University of Virginia Library

O Christ! that from thy cross didst see
And pity all the griefs to be,
One thing has by thy grace survived—
For years a bitter-sweet, strange pain,
A doubt put by, and then revived—
A question that I asked in vain.
I saw—that morn, before whose night
I saw no more—my life's best sight,
Of God's dear grace the very sign—
Ximena's beauteous boy and mine.
I took him from her arms, how light
Were both our hearts! we chose his name;
I thanked her for my future knight,
I kissed her for his future fame.
But there life stayed—in my dark thought
Time, being, growth, alike were nought.
If I in fancy dared to draw
Thine image, spite of Nature's law,
'T was as the babe that then I saw,
Or haply like thy mother dead—
Until an angel came and said,
“Thy son is living! and in all
Alonzo's court is none so tall,
So strong and handsome, nor so brave,
And true is he as hand to glaive!”
She told me how the Moslems fall,
Slain by the war-cry of his name,
How through the wild Asturias all
The mountain echoes shout his fame.
She told me—dare I think it true?—
In her sweet tones, he loved me too,
Would fain my prison bolts undo,
And let heaven's blessed sun and rain
On this blind forehead fall again.

So now two pictures I can paint
Upon my wall of darkness, yea
My brain repaints them night and day,
Of her my visiting sweet saint
And my brave son! It were a joy,
Like tourney triumphs long ago,
If I might talk, an hour or so,
Of knightly things with thee, my boy,
(If all's not lost I used to know,)
Or might at yon barred loophole sit
And hear him slowly riding by,
With clanking hoofs and ringing bit,
And know he upward turned an eye.
Methinks that I should single out,
Amidst a troop, his horse's feet,
Perchance in his clear joyous shout
Catch her young laughter thrilling sweet.

My son! I meant to be like you,
The burden of heroic song,
I felt my limbs so light and strong,
My hand so firm, my eye so true.
But what availed it? Manhood's pith
And pride is gone, the end is nigh,
And that career I dallied with,
And for vain pleasure, let go by,
Will all be thine! If, ere I die,
I yet might greet thee perfected
With the full aureole of renown!
Might lay my blind hands on thy head,
And feel in thy bright hair the crown
I could not win—more dearly won—
And from my darkness bless my son!
But since I think this will not be,
That God ere this will set me free,
I would but hear once more that voice,
Whose sweet news bade me first rejoice,
When first its silvery greeting fell,
Faltering with pity, in my cell.
I thought, all wondering, wildered, stirred,
It was a song from fairyland;
Then felt that tremulous soft hand
Dropt like a flower in mine, then heard
Again that music flowing on,
And all in praises of my son!
When, as the sound betrayed, with face
Half turned, she praised his noble grace,
I thought if I had eyes to note
The tender swelling of the throat,
And cheek's quick rose, 'twould sure make known
The hidden cause that gave her tone
Its faltering softness—ay, old age,
Blindness, and solitary thought
That turns a soldier to a sage,
Make subtler our perceptions oft,
Of things all womanly and soft.
She spoke of all that comfort brought,
Of earthly hope and heavenly bliss—
And when she went, a weeping kiss
I felt upon my hand—
The strange sweet homage thrilled me so—
Who had till then cared but to throw
To the poor weeping captive aught
Except a rough command!
And she the Queen's niece—well her name
Of beauty I recall—she came
In very truth, my evening star,
From heavens invisibly afar.
Sweet child! and hadst thou then no fear
Of the grim Fate who pent me here?
Of him who calls himself the Just
Because he never pardoned wrong?
The Good, because like stone he's strong
To grind the human heart to dust?
No, none will harm thee, gentle one;
Thy innocent course they let thee run,
Nor check it more than we 'd hold back
A sunbeam gliding on its track.
Then come, O bird of heaven! again—
Come, till this failing strength sustain
No more the pleasure, nor the pain;
When comes the moment that shall be
The turning of a sullen key,
Loosening of rusty chains that fall,
A jangling heap upon the floor,
A drawing through an iron door,
Out of cramped gloom 'twixt wall and wall,
Into a splendid daylight air
Poured blue through some great marble hall,
Where slender milk-white columns bear
The beauty up into the dome—
See how dull fancy plays me traitor,
And even Hope, the bold creator,
Can but, as feeble memory, roam
Back, for the picture of its heaven,
To some lost half-forgotten home.
Well, let it pass,—to me be given
No other way to die but so
To sit and hear her tender speech
Onward like a rivulet flow,
Till, as the rivulet gains a reach
Where stilled and smooth in some deep cove,
Like an imprisonment of love,
All the river-ripples die,
And water seems a sister sky.
So may I to a trance be wrought,
And through its veil the sweet voice hear,
Still fainter, fainter in my ear,
Until, Bernardo's name just caught,
There come—a silence, and the soul,
Carried asleep beyond Death's goal,
Pass, seeing, freed, to new existence,
In the immeasurable distance.
And yet,—and yet,—alone to pass,—
Ah me, my son,—alas, alas!