The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, May 1844. Various

had past and gone, the husbandman, turning up the soil, would still find fragments of Gothic cuirasses and helms, and Moorish scimitars, the relics of that dreadful fight.

      For three days the Arabian horseman pursued the flying Christians, hunting them over the face of the country; so that but a scanty number of that mighty host escaped to tell the tale of their disaster.

      Taric ben Zeyad considered his victory incomplete so long as the Gothic monarch survived; he proclaimed great rewards, therefore, to whomsoever should bring Roderick to him, dead or alive. A diligent search was accordingly made in every direction, but for a long time in vain; at length a soldier brought to Taric the head of a Christian warrior, on which was a cap decorated with feathers and precious stones. The Arab leader received it as the head of the unfortunate Roderick, and sent it, as a trophy of his victory, to Musa ben Nosier, who, in like manner, transmitted it to the caliph at Damascus. The Spanish historians, however, have always denied its identity.

      A mystery has ever hung and ever must continue to hang, over the fate of King Roderick, in that dark and doleful day of Spain. Whether he went down amidst the storm of battle, and atoned for his sins and errors by a patriot grave, or whether he survived to repent of them in hermit exile, must remain matter of conjecture and dispute. The learned Archbishop Rodrigo, who has recorded the events of this disastrous field, affirms that Roderick fell beneath the vengeful blade of the traitor Julian, and thus expiated with his blood his crime against the hapless Florinda; but the archbishop stands alone in his record of the fact. It seems generally admitted that Orelia, the favorite war-horse of Don Roderick, was found entangled in a marsh on the borders of the Gaudalete, with the sandals and mantle and royal insignia of the king lying close by him. The river at this place ran broad and deep, and was encumbered with the dead bodies of warriors and steeds; it has been supposed therefore, that he perished in the stream; but his body was not found within its waters.

      When several years had passed away, and men’s minds, being restored to some degree of tranquillity, began to occupy themselves about the events of this dismal day, a rumor arose that Roderick had escaped from the carnage on the banks of the Gaudalete, and was still alive. It was said, that having from a rising ground caught a view of the whole field of battle, and seen that the day was lost, and his army flying in all directions, he likewise sought his safety in flight. It is added, that the Arab horsemen, while scouring the mountain in quest of fugitives, found a shepherd arrayed in the royal robes, and brought him before the conqueror, believing him to be the king himself. Count Julian soon dispelled the error. On being questioned, the trembling rustic declared that while tending his sheep in the folds of the mountains, there came a cavalier on a horse wearied and spent and ready to sink beneath the spur; that the cavalier with an authoritative voice and menacing air commanded him to exchange garments with him, and clad himself in his rude garb of sheep-skin, and took his crook and his scrip of provisions, and continued up the rugged defiles of the mountains leading towards Castile, until he was lost to view.

      This tradition was fondly cherished by many, who clung to the belief in the existence of their monarch as their main hope for the redemption of Spain. It was even affirmed that he had taken refuge with many of his host, in an island of the ‘Ocean sea,’ from whence he might yet return, once more to elevate his standard, and battle for the recovery of his throne.

      Year after year, however, elapsed and nothing was heard of Don Roderick; yet, like Sebastian of Portugal, and Arthur of England, his name continued to be a rallying point for popular faith, and the mystery of his end to give rise to romantic fables. At length, when generation after generation had sunk into the grave, and near two centuries had passed and gone, traces were said to be discovered that threw a light on the final fortunes of the unfortunate Roderick. At that time, Don Alphonso the Great, King of Leon, had wrested the city of Viseo in Lusitania from the hands of the Moslems. As his soldiers were ranging about the city and its environs, one of them discovered in a field, outside of the walls, a small chapel or hermitage, with a sepulchre in front, on which was inscribed this epitaph in Gothic characters:

HIC REQUIESCIT RUDERICUS,ULTIMUS REX GOTHORUMHere Lies Roderick,The last King of the Goths

      It has been believed by many that this was the veritable tomb of the monarch, and that in this hermitage he had finished his days in solitary penance. The warrior, as he contemplated the supposed tomb of the once haughty Roderick, forgot all his faults and errors, and shed a soldier’s tear over his memory; but when his thoughts turned to Count Julian, his patriotic indignation broke forth, and with his dagger he inscribed a rude malediction on the stone.

      ‘Accursed,’ said he, ‘be the impious and headlong vengeance of the traitor Julian. He was a murderer of his king; a destroyer of his kindred; a betrayer of his country. May his name be bitter in every mouth, and his memory infamous to all generations.’

      Here ends the legend of Don Roderick.

      LINES

WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUPITER AND DANAE

      Fair maid of Argos! dry thy tears, nor shun

      The bright embrace of Saturn’s amorous son.

      Pour’d from high Heaven athwart thy brazen tower,

      Jove bends propitious in a glittering shower:

      Take, gladly take, the boon the Fates impart;

      Press the gilt treasure to thy panting heart:

      And to thy venal sex this truth unfold,

      How few, like Danae, grasp both god and gold.

J. Smith.

      THE DOG-STAR SPIRIT

SUGGESTED BY CERTAIN PAPERS ENTITLED ‘MIND AND INSTINCT,’ IN THE KNICKERBOCKER

      Calm be thy slumbers, faithful Tray,

      Calm in thy bed

      Low-gathered underneath the clay,

      Where they have laid thy bones away,

      And left thee—dead!

      No common dog, dear Tray, wert thou

      In life’s short age;

      For instinct shone upon thy brow,

      And something in thy deep bow-wow

      Proclaimed the sage.

      When ugly curs at evening made

      Their hideous wail,

      Mutely thy musing eye surveyed

      Bright themes for thought around displayed,

      Perched on thy tail.

      Oft have I seen thy vision turned

      Up to the skies,

      Where thy intelligence discerned

      In all the little stars that burned,

      Strange mysteries.

      And then, thy keen glance fixed on one

      That glimmered far;

      ‘If souls of men live when they’re gone,’

      Thou thought’st, ‘why not of dogs when flown,

      In yonder star?

      ‘Though diverse in our natures, yet

      It don’t ensue

      That other judgment we should meet,

      Because we muster four good feet

      Instead of two.

      ‘And if in some light, wanton freak

      Of Nature’s mind,

      She planted hair upon our back,

      And, in capricious mood, did tack

      A tail behind:

      ‘It matters not. That coat of hair

      Is very thin;

      But the habiliment we wear

      To warm the heart from wintry air,

      We have within.

      ‘Ah,