Обсуждение:На Испанию родную (Пушкин)
http://books.google.pt/books?printsec=frontcover&dq=intitle%3ARoderick&ei=j6A_TfPrCIqE5AapyqiZAw&ct=result&id=t648AAAAYAAJ&hl=pt-br&output=text&pg=PA1 <poem> Roderick, the Last of the Goths
RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. I. LOWG had the crimes of Spain cried out to Heaven; At length the measure of offence was full. Count Julian called the invaders : not because Inhuman priests with unoffending blood Had stained their country ; not because a yoke Of iron servitude oppressed and galled The children of the soil; a private wrong Roused the remorseless Baron. Mad to wreak His vengeance for his violated child On Roderick's head, in evil hour for Spain, For that unhappy daughter and himself, Desperate apostate, . . on the Moors he called ; VOl. i. s And like a cloud of locusts, whom the South Wafts from the plains of wasted Africa, The Musselmen upon Iberia's shore Descend. A countless multitude they came ; Syrian, Moor, Saracen, Greek renegade, Persian and Copt and Tatar, in one bond Of erring faith conjoined, . . strong in the youth And heat of zeal,.. a dreadful brotherhood, In whom all turbulent vices were let loose ; While Conscience, with their impious creed accurst, Drunk, as with wine, had sanctified to them All bloody, all abominable things. Thou, Calpe, sawest their coming: ancient Rock Renowned, no longer now shalt thou be called From Gods and Heroes of the years of yore, Kronos, or hundred-handed Briareus, Bacchus or Hercules ; but doomed to bear The name of thy new conqueror, and thenceforth To stand his everlasting monument. Thou sawest the dark-blue waters flash before Their ominous way, and whiten round their keels; Their swarthy myriads darkening o'er thy sands. There on the beach the misbelievers spread Their banners, flaunting to the sun and breeze : Fair shone the sun upon their proud array, White turbans, glittering armour, shields engrailed With gold, and scymitars of Syrian steel; And gently did the breezes, as in sport, Curl their long flags outrolling, and display The blazoned scrolls of blasphemy. Too soon The gales of Spain from that unhappy land Wafted, as from an open charnel-house, The taint of death ; and that bright Sun, from fields Of slaughter, with the morning dew drew up Corruption through the infected atmosphere. Then fell the kingdom of the Goths ; their hour Was come, and Vengeance, long withheld, went loose, Famine and Pestilence had wasted them, And Treason, like an old and eating sore, Consumed the bones and sinews of their strength ; And, worst of enemies, their sins were armed Against them. Yet the sceptre from their hands Past not away inglorious ; nor was shame Left for their children's lasting heritage. Eight summer days, from morn till latest eve, The fatal fight endured, till perfidy Prevailing to their overthrow, they sunk Defeated, not dishonoured. On the banks Of Chrysus, Roderick's royal car was found ; His battle-horse Orelio, and that helm Whose horns, amid the thickest of the fray Eminent, had marked his presence. Did the stream Receive him with the undistinguished dead, Christian and Moor, who clogged its course that day? So thought the Conqueror, and from that day forth, Memorial of his perfect victory, He bade the river bear the name of joy. So thought the Goths; they said no prayer for him, For him no service sung, nor mourning made, But charged their crimes upon his head, and curst His memory. Bravely in that eight-days fight The King had striven,.. for victory first, while hope Remained, then desperately in search of death. The arrows past him by to right and left, The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar Glanced from his helmet. Is the shield of Heaven, Wretch that I am, extended over me ? Cried Roderick; and he dropt Orelio's reins, And threw his hands aloft in frantic prayer, .. Death is the only mercy that I crave, Death soon and short, death and forgetfulness! Aloud he cried ; but in his inmost heart" There answered him a secret voice, that spake Of righteousness and judgement after death, And God's redeeming love, which fain would save The guilty soul alive. 'Twas agony, And yet 'twas hope; .. a momentary light, That flashed through utter darkness on the Cross To point salvation, then left all within Dark as before. Fear, never felt till then, Sudden and irresistible as stroke Of lightning, smote him. From his horse he dropt, Whether with human impulse, or by Heaven Struck down, he knew not; loosened from his wrist The sword-chain, and let fall the sword, whose hilt Clung to his palm a moment ere it fell, Glued there with Moorish gore. His royal robe, His horned helmet and enamelled mail, He cast aside, and taking from the dead A peasant's garment, in those weeds involved, Stole, like a thief in darkness, from the field. Everting closed round to favour him. All night He fled, the sound of battle in his ear Ringing, and sights of death before his eyes, With dreams more horrible of eager fiends That seemed to hover round, and gulphs of fire Opening beneath his feet. At times the groan Of some poor fugitive, who, bearing with him His mortal hurt, had fallen beside the way, Roused him from these dread visions, and he called In answering groans on his Redeemer's name, That word the only prayer that past his lips Or rose within his heart. Then would he see The Cross whereon a bleeding Saviour hung, Who called on him to come and cleanse his soul In those all-healing streams, which from his wounds, As from perpetual springs, for ever flowed. No hart e'er panted for the water-brooks As Roderick thirsted there to drink and live : But Hell was interposed ; and worse than Hell, Yea to his eyes more dreadful than the fiends Who flocked like hungry ravens round his head,.. Florinda stood between, and warned him off With her abhorrent hands,.. that agony- Still in her face, which, when the deed was done, Inflicted on her ravisher the curse That it invoked from Heaven .... Oh what a night Of waking horrors! Nor when morning came Did the realities of light and day Bring aught of comfort: wheresoe'er he went The tidings of defeat had gone before ; And leaving their defenceless homes to seek What shelter walls and battlements might yield, Old men with feeble feet, and tottering babes, And widows with their infants in their arms, Hurried along. Nor royal festival, Nor sacred pageant, with like multitudes E'er filled the public way. All whom the sword Had spared were here ; bed-rid infirmity Alone was left behind : the cripple plied His crutches, with her child of yesterday The