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.