Reproach him? cried Siverian; ... I reproach My child, ... my noble boy, ... whom every tongue Bless’d at that hour, ... whose love fill’d every heart With joy, and every eye with joyful tears! My brave, my beautiful, my generous boy! Brave, beautiful, and generous as he was, Never so brave, so beautiful, so great As then, ... not even on that glorious day, When on the field of victory, elevate Amid the thousands who acclaim’d him King, Firm on the shield above their heads upraised, Erect he stood, and waved his bloody sword.... Why dost thou shake thy head as if in doubt? I do not dream, nor fable! Ten short years Have scarcely past away, since all within The Pyrenean hills, and the three seas Which girdle Spain, echoed in one response The acclamation from that field of fight.... Or doth aught ail thee, that thy body quakes And shudders thus? ’Tis but a chill, replied The King, in passing from the open air Under the shadow of this thick-set grove. Oh! if this scene awoke in thee such thoughts As swell my bosom here, the old man pursued, Sunshine, or shade, and all things from without, Would be alike indifferent. Gracious God, Only but ten short years, ... and all so changed! Ten little years since in yon court he check’d His fiery steeds. The steeds obey’d his hand, The whirling wheels stood still, and when he leapt Upon the pavement, the whole people heard, In their deep silence, open-ear’d, the sound. With slower movement from the ivory seat Rusilla rose, her arm, as down she stept, Extended to her son’s supporting hand; Not for default of firm or agile strength, But that the feeling of that solemn hour Subdued her then, and tears bedimm’d her sight. Howbeit when to her husband’s grave she came, On the sepulchral stone she bow’d her head Awhile; then rose collectedly, and fix’d Upon the scene her calm and steady eye. Roderick, ... oh when did valour wear a form So beautiful, so noble, so august? Or vengeance, when did it put on before A character so aweful, so divine? Roderick stood up, and reaching to the tomb His hands, my hero cried, Theodofred! Father! I stand before thee once again, According to thy prayer, when kneeling down Between thy knees I took my last farewell; And vow’d by all thy sufferings, all thy wrongs, And by my mother’s days and nights of woe, Her silent anguish, and the grief which then Even from thee she did not seek to hide, That if our cruel parting should avail To save me from the Tyrant’s jealous guilt, Surely should my avenging sword fulfil Whate’er he omen’d. Oh that time, I cried, Would give the strength of manhood to this arm, Already would it find a manly heart To guide it to its purpose! And I swore Never again to see my father’s face, Nor ask my mother’s blessing, till I brought, Dead or in chains, the Tyrant to thy feet.