In his dream, Groaning he knelt before her to beseech Her blessing, and she raised her hands to lay A benediction on him. But those hands Were chain’d, and casting a wild look around, With thrilling voice she cried, Will no one break These shameful fetters? Pedro, Theudemir, Athanagild, where are ye? Roderick’s arm Is wither’d; ... Chiefs of Spain, but where are ye? And thou, Pelayo, thou our surest hope, Dost thou too sleep?... Awake, Pelayo!... up!... Why tarriest thou, Deliverer?... But with that She broke her bonds, and lo! her form was changed! Radiant in arms she stood! a bloody Cross Gleam’d on her breast-plate, in her shield display’d Erect a lion ramp’d; her helmed head Rose like the Berecynthian Goddess crown’d With towers, and in her dreadful hand the sword Red as a fire-brand blazed. Anon the tramp Of horsemen, and the din of multitudes Moving to mortal conflict, rang around; The battle-song, the clang of sword and shield, War-cries and tumult, strife and hate and rage, Blasphemous prayers, confusion, agony, Rout and pursuit and death; and over all The shout of victory ... Spain and Victory! Roderick, as the strong vision master’d him, Rush’d to the fight rejoicing: starting then, As his own effort burst the charm of sleep, He found himself upon that lonely grave In moonlight and in silence. But the dream Wrought in him still; for still he felt his heart Pant, and his wither’d arm was trembling still; And still that voice was in his ear which call’d On Jesus for his sake. Oh, might he hear That actual voice! and if Rusilla lived, ... If shame and anguish for his crimes not yet Had brought her to the grave, ... sure she would bless Her penitent child, and pour into his heart Prayers and forgiveness, which like precious balm, Would heal the wounded soul. Nor to herself Less precious, or less healing, would the voice That spake forgiveness flow. She wept her son For ever lost, cut off with all the weight Of unrepented sin upon his head, Sin which had weigh’d a nation down ... what joy To know that righteous Heaven had in its wrath Remember’d mercy, and she yet might meet The child whom she had borne, redeem’d, in bliss. The sudden impulse of such thoughts confirm’d That unacknowledged purpose, which till now Vainly had sought its end. He girt his loins, Laid holiest Mary’s image in a cleft Of the rock, where, shelter’d from the elements, It might abide till happier days came on, From all defilement safe; pour’d his last prayer Upon Romano’s grave, and kiss’d the earth Which cover’d his remains, and wept as if At long leave-taking, then began his way. III. ADOSINDA.