T is but the echo of my grief I hear.-- But hark again! Methinks there comes a gallop On the flinty stones. He springs from off his steed! Is there such happiness vouchsafed to me? Is it my son? _The Cid._ My father? _The Father._ May I truly Trust myself, my child? O, am I, am I, then, Once more within thine arms? Then let me thus Compose myself, that I may honor thee As greatly as thou hast deserved. But why Hast thou delayed? And yet, since thou art here, Why should I weary thee with questioning?-- O, bravely hast thou borne thyself, my son; Hast bravely stood the proof; hast vindicated well Mine ancient name and strength; and well hast paid The debt of life which thou receivedst from me. Come near to me, my son. Touch the white hairs Whose honor thou hast saved from infamy, And kiss, in love, the cheek whose stain thy valor Hath in blood washed out.--My son! my son! The pride within my soul is humbled now, And bows before the power that has preserved From shame the race so many kings have owned And honored.[509] [509]