Gothic 
 
I» 
 
 ■J 
 
CIjc ILamcntation of ¿Bon Hoomrit. ..<•». 
 
 Don Roderick after his last Battle H. Warren. 
 
 K\)t penitence of Ban Eotfcrtcft. 
 
 Don Roderick and the Hermit W. Simson. 
 
 (EIje i&arcl) of Ucrnaroo íícl Carju'o. 
 
 The Gathering H. Warren. 
 
 The Oath C. E. Aubrey. 
 
 Cf)r Complaint of tfje Count of ^alífaña. 
 
 Saldan a in Confinement L. Haghe. 
 
 CIjc Jfuucral of tije Count of gaTtraiia. 
 
 Bernardo at his Father s Tomb D. Roberts, R. A. 
 
CONTENTS AND LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 2Srrnar0o anil 3lpí)on¿a. 
 
 Bernardo's defiance of Alphonso L. Hague. 
 
 Cíje áaSatlfíti Críímtr. 
 
 Saint Iago H. Warren. 
 
 Clje ©Scape of Cnunt JFernan «Soujalrj. 
 
 Gonzalez and the Infanta H. Warren. 
 
 Cije §>tbtn féeaOá. 
 
 €l)t Wcnscznte of futrara. 
 
 Mudara meeting Rodrigo 11. Warren. 
 
 Cíje asacoíitncj; of tíje iLaífj) CIjmáa. 
 
 Knight on Horseback (Madrid Armoury) .... H. Warren. 
 
 CIjC gotmtj Ctif. 
 
 The Cid's departure from Burgos H. Warren. 
 
 f tmena OemanOá ©encjeance. 
 
 The Cid (M. A.) H. Warren. 
 
 Cíje Cío anír tlje dfíte Maoris f&mgá. 
 
 Bavieca CE. Aubrey 
 
 Cfje Ctíi'é Caurtsljtp. 
 
 cf)«: car* ©^eootitg. 
 
 Bridal 1'rocession of the Cid H. Warren. 
 
 Cijc Ctíf antf tíjc Upper. 
 
CONTENTS AND LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Uabtcca. ..«.».» 
 
 The Cid's Body on Bavieca, conveyed to the Convent 
 of San Pedro de Cárdena, from a finished draw- 
 ing by Richard Ford, Esq W. Harvey. 
 
 Bavieca C. E. Aubrey. 
 
 The Cid and Bavieca C.E.Aubrey. 
 
 Horses around Moresque Ornament C. E. Aubrey. 
 
 €\)c errommtmicatton of tíje Ctif. 
 
 Crosier and Sword W. Harvey. 
 
 The Cid crossing the Sea. The Seven Chairs . . W. Harvey. 
 
 The Cid upsetting the Papal Chair W. Harvey. 
 
 The Cid's submission to the Pope W. Harvey. 
 
 Cross and Keys, &c. W. Harvey. 
 
 ©am per«2 írc tanjas. 
 
 Garci Perez vanquishes the Seven Moors .... H. Warren. 
 
 Moorish Arms, &c. (M. A.) H.Warren. 
 
 Efyt jHurifer of tfje ffltátzt. 
 
 Death of the Master of St. Iago in the Alcazar 
 
 at Seville, from a Sketch by Mrs. Montgomery . H. Warren. 
 
 The Architecture by Owen Jones. 
 
 STfje SBtati) of CEtucen 3SIancT)p. 
 
 Block and Executioner's Knife (M. A.) H. Warren. 
 
 23cati) of Ban p cifro. 
 
 Struggle between Don Pedro and Don Henry . W. Harvey. 
 
 Don Pedro dead W. Harvey. 
 
CONTENTS AND LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Clje }BrotIamatton of Itmjj féenrs. 
 
 Knight on Horseback H. Warren. 
 
 Maria de Padilla on the Battlement H. Warren. 
 
 &orB of Uutraflo. 
 Cijc l&tng of ®rragan. 
 Cíjc üFoíd of fteouan. 
 
 Sabre and Shield W. Harvey. 
 
 The Moorish Court, with assemblage of Warriors . W. Harvey. 
 
 Departure of the Cavalcade W. Harvey. 
 
 The Retreat from Jaen W. Harvey. 
 
 Cf)£ drttfli)t from (Sranaoa. 
 
 Entrance of the Christians into Granada, and De- 
 parture of the Moors H. Warren. 
 
 Boabdil presenting the Keys of the City to Ferdi- 
 nand and Isabella W. Simson. 
 
 View of Granada from Ultimo Suspiro del Mono, 
 
 sketched on the spot by Richard Ford, Esq. . . H. Warren. 
 
 Qfyz JBeatT) of Unix ®Ionja of piular. 
 
 The Moorish Ambuscade II. Warren. 
 
 Efye &e#zvtuvt of fttna; ^crjatfttan. 
 
 (lALLEYS QUITTING THE MOUTH OF THE TaGUS H. W.ARREN. 
 
 MOOBISH BALJLABS. 
 W)t Uull'ftflljt of (gajttl. 
 
 BuLL-FIGHT AT GRANADA C. E. AUBREY . 
 
 Dying Bull C. E. Aubrey. 
 
CONTENTS AND LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Moorish Weapons (M. A.) H. Warren. 
 
 Clje aSrtíraX al gniralla. 
 
 Xarifa and the Cushion . . . . H. Warren and Owen Jones. 
 
 ^ara'á <£ar>rtnjjs\ 
 
 Zara at the Well H. Warren. 
 
 3Ei)£ Eam«itat(0n for Celtn. 
 
 Interior of a Moorish Palace, from a sketch by 
 
 Mrs. Montgomery Owen Jones and C. K. Aubrey. 
 
 MQMAOTIC BAlLILABSo 
 
 die Moot Calaímoá. 
 
 Tournament C: E. Aubrey. 
 
 CSScapc of ©ánforas'. 
 
 Gayferos W. SlMSON". 
 
 Pleltócnífra. 
 
 Melisendra's Descent from the Battlements . W. Harvey. 
 The Tower of Sansueña w - Harvey. 
 
 CIje &a&8 ^lira's" Strain. 
 
 The Dream • H - Warren. 
 
 Ronces val les & Warren. 
 
 Cfjc ^ífmtral ©uarttios. 
 
 Guarinos' Attack on the Moors W. Simson. 
 
 Combat between Christian and Moor G. E. Aubrey. 
 
CONTENTS AND LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Cljr Eatf» of tijE Cm. ..., »„ 
 
 Knight resting prom the Chase W. Harvey. 
 
 The Cavalcade in the Forest W. Harvey. 
 
 Death of Don Quadros W. Allan, R.A. 
 
 Count IrnaltfoS. 
 
 Galley at Sunrise W. Harvey. 
 
 á>mxjg; for tfje doming of «je ©ag of £>t. $ofw tljjr 33apttSt. 
 
 Maidens decorating the Ram L. Francais. 
 
 Vine and Olive L. Franjáis. 
 
 Shtlíana. 
 
 The Capture of Juliana W. Harvey. 
 
 á»o«s of tijc <§alleg. 
 
 Maiden watching the Galleys W. Allan, R.A. 
 
 The Wandering Knight C. E. Aubrey. 
 
 J-xr enalte. 
 
 The Serenade H. Warren. 
 
 CIje Cantíue fuitjjljt antr fije 3SIacSlitro. 
 
 The Captive Knight W. Harvey. 
 
 ©allaíffllto. 
 
 The Knight meeting the Palmer W. Harvey. 
 
 SJraijut, ü)t CorSatr. 
 
 Spanish Captive W. Harvey. 
 
 Sinking of the Corsair's Galled H. Warren. 
 
CONTENTS AND LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 (Count glarcoá aníf tfje Infanta g>oltóa. " 
 
 The Infanta Solisa . . . . W. Harvey. 
 
 The King and the Infanta . . W. Harvey. 
 
 The King and Count Alarcos W. Harvey. 
 
 Departure of the Count . . W. Harvey. 
 
 Count Alarcos arriving at his Home v\ . Harvey. 
 
 Alarcos and the Countess .... . . . . W. Harvey. 
 
 The Countess praying W. Harvey. 
 
 Death of the Countess W. Harvey. 
 
 The Coloured Titles, Borders, and Ornamental Letters 
 
 # 
 
HE intention of this Publication 
 is to furnish the English reader 
 with some notion of that old 
 Spanish minstrelsy, which has 
 been preserved in the different 
 Cancioneros and Romanceros of 
 the sixteenth century. That 
 great mass of popular poetry 
 has never yet received in its 
 
 own country the attention to which it is entitled. While hun- 
 dreds of volumes have been written about authors who were, 
 at the best, ingenious imitators of classical or Italian models, 
 not one, of the least critical merit, has been bestowed upon 
 those old and simpler poets who were contented with the native 
 
inspirations of Castilian pride. No Spanish Percy, or Ellis, or 
 Ritson, has arisen to perform what no one but a Spaniard can 
 entertain the smallest hope of achieving. 
 
 Mr. Bouterwek, in his excellent History of Spanish Litera- 
 ture (Book i., Sect. 1), complained that no attempt had ever 
 been made even to arrange the old Spanish ballads in anything 
 like chronological order. An ingenious countryman of his own, 
 Mr. Depping, has since, in some measure, supplied this defect. 
 He has arranged the historical ballads according to the chrono- 
 logy of the persons and events which they celebrate ; for even 
 this obvious matter had not been attended to by the original 
 Spanish collectors ; but he has modestly and judiciously re- 
 frained from attempting the chronological arrangement of them 
 as compositions; feeling, of course, that no person can ever 
 acquire such a delicate knowledge of a language not his own, 
 as might enable him to distinguish, with accuracy, between 
 the different shades of antiquity, — or even perhaps to draw, 
 with certainty and precision, the broader line between that 
 which is of genuine antiquity, and that which is mere modern 
 imitation. By far the greater part of the following transla- 
 tions are from pieces which the reader will find in Mr. Dep- 
 ping's Collection, published at Leipsig in 1817. 
 
 It seems, therefore, in the present state of things, impos- 
 sible to determine to what period the composition of the oldest 
 Spanish ballads now extant ought to be referred. The first Can- 
 
cionero, that of Ferdinand de Castillo, was published so early 
 as 1510. In it, a considerable number, both of the historical 
 and of the romantic class of ballads, are included: and, as the 
 title of the book itself bears " Obras de todos o de los mas 
 principales Trobadores de España, assi antiguos como modernos" 
 it is clear that at least a certain number of these pieces were 
 considered as entitled to the appellation of "ancient," in the 
 year 1510. 
 
 The Cancionero de Romances, published at Antwerp in 1555, 
 and afterwards often reprinted under the name of Romancero, was 
 the earliest collection that admitted nothing but ballads. The 
 Romancero Historiado of Lucas Rodriguez, appeared at Alcalá, 
 in 1579 ; the Collection of Lorenzo de Sepulveda, at Antwerp, 
 in 1566. The ballads of the Cid were first published in a col- 
 lected form in 1615, by Escobar. 
 
 But there are not wanting circumstances which would seem 
 to establish, for many of the Spanish ballads, a claim to an- 
 tiquity much higher than is to be inferred from any of these 
 dates. In the oldest edition of the Cancionero General, for 
 example, there are several pieces which bear the name of Don 
 Juan Manuel. If they were composed by the celebrated author 
 of Count Lucanor (and it appears very unlikely that any person 
 of less distinguished rank should have assumed that style with- 
 out some addition or distinction), we must carry them back at 
 least as far as the year 1362, when the Prince Don Juan Manuel 
 
ar 
 
 died. But this is not all. The ballads bearing the name of 
 that illustrious author are so far from appearing to be among 
 the most ancient in the Cancionero, that even a very slight 
 examination must be sufficient to establish exactly the reverse. 
 The regularity and completeness of their rhymes alone are, in 
 fact, quite enough to satisfy any one who is acquainted with 
 the usual style of the redondillas, that the ballads of Don 
 Juan Manuel are among the most modern in the whole col- 
 lection.* 
 
 But, indeed, whatever may be the age of the ballads now 
 extant, that the Spaniards had ballads of the same general 
 character, and on the same subjects, at a very early period of 
 their national history, is quite certain. In the General Chro- 
 nicle of Spain, which was compiled in the thirteenth century, at 
 
 * A single stanza of one of them will be enough : — 
 
 " Gritando va el caballero publicando su gran mal, 
 Vestidas ropas de luto, aforradas en sayal ; 
 Por los montes sin camino con dolor y suspirar, 
 Llorando a pie descalco, jurando de no tornar." 
 
 Compare this with such a ballad as — 
 
 " No te espantes, caballero, ni tengas tamaña grima ; 
 Hija soy del buen Rey y de la Reyna de Castilla." 
 
the command of Alphonso the Wise, allusions are perpetually 
 made to the popular songs of the Minstrels, or Joglares. Now, 
 it is evident that the phraseology of compositions handed down 
 orally from one generation to another, must have undergone, in 
 the course of time, a great many alterations ; yet, in point of 
 fact, the language of by far the greater part of the Historical 
 Ballads in the Romancero, does appear to carry the stamp of 
 an antiquity quite as remote as that used by the compilers of 
 the General Chronicle themselves. Nay, some of those very 
 expressions from which Mr. Southey would seem to infer that 
 the Chronicle of the Cid is a more ancient composition than 
 the General Chronicle of Spain (which last was written 
 before 1384), are quite of common occurrence in these same 
 ballads, which Mr. Southey considers as of comparatively mo- 
 dern origin.* 
 
 All this, however, is a controversy in which few English 
 readers can be expected to take much interest. And, besides, 
 even granting that the Spanish ballads were composed but a 
 short time before the first Cancioneros were published, it would 
 still be certain that they form by far the oldest, as well as 
 largest, collection of popular poetry, properly so called, that 
 is to be found in the literature of any European nation what- 
 
 * See the Introduction to Mr. Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, p. v. — (Note.) 
 
 2 
 
ever. Had there been published at London, in the reign of our 
 Henry VIII., a vast collection of English ballads about the wars 
 of the Plantagenets, what illustration and annotation would not 
 that collection have received long ere now ! 
 
 How the old Spaniards should have come to be so much 
 more wealthy in this sort of possession than any of their neigh- 
 bours, it is not very easy to say. They had their taste for 
 warlike song in common with all the other members of the 
 great Gothic family; and they had a fine climate, affording, of 
 course, more leisure for amusement than could have been en- 
 joyed beneath the rougher sky of the north. The flexibility 
 of their beautiful language, and the extreme simplicity of the 
 versification adopted in their ballads, must, no doubt, have 
 lightened the labour, and may have consequently increased the 
 number of their professional minstrels. 
 
 To tell some well-known story of love or heroism, in stanzas 
 of four octosyllabic lines, the second and the fourth terminating 
 in the same rhyme, or in what the musical accompaniment 
 could make to have some appearance of being the same, — this 
 was all the art of the Spanish coplero, in its most perfect 
 state, ever aspired to. But a line of seven or of six syllables 
 was admitted whenever that suited the maker better than 
 one of eight: the stanza itself varied from four to six lines, 
 with equal ease ; and, as for the matter of rhyme, it was quite 
 sufficient that the two corresponding syllables contained the same 
 
vowel.* In a language less abundant in harmonious vocables, 
 such laxity could scarcely have satisfied the ear. But, the 
 Spanish is, like the sister Italian, music in itself, though music 
 of a bolder character. 
 
 I have spoken of the structure of the redondillas, as Spanish 
 writers generally speak of it, when I have said that the stanzas 
 consist of four lines. But a distinguished German antiquary, 
 Mr. Grimm, who published, a few years ago, a little sylva of 
 Spanish ballads, expresses his opinion that the stanza was com- 
 posed in reality of two long lines, and that these had subse- 
 quently been cut into four, exactly as we know to have been 
 the case in regard to our own old English ballad-stanza. Mr. 
 Grimm, in his small, but very elegant collection, prints the 
 
 * For example : — 
 
 " Y arrastrando luengos lutos 
 Entraron treynta fidalgos 
 Escuderos de Ximena 
 Hija del conde Lozano." 
 
 Or- 
 
 " A Don Alvaro de Luna 
 Condestable de Castilla 
 El rey Don Juan el Segundo 
 Con mal semblante lo mira." 
 
 But, indeed, even this might be dispensed with. 
 
Spanish verses in what he thus supposes to have been their 
 original shape ;* and I have followed his example in the form 
 of the stanza which I have for the most part used in my trans- 
 lations, as well as in quoting occasionally from the originals. 
 
 So far as I have been able, I have followed Mr. Depping 
 in the classification of the specimens which follow. 
 
 The reader will find placed together at the beginning those 
 ballads which treat of persons and events known in the au- 
 thentic history of Spain. A few concerning the unfortunate 
 Don Roderick, and the Moorish conquest of the eighth cen- 
 tury, form the commencement; and the series is carried down, 
 though of course with wide gaps and intervals, yet so as to 
 furnish something like a connected sketch of the gradual pro- 
 gress of the Christian arms, until the surrender of Granada, in 
 the year 1492, and the consequent flight of the last Moorish 
 sovereign from the Peninsula. 
 
 Throughout that very extensive body of historical ballads 
 from which these specimens have been selected, there prevails an 
 uniformly high tone of sentiment, — such as might have been 
 expected to distinguish the popular poetry of a nation proud, 
 haughty, free, and engaged in continual warfare against enemies 
 of different faith and manners, but not less proud and not less 
 
 * " Sylva de Viejos Romances, publicada por Jacobo Grimm. Vienna, 1815. 
 
warlike than themselves. Those petty disputes and dissensions 
 which so long divided the Christian princes, and, consequently, 
 favoured and maintained the power of the formidable enemy 
 whom they all equally hated ; those struggles between prince 
 and nobility, which were productive of similar effects after the 
 crowns of Leon and Castile had been united; those domestic 
 tragedies which so often stained the character and weakened 
 the arms of the Spanish kings; — in a word, all the principal 
 features of the old Spanish history may be found, more or less 
 distinctly shadowed forth, among the productions of these un- 
 flattering minstrels. 
 
 Of the language of Spain, as it existed under the reign of 
 the Visigoth kings, we possess no monuments. The laws and 
 the chronicles of the period were equally written in Latin ; and 
 although both, in all probability, must have been frequently 
 rendered into more vulgar dialects, no traces of any such ver- 
 sions have survived the many storms and struggles of religious 
 and political dissension, of which this interesting region has 
 since been made the scene. To what precise extent, therefore, 
 the language and literature of the Peninsula felt the influence 
 of that great revolution which subjected the far larger part of 
 her territory to the sway of a Mussulman sceptre, and how 
 much or how little of what we at this hour admire or condemn 
 in the poetry of Portugal, Arragon, Castile, is really not of 
 Spanish, but of Moorish origin,— these are matters which have 
 
divided all the great writers of literary history, and which 
 we, in truth, have little chance of ever seeing accurately de- 
 cided. No one, however, who considers of what elements the 
 Christian population of Spain was originally composed, and in 
 what shapes the mind of nations, every way kindred to that 
 population, was expressed during the middle ages, can have 
 any doubt that great and remarkable influence was exerted 
 over Spanish thought and feeling — and, therefore, over Spanish 
 language and poetry — by the influx of those Oriental tribes 
 that occupied, for seven long centuries, the fairest provinces of 
 the Peninsula. 
 
 Spain, although of all the countries which owned the autho- 
 rity of the Caliphs she was the most remote from the seat of 
 their empire, appears to have been the very first in point of 
 cultivation ; — her governors having, for at least two centuries, 
 emulated one another in affording every species of encourage- 
 ment and protection to all those liberal arts and sciences which 
 first flourished at Bagdad under the sway of Haroon Al-Raschid, 
 and his less celebrated, but, perhaps, still more enlightened son, 
 Al-Mamoun. Beneath the wise and munificent patronage of 
 these rulers, the cities of Spain, within three hundred years 
 after the defeat of King Roderick, had been everywhere pene- 
 trated with a spirit of elegance, tastefulness, and philosphy, 
 which afforded the strongest of all possible contrasts to the con- 
 temporary condition of the other kingdoms of Europe. At Cor- 
 
. EGDV.GTÍON •• 
 
 dova, Granada, Seville, and many now less considerable towns, 
 colleges and libraries had been founded and endowed in the 
 most splendid manner, — where the most exact and the most ele- 
 gant of sciences were cultivated together with equal zeal. Aver- 
 roes translated and expounded Aristotle at Cordova; Ben-Zaid 
 and Aboul-Mander wrote histories of their nation at Valencia ; 
 Abdel-Maluk set the first example of that most interesting and 
 useful species of writing, by which Moreri and others have 
 since rendered services so important to ourselves ; and even an 
 Arabian Encyclopaedia was compiled, under the direction of 
 Mohammed - Abu - Abdallah, at Granada. Ibn - el -B either went 
 forth from Malaga to search through all the mountains and 
 plains of Europe for everything that might enable him to 
 perfect his favourite sciences of botany and lithology, and his 
 works still remain to excite, the admiration of all who are in 
 a condition to comprehend their value. The Jew of Tudela was 
 the worthy successor of Galen and Hippocrates : while chemistry, 
 and other branches of medical science, almost unknown to 
 the ancients, received their first astonishing developments from 
 Al-Rasi and Avicenna. Rhetoric and poetry were not less 
 diligently studied ; and, in a word, it would be difficult to point 
 out, in the whole history of the world, a time or a country 
 where the activity of the human intellect was more extensively, 
 or usefully, or gracefully exerted, than in Spain, while the 
 Mussulman sceptre yet retained any portion of that vigour 
 
which it had originally received from the conduct and heroism 
 of Tarifa. 
 
 Although the difference of religion prevented the Moors and 
 their Spanish subjects from ever being completely melted into 
 one people, yet it appears that nothing could, on the whole, 
 be more mild than the conduct of the Moorish government 
 towards the Christian population of the country, during this 
 their splendid period of undisturbed dominion. Their learning 
 and their arts they liberally communicated to all who desired 
 such participation ; and the Christian youth studied freely and 
 honourably at the feet of Jewish physicians and Mahommedan 
 philosophers. Communication of studies and acquirements, con- 
 tinued through such a space of years, could not have failed to 
 break down, on both sides, many of the barriers of religious 
 prejudice, and to nourish a spirit of kindliness and charity 
 among the more cultivated portions of either people. The in- 
 tellect of the Christian Spaniards could not be ungrateful for 
 the rich gifts it was every day receiving from their misbelieving 
 masters; while the benevolence with which instructors ever re- 
 gard willing disciples, must have tempered in the minds of the 
 Arabs the sentiments of haughty superiority natural to the 
 breasts of conquerors. 
 
 By degrees, however, the scattered remnants of unsubdued 
 Visigoths, who had sought and found refuge among the moun- 
 tains of Asturias and Gallicia, began to gather the strength of 
 
numbers and of combination, and the Mussulmen saw different 
 portions of their empire successively wrested from their hands 
 by leaders whose descendants assumed the titles of Kings in 
 Oviedo and Navarre; and of Counts in Castile, Soprarbia, 
 Arragon, and Barcelona. From the time when these princi- 
 palities were established, till all their strength was united in the 
 persons of Ferdinand and Isabella, a perpetual war may be said 
 to have subsisted between the professors of the two religions ; 
 and the natural jealousy of Moorish governors must have gra- 
 dually, but effectually, diminished the comfort of the Christians 
 who yet lived under their authority. Were we to seek our 
 ideas of the period only from the events recorded in its chro- 
 nicles, we should be led to believe that nothing could be more 
 deep and fervid than the spirit of mutual hostility which pre- 
 vailed among all the adherents of the opposite faiths : but 
 external events are sometimes not the surest guides to the 
 spirit whether of peoples or of ages, and the ancient popular 
 poetry of Spain may be referred to for proofs, which cannot be 
 considered as either of dubious or of trivial value, that the 
 rage of hostility had not sunk quite so far as might have 
 been imagined into the minds and hearts of very many that 
 were engaged in the conflict. 
 