mother fled, and she whose hour was come Fell by the road. Less dreadful than this view Of outward suffering which the day disclosed, Had night and darkness seemed to Roderick's heart, With all their dread creations. From the throng He turned aside unable to endure This burthen of the general woe : nor walls, Nor towers, nor mountain fastnesses he sought; A firmer hold his spirit yearned to find, A rock of surer strength. Unknowing where, Straight through the wild he hastened on all day, And with unslackened speed was travelling still When evening gathered round. Seven days from morn Till night be travelled thus; the forest oaks, The fig-grove by the fearful husbandman Forsaken to the spoiler, and the vines, Where fox and household dog together now Fed on the vintage, gave him food : the hand Of heaven was on him, and the agony Which wrought within, supplied a strength beyond All natural force of man. When the eighth eve Was come, he found himself on Ana's banks, Fast by the Caulian Schools. It was the hour Of vespers, but no tesper bell was heard, Nor other sound, than of the passing stream, Or stork, who, flapping with wide wing the air, Sought her broad nest upon the silent tower. Brethren and pupils thence alike had fled To save themselves within the embattled walls Of neighbouring Merida. One aged Monk Alone was left behind ; he would not leave The sacred spot beloved, for having served There from his childhood up to ripe old age God's holy altar, it became him now, He thought, before that altar to await The merciless misbelievers, and lay down His life, a willing martyr. So he staid When all were gone, and duly fed the lamps, And kept devotedly the altar drest, And duly offered up the sacrifice. Four days and nights he thus had past alone, In such high mood of saintly fortitude, That hope of Heaven became a heavenly joy ; And now at evening to the gate he went If he might spy the Moors, . . for it seemed long To tarry for his crown. Before the Cross Roderick had thrown himself: his body raised, II. TWELVE months they sojourned in their solitude, And then beneath the burden of old age Romano sunk. No brethren were there here To spread the sackcloth, and with ashes strew That penitential bed, and gather round To sing his requiem, and with prayer and psalm Assist him in his hour of agony. He lay on the bare earth, which long had been His only couch ; beside him Roderick knelt, Moistened from time to time his blackened lips, Received a blessing with his latest breath, Then closed his eyes, and by the nameless grave Of the fore-tenant of that holy place Consigned him, earth to earth. Two graves are here> And Roderick transverse at their feet began To break the third. In all his intervals Of prayer, save only when he searched the woods And filled the water-cruise, he laboured there ; And when the work was done, and he had laid Himself at length within its narrow sides And measured it, he shook his head to think There was no other business now for him. Poor wretch, thy bed is ready, he exclaimed, And would that night were come! ... It was a task, All gloomy as it was, which had beguiled The sense of solitude ; but now he felt The burthen of the solitary hours : The silence of that lonely hermitage Lay on him like a spell; and at the voice Of his own prayers, he started, half aghast. Then too, as on Romano's grave he sate And pored upon his own, a natural thought Arose within him, . . well might he have spared That useless toil: the sepulchre would be No hiding place for him ; no Christian hands Were here who should compose his decent corpse And cover it with earth. There he might drag His wretched body at its passing hour, And there the Sea- Birds of her heritage Would rob the worm, or peradventure seize, Ere death had done its work, their helpless prey. Even now they did not fear him : when he walked Beside them on the beach, regardlessly They saw his coming; and their whirring wings Upon the height had sometimes fanned his cheek, As if, being thus alone, humanity Had lost its rank, and the prerogative Of man was done away. For his lost crown And sceptre never had he felt a thought Of pain : repentance had no pangs to spare For trifles such as these, . . the loss of these Was a cheap penalty : . . that he had fallen Down to the lowest depth of wretchedness, His hope and consolation. But to lose His human station in the scale of things, .. To see brute Nature scorn him, and renounce Its homage to the human form divine ;. . Had then almighty vengeance thus revealed His punishment, and was he fallen indeed Below fallen man, . . below redemption's reach,. . Made lower than the beasts, and like the beasts To perish ! . . . Such temptations troubled him By day, and in the visions of the night; And even in sleep he struggled with the thought, And waking with the effort of his prayers The dream assailed him still. A wilder form Sometimes his poignant penitence assumed, Starting with force revived from intervals Of calmer passion, or exhausted rest; When floating back upon the tide of thought Remembrance to a self-excusing strain Beguiled him, and recalled in long array The sorrows and the secret impulses Which to the abyss of wretchedness and guilt Led their unwary victim. The evil hour Returned upon him, when reluctantly Yielding to worldly counsel his assent, In wedlock to an ill-assorted mate He gave his cold unwilling hand : then came The disappointment of the barren bed, The hope deceived, the soul dissatisfied, Home without love, and privacy from which Delight was banished first, and peace too soon Departed. Was it strange that when he met A heart attuned, . . a spirit like his own, Of lofty pitch, yet in affection mild, And tender as a youthful mother's joy, . . . Oh was it strange if at such sympathy The feelings which within his breast repelled And chilled had shrunk, should open forth like flowers After cold winds of night, when gentle gales Restore the genial sun ! If all were known, Would it indeed be not to be forgiven ? . . (Thus would he lay the unction to his soul,) If all were truly known, as Heaven knows all, Heaven that is merciful as well as just, . A passion slow and mutual in its growth Pure as fraternal love, long self-concealed, And when confessed in silence, long controlled; Treacherous occasion, human frailty, fear Of endless separation, worse than death,. . The purpose and the hope with which the Fiend Tempted, deceived, and maddened him;... but then As at a new temptation would he start, Shuddering beneath the intolerable shame
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