Oh none but she! exclaim’d the good old man, Clasping his hands, which trembled as he spake In act of pious passion raised to Heaven, ... Oh none but Adosinda!... none but she, ... None but that noble heart, which was the heart Of Auria while it stood, its life and strength, More than her father’s presence, or the arm Of her brave husband, valiant as he was. Hers was the spirit which inspired old age, Ambitious boyhood, girls in timid youth, And virgins in the beauty of their spring, And youthful mothers, doting like herself With ever-anxious love: She breathed through all That zeal and that devoted faithfulness, Which to the invader’s threats and promises Turn’d a deaf ear alike; which in the head And flood of prosperous fortune check’d his course, Repell’d him from the walls, and when at length His overpowering numbers forced their way, Even in that uttermost extremity Unyielding, still from street to street, from house To house, from floor to floor, maintain’d the fight: Till by their altars falling, in their doors, And on their household hearths, and by their beds And cradles, and their fathers’ sepulchres, This noble army, gloriously revenged, Embraced their martyrdom. Heroic souls! Well have ye done, and righteously discharged Your arduous part! Your service is perform’d, Your earthly warfare done! Ye have put on The purple robe of everlasting peace! Ye have received your crown! Ye bear the palm Before the throne of Grace! With that he paused, Checking the strong emotions of his soul. Then with a solemn tone addressing him Who shared his secret thoughts, thou knowest, he said, O Urban, that they have not fallen in vain; For by this virtuous sacrifice they thinn’d Alcahman’s thousands; and his broken force, Exhausted by their dear-bought victory, Turn’d back from Auria, leaving us to breathe Among our mountains yet. We lack not here Good hearts, nor valiant hands. What walls or towers Or battlements are like these fastnesses, These rocks and glens and everlasting hills? Give but that Aurian spirit, and the Moors Will spend their force as idly on these holds, As round the rocky girdle of the land The wild Cantabrian billows waste their rage. Give but that spirit!... Heaven hath given it us, If Adosinda thus, as from the dead, Be granted to our prayers! And who art thou, Said Urban, who hast taken on thyself This rule of warlike faith? Thy countenance And those poor weeds bespeak a life ere this Devoted to austere observances.