How calmly gliding through the dark-blue sky, The midnight moon ascends! Her placid beams Through thinly scattered leaves and boughs grotesque; Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope; Here, o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage gray, And massy, motionless they spread; here shine Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry Ripples and glances on the confluent streams. A lovelier, purer light than that of day Rests on the hills; and oh how awfully Into that deep and tranquil firmament, The summits of Auseva rise serene! The watchman on the battlements partakes
The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels
The silence of the earth, the endless sound
Of flowing water soothes him, and the stars,
Which, in that brightest moonlight well nigh quenched,
Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth
Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,
Draw on with elevating influence
Toward eternity the attempered mind.
Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands,
And to the Virgin Mother silently
Breathes forth her hymn of praise.
Before the ranks, the Goth in silence stood,
While from all voices round, loquacious joy
Mingled its buzz continuous with the blast
Of horn, shrill pipe, and tinkling cymbals' clash,
And sound of deafening drum. But when the Prince
Drew nigh, and Urban, with the cross upheld,
Stept forth to meet him, all at once were stilled
With instantaneous hush; as when the wind,
Before whose violent gusts the forest oaks,
Tossing like billows their tempestuous heads,
Roar like a raging sea, suspends its force,
And leaves so dead a calm that not a leaf
Moves on the silent spray. The passing air
Bore with it from the woodland undisturbed
The ring-dove's wooing, and the quiet voice
Of waters warbling near.
Of Heroes and of Kings! the Primate thus
Addressed him, Thou in whom the Gothic blood,
Mingling with old Iberia's, has restored
To Spain a ruler of her native line,-
Stand forth, and in the face of God and man
Swear to uphold the right, abate the wrong,
With equitable hand, protect the cross
Whereon thy lips this day shall seal their vow,
And underneath that hallowed symbol, wage
Holy and inextinguishable war
Against the accursed nation that usurps
Thy country's sacred soil!
Now and for ever, O my countrymen!
Replied Pelayo; and so deal with me
Here and hereafter, thou, Almighty God,
In whom I put my trust;
Urban pursued, of Angels and of Men
Creator and Disposer, King of Kings,
Ruler of Earth and Heaven, -look down this day,
And multiply thy blessings on the head
Of this thy servant, chosen in thy sight!
Be thou his counsellor, his comforter,
His hope, his joy, his refuge, and his strength!
Crown him with justice, and with fortitude!
Defend him with thy all-sufficient shield,
Surround him every where with the right hand
Of thine all-present power! and with the might
Of thine omnipotence; -send in his aid
Thy unseen angels forth, that potently
And royally against all enemies,
He may endure and triumph! Bless the land
O'er which he is appointed; bless it with
The waters of the firmament, the springs
Of the low-lying deep, the fruits, which sun
And moon mature for man, the precious stores
Of the eternal hills, and all the gifts
Of earth, its wealth and fulness!
Pelayo's hand, and on his finger placed
The mystic circlet. With this ring, O Prince,
To our dear Spain, who like a widow now
Mourneth in desolation, I thee wed:
For weal or wo thou takest her, till death
Dispart the union. Be it blest to her,
To thee, and to thy seed.
Soothed by the strain
Of such discourse, Julian was silent then,
And sate contemplating. Florinda too
Was calmed. If sore experience may be thought
To teach the uses of adversity,
She said, alas! who better learned than I
In that sad school! Methinks if ye would know
How visitations of calamity
Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown ye there!
Look yonder at that cloud, which through the sky Sailing alone, doth cross in her career The rolling moon! I watched it as it came, And deemed the deep opaque would blot her beams; But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes The orb with richer beauties than her own, Then passing, leaves her in her light serene. Thus having said, the pious sufferer sat, Beholding with fixed eyes that lovely orb, Till quiet tears confused in dizzy light The broken moonbeams. They too Of spirit, as by travail of the day Subdued, were silent, yielding to the hour. The silver cloud diffusing slowly past, And now into its airy elements
Resolved is gone; while through the azure depth
Alone in heaven the glorious moon pursues
Her course appointed, with indifferent beams
Shining upon the silent hills around,
And the dark tents of that unholy host,
Who, all unconscious of impending fate,
Take their last slumber there. The camp is still,
The fires have mouldered, and the breeze which stirs
The soft and snowy embers, just lays bare,
At times a red and evanescent light,
Or for a moment wakes a feeble flame.
They by the fountain hear the stream below,
Whose murmurs, as the wind arose or fell,
Fuller or fainter, reach the ear attuned.
And now the nightingale, not distant far,
Began her solitary song; and poured
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