He breathed thanksgiving forth, then made his bed On heath and myrtle. But when he arose At day-break and pursued his way, his heart Felt lighten’d that the shock of mingling first Among his fellow-kind was overpast; And journeying on, he greeted whom he met With such short interchange of benison As each to other gentle travellers give, Recovering thus the power of social speech Which he had long disused. When hunger prest He ask’d for alms: slight supplication served; A countenance so pale and woe-begone Moved all to pity; and the marks it bore Of rigorous penance and austerest life, With something too of majesty that still Appear’d amid the wreck, inspired a sense Of reverence too. The goat-herd on the hills Open’d his scrip for him; the babe in arms, Affrighted at his visage, turn’d away, And clinging to the mother’s neck in tears Would yet again look up and then again, Shrink back, with cry renew’d. The bolder imps Sporting beside the way, at his approach Brake off their games for wonder, and stood still In silence; some among them cried, A Saint! The village matron when she gave him food Besought his prayers; and one entreated him To lay his healing hands upon her child, For with a sore and hopeless malady Wasting, it long had lain, ... and sure, she said, He was a man of God. Thus travelling on He past the vale where wild Arunca pours Its wintry torrents; and the happier site Of old Conimbrica, whose ruin’d towers Bore record of the fierce Alani’s wrath. Mondego too he cross’d, not yet renown’d In poets’ amorous lay; and left behind The walls at whose foundation pious hands Of Priest and Monk and Bishop meekly toil’d, ... So had the insulting Arian given command. Those stately palaces and rich domains Were now the Moor’s, and many a weary age Must Coimbra wear the misbeliever’s yoke, Before Fernando’s banner through her gate Shall pass triumphant, and her hallow’d Mosque Behold the hero of Bivar receive The knighthood which he glorified so oft In his victorious fields. Oh if the years To come might then have risen on Roderick’s soul, How had they kindled and consoled his heart!... What joy might Douro’s haven then have given, Whence Portugal, the faithful and the brave, Shall take her name illustrious!... what, those walls Where Mumadona one day will erect Convent and town and towers, which shall become The cradle of that famous monarchy! What joy might these prophetic scenes have given, ... What ample vengeance on the Musselman, Driven out with foul defeat, and made to feel In Africa the wrongs he wrought to Spain; And still pursued by that relentless sword, Even to the farthest Orient, where his power Received its mortal wound. O years of pride! In undiscoverable futurity, Yet unevolved, your destined glories lay;