 There is, indeed, nothing more natural, at first sight, than to 
 reason in some measure from a nation as it is in our own day, 
 back to what it was a few centuries ago; but nothing could 
 
 2? 
 
 4 
 
tend to the production of greater mistakes than such a mode 
 of judging applied to the case of Spain. In the erect and high- 
 spirited peasantry of that country, we still see the genuine and 
 uncorrupted descendants of their manly forefathers ; but in every 
 other part of the population, the progress of corruption appears 
 to have been not less powerful than rapid; and the higher we 
 ascend in the scale of society, the more distinct and mortifying 
 is the spectacle of moral not less than of physical deterioration. 
 This universal falling off of men may be traced very easily to 
 an universal falling off in regard to every point of faith and 
 feeling most essential to the formation and preservation of a 
 national character. We have been accustomed to consider the 
 modern Spaniards as the most bigoted, and enslaved, and igno- 
 rant of Europeans ; but we must not forget, that the Spaniards 
 of three centuries back were, in all respects, a very different 
 set of beings. Castile, in the first regulation of her constitu- 
 tion, was as free as any nation needs to be, for all the purposes 
 of social security and individual happiness. Her kings were her 
 captains and her judges, the chiefs and the models of a gallant 
 nobility, and the protectors of a manly and independent pea- 
 santry : but the authority with which they were invested was 
 guarded by the most accurate limitations; nay — in case they 
 should exceed the boundary of their legal power — the statute- 
 book of the realm itself contained exact rules for the conduct 
 of a constitutional insurrection to recall them to their duty, or 
 
to punish them for its desertion. Every order of society had, 
 more or less directly, its representatives in the national council ; 
 every Spaniard, of whatever degree, was penetrated with a 
 sense of his own dignity as a freeman — his own nobility as a 
 descendant of the Yisigoths. And it is well remarked by an 
 elegant historian of our day,*' that, even to this hour, the in- 
 fluence of this happy order of things still continues to be felt 
 in Spain, — where manners, and language, and literature, have 
 all received indelibly a stamp of courts, and aristocracy, and 
 proud feeling, — which affords a striking contrast to what may 
 be observed in modern Italy, where the only freedom that ever 
 existed had its origin and residence among citizens and mer- 
 chants. 
 
 The civil liberty of the old Spaniards could scarcely have 
 existed so long as it did, in the presence of any feeling so 
 black and noisome as the bigotry of modern Spain : but this 
 was never tried ; for down to the time of Charles V., no man 
 has any right to say that the Spaniards were a bigoted people. 
 One of the worst features of their modern bigotry — their ex- 
 treme and servile subjection to the authority of the Pope — is 
 entirely a-wanting in the picture of their ancient spirit. — In 
 the 12th century, the Kings of Arragon were the protectors 
 of the Albigenses ; and their Pedro II. himself died in 1213, 
 
 * Sismondi's Literature du Midi. 
 
¿ 
 
 fighting bravely against the red cross, for the cause of tolerance. 
 In 1268, two brothers of the King of Castile left the banners 
 of the Infidels, beneath which they were serving at Tunis, with 
 eight hundred Castilian gentlemen, for the purpose of coming 
 to Italy and assisting the Neapolitans in their resistance to the 
 tyranny of the Pope and Charles of Anjou. In the great 
 schism of the West, as it is called (1378), Pedro IV. em- 
 braced the party which the Catholic Church regards as schis- 
 matic. That feud was not allayed for more than a hundred 
 years, and Alphonso V. was well paid for consenting to lay it 
 aside ; while, down to the time of Charles V., the whole of 
 the Neapolitan Princes of the House of Arragon may be said 
 to have lived in a state of open enmity against the Papal See ; 
 — sometimes excommunicated for generations together— seldom 
 apparently — never cordially reconciled. When, finally, Ferdinand 
 the Catholic made his first attempt to introduce the Inquisi- 
 tion into his kingdom, almost the whole nation took up arms 
 to resist him. The Grand Inquisitor was killed, and every one 
 of his creatures was compelled to leave, for a season, the yet 
 free soil of Arragon. 
 
 But the strongest and best proof of the comparative libe- 
 rality of the old Spaniards is, as I have already said, to be 
 found in their Ballads. Throughout the far greater part of 
 those compositions, there breathes a certain spirit of charity and 
 humanity towards those Moorish enemies with whom the com- 
 
d 
 
 bats of the national heroes are represented. The Spaniards and 
 the Moors lived together in their villages beneath the calmest of 
 skies, and surrounded with the most beautiful of landscapes. In 
 spite of their adverse faiths, in spite of their adverse interests, 
 they had much in common. — Loves, and sports, and recreations, 
 — nay, sometimes their haughtiest recollections, were in common, 
 and even their heroes were the same. Bernardo del Carpió, 
 Fernán Gonzalez, the Cid himself, — almost every one of the 
 favourite heroes of the Spanish nation, had, at some period or 
 other of his life, fought beneath the standard of the Crescent; 
 and the minstrels of either nation might, therefore, in regard to 
 some instances at least, have equal pride in the celebration of 
 their prowess. The praises which the Arab poets granted to 
 them in their Mouwachchak, or girdle verses, were repaid by 
 liberal encomiums on Moorish valour and generosity in Castilian 
 and Arragonese Redondillas. Even in the ballads most exclu- 
 sively devoted to the celebration of feats of Spanish heroism, 
 it is quite common to find some redeeming compliment to the 
 Moors mixed with the strain of exultation. Nay, even in the 
 more remote and ideal chivalries celebrated in the Castilian 
 Ballads, the parts of glory and greatness are almost as frequently 
 attributed to Moors as to Christians ; — Calaynos was a name as 
 familiar as Gayferos. At a somewhat later period, when the 
 conquest of Granada had mingled the Spaniards still more 
 effectually with the persons and manners of the Moors, we find 
 
the Spanish poets still fonder of celebrating the heroic achieve- 
 ments of their old Saracen rivals ; and, without doubt, this 
 their liberality towards the " Knights of Granada, Gentlemen, 
 albeit Moors," 
 
 " Caballeros Granadinos 
 Aunque Moros hijos d'algo," 
 
 must have been very gratifying to the former subjects of " The 
 Baby King." It must have counteracted the bigotry of Con- 
 fessors and Mollahs, and tended to inspire both nations with 
 sentiments of kindness and mutual esteem. 
 
 Bernard of Carpió, above all the rest, was the common 
 property and pride of both peoples. Of his all-romantic life, 
 the most romantic incidents belonged equally to both. It was 
 with Moors that he allied himself when he rose up to demand 
 vengeance from King Alphonso for the murder of his father. 
 It was with Moorish brethren in arms that he marched to fight 
 against the Frankish army for the independence of the Spanish 
 soil. It was in front of •'a half-Leonese, half-Moorish host, that 
 Bernard couched his lance, victorious alike over valour and 
 
 magic : — > 
 " When Rowland brave and Olivier, 
 And every Paladin and Peer 
 On Roncesvalles died." 
 
 A few ballads, unquestionably of Moorish origin, and appa- 
 rently rather of the romantic than of the historical class, are 
 
given in a section by themselves. The originals are valuable, 
 as monuments of the manners and customs of a most singular 
 race. 
 
 Composed originally by a Moor or a Spaniard (it is often 
 very difficult to determine by which of the two), they were 
 sung in the villages of Andalusia in either language, but to the 
 same tunes, and listened to with equal pleasure by man, woman, 
 and child, — Mussulman and Christian. In these strains, whatever 
 other merits or demerits they may possess, we are, at least, pre- 
 sented with a lively picture of the life of the Arabian Spaniard. 
 We see him as he was in reality, " like steel among weapons, 
 — like wax among women," — 
 
 " Fuerte qual azero entre armas, 
 
 Y qual cera entre las damas." 
 
 There came, indeed, a time when the fondness of the Spa- 
 niards for their Moorish Ballads was made matter of reproach, — 
 but this was not till long after the period when Spanish bravery 
 had won back the last fragments of the Peninsula from Moorish 
 hands. It was thus that a Spanish poet of the after day ex- 
 pressed himself: — 
 
 " Vayase con Dios Gazul ! 
 Lleve el diablo á Celindaxa ! 
 
 Y buelvan estas marlotas 
 
 A quien se las dio prestadas ! 
 
" Que quiere Doña Maria 
 Ver baylar á Doña Juana, 
 Una gallarda española, 
 Que no ay danca mas gallarda : 
 
 " Y Don Pedro y Don Rodrigo 
 Vestir otras mas galanas, 
 Ver quien son estos danzantes 
 
 Y conocer estas damas ; 
 
 " Y el Señor Alcayde quiere 
 Saber quien es Abenamar, 
 Estos Zegris y Aliatares, 
 Adulces, Zaydes, y Audallas ; 
 
 " Y de que repartimiento 
 Son Celinda y Guadalara, 
 Estos Moros y estas Moras 
 Que en todas las bodas danzan ; 
 
 " Y por hablarlo mas claro, 
 Assi tengan buena pascua. 
 Ha venido á su noticia 
 Que ay Cristianos en España." 
 
 These sarcasms were not without their answer; for, says 
 another poem in the Romancero General : — 
 
 " Si es Español Don Rodrigo, 
 Español fue el fuerte Audalla; 
 
 Y sepa el Señor Alcayde 
 
 Que también lo es Guadalara." 
 
But the best argument follows : — 
 
 "No es culpa si de los Moros 
 Los valientes hechos cantan, 
 Pues tanto mas resplandecen 
 Nuestras celebres hazañas." 
 
 The greater part of the Moorish Ballads refer to the period 
 immediately preceding the downfall of the throne of Granada — 
 the amours of that splendid court — the bull-feasts and other 
 spectacles in which its lords and ladies delighted no less than 
 those of the Christian courts of Spain — the bloody feuds of the 
 two great families of the Zegris and the Abencerrages, which 
 contributed so largely to the ruin of the Moorish cause — and 
 the incidents of that last war itself, in which the power of the 
 Mussulman was entirely overthrown by the arms of Ferdinand 
 and Isabella. To some readers it may, perhaps, occur, that the 
 part ascribed to Moorish females in these Ballads is not always 
 exactly in the Oriental taste ; but the pictures still extant on 
 the walls of the Alhambra contain abundant proofs how unfair 
 it would be to judge from the manners of any Mussulman nation 
 of our day, of those of the refined and elegant Spanish Moors. 
 
 The specimens of which the third and largest section consists, 
 are taken from 'amongst the vast multitude of miscellaneous and 
 romantic ballads in the old Cancioneros. The subjects of a 
 number of these are derived from the fabulous Chronicle of 
 
Turpin; and the Knights of Charlemagne's Round-Table appear 
 in all their gigantic lineaments. But the greater part are formed 
 precisely of the same sort of materials which supplied our own 
 ancient ballad-makers, both the English and the Scottish. 
 
 In the original Spanish collections, songs, both of the serious 
 and of the comic kind, are mingled without scruple among their 
 romantic ballads; and one or two specimens of these also have 
 been attempted towards the conclusion of the following pages. 
 
 Edinburgh, 1823. i 
 
HE treason of Count Julian, and, indeed, the whole his- 
 tory of King Roderick, and the downfall of the gothic 
 monarchy in Spain, have been so effectually made 
 known to the English reader by Mr. Southey and Sir 
 Walter Scott, that it would be impertinent to say any- 
 thing of these matters here. The ballad, a version of 
 which follows, appears to be one of the oldest among the great number 
 relating to the Moorish conquest of Spain. One verse of it is quoted, 
 and several parodied, in the Second Part of Don Quixote, in the inimit- 
 able chapter of the Puppet-show : — 
 
 ' The general rout of the puppets being over, Don Quixote's fury 
 \s-5 began to abate ; and, with a more pacified countenance, turning to the 
 |ji^v company, — Well, now, said he, when all is done, long live knight- 
 ly errantry; long let it live, I say, above all things whatsoever in this world ! 
 — Ay, ay, said Master Peter, in a doleful tone, let it live long for me, so I 
 may die ; for why should I live so unhappy as to say with King Rodrigo, 
 Yesterday I was lord of Spain, to-day have not a foot of land I can 
 call mine ? It is not half an hour, nay, scarce a moment, since I had 
 kings and emperors at command. I had horses in abundance, and chests 
 and bags full of fine things ; but now you see me a poor, sorry, undone 
 man, quite and clean broke and cast down, and, in short, a mere beggar. 
 What is worst of all, I have lost my ape too, who, I am sure, will make 
 me sweat ere I catch him again.' 
 
5 
 
 ' But still where through the press of war he went, 
 Half-armed, and like a lover seeking death, 
 The arrows passed him by ; and 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 poitrel 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 cry, far echoing loud and shrill, 
 A frequent, anxious cry, with which he seemed 
 To call the master he had loved so well.'— Southey. 
 
 H 
 
 k\ Iv if I j \ 
 
tFri 
 
 'Vi 
 
 ,3 
 
 DP, 
 
 ÍTíje lamentation of Bon fóoüeticít. 
 
 The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in dismay, 
 When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor hope had they ; 
 He, when he saw that field was lost, and all his hope was flown, 
 He turned him from his flying host, and took his way alone. 
 
 His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame, — he could no farther go ; 
 Dismounted, without path or aim, the king stepped to and fro ; 
 It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick, 
 For, sore athirst and hungry, he staggered, faint and sick. 
 
 All stained and strewed with dust and blood, like to some smouldering brand 
 Plucked from the flame, Rodrigo shewed:' — his sword was in his hand, 
 But it was hacked into a saw of dark and purple tint ; 
 His jewelled mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint. 
 
 He climbed unto a hill-top, the highest he could see, 
 Thence all about of that wide rout his last long look took he ; 
 He saw his royal banners, where they lay drenched and torn, 
 He heard the cry of victory, the Arab's shout of scorn. 
 
 He looked for the brave captains that led the hosts of Spain, 
 But all were fled except the dead, and who could count the slain ? 
 
 At 
 
HIS ballad also is quoted in Don Quixote. ' And let me 
 tell you again (quoth Sancho Panza to the Duchess), if you 
 do n't think fit to give me an island because I am a fool, 
 I will be so wise as not to care whether you do or no. It 
 is an old saying, The Devil lurks behind the cross. All 
 is not gold that glisters. From the tail of the plough, 
 Bamba was made King of Spain ; and from his silks and 
 riches was Rodrigo cast to be devoured by the snakes, if the old ballads say 
 true, and sure they are too old to tell a lie. — That they are indeed (said Doña 
 Rodriguez, the old waiting-woman, who listened among the rest), for I remember, 
 one of the ballads tells us how Don Rodrigo was shut up alive in a tomb full 
 of toads, snakes, and lizards ; and how, after two days, he was heard to cry out 
 of the tomb in a loud and doleful voice, Now they eat me, now they gnaw me, 
 in the part ivhere I sinned most. And according to this the gentleman is in the 
 right in saying he had rather be a poor labourer than a king, to be gnawed 
 to death by vermin.' 
 
 Cervantes would scarcely have made this absurd story the subject of conversa- 
 tion between any more intelligent personages than Sancho Panza and the vener- 
 able Doña Rodriguez. Nevertheless, there is something very peculiar in the old 
 ballad to which these interlocutors allude, — enough, perhaps, to make it worth 
 the trouble of translation. There is a little difference between the text of the 
 Cancionero, and the copy which Doña Rodriguez quotes ; but I think the effect 
 is better when there is only one snake, than when the tomb is full of them. 
 
 Several chapters of the Ancient Chronicle of Spain, translated in the Appendix 
 to Mr. Southey's Roderick, relate to the adventures of the King ' after he left the 
 battle and arrived at a hermitage.' 
 
Cíje Wmitimt of Bon Iftotewfc, 
 
 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 woe, 
 And up among the wilderness of mountains he would go. 
 
 There lay a shepherd by the rill, with all his flock beside him ; 
 He asked 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, 1 1 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 unlocked 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 PENITENCE OP DON RODERICK. 
 
 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 looked upon the King, — he scanned him o'er and o'er, 
 He looked with looks of wondering, — he marvelled more and more. 
 With blood and dust distainéd 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 called 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 looked 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 revealed that he his bed must make 
 Within a tomb, and share its gloom with a black and living snake. 
 Rodrigo bowed his humbled head, when God's command he heard, 
 And with the snake prepared his bed, according to the word. 
 
m 
 
 m 
 
 THE PENITENCE OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 The holy Hermit waited till the third day was gone, 
 Then knocked he with his finger upon the cold tombstone ; 
 1 Good King, good King,' the Hermit said, ' an answer give to me, 
 How fares it with thy darksome bed and dismal company ? ' 
 
 ' Good father,' said Rodrigo, ' the snake hath touched 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 turned 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 bedfellow 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, 
 Washed from offence, his spirit hence to God its flight hath ta'en. 
 
F Bernardo del Carpió, we find little or nothing in the 
 French romances of Charlemagne. He belongs exclusively 
 to Spanish History, or rather, perhaps, to Spanish Romance. 
 The continence which procured for Alphonso (who suc- 
 ceeded to the precarious throne of the Christians in 
 the Asturias about 795) the epithet of ' The Chaste,' 
 was not universal in his family. By an intrigue with 
 Sancho Diaz, Count of Saldaña, or Saldeña, Doña Ximena, sister of this 
 virtuous Prince, bore a son. Some chroniclers attempt to gloss over this 
 incident, by alleging that a private marriage had taken place between the 
 lovers : but King Alphonso, who was well nigh s*ainted for living only in 
 platonic union with his wife Bertha, took the scandal greatly to heart. He 
 shut up the peccant Princess in a cloister, and imprisoned her gallant in the 
 castle of Luna, where he caused him to be deprived of sight. Fortunately, 
 his wrath did not extend to the offspring of their stolen affections, Bernardo 
 del Carpió. When the youth had grown up to manhood, Alphonso, according 
 to the Spanish chroniclers, invited the Emperor Charlemagne into Spain, and 
 having neglected to raise up heirs for the kingdom of the Goths in the ordi- 
 nary manner, he proposed the inheritance of his throne as the price of the 
 alliance of Charles. But the nobility, headed by Bernardo, remonstrated against 
 the King's choice of a successor, and would on no account consent to receive 
 a Frenchman as the heir of their crown. Alphonso himself repented of the 
 invitation he had given Charlemagne, and when that champion of Christendom 
 came to expel the Moors from Spain, he found the conscientious and chaste 
 Alphonso had united with the infidels against him. An engagement took place 
 in the renowned pass of Roncesvalles, in which the French were defeated, 
 and the celebrated Roland, or Orlando, was slain. The victory was ascribed 
 chiefly to the prowess of Bernardo del Carpió. 
 
 The following ballad describes the enthusiasm excited among the Leonese, 
 when Bernardo first raised his standard to oppose the progress of Charlemagne's 
 army. 
 
Cíje JJftarcí) of 3Sernartio M (Eavpio. 
 
 With three thousand men of Leon, from the city Bernard goes, 
 To protect the soil Hispanian from the spear of Frankish foes : 
 From the city which is planted in the midst between the seas, 
 To preserve the name and glory of old Pelayo's victories. 
 
 The peasant hears upon his field the trumpet of the knight, — 
 He quits his team for spear and shield and garniture of might ; 
 The shepherd hears it 'mid the mist, — he flingeth down his crook, 
 And rushes from the mountain like a tempest-troubled brook. 
 
 The youth who shews a maiden's chin, whose brows have ne'er been bound 
 
 The helmet's heavy ring within, gains manhood from the sound ; 
 
 The hoary sire beside the fire forgets his feebleness, 
 
 Once more to feel the cap of steel a warrior's ringlets press. 
 
As through the glen his spears did gleam, these soldiers from the hills, 
 They swelled his host, as mountain- stream receives the roaring rills ; 
 They round his banner flocked, in scorn of haughty Charlemagne, 
 And thus upon their swords are sworn the faithful sons of Spain. 
 
 'Free were we born,' 'tis thus they cry, 'though to our King we owe 
 The homage and the fealty behind his crest to go ; 
 By God's behest our aid he shares, but God did ne'er command 
 That we should leave our children heirs of an enslaved land. 
 
 ' Our breasts are not so timorous, nor are our arms so weak, 
 Nor are our veins so bloodless, that we our vow should break, 
 To sell our freedom for the fear of Prince or Paladin ; 
 At least we '11 sell our birthright dear, — no bloodless prize they '11 win, 
 
 ' At least King Charles, if God decrees he must be Lord of Spain, § 
 Shall witness that the Leonese were not aroused in vain ; 
 He shall bear witness that we died as lived our sires of old, — 
 Nor only of Numantium's pride shall minstrel tales be told. >%| 
 
 ' The Lion that hath bathed his paws in seas of Lybian gore, 
 Shall he not battle for the laws and liberties of yore ? 
 Anointed cravens may give gold to whom it likes them well, 
 But steadfast heart and spirit bold, Alphonso ne'er shall sell.' 
 
Cfje (Eomplatnt of ííjc OTount of Saltiaña. 
 
 HIS ballad is intended to represent the feelings of Don 
 Sancho, Count of Saldaña, while imprisoned by King 
 Alphonso, and, as he supposed, neglected and forgotten, 
 both by his wife, or rather mistress, Doña Ximena, and 
 by his son, Bernardo del Carpió. 
 
 The Count Don Sancho Diaz, the Signior of Saldane, 
 Lies weeping in his prison, for he cannot refrain : 
 King Alphonso and his sister, of both doth he complain, 
 But most of bold Bernardo, the champion of Spain. 
 
 ' The weary years I durance brook, how many they have been, 
 When on these hoary hairs I look, may easily be seen ; 
 When they brought me to this castle, my curls were black I ween, 
 Wo worth the day ! they have grown grey these rueful walls between. 
 
 ' They tell me my Bernardo is the doughtiest lance in Spain, 
 
 But if he were my loyal heir, there 's blood in every vein 
 
 Whereof the voice his heart would hear, — his hand would not gainsay ; 
 
 Though the blood of kings be mixed with mine, itwould not have all the sway, 
 
 « Now all the three have scorn of me ; unhappy man am I ! 
 They leave me without pity ; they leave me here to die. 
 A stranger's feud, albeit rude, were little dole or care, 
 But he 's my own, both flesh and bone ; his scorn is ill to bear. 
 
THE COMPLAINT OF THE COUNT OF SALDAN A. 
 
 ' From Jailer and from Castellain I hear of hardiment 
 And chivalry in listed plain on joust and tourney spent ; 
 I hear of many a battle, in which thy spear is red, 
 But help from thee comes none to me when I am ill bestead. 
 
 ' Some villain spot is in thy blood to mar its gentle strain, 
 Else would it shew forth hardihood for him from whom 't was ta'en 
 Thy hope is young, thy heart is strong, but yet a day may be 
 When thou shalt weep in dungeon deep, and none thy weeping see. 
 
Cíje funeral of tfje (Kount of Saltana. 
 
