Than in that glorious hour of victory
When grovelling in the dust Witiza lay,
The prisoner of thy hand!.. Roderick replied,
O good Siverian, happier victory

Thy son hath now achieved,
the victory
Over the world, his sins, and his despair.
If on the field my body should be found,
See it, I charge thee, laid in Julian's grave,
And let no idle ear be told for whom
Thou mournest. Thou wilt use Orelio
As doth beseem the steed which hath so oft
Carried a king to battle: . he hath done
Good service for his rightful lord to-day,
And better yet must do. Siverian, now
Farewell! I think we shall not meet again
Till it be in that world where never change
Is known, and they who love shall part no more.
Commend me to my mother's prayers, and say
That never man enjoyed a heavenlier peace
Than Roderick at this hour. O faithful friend,
How dear thou art to me these tears may tell!

With that he fell upon the old man's neck:
Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins,
And soon rejoined the host. On, comrades, on!
Victory and Vengeance! he exclaimed, and took
The lead on that good charger, he alone
Horsed for the onset. They with one consent
Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry,
Victory and Vengeance! and the hills and rocks
Caught the prophetic shout and rolled it round.
Count Pedro's people heard amid the heat
Of battle, and returned the glad acclaim.
The astonished Musslemen, on all sides charged,
Hear that tremendous cry; yet manfully
They stood, and everywhere with gallant front
Opposed in fair array the shock of war.
Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms,
And knowing that no safety could be found,
Save from their own right hands. No former day
Of all his long career had seen their chief
Approved so well; nor had Witiza's sons
Ever before this hour achieved in fight
Such feats of resolute valour. Sisibert
Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot,
And twice essayed beneath his horse's feet
To thrust him down. Twice did the Prince evade
The shock, and twice upon his shield received
The fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more,
Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief,
Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth!
Go meet thy death from any hand but mine!
He said, and turned aside. Fitliest from me!
Exclaimed a dreadful voice, as through the throng
Orelio forced his way; fitliest from me
Receive the rightful death too long withheld !
'Tis Roderick strikes the blow! And as he spake,
Upon the traitor's shoulder fierce he drove
The weapon, well-bestowed. He in the seat

Tottered and fell. The Avenger hastened on
In search of Ebba; and in the heat of fight
Rejoicing and forgetful of all else,
Set up his cry as he was wont in youth,
Roderick the Goth! his war-cry known so well,
Pelayo eagerly took up the word,

...

And shouted out his kinsman's name beloved,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;
Urban repeated it, and through his ranks
Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field
Of his great victory, when Witiza fell,
With louder acclamations had that name
Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.
The unreflecting throng, who yesterday,
If it had past their lips, would with a curse
Have clogg'd it, echoed it as if it came
From some celestial voice in the air, reveal'd
To be the certain pledge of all their hopes.
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! O'er the field it spread,
All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;
Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;

And he rejoicing in his strength rode on,

Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and smote,

And overthrew, and scatter'd and destroy'd,
And trampled down; and still at every blow

Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth,

Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!

Oh who could tell what deeds were wrought that day;

Or who endure to hear the tale of rage,

Hatred, and madness, and despair, and fear,

Horror, and wounds, and agony, and death,
The cries, the blasphemies, the shrieks, and groans,

And prayers, and mingled with the din of arms

In one wild uproar of terrific sounds;
While over all predominant was heard
Reiterate from the conquerors o'er the field,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance!... Woe for Africa!
Woe for the circumcised! Woe for the faith
Of the lying Ishmaelite that hour! The Chiefs
Have fallen; the Moors, confused and captainless,
And panic-stricken, vainly seek to escape
The inevitable fate. Turn where they will,
Strong in his cause, rejoicing in success,
Insatiate at the banquet of revenge,
The enemy is there; look where they will,
Death hath environed their devoted ranks.

Desired, and with Florinda in the grave
Rest, in indissoluble union joined.
But still where through the press of war he went
Half-armed, and like a lover seeking death,
The arrows passed him by to right and left,
The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar
Glanced from his helmet: he, when he beheld
The rout complete, saw that the shield of Heaven
Had been extended over him once more,
And bowed before its will. Upon the banks
Of Sella was Orelio found, his legs
And flanks incarnadined, his poitral smeared
With froth and foam and gore, his silver mane
Sprinkled with blood, which hung on every hair,
Aspersed like dew-drops; trembling there he stood
From the toil of battle, and at times sent forth
His tremulous voice far echoing loud and shrill,
A frequent, anxious cry, with which he seemed
To call the master whom he loved so well,
And who had thus again forsaken him.
Siverian's helm and cuirass on the grass
Lay near; and Julian's sword, its hilt and chain
Clotted with blood; but where was he whose hand
Had wielded it so well that glorious day?

Days, months, and years, and generations past,
And centuries held their course, before, far off
Within a hermitage, near Viseu's walls
A humble tomb was found, which bore inscribed
In ancient characters King Roderick's name.

And now have we said enough to show that Southey was a greater poet than some have imagined, - that the admiration of the men of his own standing was not misplaced, and that certain of his works have more than that considerable merit, which we suppose everybody in his senses would be ready to attribute to them; that those in question are deeply and thrillingly interesting, capable of stirring our hearts and souls? If our citations have been insufficient for this purpose, we recommend our readers to try how they will look in their contexts.

