The Penitence of Don Roderick

It was when the King Rodrigo had lost his realm of Spain,
In doleful plight he held his flight o'er Guadalete's plain;
Afar from the fierce Moslem he fain would hide his wo,
And up among the wilderness of mountains he would go.

There lay a shepherd by the rill, with all his flock beside him;
He ask'd him where upon his hill a weary man might hide him.
"Not far," quoth he, "within the wood dwells our old Eremite;
He in his holy solitude will hide ye all the night."—

"Good friend," quoth he, "I hunger."—"Alas!" the shepherd said,
"My scrip no more containeth but one little loaf of bread."—
The weary King was thankful, the poor man's loaf he took;
He by him sate, and while he ate, his tears fell in the brook.

From underneath his garment the King unlock'd his chain,
A golden chain with many a link, and the royal ring of Spain;
He gave them to the wondering man, and with heavy steps and slow
He up the wild his way began, to the hermitage to go.

The sun had just descended into the western sea,
And the holy man was sitting in the breeze beneath his tree;
"I come, I come, good father, to beg a boon from thee:
This night within thy hermitage give shelter unto me."—

The old man look'd upon the King, he scann'd him o'er and o'er;
He look'd with looks of wondering, he marvell'd more and more;
With blood and dust distained was the garment that he wore,
And yet in utmost misery a kingly look he bore.

"Who art thou, weary stranger? This path why hast thou ta'en?"—
"I am Rodrigo;—yesterday men call'd me King of Spain;
I come to make my penitence within this lonely place;
Good father, take thou no offence, for God and Mary's grace."—

The hermit look'd with fearful eye upon Rodrigo's face,
"Son, mercy dwells with the Most High—not hopeless is thy case;
Thus far thou well hast chosen, I to the Lord will pray,
He will reveal what penance may wash thy sin away."—

Now, God us shield! it was reveal'd that he his bed must make
Within a tomb, and share its gloom with a black and living snake.
Rodrigo bow'd his humbled head when God's command he heard,
And with the snake prepared his bed, according to the word.

The holy Hermit waited till the third day was gone,
Then knock'd he with his finger upon the cold tombstone;
"Good king, good king," the Hermit said, "now an answer give to me,
How fares it with thy darksome bed and dismal company?"—

"Good father," said Rodrigo, "the snake hath touch'd me not,
Pray for me, holy Hermit, I need thy prayers, God wot;
Because the Lord his anger keeps, I lie unharmed here;
The sting of earthly vengeance sleeps; a worser pain I fear."—

The Eremite his breast did smite when thus he heard him say,
He turn'd him to his cell, that night he loud and long did pray;
At morning hour he came again, then doleful moans heard he,
From out the tomb the cry did come of gnawing misery.

He spake, and heard Rodrigo's voice; "O Father Eremite,
He eats me now, he eats me now, I feel the adder's bite;
The part that was most sinning my bed-fellow doth rend,
There had my curse beginning, God grant it there may end!"—

The holy man made answer in words of hopeful strain,
He bade him trust the body's pang would save the spirit's pain.
Thus died the good Rodrigo, thus died the King of Spain;
Wash'd from offence his spirit hence to God its flight hath ta'en.