No season this for old solemnities, For wassailry and sport; ... the bath, the bed, The vigil, ... all preparatory rites Omitted now, ... here in the face of Heaven, Before the vassals of his father’s house, With them in instant peril to partake The chance of life or death, the heroic boy Dons his first arms; the coated scales of steel Which o’er the tunic to his knees depend, The hose, the sleeves of mail; bareheaded then He stood. But when Count Pedro took the spurs And bent his knee in service to his son, Alphonso from that gesture half drew back, Starting in reverence, and a deeper hue Spread o’er the glow of joy which flush’d his cheeks. Do thou the rest, Pelayo! said the Count; So shall the ceremony of this hour Exceed in honour what in form it lacks. The Prince from Hoya’s faithful hand receiv’d The sword; he girt it round the youth, and drew And placed it in his hand; unsheathing then His own good falchion, with its burnish’d blade He touch’d Alphonso’s neck, and with a kiss Gave him his rank in arms. Thus long the crowd Had look’d intently on, in silence hush’d; Loud and continuous now with one accord, Shout following shout, their acclamations rose; Blessings were breathed from every heart, and joy, Powerful alike in all, which as with force Of an inebriating cup inspired The youthful, from the eye of age drew tears. The uproar died away, when standing forth, Roderick with lifted hand besought a pause For speech, and moved towards the youth. I too, Young Baron, he began, must do my part; Not with prerogative of earthly power, But as the servant of the living God, The God of Hosts. This day thou promisest To die when honour calls thee for thy faith, For thy liege Lord, and for thy native land; The duties which at birth we all contract, Are by the high profession of this hour Made thine especially. Thy noble blood, The thoughts with which thy childhood hath been fed, And thine own noble nature more than all, Are sureties for thee. But these dreadful times Demand a farther pledge; for it hath pleased The Highest, as he tried his Saints of old, So in the fiery furnace of his wrath To prove and purify the sons of Spain; And they must knit their spirits to the proof, Or sink, for ever lost. Hold forth thy sword, Young Baron, and before thy people take The vow which, in Toledo’s sacred name, Poor as these weeds bespeak me, I am here To minister with delegated power. With reverential awe was Roderick heard By all, so well authority became That mien and voice and countenance austere. Pelayo with complacent eye beheld The unlook’d-for interposal, and the Count Bends toward Alphonso his approving head. The youth obedient loosen’d from his belt The sword, and looking, while his heart beat fast, To Roderick, reverently expectant stood.