The same man who, if not the most prominent, was the most fertile poet of his time, who, in the course of his life, burnt, according to the testimony of one of his brother bards, more verses than all the others of the day had written; and the notes to whose different poems are in themselves a most extraordinary store of information and entertainment, was also one of the richest and most various of our prose writers. His industry, indeed, and its fruits, were almost beyond belief. The extent and diversity of his attainments, with scarcely a sign of shallowness or inaccuracy in any one direction towards which he ever inclined, seem, at first, nearly miraculous. To be sure, one seldom sees so much literary power and industry exempted from the distractions of a profession or business of some sort, and, therefore, there are few with whom he can be well compared.

But, even allowing for the fact that he had nothing to think of but letters, we suspect that his redemption of the time was something very rare and admirable; assisted, no doubt, by a versatility which we have admitted to be greater than was desirable, inasmuch as it was incompatible with the concentrated energy of a first-rate genius.

His prose works are far too numerous to be noticed here; indeed, if his poetry has been more copious than the capacity of our receptive power, much more beyond our grasp has been the ample range of his prose. We should have pleasure in seeing a man daring enough to say that he had read one half of it. The author, of whom alone this can have been predicable, must have been a wonderfully informed person, merely on the strength of having read all his own works. All, however, know some, and may rejoice in each opportunity that occurs of knowing more, of these writings. The grace and purity of the style deserve especial notice, at a time when such merits seem in some danger of departing from among us. They were very wonderful in an author who not only wrote so much and so fast, but who connected himself with all the passing interests of his day, in the ephemeral records of which there is so much vicious diction, constituting a contagion which even those who are conscious of it fail, for the most, to escape. There is little oratory in Mr. Southey's prose, -a fact somewhat curious, seeing that no writer of the day was more oratorical in verse; but there is a charming flow at all times, with a beautiful structure of sentence, and a most impressive dignity whenever it is needed.

If he could not be called a very profound, he was, generally, a just thinker. With little tendency, as we have already observed, to metaphysics in his philosophy, and not much, perhaps, to deep doctrine in his theology, his was a wise and Christian mind, his views of society were gained by a long and accurate insight into its nature and tendencies, his conscience was ever clear and unjaundiced, and all his sentiments informed by the christian faith.

When it is asked to what religious school he belonged, we may, perhaps, safely reply, to the Tillotsonian form of English churchmanship. But of that form, his churchmanship and christianity were the most favourable specimens, the very crown and full-blown flower of it, and the anticipation and harbinger of something deeper and better. He did not, perhaps, often look, in a practical way, beyond the pale of the English church; but then it must be remembered that, during his course, the national constitution and life of England were at stake, and that, by consequence, her faithful children of necessity looked at all that appertained to her-her religion and her Church, in such aspects as are comprehended within her pale. That such aspects there are, and that they are both true and important, not to be lost, but to be comprehended in the wider range of catholicism, no just thinker, we conceive, will deny. It was Southey's vocation to make men see those aspects; and well and faithfully he did his part. He was preeminently an Englishman; and as no man knew English life better, so none felt more reverence for its deep and sacred springs. His patriotism and piety were such as admitted no halting and no compromise; and we verily believe that he felt as an enemy to no man, except in so far as that man approved himself an enemy to what he regarded as holy and true. Some, we do not doubt, have stigmatized him as bigoted and uncharitable; while others may have wondered that he could not always extend the urbanities of private life to those from whom he publicly differed. Such coldness to a political opponent is construed, by some, into a coldness, or at least a want of frankness of heart; and so, when the points of opposition involve no vital consequence, we can hardly fail to regard it. But to have sneered at the zeal of England against the French revolutionary tyrant, and to have discouraged her efforts in the cause at once of her own safety and European independence, was, in the eyes of Southey, a crime which no personal amiability could cause him for a moment to forget. We own that we should be inclined to esteem that the truest-hearted man, that with such convictions was not capable of being cordial to their objects. That man's pressure of the hand, or welcome into his house, is, we think, the most to be valued, who deems that these tokens mean a real kindliness incompatible with a determined war. We remember well the sentiment of a deceased ornament of our Church, one of the noblest and gentlest minds with which we were ever in contact. He had, we believe, enjoyed in Rome the acquaintance of a well-known Anglo-Roman ecclesiastic, who never failed of making Rome both more instructive and more delightful to those who knew him. On our asking the former-the latter having arrived, with serious intentions, in England, whether he would renew the acquaintance, he answered "I think not. When one feels that there is a prospect of war to the knife between us, I own there seems little satisfaction in drinking wine with each other, and saying civil things across a table." Such, we apprehend, was the principle of Southey's dealings with those to whom he might seem repulsive. We believe that none really got past the first fences and outworks of his life and heart, without finding all smooth and friendly,

"Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree."

In his latter years this admirable writer made a new manifestation of his powers. What we wonder should ever have been a doubt, is now no secret, that "The Doctor" was his work. It seems to have been his aim to provide people with a decent and unexceptionable Sterne. In that we must think he failed. He