III.
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o thought of peace, no thought of rest,Assuaged the storm in Roderick's breast.With sheathed broadsword in his hand,Abrupt he paced the islet strand,And eyed the rising sun, and laidHis hand on his impatient blade.Beneath a rock, his vassals' careWas prompt the ritual to prepare,With deep and deathful meaning fraught;For such Antiquity had taughtWas preface meet, ere yet abroadThe Cross of Fire should take its road.The shrinking band stood oft aghastAt the impatient glance he cast;--Such glance the mountain eagle threw,As, from the cliffs of Benvenue,She spread her dark sails on the wind,And, high in middle heaven reclined,With her broad shadow on the lake,Silenced the warblers of the brake.
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