the ravisher, The cause of all this ruin! Having said, In the same posture motionless he knelt, Arms straighten’d down, and hands outspread, and eyes Raised to the Monk, like one who from his voice Awaited life or death. All night the old man Pray’d with his penitent, and minister’d Unto the wounded soul, till he infused A healing hope of mercy that allay’d Its heat of anguish. But Romano saw What strong temptations of despair beset, And how he needed in this second birth, Even like a yearling child, a fosterer’s care. Father in Heaven, he cried, thy will be done! Surely I hoped that I this day should sing Hosannahs at thy throne; but thou hast yet Work for thy servant here. He girt his loins, And from her altar took with reverent hands Our Lady’s image down: In this, quoth he, We have our guide and guard and comforter, The best provision for our perilous way. Fear not but we shall find a resting place, The Almighty’s hand is on us. They went forth, They cross’d the stream, and when Romano turn’d For his last look toward the Caulian towers, Far off the Moorish standards in the light Of morn were glittering, where the miscreant host Toward the Lusitanian capital To lay their siege advanced; the eastern breeze Bore to the fearful travellers far away The sound of horn and tambour o’er the plain. All day they hasten’d, and when evening fell Sped toward the setting sun, as if its line Of glory came from Heaven to point their course. But feeble were the feet of that old man For such a weary length of way; and now Being pass’d the danger (for in Merida Sacaru long in resolute defence Withstood the tide of war,) with easier pace The wanderers journey’d on; till having cross’d Rich Tagus, and the rapid Zezere, They from Albardos’ hoary height beheld Pine-forest, fruitful vale, and that fair lake Where Alcoa, mingled there with Baza’s stream, Rests on its passage to the western sea, That sea the aim and boundary of their toil. The fourth week of their painful pilgrimage Was full, when they arrived where from the land A rocky hill, rising with steep ascent, O’erhung the glittering beach; there on the top A little lowly hermitage they found, And a rude Cross, and at its foot a grave, Bearing no name, nor other monument. Where better could they rest than here, where faith And secret penitence and happiest death Had bless’d the spot, and brought good Angels down, And open’d as it were a way to Heaven? Behind them was the desert, offering fruit And water for their need: on either side The white sand sparkling to the sun; in front, Great Ocean with its everlasting voice, As in perpetual jubilee, proclaim’d The wonders of the Almighty, filling thus The pauses of their fervent orisons. Where better could the wanderers rest than here? II. RODERICK IN SOLITUDE.