 CCORDING to the Chronicle, Bernardo, being at last 
 wearied out of all patience by the cruelty of which 
 his father was the victim, determined to quit the court 
 of his King and seek an alliance among the Moors. 
 Having fortified himself in the Castle of Carpió, he 
 made continual incursions into the territory of Leon, 
 pillaging and plundering wherever he came. The King 
 
 at length besieged him in his stronghold; but the defence was so gallant, 
 that there appeared no prospect of success ; whereupon many of the gentle- 
 men in Alphonso's camp entreated the King to offer Bernardo immediate 
 possession of his father's person, if he would surrender his castle. 
 
 Bernardo at once consented ; but the King gave orders to have Count 
 Sancho Diaz taken off instantly in his prison. 4 When he was dead, they 
 clothed him in splendid attire, mounted him on horseback, and so led him 
 towards Salamanca, where his son was expecting his arrival. As they drew 
 nigh the city, the King and Bernardo rode out to meet them ; and when 
 Bernardo saw his father approaching, he exclaimed, — O God ! is the Count of 
 Saldaña indeed coming? — Look where he is, replied the cruel King; and 
 now go and greet him whom you so long desired to see. Bernardo went 
 forward and took his father's hand to kiss it; but when he felt the dead 
 weight of the hand, and saw the livid face of the corpse, he cried aloud, 
 and said, — Ah, Don San Diaz, in an evil hour didst thou beget me ! — Thou 
 art dead, and I have given my stronghold for thee, and now I have 
 lost all. 
 
Cije ^Funeral of tí)e ©ount of Saltana. 
 
 All in the centre of the choir Bernardo's knees are bent, — 
 Before him, for his murdered sire, yawns the old monument. 
 
 His kinsmen of the Carpió blood are kneeling at his back, 
 
 With knightly friends and vassals good, all garbed in weeds of black. 
 
 He comes to make the obsequies of a basely-slaughtered man, 
 
 And tears are running down from eyes whence ne'er before they ran. 
 
 His head is bowed upon the stone ; his heart, albeit full sore, 
 
 Is strong as when in days by-gone he rode o'er Frank and Moor ; 
 
 And now between his teeth he mutters, that none his words can hear ; 
 And now the voice of wrath he utters, in curses loud and clear : 
 
 He stoops him o'er his father's shroud, his lips salute the bier ; 
 He communes with the corse aloud, as if none else were near. 
 
 His right hand doth his sword unsheath, his left doth pluck his beard ; 
 And while his liegemen held their breath, these were the words they heard 
 
 ' Go up, go up, thou blessed ghost, into the hands of God ; 
 
 Go, fear not lest revenge be lost, when Carpio's blood hath flowed ; 
 
THE FUNERAL OF THE COUNT OF SALDAÑA. 
 
 • The steel that drank the blood of France, the arm thy foe that shielded, 
 Still, father, thirsts that burning lance, and still thy son can wield it.' 
 
HE incident recorded in this ballad may be supposed to 
 have occurred immediately after the funeral of the Count 
 of Saldaña. As to what was the end of the knight's 
 history, we are almost left entirely in the dark, both by 
 the Chronicle and by the Romancero. It appears to be 
 intimated, that after his father's death, he once more 
 ' took service' among the Moors, who are represented in several of the ballads 
 as accustomed to exchange offices of courtesy with Bernardo. 
 
ÍSernartio anti gUpíjonjsíi. 
 
 With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appeared 
 Before them all in the palace hall, the lying King to beard ; 
 With cap in hand, and eye on ground, he came in reverend guise, 
 But ever and anon he frowned, and flame broke from his eyes. 
 
 ' A curse upon thee,' cries the King, ' who earnest unbid to me ; 
 But what from traitor's blood should spring, save traitors like to thee 
 His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart ; perchance our champion brave 
 May think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's grave.' 
 
 ' Whoever told this tale, the King hath rashness to repeat,' 
 Cries Bernard, c here my gage I fling before the liar's feet ! 
 No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in mine doth lie : 
 Below the throne what knight will own the coward calumny ? 
 
 ' The blood that I like water shed, when Roland did advance, 
 By secret traitors hired and led, to make us slaves of France ; 
 The life of King Alphonso I saved at Roncesval, — 
 Your words, Lord King, are recompense abundant for it all. 
 
BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO. 
 
 ' Your horse was down, 1 — your hope was flown, — I saw the falchion shine, 
 
 That soon had drunk your royal blood, had I not ventured mine ; 
 
 But memory soon of service done deserteth the ingrate ; 
 
 You 've thanked the son for life and crown, by the father's bloody fate. 
 
 ' Ye swore upon your kingly faith, to set Don Sancho free ; 
 But, curse upon your paltering breath, the light he ne'er did see ; 
 He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alphonso's base decree, 
 And visage blind, and stiffened limb, were all they gave to me. 
 
 ' The King that swerveth from his word hath stained his purple black ; 
 No Spanish lord will draw the sword behind a liar's back ; 
 But noble vengeance shall be mine, an open hate I '11 shew, — 
 The King hath injured Carpio's line, and Bernard is his foe.' 
 
 ' Seize, seize him !' loud the King doth scream : ' There are a thousand here ! 
 Let his foul blood this instant stream : — What ! caitiffs, do ye fear ? 
 Seize, seize the traitor!' — But not one to move a finger dareth ; 
 Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword he bareth. 
 
 He drew the falchion from the sheath, and held it up on high, 
 And all the hall was still as death: — cries Bernard, ' Here am I, — 
 And here is the sword that owns no lord, excepting heaven and me ; 
 Fain would I know who dares his point, — King, Conde, or Grandee.' 
 
BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO. 
 
 Then to his mouth the horn he drew (it hung below his cloak) ; 
 His ten true men the signal knew, and through the ring they broke ; 
 With helm on head, and blade in hand, the knights the circle brake, 
 And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, and the false King to quake. 
 
 ' Ha! Bernard,' quoth Alphonso, ' what means this warlike guise? 
 Ye know full well I jested, — ye know your worth I prize.' 
 But Bernard turned upon his heel, and smiling passed away : — 
 Long rued Alphonso and his realm the jesting of that day. 
 
Cí)e Jíííartíen Crttmte. 
 
 HE reign of King Ramiro was short, but glorious. He had 
 not been many months seated on the throne, when Ab- 
 derahman, the second of that name, sent a formal embassy 
 to demand payment of an odious and ignominious tribute, 
 which had been agreed to in the days of former and 
 weaker princes, but which, it should seem, had not been 
 exacted by the Moors while such men as Bernardo del Carpió and Alphonso 
 the Great headed the forces of the Christians. This tribute was a hundred 
 virgins per annum. King Ramiro refused compliance, and marched to meet 
 the army of Abderahman. The battle was fought near Albayda (or Alveida), 
 and lasted for two entire days. On the first day, the superior discipline of 
 the Saracen chivalry had nearly accomplished a complete victory, when the 
 approach of night separated the combatants. During the night, Saint lago 
 stood in a vision before the King, and promised to be with him next morning 
 in the field. Accordingly, the warlike apostle made his appearance, mounted 
 on a milk-white charger, and armed cap-a-pee in radiant mail, like a true 
 knight. The Moors sustained a signal defeat, and the Maiden Tribute was 
 never afterwards paid, although often enough demanded. Such is, in sub- 
 stance, the story, as narrated by Mariana (see Book vii. chap. 13), who fixes 
 the date of the battle of Alveida in the year 844, being the second year after 
 the accession of King Ramiro. 
 
 Mr. Southey says that there is no mention of this battle of Alveida in the 
 three authors who lived nearest the time ; but adds, that the story of Santiago's 
 making his first appearance in a field of battle on the Christian side is related 
 at length by King Ramiro himself, in a charter granting a perpetual tribute 
 of wine, corn, &c. to the Church of Compostella. Mr. Southey says that the 
 only old ballad he has seen in the Portuguese language is founded upon a 
 story of a Maiden Tribute. See the Notes to his "Cid," p. 377. 
 
Cíje J51 atoen Etitutt. 
 
 The noble King Ramiro within the chamber sate, 
 One day, with all his barons, in council and debate, 
 When, without leave or guidance of usher or of groom, 
 There came a comely maiden into the council-room. 
 
 She was a comely maiden, — she was surpassing fair ; 
 All loose upon her shoulders hung down her golden hair ; 
 From head to foot her garments were white as white may be ; 
 And while they gazed in silence, thus in the midst spake she. 
 
 ' Sir King, I crave your pardon, if I have done amiss 
 In venturing before ye, at such an hour as this ; 
 But I will tell my story, and when my words ye hear, 
 I look for praise and honour, and no rebuke I fear. 
 
 ' I know not if I 'm bounden to call thee by the name 
 Of Christian, King Ramiro ; for though thou dost not claim 
 A heathen realm's allegiance, a heathen sure thou art ; 
 Beneath a Spaniard's mantle thou hidest a Moorish heart. 
 
THE MAIDEN TRIBUTE. 
 
 ' For he who gives the Moor-King a hundred maids of Spain, 
 Each year when in its season the day comes round again, — 
 If he be not a heathen, he swells the heathen's train ; 
 'Twere better burn a kingdom than suffer such disdain. 
 
 ' If the Moslem must have tribute, make men your tribute-money, 
 Send idle drones to teaze them within their hives of honey ; 
 For when 'tis paid with maidens, from every maid there spring 
 Some five or six strong soldiers to serve the Moorish King. 
 
 1 It is but little wisdom to keep our men at home, 
 They serve but to get damsels, who, when their day is come, 
 Must go, like all the others, the heathen's bed to sleep in ; 
 In all the rest they 're useless, and no wise worth the keeping. 
 
 ' And if 't is fear of battle that makes ye bow so low, 
 And suffer such dishonour from God our Saviour's foe, 
 I pray you, sirs, take warning, — ye '11 have as good a fright, 
 If e'er the Spanish damsels arise themselves to right. 
 
 ' 'T is we have manly courage within the breasts of women, 
 But ye are all hare-hearted, both gentlemen and yeomen.' — 
 Thus spake that fearless maiden ; I wot when she was done, 
 Uprose the King Ramiro and his nobles every one. 
 
THE MAIDEN TRIBUTE. 
 
 The King called God to witness, that come there weal or woe 
 Thenceforth no Maiden Tribute from out Castile should go ; 
 ' At least I will do battle on God our Saviour's foe, 
 And die beneath my banner before I see it so.' 
 
 A cry went through the mountains when the proud Moor drew near, a y 
 And trooping to Ramiro came every Christian spear ; 
 The blessed Saint lago, they called upon his name ; — 
 That day began our freedom, and wiped away our shame. 
 
/ 
 
 STfje ISscape of (ftount jFtvmn ©otéale?. 
 
 he story of Fernán Gonzalez is detailed in the Coronica 
 Antigua de España with so many romantic circumstances, 
 that certain modern critics have been inclined to consider 
 it as entirely fabulous. Of the main facts recorded, there 
 seems, however, to be no good reason to doubt ; and it 
 is quite certain that, from the earliest times, the name of 
 Fernán Gonzalez has been held in the highest honour by 
 the Spaniards themselves, of every degree. He lived at the beginning of the 
 tenth century. It was under his rule, according to the chronicles, that Castile 
 first became an independent Christian state, and it was by his exertions that 
 the first foundations were laid of that system of warfare, by which the Moorish 
 power in Spain was at last overthrown. 
 
 He was so fortunate as to have a wife as heroic as himself, and both in the 
 chronicles, and in the ballads, abundant justice is done to her merits. 
 
 G 
 
THE ESCAPE OF COUNT FERNAN GONZALEZ. 
 
 She twice rescued Feman Gonzalez from confinement, at the risk of 
 her own life. He had asked, or designed to ask, her hand in marriage 
 of her father, Garcias, King of Navarre, and was on his way to that 
 prince's court, when he was seized and cast into a dungeon, in conse- 
 quence of the machinations of his enemy, the Queen of Leon, sister to 
 the King of Navarre. Sancha, the young princess, to whose alliance he 
 had aspired, being informed of the cause of his journey, and of the suf- 
 ferings to which it had exposed him, determined, at all hazards, to effect 
 his liberation ; and having done so, by bribing his jailer, she accompanied 
 his flight to Castile. 
 
 Many years after, he fell into an ambush prepared for him by the 
 same implacable enemy, and was again a fast prisoner in Leon. His 
 countess, feigning a pilgrimage to Compostella, obtained leave, in the first 
 place, to pass through the hostile territory, and afterwards, in the course 
 of her progress, to spend one night in the castle where her husband was 
 confined. She exchanged clothes with him; and he was so fortunate 
 as to pass in his disguise through the guards who attended on him — his 
 courageous wife remaining in his place— exactly in the same manner in 
 which the Countess of Nithsdale effected the escape of her lord from the 
 Tower of London, on the 23rd of February, 1715. 
 
 There is, as might be supposed, a whole body of old ballads, con- 
 cerning the adventures óf Fernán Gonzalez. I shall, as a specimen, 
 translate one of the shortest of these, — that in which the first of his 
 romantic escapes is described. 
 
(ZTfje ISscape of (Eoimt dFernan ©onjale?. 
 
 They have carried afar into Navarre the great Count of Castile, 
 
 And they have bound him sorely, they have bound him hand and heel ; 
 
 The tidings up the mountains go, and down among the valleys, 
 
 ' To the rescue ! to the rescue, ho !— they have ta'en Fernán Gonzalez ! ' 
 
 A pilgrim knight of Normandy was riding through Navarre, 
 
 For Christ his hope he came to cope with the Moorish scymitar ; 
 
 To the Alcaydé of the Tower, in secret thus said he, 
 
 ' These bezaunts fair with thee I'll share, so I this lord may see.'— 
 
 The Alcaydé was full joyful, — he took the gold full soon ; 
 He brought him to the dungeon, ere the rising of the moon ; 
 He let him out at morning, at the grey light of the prime ; 
 But many words between these lords had passed within that time. 
 
 The Norman knight rides swiftly, for he hath made him bowne 
 To a King that is full joyous, and to a feastful town ; 
 
THE ESCAPE OF COUNT FERNAN GONZALEZ. 
 
 For there is joy and feasting, because that lord is ta' en, — 
 King Garci in his dungeon holds the doughtiest lord in Spain. 
 
 The Norman feasts among the guests, but, at the evening tide, 
 He speaks to Garci's daughter, within her bower, aside ; 
 ' Now God forgive us, lady, and God his mother dear, 
 For on a day of sorrow we have been blithe of cheer. 
 
 ' The Moors may well be joyful, but great should be our grief, 
 For Spain has lost her guardian, when Castile has lost her chief; 
 The Moorish host is pouring like a river o'er the land, — 
 Curse on the Christian fetters that bind Gonzalez' hand ! 
 
 ' Gonzalez loves thee, lady, — he loved thee long ago, 
 
 But little is the kindness that for his love you shew ; 
 
 The curse that lies on Cava's * head, it may be shared by thee ; — 
 
 Arise, let love with love be paid, and set Gonzalez free.' 
 
 The lady answered little, but at the mirk of night, 
 When all her maids are sleeping, she hath risen and ta' en her flight ; 
 She hath tempted the Alcaydé with her jewels and her gold, 
 And unto her his prisoner that Jailer false hath sold. 
 
 * Caba, or Cava, the unfortunate daughter of Count Julian. No child in Spain was 
 christened by that ominous name after the downfall of the Gothic kingdom. 
 
THE ESCAPE OF COUNT FERNAN GONZALEZ. 
 
 She took Gonzalez by the hand, at the dawning of the day, 
 
 She said, ' Upon the heath you stand, — before you lies your way ; 
 
 But if I to my father go, alas ! what must I do ? 
 
 My father will be angry, — I fain would go with you.' — 
 
 He hath kissed the Infanta, — he hath kissed her brow and cheek, 
 
 And lovingly together the forest-path they seek ; 
 
 Till in the greenwood hunting they met a lordly priest, 
 
 With his bugle at his girdle, and his hawk upon his wrist. 
 
 ' Now stop ! now stop !' the priest he said (he knew them both right we 
 
 ' Now stop, and pay your ransom, or I your flight will tell ; 
 
 Now stop, thou fair Infanta, for, if my words you scorn, 
 
 I '11 give warning to the foresters with the blowing of my horn.' — 
 
 ****** 
 
 The base priest's word Gonzalez heard ; ' Now, by the rood!' quoth he 
 ' A hundred deaths I '11 suffer, or ere this thing shall be.' — 
 But in his ear she whispered, she whispered soft and slow, 
 And to the priest she beckoned within the wood to go. 
 
 It was ill with Count Gonzalez, the fetters pressed his knees ; 
 Yet as he could he followed within the shady trees ; — 
 ' For help, for help, Gonzalez ! —for help,' he hears her cry, 
 ' God aiding, fast I '11 hold thee, until my lord come nigh.' 
 
He has come within the thicket, — there lay they on the green, — 
 And he has plucked from off the grass the false priest's javelin ; 
 Firm by the throat she held him bound,— down went the weapon sheer,— 'L t 
 Down through his body to the ground, even as the boar ye spear. 
 
 ft w 
 
 They wrapped him in his mantle, and left him there to bleed, 
 And all that day they held their way, — his palfrey served their need ; 
 Till to their ears a sound did come, might fill their hearts with dread, 
 A steady whisper on the breeze, and horsemen's heavy tread. 
 
 The Infanta trembled in the wood, but forth the Count did go, 
 And, gazing wide, a troop descried upon the bridge below ; 
 ' Gramercy !' quoth Gonzalez, ' or else my sight is gone, 
 Methinks I know the pennon yon sun is shining on. 
 
 ' Come forth, come forth, Infanta, mine own true men they be,- 
 Come forth, and see my banner, and cry Castile ! with me ; 
 My merry men draw near me, I see my pennon shine, 
 Their swords shine bright, Infanta, — and every blade is thine.'- 
 
Cíje &tbm ideáis. 
 
 Hi 
 
 mm 
 
 T was,' says Mariana, ' in the year 986, that the seven 
 most noble brothers, commonly called the Infants of Lara, 
 were slain by the treachery of Ruy Velasquez, who was 
 their uncle, for they were the sons of his sister, Doña 
 Sancha. By the father's side, they were sprung from the 
 Counts of Castile, through the Count Don Diego Porcellos, 
 from whose daughter, and Ñuño Pelchides, there came two 
 sons, namely, Ñuño Rasura, great-grandfather of the Count Garci Fernandez, 
 and Gustio Gonzalez. The last-named gentleman was father of Gonzalo Gustio, 
 Lord of Salas of Lara ; and his sons were those seven brothers famous in the 
 history of Spain, not more by reason of their deeds of prowess, than of the 
 disastrous death which was their fortune. They were all knighted in the same 
 day by the Count Don Garcia, according to the fashion which prevailed in 
 those days, and more especially in Spain. 
 
 i 
 
THE SEVEN HEADS. 
 
 ' Now it happened that Ruy Velasquez, Lovd of Villaren, celebrated 
 his nuptials in Burgos with Doña Lambra, a lady of very high birth, 
 from the country of Briviesca, and, indeed, a cousin-german to the Count 
 Garci Fernandez himself. The feast was splendid, and great was the 
 concourse of principal gentry ; and among others were present the Count 
 Garci Fernandez, and those seven brothers, with Gonzalo Gustio, their 
 father. 
 
 ' From some trivial occasion, there arose a quarrel between Gonzalez, 
 the youngest of the seven brothers, on the one hand, and a relation of 
 Doña Lambra, by name Alvar Sanchez, on the other, without, however, 
 any very serious consequences at the time. But Doña Lambra conceived 
 herself to have been insulted by the quarrel, and, in order to revenge 
 herself, when the seven brothers were come as far as Barvadiello, riding 
 in her train the more to do her honour, she ordered one of her slaves 
 to throw at Gonzalez a wild cucumber soaked in blood, a heavy insult 
 and outrage, according to the then existing customs and opinions of Spain. 
 The slave, having done as he was bid, fled for protection to his lady, 
 Doña Lambra ; but that availed him nothing, for they slew him within 
 the very folds of her garment. 
 
 1 Ruy Velasquez, who did not witness these things with his own eyes, 
 no sooner returned, than filled with wrath on account of this slaughter, 
 and of the insult to his bride, he began to devise how he might avenge 
 himself of the seven brothers. 
 
 ' With semblances of peace and friendship, he concealed his mortal 
 hatred ; and, after a time, Gonzalo Gustio, the father, was sent by him, 
 suspecting nothing, to Cordova. The pretence was to bring certain 
 moneys which had been promised to Ruy Velasquez by the barbarian 
 King, but the true purpose, that he might be put to death at a distance 
 from his own country; for Ruy Velasquez asked the Moor to do this, 
 in letters written in the Arabic tongue, of which Gonzalo was made the 
 bearer. The Moor, however, whether moved to have compassion on the 
 grey hairs of so principal a gentleman, or desirous of at least making a 
 show of humanity, did not slay Gonzalo, but contented himself with 
 
THE SEVEN HEADS. 
 
 imprisoning him. Nor was his durance of the strictest, for a certain 
 sister of the Moorish King found ingress, and held communication with 
 him there ; and from that conversation, it is said, sprung Mudara Gon- 
 zalez, author and founder of that most noble Spanish lineage of the 
 Manriques. 
 
 ' But the fierce spirit of Ruy Velasquez was not satisfied with the 
 tribulations of Gonzalo Gustio ; he carried his rage still farther. Pre- 
 tending to make an incursion into the Moorish country, he led into an 
 ambuscade the seven brothers, who had, as yet, conceived no thought of 
 his treacherous intentions. It is true that Ñuño Sallido, their grand- 
 father, had cautioned them with many warnings, for he, indeed, suspected 
 the deceit ; but it was in vain, for so God willed or permitted. They had 
 some two hundred horsemen with them, of their vassals, but these were 
 nothing against the great host of Moors that set upon them from the 
 ambuscade ; and although, when they found how it was, they acquitted 
 themselves like good gentlemen,, and slew many, they could accomplish 
 nothing except making the victory dear to their enemies. They were 
 resolved to avoid the shame of captivity, and were all slain, together with 
 their grandfather Sallido. Their heads were sent to Cordova, an agreeable 
 present to that King, but a sight of misery to their aged father, who, being 
 brought into the place where they were, recognised them in spite of the 
 dust and blood with which they were disfigured. It is true, nevertheless, 
 that he derived some benefit therefrom ; for the King, out of the com- 
 passion which he felt, set him at liberty to depart to his own country. 
 
 ' Mudara, the son born to Gonzalo (out of wedlock) by the sister of the 
 Moor, when he had attained the age of fourteen years, was prevailed on by 
 his mother to go in search of his father ; and he it was that avenged the 
 death of his seven brothers, by slaying with his own hand Ruy Velasquez, 
 the author of that calamity. Doña Lambra likewise, who had been the 
 original cause of all those evils, was stoned to death by him and burnt. 
 
 ' By this vengeance which he took for the murder of his seven brothers, 
 he so won to himself the good-liking of his father's wife, Doña Sancha, 
 and of all the kindred, that he was received and acknowledged as heir to 
 
V9 
 
 THE SEVEN HEADS. 
 
 the signiories of his father. Doña Sancha herself adopted him as her 
 son, and the manner of the adoption was thus, not less memorahle than 
 rude : — The same day that he was baptized and stricken knight, by Garci 
 Fernandez, Count of Castile, the lady made use of this ceremony : — she 
 drew him within a very wide smock by the sleeve, and thrust his head 
 forth at the neck-band, and then kissing him on the face, delivered him 
 to the family as her own child. * * * * 
 
 ' In the cloister of the monastery of Saint Peter of Arlanza, they shew 
 the sepulchre of Mudara. But concerning the place where his seven 
 brothers were buried, there is a dispute between the members of that 
 house and those of the Monastery of Saint Millan at Cogolla.' — (Mariana, 
 Book viii., Chap. 9.) 
 
