O holiest Mary, Maid and Mother! thou In Covadonga, at thy rocky shrine, Hast witness’d whatsoe’er of human bliss Heart can conceive most perfect! Faithful love, Long crost by envious stars, hath there attain’d Its crown, in endless matrimony given; The youthful mother there hath to the font Her first-born borne, and there, with deeper sense Of gratitude for that dear babe redeem’d From threatening death, return’d to pay her vows. But ne’er on nuptial, nor baptismal day, Nor from their grateful pilgrimage discharged, Did happier group their way down Deva’s vale Rejoicing hold, than this blest family, O’er whom the mighty Spirit of the Land Spread his protecting wings. The children, free In youthhead’s happy season from all cares That might disturb the hour, yet capable Of that intense and unalloyed delight Which childhood feels when it enjoys again The dear parental presence long deprived; Nor were the parents now less bless’d than they, Even to the height of human happiness; For Gaudiosa and her Lord that hour Let no misgiving thoughts intrude: she fix’d Her hopes on him, and his were fix’d on Heaven; And hope in that courageous heart derived Such rooted strength and confidence assured In righteousness, that ’twas to him like faith ... An everlasting sunshine of the soul, Illumining and quickening all its powers. But on Pionia’s side meantime a heart As generous, and as full of noble thoughts, Lay stricken with the deadliest bolts of grief. Upon a smooth grey stone sate Roderick there; The wind above him stirr’d the hazel boughs, And murmuring at his feet the river ran. He sate with folded arms and head declined Upon his breast, feeding on bitter thoughts, Till nature gave him in the exhausted sense Of woe a respite something like repose; And then the quiet sound of gentle winds And waters with their lulling consonance Beguiled him of himself. Of all within Oblivious there he sate, sentient alone Of outward nature, ... of the whispering leaves That soothed his ear, ... the genial breath of Heaven That fann’d his cheek, ... the stream’s perpetual flow, That, with its shadows and its glancing lights, Dimples and thread-like motions infinite, For ever varying and yet still the same, Like time toward eternity, ran by. Resting his head upon his master’s knees, Upon the bank beside him Theron lay. What matters change of state and circumstance, Or lapse of years, with all their dread events, To him? What matters it that Roderick wears The crown no longer, nor the sceptre wields?... It is the dear-loved hand, whose friendly touch Had flatter’d him so oft; it is the voice, At whose glad summons to the field so oft From slumber he had started, shaking off Dreams of the chace, to share the actual joy; The eye, whose recognition he was wont To watch and welcome with exultant tongue.