Said I not rightly? Adosinda cried; The will which goads me on is not mine own, ’Tis from on high, ... yea, verily of Heaven! But who art thou who hast profess’d with me, My first sworn brother in the appointed rule? Tell me thy name. Ask any thing but that! The fallen King replied. My name was lost When from the Goths the sceptre pass’d away. The nation will arise regenerate; Strong in her second youth and beautiful, And like a spirit which hath shaken off The clog of dull mortality, shall Spain Arise in glory. But for my good name No resurrection is appointed here. Let it be blotted out on earth: in Heaven There shall be written with it penitence And grace and saving faith and such good deeds Wrought in atonement as my soul this day Hath sworn to offer up. Then be thy name, She answer’d, Maccabee, from this day forth: For this day art thou born again; and like Those brethren of old times, whose holy names Live in the memory of all noble hearts For love and admiration, ever young, ... So for our native country, for her hearths And altars, for her cradles and her graves, Hast thou thyself devoted. Let us now Each to our work. Among the neighbouring hills, I to the vassals of my father’s house; Thou to Visonia. Tell the Abbot there What thou hast seen at Auria; and with him Take counsel who of all our Baronage Is worthiest to lead on the sons of Spain, And wear upon his brow the Spanish crown. Now, brother, fare thee well! we part in hope, And we shall meet again, be sure, in joy. So saying, Adosinda left the King Alone amid the ruins. There he stood, As when Elisha, on the farther bank Of Jordan, saw that elder prophet mount The fiery chariot, and the steeds of fire, Trampling the whirlwind, bear him up the sky: Thus gazing after her did Roderick stand; And as the immortal Tishbite left behind His mantle and prophetic power, even so Had her inspiring presence left infused The spirit which she breathed. Gazing he stood, As at a heavenly visitation there Vouchsafed in mercy to himself and Spain; And when the heroic mourner from his sight Had pass’d away, still reverential awe Held him suspended there and motionless. Then turning from the ghastly scene of death Up murmuring Lona, he began toward The holy Bierzo his obedient way. Sil’s ample stream he crost, where through the vale Of Orras, from that sacred land it bears The whole collected waters; northward then, Skirting the heights of Aguiar, he reach’d That consecrated pile amid the wild, Which sainted Fructuoso in his zeal Rear’d to St. Felix, on Visonia’s banks.