 Such is Mariana's edition of the famous story of the Infants of Lara, 
 a story which, next to the legends of the Cid, and of Bernardo del Carpió, 
 appears to have furnished the most favourite subjects of the old Spanish 
 minstrels. 
 
 The ballad, a translation of which follows, relates to a part of the 
 history briefly alluded to by Mariana. In the Chronicle, we are informed 
 more minutely, that, after the Seven Infants were slain, Almanzor, King 
 of Cordova, invited his prisoner, Gonzalo Gustio, to feast with him in 
 his palace ; but when the Baron of Lara came, in obedience to the royal 
 invitation, he found the heads of his sons set forth in chargers on the 
 table. The old man reproached the King bitterly for the cruelty and 
 baseness of this proceeding, and suddenly snatching a sword from the side 
 of one of the royal attendants, sacrificed to his wrath, ere he could be dis- 
 armed and fettered, thirteen of the Moors who surrounded the person 
 of Almanzor. 
 
 Forty highly spirited engravings of scenes in this romantic history, by 
 Tempesta, after designs of Otto Van Veen, were published at Antwerp, in 
 1612. 
 
®¡j)ie Há» girt 
 
 4 Who bears such heart of baseness, a king I '11 never call, — 
 Thus spake Gonzalo Gustos within Almanzor's hall ; 
 To the proud Moor Almanzor, within his kingly hall, 
 The grey-haired Knight of Lara thus spake before them all : 
 
 ' In courteous guise, Almanzor, your messenger was sent, 
 And courteous was the answer with which from me he went ; 
 For why ? — I thought the word he brought of a knight and of a king 
 But false Moor henceforth never me to his feast shall bring. 
 
 ' Ye bade me to your banquet, and I at your bidding came ; 
 Accursed be the villany, eternal be the shame ! 
 
 For ye have brought an old man forth, that he your sport might be : 
 Thank God, I cheat you of your joy, — thank God, no tear you see. 
 
THE SEVEN HEADS. 
 
 ' My gallant boys,' quoth Lara, ' it is a heavy sight 
 
 These dogs have brought your father to look upon this night ; 
 
 Seven gentler boys, nor braver, were never nursed in Spain, 
 
 And blood of Moors, God rest your souls, ye shed on her like rain. 
 
 ' Some currish plot, some trick (God wot !) hath laid you all so low, 
 
 Ye died not all together in one fair battle so ! 
 
 Not all the misbelievers ever pricked upon yon plain 
 
 The seven brave boys of Lara in open field had slain. 
 
 ' The youngest and the weakest, Gonzalez dear ! wert thou, 
 Yet well this false Almanzor remembers thee, I trow ; 
 Oh, well doth he remember how on his helmet rung 
 Thy fiery mace, Gonzalez ! although thou wert so young. 
 
 ' Thy gallant horse had fallen, and thou hadst mounted thee 
 Upon a stray one in the field, — his own true barb had he ; 
 Oh, hadst thou not pursued his flight upon that runaway, 
 Ne'er had the caitiff 'scaped that night, to mock thy sire to-day ! 
 
 ' False Moor, I am thy captive thrall ; but when thou badest me forth, 
 To share the banquet in thy hall, I trusted in the worth 
 Of kingly promise. — Think'st thou not my God will hear my prayer ? — 
 Lord ! branchless be (like mine) his tree, — yea, branchless, Lord, and bare 
 
THE SEVEN HEADS. 
 
 So prayed the baron in -his ire, but when he looked again, 
 Then burst the sorrow of the sire, and tears ran down like rain ; 
 Wrath no more could check the sorrow of the old and childless man, 
 And like waters in a furrow, down his cheeks the salt tears ran. 
 
 He took their heads up one by one, — he kissed them o'er and o'er, 
 And aye ye saw the tears down run, — I wot that grief was sore. 
 He closed the lids on their dead eyes all with his fingers frail, 
 And handled all their bloody curls, and kissed their lips so pale. 
 
 ' Oh, had ye died all by my side upon some famous day, 
 
 My fair young men, no weak tears then had washed your blood away 
 
 The trumpet of Castile had drowned the misbelievers' horn, 
 
 And the last of all the Lara's line a gothic spear had borne.' 
 
 With that it chanced a Moor drew near, to lead him from the place, 
 Old Lara stooped him down once more, and kissed Gonzalez' face ; 
 But ere the man observed him, or could his jesture bar, 
 Sudden he from his side had grasped that Moslem's scymitar. 
 
 Oh ! swiftly from its scabbard the crooked blade he drew, 
 
 And, like some frantic creature, among them all he flew ; — 
 
 ' Where, where is false Almanzor ? — back, bastards of Mahoun !' 
 
 And here and there, in his despair, the old man hewed them down. 
 
THE VENGEANCE OF MUDARA. 
 
 While Rodrigo rides on in the heat of his wrath, 
 
 A stripling, armed cap-a-pee, crosses his path : 
 
 'Good morrow, young esquire.' — ■* Good morrow, old knight. '- 
 
 ' Will you ride with our party, and share our delight?' — 
 
 ' Speak your name courteous stranger,' the stripling replied ; 
 
 ' Speak your name and your lineage, ere with you I ride.' — 
 
 ' My name is Rodrigo,' thus answered the knight ; 
 
 ' Of the line of old Lara, though barred from my right ; 
 
 For the kinsman of Salas proclaims for the heir 
 
 Of our ancestor's castles and forestries fair, 
 
 A bastard, a renegade's offspring — Mudara — 
 
 Whom I '11 send, if I can, to the Infants of Lara.' — 
 
 ' I behold thee, disgrace to thy lineage ! — with joy, 
 I behold thee, thou murderer !' — answered the boy. 
 ' The bastard you curse, you behold him in me ; 
 But his brother's avenger that bastard shall be ; 
 Draw ! for I am the renegade's offspring, Mudara ; 
 We shall see who inherits the life-blood of Lara!' — 
 
 ' I am armed for the forest-chase, — not for the fight ; 
 
 Let me go for my shield and my sword,' cries the knight ; — 
 
 ' Now the mercy you dealt to my brothers of old, 
 
 Be the hope of that mercy the comfort you hold ; 
 
 Die, foeman to Sancha — die, traitor to Lara !' — 
 
 As he spake, there was blood on the spear of Mudara. 
 
«Eíje racing oí tfje Haog Egresa. 
 
 HE following passage occurs in Mariana's History (Book viii. 
 Chap. 5): — 'There are who affirm that this Moor's name 
 was Ahdalla, and that he had to wife Doña Theresa, sister to 
 Alphonso, King of Leon, with consent of that prince. Great 
 and flagrant dishonour ! The purpose was to gain new strength 
 to his kingdom by this Moorish alliance ; but some pretences 
 were set forth that Abdalla had exhibited certain signs of desiring to be a 
 Christian, that in a short time he was to be baptized and the like. 
 
 ' The Lady Theresa, deceived with these representations, was conducted to 
 Toledo, where the nuptials were celebrated in great splendour, with games and 
 sports, and a banquet, which lasted until night. The company having left the 
 tables, the bride was then carried to bed; but when the amorous Moor drew 
 near to her, — Away (said she) ; let such heavy calamity, such baseness, be 
 far from me ! One of two things must be, — either be baptized, thou with thy 
 people, and then come to my arms, or, refusing to do so, keep away from me 
 for ever. If otherwise, fear the vengeance of men, who will not overlook my 
 insult and suffering; and the wrath of God, above all, which will follow the 
 violation of a Christian lady's chastity. Take good heed, and let not luxury, 
 that smooth pest, be thy ruin. But the Moor took no heed of her words, 
 and lay with her against her will. The Divine vengeance followed swiftly, 
 for there fell on him a severe malady, and he well knew within himself from 
 what cause it arose. Immediately he sent back Doña Theresa to her brother's 
 house, with great gifts, which he had bestowed on her; but she made herself 
 a nun, in the Convent of Las Huelgas (near Burgos), and there passed the 
 remainder of her days in pious labours and devotions, in which she found her 
 consolation for the outrage that had been committed on her.' 
 
 The ballad, of which a translation follows, tells the same story: — 
 
 ' En los reynos de Leon el quinto Alfonso reynava,' &c. 
 
Ejie Wírtilima of tiic Eair» Teresa. 
 
 f 
 
 'T was when the fifth Alphonso in Leon held his sway, 
 King Abdallah of Toledo an embassy did send ; 
 He asked his sister for a wife, and in an evil day 
 Alphonso sent her, for he feared Abdalla to offend : 
 He feared to move his anger, for many times before 
 He had received in danger much succour from the Moor. 
 
 Sad heart had fair Theresa when she their paction knew ; 
 
 With streaming tears she heard them tell she 'mong the Moors must 
 
 That she, a Christian damosell, a Christian firm and true, 
 
 Must wed a Moorish husband, it well might cause her woe ; 
 
 But all her tears and all her prayers they are of small avail ; 
 
 At length she for her fate prepares, a victim sad and pale. 
 
THE WEDDING OF THE LADY THERESA. 
 
 The King hath sent his sister to fair Toledo town, 
 
 Where then the Moor Abdalla his royal state did keep ; 
 
 When she drew near, the Moslem from his golden throne came down, 
 
 And courteously received her, and bade her cease to weep ; 
 
 With loving words he pressed her to come his bower within ; 
 
 With kisses he caressed her, but still she feared the sin. 
 
 ' Sir King, Sir King, I pray thee,' — 'twas thus Theresa spake, 
 
 ' I pray thee have compassion, and do to me no wrong ; 
 
 For sleep with thee I may not, unless the vows I break 
 
 Whereby I to the holy church of Christ my Lord belong ; 
 
 But thou hast sworn to serve Mahoun, and if this thing should be, 
 
 The curse of God it must bring down upon thy realm and thee. 
 
 ' The angel of Christ Jesu, to whom my heavenly Lord 
 
 Hath given my soul in keeping, is ever by my side ; 
 
 If thou dost me dishonour, he will unsheath his sword, 
 
 And smite thy body fiercely at the crying of thy bride. 
 
 Invisible he standeth ; his sword, like fiery flame, 
 
 Will penetrate thy bosom, the hour that sees my shame.' — 
 
 The Moslem heard her with a smile ; the earnest words she said 
 He took for bashful maiden's wile, and drew her to his bower. 
 In vain Theresa prayed and strove, — she pressed Abdalla's bed, 
 Perforce received his kiss of love, and lost her maiden flower. 
 
THE WEDDING OF THE LADY THERESA. 
 
 A woful woman there she lay, a loving lord beside, 
 And earnestly to God did pray her succour to provide. 
 
 The Angel of Christ Jesu her sore complaint did hear, 
 
 And plucked his heavenly weapon from out its sheath unseen ; 
 
 He waved the brand in his right hand, and to the King came near, 
 
 And drew the point o'er limb and joint, beside the weeping Queen. 
 
 A mortal weakness from the stroke upon the King did fall, 
 
 He could not stand when daylight broke, but on his knees must crawl. 
 
 Abdalla shuddered inly, when he this sickness felt, 
 
 And called upon his barons, his pillow to come nigh ; 
 
 ' Rise up,' he said, ' my liegemen,' as round his bed they knelt, 
 
 ' And take this Christian lady, else certainly I die ; 
 
 Let gold be in your girdles, and precious stones beside, 
 
 And swiftly ride to Leon, and render up my bride.' — 
 
 When they were come to Leon, Theresa would not go 
 
 Into her brother's dwelling, where her maiden years were spent ; 
 
 But o'er her downcast visage a white veil she did throw, 
 
 And to the ancient nunnery of Las Huelgas went. 
 
 There long, from worldly eyes retired, a holy life she led ; 
 
 There she, an aged saint, expired, — there sleeps she with the dead. 
 
HE ballads in the collection of Escobar, entitled ' Romancero e Historia 
 del muy valeroso Cavallero El Cid Ruy Diaz de Bivar,' are said by Mr- 
 8 Southey to be in general possessed of but little merit. Notwithstanding 
 the opinion of that great scholar and poet, I have had much pleasure in 
 reading them ; and have translated a very few, which may serve, perhaps, 
 as a sufficient specimen. 
 
 The following is a version of that which stands fifth in Escobar :— 
 
 ' Cavalgo Diego Laynez al buen Rey besar la mano,' &c. 
 
 jM 
 
Now rides Diego Laynez to kiss the good King's hand : 
 Three hundred men of gentry go with him from his land ; 
 Among them, young Rodrigo, the proud Knight of Bivar ; 
 The rest on mules are mounted, — -he on his horse of war. 
 
 They ride in glittering gowns of soye, — he harnessed like a lord ; 
 There is no gold about the boy, but the crosslet of his sword ; . 
 The rest have gloves of sweet perfume, — he gauntlets strong of mail ; 
 They broidered cap and flaunting plume, — he crest untaught to quail. 
 
 All talking with each other thus along their way they passed, 
 But now they 've come to Burgos, and met the King at last ; 
 When they came near his nobles, a whisper through them ran, — 
 ' He rides amidst the gentry that slew the Count Lozan.' — 
 
THE YOUNG CID. 
 
 With very haughty gesture Rodrigo reined his horse, 
 
 Right scornfully he shouted, when he heard them so discourse ; — 
 
 ' If any of his kinsmen or vassals dare appear, 
 
 The man to give them answer, on horse or foot, is here.' — 
 
 ' The devil ask the question ! ' thus muttered all the band ; — 
 With that they all alighted, to kiss the good King's hand, — 
 All but the proud Rodrigo, he in his saddle stayed, — 
 Then turned to him his father (you may hear the words he said). 
 
 ' Now, 'light, my son, I pray thee, and kiss the good King's hand, 
 He is our Lord, Rodrigo ; we hold of him our land.' — 
 But when Rodrigo heard him, he looked in sulky sort, — 
 I wot the words he answered, they were both cold and short. 
 
 ' Had any other said it, his pains had well been paid, 
 But thou, sir, art my father, thy word must be obeyed.' — 
 With that he sprung down lightly, before the King to kneel, 
 But as the knee was bending, out leapt his blade of steel. 
 
 The King drew back in terror, when he saw the sword was bare ; 
 ' Stand back, stand back, Rodrigo ! in the devil's name, beware ! 
 Your looks bespeak a creature of father Adam's mould, 
 But in your wild behaviour you're like some lion bold.' 
 
THE YOUNG CID. 
 
 When Rodrigo heard him say so, he leapt into his seat, 
 
 And thence he made his answer, with visage nothing sweet, — 
 
 ' I 'd think it little honour to kiss a kingly palm, 
 
 And if my father 's kissed it, thereof ashamed I am.' — 
 
 When he these words had uttered, he turned him from the gate, 
 His true three hundred gentles behind him followed straight; 
 If with good gowns they came that day, with better arms they went 
 And if their mules behind did stay, with horses they 're content. 
 
X'tmena tiemantis Untgeanre. 
 
 HIS ballad represents Ximena Gomez as, in person, demand- 
 ing of the King vengeance for the death of her father, 
 whom the young Rodrigo de Bivar had fought and slain. 
 
 ' Grande rumor se levanta 
 De gritos, armas, y vozes, 
 En el Palacio de Burgos 
 Donde son los buenos homes. 
 Baxa el Rey de su aposento, y con el toda la Corte ; 
 
 Y a las puertas de Palacio hallan a Ximena Gomez, 
 Desmelenado el cabello, llorando a su padre el Conde, 
 
 Y a Rodrigo de Bivar ensangrentado el estoque.' 
 
They turned to bold Rodrigo, I wot his cheek was red ; 
 With haughty wrath he listened to the words Ximena said : 
 ' Good King, I cry for justice. Now, as my voice thou hearest, 
 So God befriend the children, that in thy land thou rearest. 
 
 ' The King that doth not justice hath forfeited his claim, 
 Both to his kingly station, and to his knightly name ; 
 He should not sit at banquet, clad in the royal pall, 
 Nor should the nobles serve him on knee within the hall. 
 
 ' Good King, I am descended from barons bright of old, 
 Who with Castilion pennons Pelayo did uphold ; 
 But if my strain were lowly, as it is high and clear, 
 Thou still shouldst prop the feeble, and the afflicted hear. 
 
 ' For thee, fierce homicide ! draw, draw thy sword once more, 
 And pierce the breast which wide I spread thy stroke before ; 
 Because I am a woman, my life thou need'st not spare : 
 I am Ximena Gomez, my slaughtered father's heir. 
 
 ' Since thou hast slain the knight that did our faith defend, 
 And still to shameful flight all the Almanzors send, 
 
Eíje OTiír aníi tí)e JFtbe JEoonsf) ivings. 
 
 HE reader will find the story of this ballad in Mr. Southey's 
 Chronicle (Book i., Sect. 4). ' And the Moors entered Cas- 
 tile in great power, for there came with them five kings,' &c. 
 
 With fire and desolation the Moors are in Castile, 
 
 Five Moorish kings together, and all their vassals leal ; 
 
 They 've passed in front of Burgos, through the Oca-Hills they 've run, 
 
 They 've plundered Belforado, San Domingo's harm is done. 
 
 In Najara and Logroño there 's waste and disarray : — 
 And now with Christian captives, a very heavy prey, 
 With many men and women, and boys and girls beside, 
 In joy and exultation to their own realms they ride. 
 
 For neither king nor noble would dare their path to cross, 
 Until the good Rodrigo heard of this skaith and loss ; 
 In old Bivar the castle he heard the tidings told 
 (He was as yet a stripling, not twenty summers old). 
 
THE CID AND THE FIVE MOORISH KINGS. 
 
 He mounted Bavieca, his friends he with him took, 
 He raised the country round him, no more such scorn to brook 
 He rode to the hill of Oca, where then the Moormen lay, 
 He conquered all the Moormen, and took from them their prey 
 
 To every man had mounted he gave his part of gain, 
 Dispersing the much treasure the Saracens had ta'en ; 
 The kings were all the booty himself had from the war, 
 Them led he to the castle, his stronghold of Bivar. 
 
 He brought them to his mother, proud dame that day was she : — 
 They owned him for their Signior, and then he set them free ; 
 Home went they, much commending Rodrigo of Bivar, 
 And sent him lordly tribute, from their Moorish realms afar. 
 
€í)e ©ill's (üoutísfjip. 
 
 [See Mr. Southey's Chronicle (Book i., Sect. 5), for this part of the Cid's story, 
 as given in the General Chronicle of Spain.] 
 
 X 
 
 Now, of Rodrigo de Bivar great was the fame that run, 
 How he five kings had vanquished, proud Moormen every one ; 
 And how, when they consented to hold of him their ground, 
 He freed them from the prison wherein they had been bound. 
 
 To the good King Fernando, in Burgos where he lay, 
 Came then Ximena Gomez, and thus to him did say ; — 
 ' I am Don Gomez' daughter, in Gormaz Count was he ; 
 Him slew Rodrigo of Bivar in battle valiantly. 
 
 ' Now am I come before you, this day a boon to crave, — 
 And it is that I to husband may this Rodrigo have ; 
 Grant this, and I shall hold me a happy damosell, 
 Much honoured shall I hold me, — I shall be married well. 
 
 ' I know he 's born for thriving, none like him in the land ; 
 I know that none in battle against his spear may stand ; 
 Forgiveness is well pleasing in God our Saviour's view, 
 And I forgive him freely, for that my sire he slew.' — 
 
 m 
 
 pp 
 
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 w 
 
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mm 
 
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 Right pleasing to Fernando was the thing she did propose ; 
 He writes his letter swiftly, and forth his foot-page goes ; 
 I wot, when young Rodrigo saw how the King did write, 
 He leapt on Bavieca, — I wot his leap was light. 
 
 With his own troop of true men forthwith he took the way, 
 Three hundred friends and kinsmen, all gently born were they ; 
 All in one colour mantled, in armour gleaming gay, 
 New were both scarf and scabbard, when they went forth that day. 
 
 The King came out to meet him, with words of hearty cheer ; 
 Quoth he, ' My good Rodrigo, right welcome art thou here ; 
 This girl Ximena Gomez would have thee for her lord, 
 Already for the slaughter her grace she doth accord. 
 
 ' I pray thee be consenting, my gladness will be great ; 
 Thou shalt have lands in plenty, to strengthen thine estate.' 
 ' Lord King,' Rodrigo answers, ' in this and all beside, 
 Command, and I '11 obey thee. The girl shall be my bride !' 
 
 But when the fair Ximena came forth to plight her hand, 
 Rodrigo gazing on her, his face could not command : 
 He stood and blushed before her ; — thus at the last said he, — 
 ' I slew thy sire, Ximena, but not in villany : 
 
 ' In no disguise I slew him, — man against man I stood ; 
 There was some wrong between us, and I did shed his blood. 
 I slew a man, I owe a man ; fair lady, by God's grace ! 
 An honoured husband thou shalt have in thy dead father's place.' 
 
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m)t (Eft's OTettimg. 
 
 HE following ballad, which contains some curious traits of rough 
 and antique manners, is not included in Escobar's collection. 
 There is one there descriptive of the same event, but apparently- 
 executed by a much more modern hand. 
 
 Within his hall of Burgos the King prepares the feast ; 
 
 He makes his preparation for many a noble guest. 
 
 It is a joyful city, it is a gallant day, 
 
 'Tis the Campeador's wedding, and who will bide away ? 
 
 Layn Calvo, the Lord Bishop, he first comes forth the gate ; 
 Behind him comes Ruy Diaz, in all his bridal state ; 
 The crowd makes way before them as up the street they go ; 
 For the multitude of people their steps must needs be slow. 
 
 The King had taken order that they should rear an arch, 
 From house to house all over, in the way that they must march ; 
 They have hung it all with lances, and shields, and glittering helms, 
 Brought by the Campeador from out the Moorish realms. 
 
■J mm 
 
 a 
 
 IK 
 
 They have scattered olive branches and rushes on the street, 
 And the ladies fling down garlands at the Campeador's feet ; 
 With tapestry and broidery their balconies between, 
 To do his bridal honour, their walls the burghers screen. ; 
 
 Mm 
 
 They lead the bulls before them all covered o'er with trappings ; 
 The little boys pursue them with hootings and with clappings ; 
 The fool, with cap and bladder, upon his ass goes prancing, 
 Amidst troops of captive maidens with bells and cymbals dancing. 
 
 ft 
 
 With antics and with fooleries, with shouting and with laughter, ft 
 They fill the streets of Burgos — and The Devil he comes after ; ¡r.---üH| 
 For the King has hired the horned fiend for twenty maravedís, V, 
 And there he goes, with hoofs for toes, to terrify the ladies. 
 
THE CID'S WEDDING. 
 
 Then comes the bride Ximena, — the King he holds her hand ; 
 And the Queen ; and, all in fur and pall, the nobles of the land. 
 All down the street the ears of wheat are round Ximena flying, 
 But the King lifts off her bosom sweet whatever there is lying. 
 
 Quoth Suero, when he saw it (his thought you understand), 
 
 ' 'Tis a fine thing to be a King, — but Heaven make me a Hand !' 
 
 The King was very merry, when he was told of this, 
 
 And swore the bride, ere eventide, must give the boy a kiss. 
 
