Roderick, the last of the Goths

by Robert Southey

The youthful, from the eye of age drew tears.

The uproar died away, when standing forth,

Roderick with lifted hand besought a pause

For speech, and moved towards the youth. I too,

Young Baron, he began, must do my part;

Not with prerogative of earthly power,

But as the servant of the living God,

The God of Hosts. This day thou promisest

To die when honour calls thee for thy faith,

For thy liege Lord, and for thy native land;