Roderick replied, I am a sinful man, One who in solitude hath long deplored A life mis-spent; but never bound by vows, Till Adosinda taught me where to find Comfort, and how to work forgiveness out. When that exalted woman took my vow, She call’d me Maccabee; from this day forth Be that my earthly name. But tell me now, Whom shall we rouse to take upon his head The crown of Spain? Where are the Gothic Chiefs? Sacaru, Theudemir, Athanagild, All who survived that eight days’ obstinate fight, When clogg’d with bodies Chrysus scarce could for Its bloody stream along? Witiza’s sons, Bad offspring of a stock accurst, I know, Have put the turban on their recreant heads. Where are your own Cantabrian Lords? I ween, Eudon, and Pedro, and Pelayo now Have ceased their rivalry. If Pelayo live, His were the worthy heart and rightful hand To wield the sceptre and the sword of Spain. Odoar and Urban eyed him while he spake, As if they wonder’d whose the tongue might be Familiar thus with Chiefs and thoughts of state. They scann’d his countenance, but not a trace Betray’d the Royal Goth: sunk was that eye Of sovereignty, and on the emaciate cheek Had penitence and anguish deeply drawn Their furrows premature, ... forestalling time, And shedding upon thirty’s brow more snows Than threescore winters in their natural course Might else have sprinkled there. It seems indeed That thou hast pass’d thy days in solitude, Replied the Abbot, or thou would’st not ask Of things so long gone by. Athanagild And Theudemir have taken on their necks The yoke. Sacaru play’d a nobler part. Long within Merida did he withstand The invader’s hot assault; and when at length, Hopeless of all relief, he yielded up The gates, disdaining in his father’s land To breathe the air of bondage, with a few Found faithful till the last, indignantly Did he toward the ocean bend his way, And shaking from his feet the dust of Spain, Took ship, and hoisted sail through seas unknown To seek for freedom. Our Cantabrian Chiefs All have submitted, but the wary Moor Trusteth not all alike: At his own Court He holds Pelayo, as suspecting most That calm and manly spirit; Pedro’s son There too is held as hostage, and secures His father’s faith; Count Eudon is despised, And so lives unmolested. When he pays His tribute, an uncomfortable thought May then perhaps disturb him: ... or more like He meditates how profitable ’twere To be a Moor; and if apostacy Were all, and to be unbaptized might serve, ... But I waste breath upon a wretch like this; Pelayo is the only hope of Spain, Only Pelayo. If, as we believe, Said Urban then, the hand of Heaven is here, And dreadful though they be, yet for wise end Of good, these visitations do its work; And dimly as our mortal sight may scan The future, yet methinks my soul descries How in Pelayo should the purposes