 The King went always talking, but she held down her head, 
 And seldom gave an answer to anything he said ; 
 It was better to be silent, among such a crowd of folk, 
 Than utter words so meaningless as she did when she spoke. 
 
ftfje (Eíii aní( fyz Ht$zv. 
 
 ike our own Robert the Bruce, the great Spanish hero is 
 represented as exhibiting, on many occasions, great gentle- 
 ness of disposition and compassion. But while old Barbour 
 is contented with such simple anecdotes as that of a poor 
 laundress being suddenly taken ill with the pains of child- 
 birth, and the king stopping the march of his army rather than leave her 
 unprotected, the minstrels of Spain, never losing an opportunity of gratifying 
 the superstitious propensities of their audience, are sure to let no similar inci- 
 dent in tbeir champion's history pass without a miracle. 
 
 He has ta'en some twenty gentlemen, along with him to go, 
 For he will pay that ancient vow lie to Saint James doth owe. ; 
 To Compostella, where the shrine doth by the altar stand, 
 The good Rodrigo de Bivar is riding through the land. 
 
 Where'er he goes, much alms he throws, to feeble folk and poor ; 
 Beside the way for him they pray, him blessings to procure ; 
 For, God and Mary Mother, their heavenly grace to win, 
 His hand was ever bountiful : great was his joy therein. 
 
THE CID AND THE LEPER. 
 
 And there, in middle of the path, a leper did appear ; 
 In a deep slough the leper lay ; to help would none come near, 
 Though earnestly he thence did cry, ' For God our Saviour's sake, 
 From out this fearful jeopardy a Christian brother take.' 
 
 When Roderick heard that piteous word, he from his horse came down ; 
 For all they said, no stay he made, that noble champioun ; 
 He reached his hand to pluck him forth, of fear was no account, 
 Then mounted on his steed of worth, and made the leper mount. 
 
 Behind him rode the leprous man ; when to their hostelrie 
 They came, he made him eat with him at table cheerfully ; 
 While all the rest from that poor guest with loathing shrunk away, 
 To his own bed the wretch he led, beside him there he lay. 
 
 All at the mid-hour of the night, while good Rodrigo slept, 
 A breath came from the leprosite, which through his shoulders crept ; 
 Right through the body, by the heart, passed forth that breathing cold ; 
 I wot he leaped up with a start, in terrors manifold. 
 
 He groped for him in the bed, but him he could not find, 
 Through the dark chamber groped he, with very anxious mind ; 
 Loudly he lifted up his voice, with speed a lamp was brought, 
 Yet nowhere was the leper seen, though far and near they sought. 
 
THE CID AND THE LEPER. 
 
 He turned him to his chamber, God wot ! perplexed sore 
 
 With that which had befallen — when lo ! his face before, 
 
 There stood a man all clothed in vesture shining white : 
 
 Thus said the vision, ' Sleepest thou, or wakest thou, Sir Knight V 
 
 ' I sleep not,' quoth Rodrigo ; ' but tell me who art thou, 
 For, in the midst of darkness, much light is on thy brow V 
 ' I am the holy Lazarus, I come to speak with thee ; 
 I am the same poor leper thou savedst for charity. 
 
 ' Not vain the trial, nor in vain thy victory hath been ; 
 God favours thee, for that my pain thou didst relieve yestreen. 
 There shall be honour with thee, in battle and in peace, 
 Success in all thy doings, and plentiful increase. 
 
 ' Strong enemies shall not prevail thy greatness to undo ; 
 
 Thy name shall make men's cheeks full pale — Christians and Moslem too ; 
 
 A death of honour shalt thou die, such grace to thee is given, 
 
 Thy soul shall part victoriously, and be received in heaven.' — 
 
 When he these gracious words had said, the spirit vanished quite. 
 Rodrigo rose and knelt him down, — he knelt till morning light ; 
 Unto the heavenly Father, and Mary Mother dear, 
 He made his prayer right humbly, till dawned the morning clear. 
 
babieca. 
 
 ONTAIGNE, in his curious Essay, entitled 'Des Destriers,' 
 says that all the world knows everything about Bucephalus. 
 The name of the favourite charger of the Cid Ruy Diaz 
 is scarcely less celebrated. Notice is taken of him in 
 almost every one of the hundred ballads concerning the 
 history of his master,— and there are some among them, 
 of which the horse is more truly the hero than his rider. 
 In one of these ballads, the Cid is giving directions about his funeral ; he de- 
 sires that they shall place Lis body 'in full armour upon Bavieca,' and so 
 conduct him to the church of San Pedro de Cardeña. This was done accord- 
 ingly : and, says another ballad :— 
 
 Truxeron pues a Babieca ; 
 Y en mirándole se puso 
 Tan tiiste, como si fuera 
 Mas razonable que bruto. 
 
BAVIECA. 
 
 In the Cid's last will, mention is also made of his noble charger. ' When 
 ye bury Bavieca, dig deep/ says Ruy Diaz; 'for shameful thing were it, that 
 he should be eaten by curs, who hath trampled down so much currish flesh of 
 Moors.' He was buried near his master, under the trees, in front of the convent 
 of San Pedro of Cárdena. 
 
The King looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true ; 
 Then to the King Ruy Diaz spake after reverence due, 
 ' O King, the thing is shameful, that any man beside 
 The liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride : 
 
 ' For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring 
 So good as he, and certes, the best befits my king. 
 But that you may behold him, and know him to the core, 
 I '11 make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the Moor. ' .¿| 
 
 With that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furred and wide, 
 On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side ; 
 And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career, 
 Streamed like a pennon on the wind Ruy Diaz' minivere. 
 
 *4 » 
 
BAVIECA 
 
 And all that saw them praised them, — they lauded man and hórse, 
 As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and force ; 
 Ne'er had they looked on horseman might to this knight come near, 
 Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier. 
 
 Thus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed, 
 He snapped in twain his hither rein : — ' God pity now the Cid ! — 
 God pity Diaz ! ' cried the Lords, — but when they looked again, 
 They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him, with the fragment of his rein ; 
 They saw him proudly ruling him, with gesture firm and calm, 
 Like a true lord commanding, — and obeyed as by a lamb. 
 
 And so he led him foaming and panting to the King, — 
 But ' No ! ' said Don Alphonso, ' it were a shameful thing 
 That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid 
 By any mortal but Bivar, — mount, mount again, my Cid ! ' 
 
C£e 3Excotmntmtrattott of ííje <&ib. 
 
 HE last specimen I shall give of the Cid-hallads, is one, the 
 subject of which is evidently of the most apocryphal cast. 
 It is, however, so far as I recollect, the only one of all that 
 immense collection that is quoted or alluded to in Don 
 Quixote. ' Sancho,' cried the knight, ' I am afraid of being 
 excommunicated for having laid violent hands upon a man 
 in holy orders, Juxta illud ; si quis suadente diabolo, &c. But yet, now I 
 think better on it, I never touched him with my hands, but only with my 
 lance; besides, I did not in the least suspect I had to do with priests, 
 whom I honour and revere as every good Catholic and faithful Christian 
 ought to do, but rather took them to be evil spirits. Well, let the worst 
 come to the worst, I remember what befel the Cid Ruy Diaz, when he 
 broke to pieces the chair of a king's ambassador in the Pope's presence, 
 for which he was excommunicated ; which did not hinder the worthy 
 Rodrigo de Bivar from behaving himself that day like a valorous knight, 
 and a man of honour.' 
 
Cije ISicommurttcattott of ííje mis. 
 
 It was when from Spain across the main the Cid had come to Rome, 
 He chanced to see chairs four and three beneath Saint Peter's dome : 
 « Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they ?'— < Seven kings do sit thereon, 
 As well doth suit, all at the foot of the holy Father's throne. 
 
 ' The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they may kiss his toe, 
 Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make a gallant show ; 
 For his great puissance, the King of France next to the Pope may sit, 
 The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station fit.' 
 
THE EXCOMMUNICATION OF THE CID. 
 
 ' Ha ! ' quoth the Cid, ' now, God forbid ! it is a shame, I wiss, 
 To see the Castle planted below the Flower-de-lys. 
 No harm, I hope, good Father Pope, — although I move thy chair.' 
 — In pieces small he kicked it all ('twas of the ivory fair) : — 
 
 The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick it far away, 
 And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that day ; 
 Above them all he planted it, and laughed right bitterly : 
 Looks sour and bad I trow he had, as grim as grim might be. 
 
 Now when the Pope was aware of this, he was an angry man, 
 His lips that night, with solemn rite, pronounced the awful ban : 
 The curse of God, who died on rood, was on that sinner's head ; 
 To hell and woe man's soul must go if once that curse be 
 
 I wot, when the Cid was aware of this, a woful man was 
 At dawn of day he came to pray at the blessed Father's 
 ' Absolve me, blessed Father ! have pity on my prayer, 
 Absolve my soul, and penance I for my sin will bear.' 
 
THE EXCOMMUNICATION OF THE CID. 
 
 ' Who is this sinner,' quoth the Pope, ' that at my foot doth kneel V 
 ' I am Rodrigo Diaz — a poor baron of Castile.' 
 
 Much marvelled all were in the hall, when that name they heard him 
 ' Rise up, rise up ! ' the Pope he said, ' I do thy guilt away ; — 
 
 ' I do thy guilt away,' he said, — ' my curse I blot it out : 
 God save Rodrigo Diaz, my Christian champion stout ; 
 I trow, if I had known thee, my grief it had been sore, 
 To curse Ruy Diaz de Bivar, God's scourge upon the Moor.' 
 
©am tym¿ tie Fargas. 
 
 HE crowns of Castile and Leon being at length joined in the 
 person of King Ferdinand, surnamed El Santo, the authority 
 of the Moors in Spain was destined to receive many severe 
 blows from the united efforts of two Christian states, which 
 had in former times too often exerted their vigour against 
 each other. The most important event of King Ferdinand's 
 reign was the conquest of Seville, which great city yielded to his arms in the year 
 1248, after sustaining a long and arduous siege of sixteen months. 
 
 Don Garci Perez de Vargas was one of the most distinguished warriors who 
 on this occasion fought under the banners of Ferdinand ; and accordingly there 
 are many ballads of which he is the hero. The incident celebrated in that which 
 follows, is thus told, with a few variations, in Mariana (Book xiii., Chap. 7). 
 
 ' Above all others, there signalised himself in these affairs that Garci Perez 
 de Vargas, a native of Toledo, of whose valour so many marvellous, and almost 
 incredible achievements are related. One day, about the beginning of the siege, 
 this Garci, and another with him, were riding by the side of the river, at some 
 distance from the outposts, when, of a sudden, there came upon them a party of 
 seven Moors on horseback. The companion of Perez was for returning imme- 
 diately, but he replied, that, Never, even though he should lose his life for it, 
 would he consent to the baseness of flight. With that, his companion riding 
 
GARCI PEREZ DE VARGAS. 
 
 off, Perez armed himself, closed his visor, and put his lance in the rest. 
 But the enemies, when they knew who it was, declined the combat. 
 
 ' He had therefore pursued his way by himself for some space, when he 
 perceived, that in lacing the head-piece and shutting the vizor, he had, by 
 inadvertence, dropped his scarf. He immediately returned upon his steps 
 that he might seek, for it. The King, as it happened, had his eyes upon 
 Perez all this time, for the royal tent looked towards the place where he 
 was riding ; and he never doubted that the knight had turned back for the 
 purpose of provoking the Moors to the combat. But they avoided him as 
 before, and he, having regained his scarf, came in safety to the camp. 
 
 ' The honour of the action was much increased by this circumstance, 
 that, although frequently pressed to disclose the name of the gentleman 
 who had deserted him in that moment of danger, Perez would never 
 consent to do so, for his modesty was equal to his bravery.' 
 
 A little farther on, Mariana relates, that Garci Perez had a dispute with 
 another gentleman, who thought proper to assert that Garci had no right 
 to assume the coat-of-arms which he wore. ' A sally having been made by 
 the Moors, that gentleman, among many more, made his escape, but Garci 
 stood firm to his post, and never came back to the camp until the Moors 
 were driven again into the city. He came with his shield all bruised and 
 battered to the place where the gentleman was standing, and pointing to 
 the effaced bearing which was on it, said, Indeed, sir, it must be confessed 
 that you shew more respect than I do to this same coat-of-arms, for you 
 keep yours bright and unsullied, while mine is sadly discoloured. The 
 gentleman was sorely ashamed, and thenceforth Garci Perez bore his 
 achievement without gainsaying or dispute.' 
 
(féam $et^ tie bargas. 
 
 King Ferdinand alone did stand one day upon the hill, 
 Surveying all his leaguer, and the ramparts of Seville ; 
 The sight was grand, when Ferdinand by proud Seville was lying, 
 O'er tower and tree far off to see the Christian banners flying. 
 
 Down chanced the King his eye to fling, where far the camp below 
 
 Two gentlemen along the glen were riding soft and slow ; 
 
 As void of fear each cavalier seemed to be riding there, 
 
 As some strong hound may pace around the roebuck's thicket lair. 
 
GARCI PEREZ DE VARGAS. 
 
 It was Don Garci Perez, and he would breathe the air, 
 And he had ta'en a knight with him, that as lief had been elsewhere ; 
 For soon this knight to Garci said, ' Ride, ride we, or we 're lost ! 
 I see the glance of helm and lance,— it is the Moorish host ! ' 
 
 The Lord of Vargas turned him round, his trusty squire was near, — 
 The helmet on his brow he bound, his gauntlet grasped the spear ; 
 With that upon his saddle-tree he planted him right steady, 
 ' Now come,' quoth he, ' whoe'er they be, I trow they '11 find us ready.' 
 
 By this the knight who rode with him had turned his horse's head, 
 And up the glen in fearful trim unto the camp had fled. 
 ' Ha ! gone ? ' quoth Garci Perez ; — he smiled, and said no more, 
 But slowly, with his esquire, rode as he rode before. 
 
 It was the Count Lorenzo, just then it happened so, 
 
 He took his stand by Ferdinand, and with him gazed below ; 
 
 ' My liege,' quoth he, ' seven Moors I see a-coming from the wood, 
 
 Now bring they all the blows they may, I trow they '11 find as good ; 
 
 But it is Don Garci Perez, — if his cognizance they know, 
 
 I guess it will be little pain to give them blow for blow.' 
 
 The Moors from forth the greenwood came riding one by one. 
 A gallant troop with armour resplendent in the sun ; 
 
GARCÍ PEREZ DE VARGAS. 
 
 Full haughty was their bearing, as o'er the sward they came, 
 While the calm Lord of Vargas his march was still the same. 
 
 They stood drawn up in order, while past them all rode he, 
 For when upon his shield they saw the sable blazonry, 
 And the wings of the Black Eagle, that o'er his crest were spread, 
 They knew Don Garci Perez, and never word they said. 
 
 He took the casque from off his head, and gave it to the squire, 
 
 ' My friend,' quoth he, ' no need 1 see why I my brows should tire.' 
 
 But as he doffed the helmet, he saw his scarf was gone, — 
 
 ' I 've dropped it sure,' quoth Garci, ' when I put my helmet on.' 
 
 He looked around and saw the scarf, for still the Moors were near, 
 And they had picked it from the sward, and looped it on a spear ; 
 ' These Moors,' quoth Garci Perez, ' uncourteous Moors they be, — 
 Now, by my soul, the scarf they stole, yet durst not question me ! 
 
 ' Now, reach once more my helmet.' — The esquire said him nay, 
 ' For a silken string why should ye fling perchance your life away ? ' 
 — ' I had it from my lady,' quoth Garci, ' long ago, 
 And never Moor that scarf, be sure, in proud Seville shall shew.' — 
 
 But when the Moslem saw him, they stood in firm array, 
 
 — He rode among their armed throng, he rode right furiously 
 
GARCI PEREZ DE VARGAS. 
 
 — ' Stand, stand, ye thieves and robbers, lay down my lady's pledge 
 He cried, — and ever as he cried they felt his faulchion's edge. 
 
 That day the Lord of Vargas came to the camp alone ; 
 The scarf, his lady's largess, around his breast was thrown ; 
 Bare was his head, his sword was red, and from his pommel strung, 
 Seven turbans green, sore hacked I ween, before Don Garci hung. 
 
BALLAD concerning another doughty knight of the same 
 family, and most probably, considering the date, a brother 
 of Garci Perez de Vargas. Its story is thus alluded to 
 in Don Quixote, in the chapter of the Windmills : 
 
 ' However, the loss of his lance was no small affliction 
 to him ; and as he was making his complaint about it to his 
 squire, I have read, said he, friend Sancho, that a certain 
 Spanish knight, whose name was Diego Perez de Vargas, having broken his 
 sword in the heat of an engagement, pulled up by the roots a wild olive-tree, or 
 at least, tore down a massy branch, and did such wonderful execution, crushing 
 and grinding so many Moors with it that day, that he won himself and his pos- 
 terity the surname of The Pounder, or Bruiser. [Machuca, from Machucar, to 
 pound as in a mortar.] I tell this, because I intend to tear up the next oak, or 
 holm-tree, we meet ; with the trunk whereof I hope to perform such wondrous 
 deeds that thou wilt esteem thyself particularly happy in having had the honour 
 to behold them, and been the ocular witness of achievements which posterity 
 will scarce be able to believe. — Heaven grant you may ! cried Sancho : I believe 
 it all, because your worship says it.' 
 
 V 
 
The Christians have beleaguered the famous walls of Xeres, 
 Among them are Don Alvar and Don Diego Perez, 
 And many other gentlemen, who, day succeeding day, 
 Give challenge to the Saracen and all his chivalry. 
 
 When rages the hot battle before the gates of Xeres, 
 By trace of gore ye may explore the dauntless path of Perez. 
 No knight like Don Diego, — no sword like his is found 
 In all the host, to hew the boast of Paynims to the ground. 
 
 It fell one day when furiously they battled on the plain, 
 Diego shivered both his lance and trusty blade in twain ; 
 
 ill 
 
 The Moors that saw it shouted, for esquire none was near, ul 
 To serve Diego at his need with faulchion, mace, or spear. 
 
 Loud, loud he blew his bugle, sore troubled was his eye, 
 But by God's grace before his face there stood a tree full nigh, — 
 An olive-tree with branches strong, close by the wall o eres, — 
 ' Yon goodly bough will serve, I trow,' quoth Don Diego Perez. 
 
Cíje Hfturtor oí tíje USaster. 
 
 HE next four ballads relate to the history of Don Pedro, 
 King of Castile, called the cruel. 
 
 An ingenious person not long ago published a work, 
 the avowed purpose of which was to prove that Tiberius 
 was a humane and contemplative prince, who retired to 
 the Island of Capreae only that he might the better indulge 
 in the harmless luxury of philosophic meditation: — and, in like manner, Pedro 
 the Cruel has found, in these latter times, his defenders and apologists; above 
 all, Voltaire. 
 
 There may be traced, without doubt, in the circumstances which attended 
 his accession, something to palliate the atrocity of several of his bloody acts. His 
 father had treated his mother with contempt: he had not only entertained, as 
 his mistress, in her lifetime, a lady of the powerful family of Guzman, but 
 actually proclaimed that lady his queen, and brought up her sons as princes in 
 
c: 
 
 3^ 
 
 THE MURDER OF THE MASTER. 
 
 his palace ; nay, he had even betrayed some intentions of violating, in their 
 favour, the order of succession, and the rights of Pedro. And, accordingly, 
 no sooner was Alphonso dead, and Pedro acknowledged by the nobility, 
 than Leonora de Guzman, and her sons, whether from consciousness of 
 guilt, or from fear of violence, or from both of these causes, betook them- 
 selves to various places of strength, where they endeavoured to defend 
 themselves against the authority of the new king. After a little time, 
 matters were accommodated by the interference of friends, and Donna 
 Leonora took up her residence at Seville ; but Pedro was suddenly, while 
 in that city, seized with a distemper which his physicians said must, in 
 all probability, have a mortal termination; and during his confinement, 
 (which lasted for several weeks) many intrigues were set afoot, and the 
 pretensions of various candidates for the throne openly canvassed among 
 the nobility of Castile. 
 
 Whether the king had, on his recovery, discovered anything indicative 
 of treasonous intentions in the recent conduct of Leonora and her family 
 (which, all things considered, seems not improbable), or whether he merely 
 suffered himself, as was said at the time, to be over-persuaded by the 
 vindictive arguments of his own mother, the queen-dowager, the fact is 
 certain, that in the course of a few days, Donna Leonora was arrested, 
 and put to death by Pedro's command, in the Castle of Talaveyra. Don 
 Fadrique, or Frederick, one of her sons, who had obtained the dignity 
 of Master of the Order of St. lago, fled upon this into Portugal, and for- 
 tified himself in the city of Coimbra ; while another of them, Don Enrique, 
 or Henry, Lord of Trastamara, took refuge at the Court of Arragon, 
 openly renouncing his allegiance to the crown of Castile, and professing 
 himself henceforth, in all things, the subject and vassal of the prince who 
 gave him protection. 
 
 Henry of Trastamara was, from this time, the declared and active 
 enemy of his brother ; and in consequence of his influence, and that of 
 his mother's kindred, but most of all, in consequence of Don Pedro's 
 own atrocious proceedings, Castile itself was filled with continual tumults 
 and insurrections. 
 
 vr 
 
THE MURDER OF THE MASTER. 
 
 Don Fadrique, however, made his peace with Pedro. After a lapse of 
 many months, he was invited to come to the court at Seville, and take his 
 share in the amusements of an approaching tournament. He accepted 
 the invitation, but was received with terrible coldness, and immediately- 
 executed within the palace. The friends of Pedro asserted that the king 
 had that very day detected Don Fadrique in a correspondence with his 
 brother Henry and the Arragonese; while popular belief attributed the 
 slaughter of the Master to the unhappy influence which the too-celebrated 
 Maria de Padilla had long ere this begun to exercise over Pedro's mind. 
 
 Maria was often, in consequence of her close intimacy with Jews, 
 called by the name of their hated race ; but she was in reality not only 
 of Christian, but of noble descent in Spain. However that might be, 
 Pedro found her in the family of his minister, Albuquerque, where she 
 had been brought up, loved her with all the violence of his temper, and 
 made her his wife in all things but the name. Although political motives 
 induced him, not long afterwards, to contract an alliance with a princess 
 of the French blood royal, — the unfortunate Blanche of Bourbon, — he 
 lived with the young queen but a few days, and then deserted her for ever, 
 for the sake of this beautiful, jealous, and imperious mistress, whom he 
 declared to be his true wife. 
 
 The reader will observe that there is a strange peculiarity in the 
 structure of the ballad which narrates the Murder of the Master of St. 
 lago. The unfortunate Fadrique is introduced at the beginning of it as 
 telling his own story, and so he carries it on, in the first person, until the 
 order for his execution is pronounced by Pedro. The sequel is given 
 as if by another voice. I can suppose this singularity to have had a 
 musical origin. 
 
 The Master was slain in the year 1358. 
 
3Tí)c Jfturüer of tfje Utater. 
 
 I sat alone in Coimbra — the town myself had ta : en, 
 When came into my chamber, a messenger from Spain ; 
 There was no treason in his look, an honest look he wore ; 
 I from his hand the letter took, — my brother's seal it bore. 
 
 ' Come, brother dear, the day draws near' ('t was thus bespoke the King), 
 ' For plenar court and knightly sport, within the listed ring.' — 
 Alas ! unhappy Master, I easy credence lent ; 
 Alas ! for fast and faster I at his bidding went. 
 
 When I set off from Coimbra, and passed the bound of Spain, 
 
 I had a goodly company of spearmen in my train ; 
 
 A gallant force, a score of horse, and sturdy mules thirteen : 
 
 With joyful heart I held my course, — my years were young and green. 
 
 A journey of good fifteen days within the week was done, 
 
 I halted not, though signs I got, dark tokens many a one ; 
 
 A strong stream mastered horse and mule, — I lost my poniard fine, — 
 
 And left a page within tbe pool — a faithful page of mine. 
 
 ;->• 
 
THE MURDER OF THE MASTER. 
 
 Yet on to proud Seville I rode ; when to the gate I came, 
 Before me stood a man of God, to warn me from the same ; 
 The words he spake I would not hear, his grief I would not see, 
 I seek, said I, my brother dear, — I will not stop for thee. 
 
 No lists were closed upon the sand, for royal tourney dight ; 
 No pawing horse was seen to stand, — I saw no armed knight ; 
 Yet aye I gave my mule the spur, and hastened through the town, 
 I stopped before his palace-door, then gaily leapt I down. 
 
THE MURDER OF THE MASTER. 
 
 They shut the door, my trusty score of friends were left behind ; 
 
 I would not hear their whispered fear, no harm was in my mind ; 
 
 I greeted Pedro, but he turned, — I wot his look was cold ; 
 
 His brother from his knee he spurned ; — ' Stand off, thou Master bold !'- 
 
 < Stand off, stand off, thou traitor strong !' — 'twas thus he said to me, 
 4 Thy time on earth shall not be long, — what brings thee to my knee ? 
 My lady craves a new-year's gift, and I will keep my word ; 
 Thy head methinks may serve the shift, — Good yeoman, draw thy sword 
 
 The Master lay upon the floor ere well that word was said : 
 Then in a charger off they bore his pale and bloody head ; 
 They brought it to Padillas chair, — they bowed them on the knee ; 
 ' King Pedro greets thee, lady fair, his gift he sends to thee.' — 
 
 She gazed upon the Master's head, her scorn it could not scare, 
 And cruel were the words she said, and proud her glances were ; 
 4 Thou now shalt pay, thou traitor base ! the debt of many a year ; 
 My dog shall lick that haughty face ; no more that lip shall sneer.' 
 
 She seized it by the clotted hair, and o'er the window flung ; 
 The mastiff smelt it in his lair, forth at her cry he sprung ; 
 The mastiff that had crouched so low to lick the Master's hand, 
 He tossed the morsel to and fro, and licked it on the sand. 
 
THE MURDER OF THE MASTER. 
 
 And ever as the mastiff tore, his bloody teeth were shewn, 
 With growl and snort he made his sport, and picked it to the bone ; 
 The baying of the beast was loud, and swiftly on the street 
 There gathered round a gaping crowd, to see the mastiff eat. 
 
 Then out and spake King Pedro, — ' What governance is this ? 
 The rabble rout, my gate without, torment my dogs, I wiss.' 
 Then out and spake King Pedro's page, ' It is the Master's head ; 
 The mastiff tears it in his rage, — therewith they him have fed.' 
 
 Then out and spake the ancient nurse, that nursed the brothers twain, 
 1 On thee, King Pedro, lies the curse,' — thy brother thou hast slain ; 
 A thousand harlots there may be within the realm of Spain, 
 But where is she can give to thee thy brother back again V 
 
 Came darkness o'er King Pedro's brow, when thus he heard her say ; 
 He sorely rued the accursed vow he had fulfilled that day ; 
 He passed unto his paramour, where on her couch she lay, 
 Leaning from out her painted bower, to see the mastiff's play. 
 
 He drew her to a dungeon dark, a dungeon strong and deep ; 
 ' My father's son lies stiff and stark, and there are few to weep. 
 Fadriqués blood for vengeance calls, his cry is in mine ear ; 
 Thou art the cause, thou harlot false ! in darkness lie thou here.' 
 
Cí)e UBeatí) of (Üueen iSlancije. 
 
 HAT Pedro was accessary to the violent death of this young 
 and innocent princess whom he had married, and imme- 
 diately afterwards deserted for ever, there can be no doubt. 
 This atrocious deed was avenged abundantly; for it cer- 
 tainly led, in the issue, to the downfall and death of Pedro 
 himself. Mariana says, very briefly, that the injuries sus- 
 tained by Queen Blanche had so much offended many of 
 Pedro's own nobility, that they drew up a formal remonstrance, and presented 
 it to him in a style sufficiently formidable ; and that he, his proud and fierce 
 temper being stung to madness by what he considered an unjustifiable inter- 
 ference with his domestic concerns, immediately gave orders for the poisoning 
 of Blanche in her prison. 
 
 In the old French Memoirs of Du Guesclin, a much more improbable story 
 is told at great length. The Queen Blanche, according to this account, had been 
 banished to the Castle of Medina Sidonia, the adjoining territory being assigned 
 to her for her maintenance. One of her vassals, a Jew, presumed to do his 
 
THE DEATH OF QUEEN BLANCHE. 
 
 homage in the usual fashion, that is, by kissing Blanche on the cheek, ere his true 
 character was suspected, either by her or her attendants. No sooner was the man 
 known to be a Jew, than he was driven from the presence of the queen with every 
 mark of insult ; and this sunk so deeply into his mind, that he determined to 
 revenge himself, if possible, by the death of Blanche. He told his story to Maria 
 de Padilla, who prevailed on the king to suffer him to take his own measures ; 
 and he accordingly surprised the castle by night, at the head of a troop of his 
 own countrymen, and butchered the unhappy lady. 
 
 The ballad itself is, in all likelihood, as trust-worthy as any other authority ; 
 the true particulars of such a crime were pretty sure to be kept concealed. 
 
Cfje Btafy of <©uem ISIandje. 
 
 ' Maria de Padilla, be not thus of dismal mood, 
 For if I twice have wedded me, it all was for thy good ; 
 
 ' But if upon Queen Blanche ye will that I some scorn should shew, 
 For a banner to Medina my messenger shall go ; 
 
 ' The work shall be of Blanche's tears, of Blanche's blood the ground ; 
 Such pennon shall they weave for thee, such sacrifice be found.' 
 
 Then to the Lord of Ortis, that excellent baron, 
 
 He said, ' Now hear me, Ynigo, forthwith for this begone.' 
 
 Then answer made Don Ynigo, ' Such gift I ne'er will bring, 
 For he that harmeth Lady Blanche doth harm my lord the king.' 
 
 Then Pedro to his chamber went, his cheek was burning red, 
 And to a bowman of his guard the dark command he said. 
 
 The bowman to Medina passed ; when the queen beheld him near, 
 ' Alas ! ' she said, ' my maidens, he brings my death, I fear.' 
 
 Then said the archer, bending low, ' The King's commandment take, 
 And see thy soul be ordered well with God that did it make, — 
 
' For lo ! thine hour is come, therefrom no refuge may there be.' 
 Then gently spake the Lady Blanche, 1 My friend, I pardon thee ; 
 
 ' Do what thou wilt, so be the King hath his commandment given, 
 Deny me not confession, — if so, forgive ye, Heaven ! ' 
 
 Much grieved the bowman for her tears, and for her beauty's sake, 
 While thus Queen Blanche of Bourbon her last complaint did make ; — 
 
 ' O France ! my noble country — O blood of high Bourbon ! 
 Not eighteen years have I seen out before my life is gone. 
 
 ' The king hath never known me. A virgin true I die. 
 Whate'er I've done, to proud Castile no treason e'er did I. 
 
 1 The crown they put upon my head was a crown of blood and sighs, 
 God grant me soon another crown more precious in the skies ! ' 
 
 These words she spake, then down she knelt, and took the bowman's blow ; 
 Her tender neck was cut in twain, and out her blood did flow. 
 
£í)e Beatí) of Bon ^eUrc. 
 
 HE reader may remember, that when Don Pedro had, by 
 his excessive cruelties, quite alienated from himself the 
 hearts of the great majority of his people, Don Henry of 
 Trastamara, his natural brother, who had spent many years 
 in exile, returned suddenly into Spain with a formidable 
 band of French auxiliaries, by whose aid he drove Pedro 
 out of his kingdom. The voice of the nation was on 
 Henry's side, and he took possession of the throne without further opposition. 
 
 Pedro, after his treatment of Queen Blanche, could have nothing to hope 
 from the crown of France, so he immediately threw himself into the arms of 
 England. And our Edward the Black Prince, who then commanded in Gascony, 
 had more than one obvious reason for taking up his cause 
 
 The Prince of Wales marched with Don Pedro into Spain, at the head of an 
 army of English and Gascon veterans, whose disciplined valour, Mariana very 
 
THE DEATH OF DON PEDRO. 
 
 frankly confesses, gave them a decided superiority over the Spanish soldiery 
 of the time. Henry was so unwise as to set his stake upon a battle, and 
 was totally defeated in the field of Najara. Unable to rally his flying 
 troops, he was compelled to make his escape beyond the Pyrenees ; and 
 Don Pedro once more established himself in his kingdom.— The battle of 
 Najara took place in 1366. 
 
 But, in 1368, when the Black Prince had retired again into Gascony, 
 Henry, in his turn, came back from exile with a small but gallant army, 
 most of whom were French, commanded by the celebrated Bertram Du 
 Gleasquin, or, as he is more commonly called, Du Guesclin— and animated, 
 as was natural, by strong thirst of vengeance for the insults, which, in 
 the person of Blanche, Pedro had heaped upon the royal line of their 
 country, and the blood of Saint Louis. 
 
 Henry of Trastamara advanced into the heart of La Mancha, and there 
 encountered Don Pedro, at the head of an army six times more nume- 
 rous than that which he commanded, but composed in a great measure of 
 Jews, Saracens, and Portuguese,— miscellaneous auxiliaries, who gave way 
 before the ardour of the French chivalry, so that Henry remained victo- 
 rious, and Pedro was compelled to take refuge in the neighbouring castle 
 of Montiel. That fortress was so strictly blockaded by the successful 
 enemy, that the king was compelled to attempt his escape by night, with 
 only twelve persons in his retinue —Ferdinand de Castro being the person 
 of most note among them. 
 
 As they wandered in the dark, they were encountered by a body of 
 French cavalry making the rounds, commanded by an adventurous knight, 
 called Le Begue de Villaines. Compelled to surrender, Don Pedro put 
 himself under the safeguard of this officer, promising him a rich ransom 
 if he would conceal him from the knowledge of his brother Henry. The 
 knight, according to Froissart, promised him concealment, and conveyed 
 him to his own quarters. 
 
 But in the course of an hour, Henry was apprised that he was taken, 
 and came with some of his followers, to the tent of Allan de la Houssaye, 
 where his unfortunate brother had been placed. In entering the cham- 
 
THE DEATH OF DON PEDRO. 
 
 V 
 
 i 
 
 ber, he exclaimed, 'Where is that whoreson and Jew, who calls himself 
 King of Castile ? ' — Pedro, as proud and fearless as he was cruel, stepped 
 instantly forward and replied, ' Here I stand, the lawful son and heir of 
 Don Alphonso, and it is thou that art but a false bastard.' The rival 
 brethren instantly grappled like lions, the French knights and Du Guesclin 
 himself looking on. Henry drew his poniard, and wounded Pedro in the 
 face, but his body was defended by a coat-of-mail ; — a violent struggle 
 ensued: — Henry fell across a bench, and his brother being uppermost, 
 had well-nigh mastered him, when one of Henry's followers, seizing Don 
 Pedro by the leg, turned him over, and his master, thus at length gaining 
 the upper-hand, instantly stabbed the king to the heart. 
 
 Froissart calls this man the Vicomte de Roquebetyn, and others the 
 Bastard of Anisse. Menard, in his History of Du Guesclin, says, that 
 while all around gazed like statues on the furious struggle of the brothers, 
 Du Guesclin exclaimed to this attendant of Henry, ' What ! will you stand 
 by and see your master placed at such a pass by a false renegade? — Make 
 forward and aid him, for well you may.' 
 
 Pedro's head was cut off, and his remains were meanly buried. They 
 were afterwards disinterred by his daughter, the wife of our own John 
 of Gaunt, 'time-honoured Lancaster,' and deposited in Seville, with the 
 honours due to his rank. His memory was regarded with a strange mix- 
 ture of horror and compassion, which recommended him as a subject for 
 legend and for romance. He had caused his innocent wife to be assassi- 
 nated, — had murdered three of his brothers, — and committed numberless 
 cruelties upon his subjects. He had, which the age held equally scandalous, 
 held a close intimacy with the Jews and Saracens, and had enriched him- 
 self at the expense of the church. Yet, in spite of all these crimes, his 
 undaunted bravery and energy of character, together with the strange 
 circumstances of his death, excited milder feelings towards his memory. 
 
 The following ballad, which describes the death of Don Pedro, was 
 translated by a friend (the late Sir Walter Scott). It is quoted more than 
 once by Cervantes in Don Quixote. 
 
 a 
 
00 
 
 THE DEATH OF DON PEDRO. 
 
 Close Don Henry grapples Pedro, 
 Pedro holds Don Henry strait, 
 Breathing, this, triumphant fury, 
 That, despair and mortal hate. 
 
 Sole spectator of the struggle, 
 
 Stands Don Henry's page afar, 
 In the chase who bore his bugle, 
 And who bore his sword in war. 
 
 Down they go in deadly wrestle, 
 
 Down upon the earth they go, 
 Fierce King Pedro has the vantage, 
 Stout Don Henry falls below. 
 
 Marking then the fatal crisis, 
 
 Up the page of Henry ran, 
 By the waist he caught Don Pedro, 
 Aiding thus the fallen man. 
 
 ' King to place, or to depose him, 
 
 Dwelleth not in my desire, 
 But the duty which he owes him, 
 To his master pays the squire.'— 
 
 V 
 
 ~(2 
 
Cíje proclamation of Ittng ^envp. 
 
 HE following ballad, taking up the story where it is left 
 in the preceding one, gives us the proclamation and coro- 
 nation of Don Henry, surnamed, from the courtesy of his 
 manners, El Cavallero, and the grief of Pedro's lovely 
 and unhappy mistress, Maria de Padilla. From its struc- 
 ture and versification, I have no doubt it is of much more 
 modern origin than most of those in the first Cancionero. 
 The picture which Mariana gives us of Don Pedro, the hero of so many 
 atrocious and tragical stories, is to me very striking. 1 He was pale of com- 
 plexion,' says the historian; 'his features were high and well formed, and 
 stamped with a certain authority of majesty, his hair red, his figure erect, 
 even to stiffness ; he was bold and determined in action and in council ; his 
 bodily frame sank under no fatigues, his spirit under no weight of difficulty or 
 of danger. He was passionately fond of hawking, and all violent exercises. 
 
 b 
 
THE PROCLAMATION OF KING HENRY. 
 
 ' In the beginning of his reign, he administered justice among private in- 
 dividuals with perfect integrity. But even then were visible in him the 
 rudiments of those vices which grew with his age, and finally led him to his 
 ruin ; such as a general contempt and scorn of mankind, an insulting tongue, 
 a proud and difficult ear, even to those of his household. These faults were 
 discernible even in his tender years ; to them, as he advanced in life, were 
 added avarice, dissolution in luxury, an utter hardness of heart, and a remorse- 
 less cruelty.' — (Mariana, Book xvi., Chap. 16.) 
 
 The reader will find almost the whole of Don Pedro's history clothed in a strain 
 of glowing and elegant poetry, in a performance of the Baron de la Motte Fouqué. 
 (See his ' Bertrand Du Guesclin, historisches ritter-gedicht.' — Leipsig, 1822.) 
 
Glad shout on shout from Henry's host ascends unto the sky ; 
 ' God save King Henry — save the King — King Henry !' is their cry, 
 But Pedro's barons clasp their brows, in sadness stand they near, 
 Whate'er to others he had been, their friend lies murdered here. 
 
 The deed, say those, was justly done,' — a tyrant's soul is sped ; 
 These ban and curse the traitorous blow by which a king is dead. 
 ' Now see,' cries one, ' how Heaven's amand asserts the people's rights !' 
 Another — ' God will judge the hand that God's anointed smites !' — 
 
 ' The Lord's vicegerent,' quoth a priest, 1 is sovereign of the land, 
 And he rebels 'gainst Heaven's behest, that slights his King's command 
 ' Now Heaven be witness, if he sinned,' thus speaks a gallant young, 
 ' The fault was in Padilla's eye, that o'er him magic flung ; — 
 
 ' Or if no magic be her blame, so heavenly fair is she, 
 
 The wisest, for so bright a dame, might well a sinner be ! 
 
 Let none speak ill of Pedro, — no Roderick hath he been ; 
 
 He dearly loved fair Spain, although 'tis true he slew the Queen.' 
 
 //TV 
 
 The words he spake they all might hear, yet none vouchsafe reply, 
 ' God save great Henry — save the King — King Henry !' is the cry ; 
 While Pedro's liegemen turn aside, their groans are in your ear, 
 ' Whate'er to others he hath been, our friend lies slaughtered here !' 
 
1 
 
 Nor paltry souls are wanting among King Pedro's band, 
 That, now their king is dead, draw near to kiss his murderer's hand. 
 The false cheek clothes it in a smile, and laughs the hollow eye, 
 And wags the traitor tongue the while with flattery's ready lie. 
 
 The valour of the King that is, — the justice of his cause — 
 The blindness and the tyrannies of him the King that was — 
 All — all are doubled in their speech, yet truth enough is there 
 To sink the spirit shivering near, in darkness of despair. 
 
 The murder of the Master, the tender Infants' doom, 
 And blessed Blanche's thread of life snapped short in dungeon's gloom, 
 With tragedies yet unrevealed, that stained the King's abode, 
 By lips his bounty should have sealed, are blazoned black abroad. 
 
 Whom served he most at others' cost, most loud they rend the sky, 
 « God save great Henry— save our King — King Henry !' is the cry. 
 But still, amid too many foes, the grief is in your ear 
 Of dead King Pedro's faithful few—' Alas ! our lord lies here !' 
 
 But others' tears, and others' groans, what are they matched with thine, 
 Maria de Padilla — thou fatal concubine ! 
 Because she is King Henry's slave, the lady weepeth sore, 
 Because she 's Pedro's widowed love, alas ! she weepeth more. 
 
THE PROCLAMATION OF KING HENRY. 
 
 The sun shines bright, and the gay rout with clamours rend the sky, 
 ' God save great Henry — save the King — King Henry !' is the cry ; 
 But the pale lady weeps above, with many a bitter tear, 
 Whate'er he was, he was her love, and he lies slaughtered here ! 
 
 At first, in silence down her cheek the drops of sadness roll, 
 But rage and anger come to break the sorrow of her soul ; 
 The triumph of her haters — the gladness of their cries, 
 Enkindle flames of ire and scorn within her tearful eyes. 
 
 In her hot cheek the blood mounts high, as she stands gazing down, 
 Now on proud Henry's royal state, his robe and golden crown, — 
 And now upon the trampled cloak that hides not from her view 
 The slaughtered Pedro's marble brow, and lips of livid hue. 
 
 With furious grief she twists her hands among her long black hairs, 
 And all from off her lovely brow the blameless locks she tears ; 
 She tears the ringlets from her front, and scatters all the pearls 
 King Pedro's hand had planted among the raven curls : 
 
 4 Stop, caitiff tongues !'— they hear her not — ' King Pedro's love am I !' 
 They heed her not — ' God save the King — great Henry !' still they cry. 
 She rends her hair, she wrings her hands, but none to help is near, 
 ' God look in vengeance on their deed, my lord lies murdered here !' 
 
THE PROCLAMATION OF KING HENRY. 
 
 Away she flings her garments, her broidered veil and vest, 
 As if they should behold her love within her lovely breast, 
 As if to call upon her foes the constant heart to see, 
 Where Pedro's form is still enshrined, and evermore shall be. 
 
 But none on fair Maria looks, by none her breast is seen, — 
 Save angry Heaven remembering well the murder of the Queen, 
 The wounds of jealous harlot rage, which virgin blood must stanch. 
 And all the scorn that mingled in the bitter cup of Blanche. 
 
 The utter coldness of neglect that haughty spirit stings, 
 As if a thousand fiends were there, with all their flapping wings ; 
 She wraps the veil about her head, as if 't were all a dream — 
 The love — the murder — and the wrath — and that rebellious scream 
 
 For still there 's shouting on the plain, and spurring far and nigh, 
 ' God save the King — Amen ! amen ! — King Henry !' is the cry ; 
 While Pedro all alone is left upon his bloody bier, 
 Not one remains to cry to God, ' Our lord lies murdered here !' 
 
£f)e Horti of ISutrago. 
 
 HE incident to which the following ballad relates, is supposed 
 to have occurred on the famous field of Aljubarrota, where 
 King Juan the First of Castile was defeated by the Portuguese. 
 The king, who was at the time in a feeble state of health, 
 exposed himself very much during the action; and being 
 wounded, had great difficulty in making his escape. The 
 battle was fought A.D. 1385, 
 
 ' Your horse is faint, my King — my Lord ! your gallant horse is sick, — 
 His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick ; 
 Mount, mount on mine, oh, mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly ! 
 Or in my arms I '11 lift your grace,— their trampling hoofs are nigh ! 
 
 ' My King — my King ! you 're wounded sore, — the blood runs from your feet; 
 But only lay a hand before, and I '11 lift you to your seat : 
 Mount, Juan, for they gather fast ! I hear their coming cry ! 
 Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy— I '11 save you though I die ! 
 
THE LORD OF BUTRAGO. 
 
 ' Stand, noble steed ! this hour of need — be gentle as a lamb : 
 I '11 kiss the foam from off thy mouth — thy master dear I am ! 
 Mount, Juan, mount ! whate'er betide, away the bridle fling, 
 And plunge the rowels in his side ! — My horse shall save my King ! 
 
 ' Nay, never speak ; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours, 
 And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures : 
 If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead, 
 How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my grey head ? 
 
 ' Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain, 
 
 And say — there 's one that ran away when our good lords were slain ! — 
 
 I leave Diego in your care, — you '11 fill his father's place : 
 
 Strike, strike the spur, and never spare — God's blessing on your grace !' 
 
 So spake the brave Montanez, Butrago's lord was he ; 
 And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee ; 
 He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill ; 
 He died, God wot ! but not before his sword had drunk its fill ! 
 
Cfje ifctng of dragon. 
 
 HE following little ballad represents the supposed feelings 
 of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, on surveying Naples, 
 after he had at last obtained possession of that city, and 
 driven René of Anjou from the south of Italy. ' The King 
 of Arragon,' says Mariana, 'entered Naples as victor, on 
 the morning of Sunday, the second of June, in the year of 
 our Lord one thousand, four hundred, and forty-two.' 
 
 The brother, whose death is represented as saddening the King's triumph, was 
 Don Pedro of Arragon, who was killed ' by the fourth rebound of a cannon-ball,' 
 very soon after the commencement of the siege of Naples. ' When the King 
 heard of these woful tidings,' says Mariana, 'he hastened to the place where 
 the body had been laid, and kissing the breast of the dead man, said, Alas, my 
 brother, what different things had I expected of thee ! God help thy soul ! 
 And with that he wept and groaned, and then turning to his attendants, Alas ! 
 said he, my comrades, we have lost this day the flower of all our chivalry ! 
 Don Pedro died in the bloom of his youth, being just twenty-seven years old, 
 and having never been married. He had been in many wars, and in all of them 
 he had won honour.' — (Mariana, Book xxi., Chap. 13.) 
 
 Who was the favourite boy (Pagezico), whose death the King also laments in 
 the ballad, I have not been able to find. 
 
Cíje Uoto oí <Retiuan. 
 
 HE marriage of Ferdinand the Catholic, and Donna Isabella 
 having united the forces of Arragon and Castile, the total 
 ruin of the Moorish power in Spain could no longer be de- 
 ferred. The last considerable fragment of their once mighty 
 possessions in the Peninsula, was Granada ; but the fate of 
 Malaga gave warning of its inevitable fall, while internal 
 dissensions, and the weakness of the reigning prince, hastened and facilitated that 
 great object of Ferdinand's ambition. 
 
 The following is a version of certain parts of two ballads ; indeed, the Moor 
 Reduan is the hero of a great many more. The subject is, as the reader will 
 perceive, the rash vow and tragical end of a young and gallant soldier, allied, as 
 it would appear, to the blood of the last Moorish King of Granada, Boabdil, — or, 
 as he is more generally called by the Spanish writers, El Rey Chiquito, — i. e. — 
 the Little King. 
 
Cí)e Uatii of fórtuan. 
 
 Thus said, before his lords, the King to Reduan, — 
 ' 'T is easy to get words, — deeds get we as we can : 
 Rememberest thou the feast at which I heard thee saying, 
 'T were easy in one night to make me Lord of Jaen ? 
 
 ' Well, in my mind, I hold the valiant vow was said ; 
 Fulfil it, boy ! and gold shall shower upon thy head ; 
 But bid a long farewell, if now thou shrink from doing, 
 To bower and bonnibell, thy feasting, and thy wooing V 
 
 ' I have forgot the oath, if such I e'er did plight, — 
 
 But needs there plighted troth to make a soldier fight ? 
 
 A thousand sabres bring, — we '11 see how we may thrive !' 
 
 1 One thousand !' quoth the King ; ' I trow thou shalt have five !' 
 
THE VOW OF REDUAN. 
 
 They passed the Elvira gate, with banners all displayed, 
 They passed in mickle state, a noble cavalcade ; — 
 What proud and pawing horses, what comely cavaliers, 
 "What bravery of targets, what glittering of spears ! 
 
 What caftans blue and scarlet, — what turbans pleached of green 
 What waving of their crescents and plumages between ; 
 What buskins and what stirrups, — what rowels chased in gold ! 
 What handsome gentlemen, — what buoyant hearts and bold ! 
 
 In midst, above them all, rides he who rules the band ; 
 Yon feather white and tall is the token of command : 
 He looks to the Alhambra, whence bends his mother down ; 
 ' Now, Alia save my boy, and merciful Mahoun ! ' — 
 
 But 't was another sight — when Reduan drew near 
 To look upon the height where Jaen's towers appear ; 
 The fosse was wide and deep, the walls both tall and strong, 
 And keep was matched with keep the battlements along. ' 
 
 It was a heavy sight, — but most for Reduan ; 
 He sighed, as well he might, ere thus his speech began : 
 ' O Jaen ! had I known how high thy bulwarks stand, 
 My tongue had not outgone the prowess of my hand. 
 
THE VOW OF REDUAN. 
 
 ' But since, in hasty cheer, I did my promise plight, 
 (What well might cost a year) to win thee in a night, — 
 The pledge demands the paying. I would my soldiers brave 
 Were half as sure of Jaén, as I am of my grave ! 
 
 ' My penitence comes late, — my death lags not behind ; 
 
 I yield me up to fate, since hope I may not find ! ' — 
 
 With that he turned him round ; — ' Now, blow your trumpets high 
 
 But every spearman frowned, and dark was every eye. 
 
 But when he was aware that they would fain retreat, 
 He spurred his bright bay mare, — I wot her pace was fleet ; 
 He rides beneath the walls, and shakes aloof his lance, 
 And to the Christians calls, if any will advance ! 
 
 With that, an arrow flew from o'er the battlement, — 
 Young Reduan it slew, sheer through the breast it went ! 
 He fell upon the green, — 'Farewell, my gallant bay !' — 
 Right soon, when this was seen, broke all the Moor array. 
 
Woe, woe, thou pride of Heathendom ! seven hundred years and more 
 Have gone since first the faithful thy royal sceptre bore ! 
 
 ' Thou wert the happy mother of an high renowned race ; 
 Within thee dwelt a haughty line that now go from their place ; 
 Within thee fearless knights did dwell, who fought with mickle glee — ^ 
 The enemies of proud Castile — the bane of Christientie ! 
 
 ' The mother of fair dames wert thou, of truth and beauty rare, 
 Into whose arms did courteous knights for solace sweet repair ; 
 For whose dear sakes the gallants of Afric made display 
 Of might in joust and battle on many a bloody day ! 
 
 ' Here, gallants held it little thing for ladies' sake to die, 
 Or for the Prophet's honour, and pride of Soldanry ; — ■ 
 For here did valour flourish, and deeds of warlike might 
 Ennobled lordly palaces, in which was our delight. 
 
 4 The gardens of thy Vega, its fields and blooming bowers, — 
 Woe, woe ! I see their beauty gone, and scattered all their flowers ! 
 No reverence can he claim — the king that such a land hath lost, — 
 On charger never can he ride, nor be heard among the host ; 
 But in some dark and dismal place, where none his face may see, 
 There, weeping and lamenting, alone that king should be.' — 
 
THE FLIGHT FROM GRANADA. 
 
 Thus spake Granada's King as he was riding to the sea, 
 
 About to cross Gibraltar's Strait away to Barbary : 
 
 Thus he in heaviness of soul unto his Queen did cry. — 
 
 (He had stopped and ta'en her in his arms, for together they did fly.) 
 
 ' Unhappy King! whose craven soul can brook' (she 'gan reply) 
 ' To leave behind Granada, — who hast not heart to die ! — - 
 Now for the love I bore thy youth, thee gladly could I slay ! 
 For what is life to leave when such a crown is cast away V 
 
ے)p mtaty of Bon &lon?o of Egutlatr. 
 
 HE Catholic zeal of Ferdinand and Isabella was gratified by 
 the external conversion at least of a great part of the Moors 
 of Granada ; but the inhabitants of the Sierra of Alpuxarra, 
 a ridge of mountainous territory at no great distance from 
 that city, resisted every argument of the priests who were 
 sent among them, so that the royal order for Baptism was 
 at length enforced by arms. 
 
 Those Moorish mountaineers resisted for a time in several of their strong- 
 holds ; but were at last subdued, and in great part extirpated. Among many 
 severe losses sustained by the Spanish forces in the course of this hill warfare, 
 none was more grievous than that recorded in the following ballad. Don Alonzo 
 of Aguilar was the elder brother of that Gonsalvo Hernandez y Cordova of Aguilar, 
 who became so illustrious as to acquire the name of the Great Captain. 
 
 The circumstances of Don Alonzo's death are described somewhat differently 
 by the historians. (See in particular, Mariana, Book xxvii., Chap. 6, where no 
 mention is made of the Moors throwing down stones on him and his party, as in 
 the ballad.) This tragic story has been rendered familiar to all English readers 
 by the Bishop of Dromore's exquisite version of ' Rio Verde, Rio Verde !' 
 
 g 
 
2Tí)e IBeatí) of Bon &lon?o of &gutlar. 
 
 Fernando, King of Arragon, before Granada lies, 
 
 With dukes and barons many a one, and champions of emprise ; 
 
 With all the captains of Castile that serve his lady's crown, 
 
 He drives Boabdil from his gates, and plucks the crescent down. 
 
 The cross is reared upon the towers, for our Redeemer's sake ! 
 
 The King assembles all his powers, his triumph to partake ; 
 
 Yet at the royal banquet, there 's trouble in his eye : — 
 
 ' Now speak thy wish, it shall be done, great King !' the lordlings cry. 
 
 Then spake Fernando, — ' Hear, grandees ! which of ye all will go, 
 And give my banner in the breeze of Alpuxar to blow ? 
 Those heights along, the Moors are strong ; now who, by dawn of day, 
 Will plant the cross their cliffs among, and drive the dogs away ? ' 
 
Then champion on champion high, and count on count doth look ; 
 And faltering is the tongue of lord, and pale the cheek of duke ; 
 Till starts up brave Alonzo, the knight of Aguilar, 
 The lowmost at the royal board, but foremost still in war. 
 
 And thus he speaks : — ' I pray, my lord, that none but I may go ; 
 For I made promise to the Queen, your consort, long ago, 
 That ere the war should have an end, I, for her royal charms, 
 And for my duty to her grace, would shew some feat of arms !' 
 
 Much joyed the King these words to hear, — he bids Alonzo speed ; 
 And long before their revel 's o'er the knight is on his steed ; 
 Alonzo 's on his milk-white steed, with horsemen in his train, 
 A thousand horse, a chosen band, ere dawn the hills to gain. 
 
 They ride along the darkling ways, they gallop all the night ; 
 
 They reach Nevada ere the cock hath harbingered the light ; 
 
 But ere they've climbed that steep ravine, the east is glowing red, 
 
 And the Moors their lances bright have seen, and Christian banners spread. 
 
 Beyond the sands, between the rocks, where the old cork-trees grow, 
 The path is rough, and mounted men must singly march and slow ; 
 There, o'er the path, the heathen range their ambuscado's line, 
 High up they wait for Aguilar, as the day begins, to shine. 
 
 ml 
 
There, nought avails the eagle-eye, the guardian of Castile, 
 
 The eye of wisdom, nor the heart that fear might never feel, 
 
 • ft The arm of strength, that wielded well the strong mace in the fray, 
 
 ' Nor the broad plate, from whence the edge of faulchion glanced away. 
 
 i 
 
 Not knightly valour there avails, nor skill of horse and spear ; 
 For rock on rock comes rumbling down from cliff" and cavern drear ; 
 Down — down like driving hail they come, and horse and horsemen die, 
 Like cattle whose despair is dumb when the fierce lightnings fly. 
 
 Alonzo, with a handful more, escapes into the field, 
 There, like a lion, stands at bay, in vain besought to yield ; 
 A thousand foes around are seen, but none draws near to fight ; 
 Afar, with bolt and javelin, they pierce the steadfast knight. 
 
 A hundred and a hundred darts are hissing round his head ; 
 Had Aguilar a thousand hearts, their blood had all been shed ; 
 Faint, and more faint, he staggers upon the slippery sod, 
 At last his back is to the earth, he gives his soul to God ! 
 
THE DEATH OF DON ALONZO OF AGUILAR. 
 
 With that the Moors plucked up their hearts to gaze upon his face, 
 And caitiffs mangled where he lay the scourge of Afric's race. 
 To woody Oxijera then the gallant corpse they drew, 
 And there, upon the village-green, they laid him out to view. 
 
 Upon the village-green he lay, as the moon was shining clear, 
 
 And all the village-damsels to look on him drew near ; 
 
 They stood around him all a-gaze, beside the big oak-tree, 
 
 And much his beauty they did praise, though mangled sore was he. 
 
 Now, so it fell, a Christian dame, that knew Alonzo well, 
 Not far from Oxijera did as a captive dwell, 
 And hearing all the marvels, across the woods came she, 
 To look upon this Christian corpse, and wash it decently. 
 
 She looked upon him, and she knew the face of Aguilar, 
 Although his beauty was disgraced with many a ghastly scar ; 
 She knew him, and she cursed the dogs that pierced him from afar, 
 And mangled him when he was slain — the Moors of Alpuxar. 
 
 The Moorish maidens, while she spake, around her silence kept, 
 But her master dragged the dame away, — then loud and long they wept 
 They washed the blood, with many a tear, from dint of dart and arrow, 
 And buried him near the waters clear of the brook of Alpuxarra. 
 
Cfje JBqpartuw of Hing Sebastian. 
 
 HE reader is acquainted with the melancholy story of Sebas- 
 tian, King of Portugal. It was in 1578, that his unfortunate 
 expedition and death took place. 
 
 The following is a version of one of the Spanish ballads, 
 founded on the history of Sebastian. There is another, which 
 describes his death, almost in the words of a ballad already 
 translated, concerning King Juan I. of Castile. 
 
 It was a Lusitanian lady, and she was lofty in degree, 
 Was fairer none, nor nobler, in all the realm than she ; 
 I saw her that her eyes were red, as from her balcony, 
 They wandered o'er the crowded shore and the resplendent sea. 
 
Gorgeous and gay, in Lisbon's Bay, with streamers flaunting wide, 
 Upon the gleaming waters Sebastian's galleys ride ; 
 His valorous armada (was never nobler sight !) 
 Hath young Sebastian marshalled against the Moorish might. 
 
 The breeze comes forth from the clear north, a gallant breeze there blows ; 
 Their sails they lift, then out they drift, and first Sebastian goes. 
 ' May none withstand Sebastian's hand, — God shield my King ! ' she said ; 
 Yet pale was that fair lady's cheek, — her weeping eyes were red. 
 
 She looks on all the parting host, in all its pomp arrayed, 
 Each pennon on the wind is tost, each cognizance displayed ; 
 Each lordly galley flings abroad, above its armed prow, 
 The banner of the cross of God, upon the breeze to flow. 
 
 But one there is, whose banner, above the Cross divine, 
 A scarf upholds, with azure folds, of love and faith the sign : 
 Upon that galley's stern ye see a peerless warrior stand, 
 Though first he goes, still back he throws his eye upon the land. 
 
 Albeit through tears she looks, yet well may she that form descry,' — 
 Was never seen a vassal mien so noble and so high ; 
 Albeit the lady's cheek was pale, albeit her eyes were red, 
 ' May none withstand my true-love's hand ! God bless my Knight ! ' she said. 
 
There are a thousand barons, all harnessed cap-a-pee, 
 With helm and spear that glitter clear above the dark-green sea ; 
 No lack of gold or silver, to stamp each proud device 
 On shield or surcoat, — nor of chains and jewellery of price. 
 
 The seamen's cheers the lady hears, and mingling voices come 
 
 From every deck, of glad rebeck, of trumpet, and of drum ; — 
 
 ' Who dare withstand Sebastian's hand ? — what Moor his gage may fling 
 
 At young Sebastian's feet ? ' she said. — ' The Lord hath blessed my King 
 

 
 T is sometimes very difficult to de- 
 termine which of the Moorish Bal- 
 lads ought to be included in the 
 Historical, which in the Romantic 
 class; and for this reason, the fol- 
 lowing five specimens are placed by 
 themselves. Several Ballads, de- 
 cidedly of Moorish origin, such as 
 Reduan's Vow, The Flight from Granada, &c, have been 
 printed in the preceding Section. 
 
eje üulls&sijt of iffiajul. 
 
 AZUL is the name of one of the Moorish heroes who figure in 
 the " Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada." The fol- 
 lowing ballad, is one of very many in which the dexterity of the 
 Moorish cavaliers in the Bull-fight is described. The reader 
 will observe, that the shape, activity, and resolution of the 
 unhappy animal, destined to furnish the amusement of the 
 spectators, are enlarged upon, — just as the qualities of a modern race-horse might 
 be among ourselves : nor is the bull without his name. The day of the Baptist is 
 a festival among the Mussulmans, as well as among Christians. 
 
m)t $3ullífcgí)t of m^ui 
 
 King Almanzor of Granada, lie hath bid the trumpet sound, 
 He hath summoned all the Moorish lords, from the hills and plains around 
 From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, 
 They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel 
 
 'T is the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and state, 
 And they have closed the spacious lists, beside the Alhambra's gate ; 
 In gowns of black with silver laced, within the tented ring, 
 Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed, in presence of the King. 
 
 Eight Moorish lords of valour tried, with stalwart arm and true, 
 The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through : 
 The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all with hope and trust, 
 Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they all have bit the dust ! 
 
And first before the King he passed, with reverence stooping low, 
 And next he bowed him to the Queen, and the Infantas all a-rowe ; 
 Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to him did throw 
 A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow. 
 
 With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the sand, 
 Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en his stand ; 
 And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye, 
 But firmly he extends his arm, — his look is calm and high. 
 
 Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on, 
 He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rejón ; 
 Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow, 
 He blindly totters and gives back, across the sand to go. 
 
 ' Turn, Gazul — turn ! ' the people cry ; the third comes up behind, 
 Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind ; — 
 The mountaineers that lead the steers without stand whispering low, 
 ' Now thinks this proud Alcaydé to stun Harpado so ? ' 
 
THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL. 
 
 From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, 
 From Gaudalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill ; 
 But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear, 
 Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, — this proud and stately steer. 
 
 Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil, 
 And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil. 
 His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow ; 
 But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe. 
 
 Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near, 
 From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they appear ; 
 His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted tree, 
 Whereon the monster's shagged mane, like billows curled, ye see. 
 
 His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night, 
 like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might ; 
 Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock, 
 Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcaydé's shock. 
 
 Now stops the drum ; close, close they come ; thrice meet, and thrice 
 give back ; 
 
 The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black, — 
 The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dun ; — 
 Once more advance upon his lance — once more thou fearless one ! 
 
 
 
THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL. 
 
 Once more, once more ! — in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel ! — 
 In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel ! — 
 In vain, in vain, thou noble beast ! — I see, I see thee stagger, 
 Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern Alcaydé's dagger ! 
 
 They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in, 
 And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din. 
 Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow 
 Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low ! 
 
HE reader cannot need to be reminded of the fatal effects 
 which were produced by the feuds subsisting between the 
 two great families, or rather races, of the Zegris and the 
 Abencerrages of Granada. The following ballad is also 
 from the "Guerras Civiles." 
 
 Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is Lisaro, 
 To wield rejón like him is none, or javelin to throw : 
 From the place of his dominion, he ere the dawn doth go, 
 From Aléala de Henares, he rides in weed of woe. 
 
 He rides not now as he was wont, when ye have seen him speed 
 To the field of gay Toledo, to fling his lusty reed ; 
 No gambeson of silk is on, nor rich embroidery 
 Of gold-wrought robe or turban, nor jewelled tahali. 
 
 No amethyst nor garnet is shining on his brow, 
 
 No crimson sleeve, which damsels weave at Tunis, decks him now ; 
 
 The belt is black, the hilt is dim, but the sheathed blade is bright ; 
 
 They have housened his barb in a murky garb, but yet her hoofs are light. 
 
4;K 
 
 THE ZEGRI'S BRIDE. 
 
 Four horsemen good, of the Zegri blood, with Lisaro go out ; 
 No flashing spear may tell them near, but yet their shafts are stout 
 In darkness and in swiftness rides every armed knight, — 
 The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white. 
 
 Young Lisaro, as on they go, his bonnet dofleth he, 
 Between its folds a sprig it holds of a dark and glossy tree ; 
 That sprig of bay, were it away, right heavy heart had he, — 
 Fair Zayda to her Zegri gave that token privily. 
 
 And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady's boon. 
 ' God knows,' quoth he, ' what fate may be ! — I may be slaughtered soon 
 Thou still art mine, though scarce the sign of hope that bloomed whilere, 
 But in my grave I yet shall have my Zayda's token dear.' 
 
 Young Lisaro was musing so, when onwards on the path, 
 
 He well could see them riding slow ; then pricked he in his wrath. 
 
 The raging sire, the kinsmen of Zayda's hateful house, 
 
 Fought well that day, yet in the fray the Zegri won his spouse. 
 
m)t SSrfóal of Entalla. 
 
 HE following ballad has been often imitated by moder 
 poets, both in Spain and in Germany : — 
 
 ' Pon te a las rejas azules, dexa la manga que labras, 
 
 Melancholica Xarifa, veras al galán Andalla,' &c. 
 
 ' Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; 
 
 Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! 
 
 From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing, 
 
 And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing, 
 
 And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere, 
 
 And the tall tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the 
 
 Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; 
 
 Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! 
 
 < Arise, arise, Xarifa ! I see Andalla's face, — 
 
 He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace ; 
 
 Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquiver 
 
 Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never. 
 
 Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple mixed with white, 
 
 I guess 't was wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night : — 
 
 Rise Tip, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; 
 
 Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! 
 
' What aileth thee, Xarifa — what makes thine eyes look down ? 
 Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town ? 
 I 've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth, 
 Andalla rides without a peer, among all Granada's youth. 
 
THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. 
 
 Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go 
 Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow : — 
 Then rise, — oh ! rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ; 
 Unseen here through the lattice you may gaze with all the town !' 
 
 The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down, 
 
 Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town ; 
 
 But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove, 
 
 And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa wove ; 
 
 One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise drew nigh ; 
 
 That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping from her eye. 
 
 ' No — no ! ' she sighs, — ' bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down, 
 
 To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town ! ' 
 
 ' Why rise ye not, Xarifa — nor lay your cushion down ? 
 Why gaze ye not, Xarifa — with all the gazing town ? 
 Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry ! 
 He stops at Zara's palace gate — why sit ye still — oh, why ? ' 
 
 ' At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate ; in him shall I discover 
 
 The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover ? 
 I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, 
 To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town ! ' 
 
Lara's laar^rtngs. 
 
 ' My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they 've dropped into the well, 
 And what to say to Muca, I cannot, cannot tell ; ' — 
 'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter — 
 ' The well is deep, — far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water 
 To me did Muca give them, when he spake his sad farewell, 
 And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell. 
 
 ' My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — they were pearls, in silver set. 
 That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget ; 
 
ZARA'S EAR-RINGS. 
 
 That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, 
 But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. 
 When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, 
 Oh ! what will Muca think of me ! — I cannot, cannot tell ! 
 
 ' My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! —he '11 say they should have been, 
 Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, 
 Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, 
 Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere ; 
 That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well ; 
 Thus will he think, — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell. 
 
 ' He '11 think, when I to market went, I loitered by the way ; 
 He '11 think, a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say ; 
 He '11 think, some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed, 
 From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl unloosed ; 
 He '11 think, when I was sporting so beside this marble well, 
 My pearls fell in, — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell. 
 
 ' He '11 say, I am a woman, and we are all the same ; 
 He '11 say, I loved, when he was here, to whisper of his flame, — 
 But, when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken, 
 And thought no more of Muca, and cared not for his token. 
 My ear-rings ! my ear-rings : oh ! luckless, luckless well, 
 For what to say to Muca, — alas ! I cannot tell. 
 
 mm 
 
ZARA'S EAR-RINGS. 
 
 ' I '11 tell the truth to Muca,— and I hope he will believe, — 
 That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve : 
 That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, 
 His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone ; 
 And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell, 
 And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well !' 
 
 : ®<sf 
 
 m I 
 
ho/ 
 
 -ni 
 
 €i)t Hamentatton for (Mm. 
 
 At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred, 
 
 At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard ; 
 
 There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, 
 
 And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe ! 
 
 ' What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing ? 
 
 ' A tower is fallen, a star is set! — Alas ! alas for Celin !' 
 
 Three times they knock, three times they cry,— and wide the doors they throw, 
 
 Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go ; 
 
 In gloomy lines they mustering stand, beneath the hollow porch, 
 
 Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch ; 
 
 Wet is each eye as ihey go by, and all around is wailing, 
 
 For all have heard the misery. — 'Alas! alas for Celin !' 
 
 Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood, — 
 'Twas at the solemn jousting — around the nobles stood; 
 The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair 
 Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share ; 
 But now the nobles all lament — the ladies are bewailing — 
 For he was Granada's darling knight. — 'Alas! alas for Celin !' 
 
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, 
 Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale ; 
 When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing, 
 And all the people, far and near, cry — ' Alas ! alas for Celin ! ' 
 
 Oh ! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, 
 
 The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all ; 
 
 His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale, 
 
 The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail ; 
 
 And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing, 
 
 Its sound is like no earthly sound — * Alas ! alas for Celin ! ' 
 
 The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, — the Moor stands at his door ; 
 One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore ; 
 Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew 
 Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and blue ; 
 Before each gate the bier stands still, — then bursts the loud bewailing, 
 From door and lattice, high and low — ' Alas ! alas for Celin ! ' 
 
 An old old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry, — 
 Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye : 
 'T was she that nursed him at her breast, — that nursed him long ago ; 
 She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know ! 
 With one deep shriek, she thro' doth break, when her ears receive their wailing : 
 ' Let me kiss my Celin ere I die — Alas ! alas for Celin !' 
 
Eí)e ífloor aialagno». 
 
 N the following version, I have taken liberty to omit many 
 of the introductory stanzas of the famous Coplas de Calaínos. 
 The reader will remember that this ballad is alluded to in 
 Don Quixote, where the knight's nocturnal visit to Toboso 
 is described. It is generally believed to be among the most 
 ancient, and certainly was among the most popular, of all 
 the ballads in the Cancionero. 
 
 ' I had six Moorish nurses, but the seventh was not a Moor, — 
 The Moors they gave me milk enow, but the Christian gave me lore ; 
 And she told me ne'er to listen, though sweet the words might be, 
 Till he that spake had proved his troth, and pledged a gallant fee.' 
 
 ' Fair damsel,' quoth Calaynos, ' if thou wilt go with me, 
 Say what may win thy favour, and mine that gift shall be : 
 Fair stands the castle on the rock, the city in the vale, 
 And bonny is the red red gold, and rich the silver pale.' 
 
 I 
 
she, ' virginity I never will lay down 
 for silver, for castle, nor for town ; 
 But I will be your leman for the heads of certain peers ; 
 And I ask but three — Rinaldo's, Roland's, and Olivier's.' — 
 
 He kissed her hand where she did stand, he kissed her lips also, 
 And ' Bring forth,' he cries, ' my pennon, for to Paris I must go !' 
 I wot ye saw them rearing his banner broad right soon, 
 Whereon revealed his bloody field its pale and crescent moon. 
 
 That broad bannere the Moor did rear, ere many days were gone, 
 In foul disdain of Charlemagne, by the church of good Saint John ; 
 In the midst of stately Paris, on the royal banks of Seine, 
 Shall never scornful Paynim that pennon rear again. 
 
 His banner he hath planted high, and loud his trumpet blown, 
 That all the twelve might hear it well around King Charles's throne ; 
 The note he blew right well they knew ; both paladin and peer 
 Had the trumpet heard of that stern lord in many a fierce career. 
 
 It chanced the King, that fair morning, to the chase had made him bowne, 
 With many a knight of warlike might, and prince of high renown : 
 Sir Reynold of Montalban, and Claros' lord, Gaston, 
 Behind him rode, and Bertram good, that reverend old baron. 
 
c 
 
 Black D'Ardennes' eye of mastery in that proud troop was seen, 
 And there was Urgel's giant force, and Guarinos' princely mien ; 
 Gallant and gay upon that day was Baldwin's youthful cheer, 
 But first did ride, by Charles's side, Roland and Olivier. 
 
 Now in a ring, around the King, not far in the greenwood, 
 
 Awaiting all the huntsman's call, it chanced the nobles stood ; 
 
 ' Now list, mine earls, now list!' quoth Charles, 'yon breeze will come again, — 
 
 Some trumpet-note methinks doth float from the fair bank of Seine.' 
 
 He scarce had heard the trumpet, the word he scarce had said, 
 
 When among the trees he near him sees a dark and turbaned head ; 
 
 4 Now stand, now stand at my command, bold Moor !' quoth Charlemagne ; 
 
 4 That turban green, how dare it be seen among the woods of Seine V 
 
 4 My turban green must needs be seen among the woods of Seine,' 
 The Moor replied, ' since here I ride in quest of Charlemagne ; 
 For I serve the Moor Calaynos, and I his defiance bring 
 To every lord that sits at the board of Charlemagne your King. 
 
 4 Now lordlings fair, if anywhere in the wood ye 've seen him riding, 
 Oh, tell me plain the path he has ta'en, — there is no cause for chiding ; 
 For my lord hath blown his trumpet by every gate of Paris, 
 Long hours in vain, by the bank of Seine, upon his steed he tarries.' — 
 
 <*► iíi ^ 
 
When the Emperour had heard the Moor, full red was his old cheek : 
 ' Go back, base cur, upon the spur, for I am he you seek : — 
 Go back, and tell your master to commend him to Mahoun, 
 For his soul shall dwell with him in hell, or ere yon sun go down ! 
 
 ' Mine arm is weak, my hairs are grey' (thus spake King Charlemagne), 
 ' Would for one hour I had the power of my young days again ; 
 As when 1 plucked the Saxon from out his mountain-den, 
 Oh, soon should cease the vaunting of this proud Saracen ! 
 
 ' Though now mine arm be weakened, though now my hairs be grey, 
 The hard-won praise of other days cannot be swept away ; 
 If shame there be, my liegemen, that shame on you must lie ; 
 Go forth, go forth, good Roland ; to-night this Moor must die !' 
 
 Then out and spake rough Roland—' Ofttimes I 've thinned the ranks 
 Of the hot Moor, and when 't was o'er have won me little thanks ; 
 Some carpet knight will take delight to do this doughty feat, 
 Whom damsels gay shall well repay with smiles and whispers sweet!' 
 
 Then out and spake Sir Baldwin— the youngest peer was he — 
 The youngest and the comeliest — ' Let none go forth but me ; 
 Sir Roland is mine uncle, and he may in safety jeer, 
 But I will shew the youngest maybe Sir Roland's peer.' 
 
' Nay, go not thou,' quoth Charlemagne, ' thou art my gallant youth, 
 And braver none I look upon ; but thy cheek it is too smooth ; 
 And the curls upon thy forehead they are too glossy bright ; 
 Some elder peer must couch his spear against this crafty knight.' — 
 
 But away, away goes Baldwin, no words can stop him now ; 
 Behind him lies the greenwood, he hath gained the mountain's brow ; 
 He reineth first his charger, within the churchyard green, 
 Where, striding slow the elms below, the haughty Moor is seen. 
 
 Then out and spake Calaynos, — ' Fair youth, I greet thee well ; 
 Thou art a comely stripling, and if thou with me wilt dwell, 
 All for the grace of thy sweet face, thou shalt not lack thy fee, 
 Within my lady's chamber a pretty page thou 'It be.' — 
 
 An angry man was Baldwin, when thus he heard him speak : 
 
 ' Proud knight,' quoth he, ' I come with thee a bloody spear to break! 
 
 Oh, sternly smiled Calaynos, when thus he heard him say : 
 
 Oh, loudly as he mounted his mailed barb did neigh. 
 
 One shout, one thrust, and in the dust young Baldwin lies full low ; 
 No youthful knight could bear the might of that fierce warrior's blow : 
 Calaynos draws his faulchion, and waves it to and fro : 
 ' Thy name now say, and for mercy pray, or to hell thy soul must go !' 
 
1 
 
 The helpless youth revealed the truth : then said the conquerour, — 
 ' I spare thee for thy tender years, and for thy great valour ; 
 But thou must rest thee captive here, and serve me on thy knee, 
 For fain I 'd tempt some doughtier peer to come and rescue thee.' — 
 
 Sir Roland heard that haughty word (he stood behind the wall ) ; 
 His heart I trow, was heavy enow, when he saw his kinsman fall ; 
 But now his heart was burning, and never word he said, 
 But clasped his buckler on his arm, his helmet on his head. 
 
 Another sight saw the Moorish knight, when Roland blew his horn, 
 To call him to the combat in anger and in scorn ; 
 All cased in steel from head to heel, in the stirrup high he stood, 
 The long spear quivered in his hand, as if athirst for blood. 
 
 Then out and spake Calaynos, — ' Thy name I fain would hear ; 
 
 A coronet on thy helm is set ; I guess thou art a peer.' — 
 
 Sir Roland lifted up his horn, and blew another blast : 
 
 ' No words, base Moor ! ' quoth Roland, ' this hour shall be thy last ! 
 
 I wot they met full swiftly, I wot the shock was rude ; 
 Down fell the misbeliever, and o'er him Roland stood ; 
 Close to his throat the steel he brought, and plucked his beard full sore 
 ' What devil brought thee hither ? — speak out or die, false Moor !' 
 
THE MOOR CALAYNOS. 
 
 ' Oh ! I serve a noble damsel, a haughty maid of Spain, 
 And in evil day I took my way, that I her grace might gain ; 
 For every gift I offered my lady did disdain, 
 
 And craved the ears of certain peers that ride with Charlemagne.' 
 
 Then loudly laughed rough Roland : — ' Full few will be her tears, 
 It was not love her soul did move, who bade thee beard the peers 
 With that he smote upon his throat, and spurned his crest in twain 
 , No more,' he cries, ' this moon will rise above the woods of Seine 
 
&f)e ISscape of ©agfrtm 
 
 HE story of Gayfer de Bourdeaux is to be found at 
 W/r^ great length in the Romantic Chronicle of Charle- 
 
 magne ; and it has supplied the Spanish minstrels 
 with subjects for a long series of ballads. In that 
 which follows, Gayferos, yet a boy, is represented as 
 hearing from his mother the circumstances of his 
 father's death ; and as narrowly escaping with his own life, in conse- 
 quence of his step-father, Count Galvan's cruelty. 
 
 There is another ballad which represents Gayferos, now grown to be 
 a man, as coining in the disguise of a pilgrim to his mother's house, and 
 slaying his step-father with his own hand. The Countess is only satisfied 
 as to his identity by the circumstance of the finger : — 
 
 ' El dedo bien es aqueste, aquí lo vereys faltar 
 La condesa que esto oyera empezóle de abrapar.' 
 
 Before her knee the boy did stand, within the dais so fair, 
 The golden shears were in her hand, to clip his curléd hair ; 
 And ever, as she clipped the curls, such doleful words she spake, 
 That tears ran from Gayferos' eyes, for his sad mother's sake. 
 
 ' God grant a beard were on thy face, and strength thine arm within, 
 To fling a spear, or swing a mace, like Roland Paladin ! 
 For then, I think, thou wouldst avenge thy father that is dead, 
 Whom envious traitors slaughtered within thy mother's bed ; 
 
 M\ ' » • • 
 
THE ESCAPE OP GAYFEROS. 
 
 ' Their bridal-gifts were rich and rare, that hate might not be seen ; 
 They cut me garments broad and fair — none fairer hath the Queen. '- 
 Then out and spake the little boy — ' Each night to God I call, 
 And to His blessed Mother, to make me strong and tall !' 
 
 The Count he heard Gayferos, in the palace where he lay : 
 ' Now silence, silence, Countess ! it is falsehood that you say ; 
 I neither slew the man, nor hired another's sword to slay ; 
 But, that the mother hath desired, be sure the son shall pay !' 
 
 The Count called to his esquires (old followers were they, 
 Whom the dead lord had nurtured for many a merry day) ; 
 He bade them take their old lord's heir, and stop his tender breath ; 
 Alas ! 't was piteous but to hear the manner of that death. 
 
 ' List, esquires, list, for my command is offspring of mine oath, 
 The stirrup-foot and the hilt-hand see that ye sunder both ; 
 That ye cut out his eyes 't were best — the safer he will go ; 
 And bring a finger and the heart, that I his end may know.' 
 
 The esquires took the little boy aside with them to go ; 
 Yet, as they went, they did repent — ' O God ! must this be so ? 
 How shall we think to look for grace, if this poor child we slay, 
 When ranged before Christ Jesu's face at the great judgment-day ?' 
 
THE ESCAPE OF GAYFEROS. 
 
 While they, not knowing what to do, were standing in such talk, 
 The Countess' little lap-dog bitch by chance did cross their walk ; 
 Then out and spake one of the 'squires (you may hear the words he said), 
 
 * I think the coming of this bitch may serve us in good stead ! 
 
 ' Let us take out the bitch's heart, and give it to Galvan ; 
 The boy may with a finger part, and be no worser man.' — 
 With that they cut the joint away, and whispered in his ear, 
 That he must wander many a day, nor once those parts come near. 
 
 * Your uncle grace and love will shew ; he is a bounteous man.' 
 And so they let Gayferos go, and turned them to Galvan ; 
 
 The heart and the small finger upon the board they laid, 
 And of Gayferos' slaughter a cunning story made. 
 
 The Countess, when she hears them, in great grief loudly cries : 
 Meantime the stripling safely unto his uncle hies : — 
 ( Now welcome, my fair boy,' he said, ' what good news may they be 
 Come with thee to thine uncle's hall V — ' Sad tidings come with me : — 
 
 ' The false Galvan had laid his plan to have me in my grave ; 
 But I 've escaped him, and am here, my boon from thee to crave 
 Rise up, rise up, mine uncle, thy brother's blood they 've shed ! 
 Rise up — they 've slain my father within my mother's bed!' 
 
he following is a version of another of the ballads concern- 
 ing Gayferos. It is the same that is quoted in the chapter 
 of the Puppet-show in Don Quixote. ' Now, sirs, he that 
 you see there a-horseback, wrapt up in the Gascoign-cloak, 
 is Don Gayferos himself, whom his wife, now revenged on 
 the Moor for his impudence, seeing from the battlements of 
 the tower, takes him for a stranger, and talks with him as such, according to 
 the ballad : — 
 
 ' Quoth Melisendra, if perchance, 
 Sir Traveller, you go for France,' &c. 
 
 The place of the lady's captivity was Saragossa, anciently called Sansueña. 
 
MM 
 Wmkm 
 
 At Sansuena, in the tower, fair Melisendra lies, 
 Her heart is far away in France, and tears are in her eyes 
 The twilight shade is thickening laid on Sansuena' s plain, 
 Yet wistfully the lady her weary eyes doth strain. 
 
 She gazes from the dungeon strong, forth on the road to Paris, 
 Weeping, and wondering why so long her lord Gayferos tarries ; 
 When lo ! a knight appears in view — a knight of Christian mien 
 Upon a milk-white charger he rides the elms between. 
 
MELISENDRA. 
 
 She from her window reaches forth her hand a sign to make : 
 ' Oh, if you be a knight of worth, draw near for mercy's sake ; 
 For mercy and sweet charity, draw near, Sir Knight to me, 
 And tell me if ye ride to France, or whither bowne ye be. 
 
 ' Oh, if ye be a Christian knight, and if to France you go, 
 I pray thee tell Guyferos that you have seen my woe ; 
 That you have seen me weeping, here in the Moorish tower, 
 While he is gay by night and day, in hall and lady's bower. 
 
 ' Seven summers have I waited — seven winters long are spent : 
 Yet word of comfort none he speaks, nor token hath he sent ; 
 And if he is weary of my love, and would have me wed a stranger, 
 Still say his love is true to him — nor time nor wrong can change her ! ' 
 
 The knight on stirrup rising, bids her wipe her tears away : 
 
 ' My love, no time for weeping, no peril save delay ; 
 
 Come, boldly spring, and lightly leap, — no listening Moor is near us, 
 
 And by dawn of day we '11 be far away :' — so spake the knight Guyferos. 
 
 She hath made the sign of the Cross divine, and an Ave she hath said, 
 And she dares the leap both wide and deep — that lady without dread ; 
 And he hath kissed her pale pale cheek, and lifted her behind : 
 Saint Denis speed the milk-white steed ! — no Moor their path shall find. 
 
HE following is an attempt to render one of the most ad- 
 mired of all the Spanish ballads. 
 
 ' En Paris esta Dona Alda, la esposa de Don Roldan, 
 Trecientas damas con ella, para la accompanár, 
 Todas visten un vestido, todas calcan un cale ar.' &c. 
 
 in its whole structure and strain, it bears a very remarkable resemblance to 
 several of our own old ballads, both English and Scottish. 
 
 In Paris sits the lady that shall be Sir Roland's bride, 
 
 Three hundred damsels with her, her bidding to abide ; 
 
 All clothed in the same fashion, both the mantle and the shoon, 
 
 All eating at one table, within her hall at noon : 
 
 All, save the Lady Alda, she is lady of them all, — 
 
 She keeps her place upon the dais, and they serve her in her hall ; 
 
 The thread of gold a hundred spin, the lawn a hundred weave, 
 
 And a hundred play sweet melody within Alda's bower at eve. 
 
THE LADY ALDA'S DREAM. 
 
 With the sound of their sweet playing, the lady falls asleep, 
 
 And she dreams a doleful dream, and her damsels hear her weep : 
 
 There is sorrow in her slumber, and she waketh with a cry, 
 
 And she calleth for her damsels, and swiftly they come nigh. 
 
 ' Now, what is it, Lady Alda' — (you may hear the words they say)- 
 
 ' Bringeth sorrow to thy pillow, and chaseth sleep away ?' 
 
 ' Oh, my maidens !' quoth the lady, ' my heart it is full sore ! 
 
 I have dreamt a dream of evil, and can slumber never more ! 
 
 ' For I was upon a mountain, in a bare and desert place, 
 And I saw a mighty eagle, and a falcon he did chase ; 
 And to me the falcon came, and I hid it in my breast ; 
 But the mighty bird, pursuing, came and rent away my vest ; 
 And he scattered all the feathers, and blood was on his beak, 
 And ever, as he tore and tore, I heard the falcon shriek. 
 Now read my vision, damsels, — now read my dream to me, 
 For my heart may well be heavy that doleful sight to see.' 
 
 Out spake the foremost damsel was in her chamber there — 
 (You may hear the words she says) — ' Oh ! my lady's dream is fair : 
 The mountain is St. Denis' choir, and thou the falcon art ; 
 And the eagle strong that teareth the garment from thy heart, 
 And scattereth the feathers, he is the Paladin, 
 
 That, when again he comes from Spain, must sleep thy bower within. 
 Then be blythe of cheer, my lady, for the dream thou must not grieve, 
 It means but that thy bridegroom shall come to thee at eve.' 
 
THE LADY ALDA'S DREAM. 
 
 ' If thou hast read my vision, and read it cunningly,' 
 
 Thus said the Lady Alda, ' thou shalt not lack thy fee.' — 
 
 But woe is me for Alda ! there was heard, at morning hour, 
 
 A voice of lamentation within that lady's bower ; 
 
 For there had come to Paris a messenger by night, 
 
 And his horse it was a-weary, and his visage it was white ; 
 
 And there 's weeping in the chamber, and there 's silence in the hall, 
 
 For Sir Roland has been slaughtered in the chase of Roncesval. 
 
His is a translation of the ballad which Don Quixote and 
 Sancho Panza, when at Toboso, overheard a peasant singing, 
 as he was going to his work at daybreak. ' Iba cantando,' 
 says Cervantes, ' aquel romance que dice, 
 
 ' Mala la vistes Franceses la caca de Roncesvalles.' 
 
 1 
 
 The day of Roncesvalles was a dismal day for you, 
 
 Ye men of France, for there the lance of King Charles was broke in two 
 Ye well may curse that rueful field, for many a noble peer, 
 In fray or fight, the dust did bite, beneath Bernardo's spear. 
 
 There captured was Guarinos, King Charles's admiral ; 
 Seven Moorish kings surrounded him, and seized him for their thrall ; 
 Seven times, when all the chace was o'er, for Guarinos lots they cast ; 
 Seven times Marlotes won the throw, and the knight was his at last. 
 
3»^ 
 
 THE ADMIRAL GUARINOS. 
 
 Much joy had then Marlotes, and his captive much did prize ; 
 Above all the wealth of Araby, he was precious in his eyes. 
 Within his tent at evening he made the best of cheer, 
 And thus, the banquet done, he spake unto his prisoner. 
 
 '4 
 
 ' Now, for the sake of Alia, Lord Admiral Guarinos, 
 Be thou a Moslem, and much love shall ever rest between us : 
 Two daughters have I, — all the day thy handmaid one shall be, 
 The other (and the fairer far) by night shall cherish thee. 
 
 ' The one shall be thy waiting-maid, thy weary feet to lave, 
 To scatter perfumes on thy head, and fetch thee garments brave ; 
 The other — she the pretty — shall deck her bridal-bower, 
 And my field and my city they both shall be her dower. 
 
 ' If more thou wishest, more I '11 give ; speak boldly what thy thought is ;' 
 Thus earnestly and kindly to Guarinos said Marlotes : 
 But not a moment did he take to ponder or to pause, 
 Thus clear and quick the answer of the Christian Captain was : — 
 
 ' Now, God forbid ! Marlotes, and Mary, his dear mother, 
 That I should leave the faith of Christ, and bind me to another : 
 For women — I 've one wife in France, and I '11 wed no more in Spain ; 
 I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy or gain.' 
 
 3 
 
 ' . 1 .. 
 
Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he heard him say, 
 And all for ire commanded, he should be led away ; 
 Away unto the dungeon-keep, beneath its vaults to lie, 
 With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and sky. 
 
 With iron bands they bound his hands : that sore unworthy plight 
 Might well express his helplessness, doomed never more to fight. 
 Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts of iron he bore, 
 Which signified the knight should ride on charger never more. 
 
 Three times alone, in all the year, it is the captive's doom 
 To see God's daylight bright and clear, instead of dungeon gloom : 
 Three times alone they bring him out, like Sampson long ago, 
 Before the Moorish rabble-rout to be a sport and show. 
 
 On three high feasts they bring him forth, a spectacle to be, — 
 The feast of Pasque, and the great day of the Nativity, 
 And on that morn, more solemn yet, when maidens strip the bowers, 
 And gladden mosque and minaret with the firstlings of the flowers. 
 
 Days come and go of gloom and show : seven years are come and gone 
 And now doth fall the festival of the holy Baptist John ; 
 Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give it homage due, 
 And rushes on the paths to spread they force the sulky Jew. 
 
Marlotes, in his joy and pride, a target high doth rear — 
 Below the Moorish knights must ride, and pierce it with the spear ; 
 But 't is so high up in the sky, albeit much they strain, 
 No Moorish lance so far may fly, Marlotes' prize to gain. 
 
 Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld them fail ; 
 
 The whisker trembled on his lip, — his cheek for ire was pale ; 
 
 And heralds proclamation made, with trumpets, through the town, — 
 
 ' Nor child shall suck, nor man shall eat, till the mark be tumbled down. 
 
 3 
 
 The cry of proclamation, and the trumpet's haughty sound, 
 
 Did send an echo to the vault where the Admiral was bound. 
 
 ' Now, help me God!' the captive cries, 'what means this din so loud? 
 
 O Queen of Heaven ! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud ! 
 
 ' Oh ! is it that some Pagan gay doth Marlotes' daughter wed, 
 
 And that they bear my scorned fair in triumph to his bed ? 
 
 Or is it that the day is come, — one of the hateful three,' — 
 
 When they, with trumpet, fife, and drum, make heathen game of me V 
 
 These words the jailer chanced to hear, and thus to him he said, 
 ' These tabours, Lord, and trumpets clear, conduct no bride to bed ; 
 Nor has the feast come round again, when he that has the right 
 Commands thee forth, thou foe of Spain, to glad the people's sight ! 
 
' This is the joyful morning of John the Baptist's day, 
 When Moor and Christian feasts at home, each in his nation's way ; 
 But now our King commands that none his banquet shall begin, 
 Until some knight, by strength or sleight, the spearman's prize do win. 
 
 Then out and spake Guarinos, ' Oh ! soon each man should feed, 
 Were I but mounted once again on my own gallant steed : 
 Oh ! were I mounted as of old, and harnessed cap-a-pee, 
 Full soon Marlotes' prize I 'd hold, whate'er its price may be ! 
 
 ' Give me my horse, mine old grey horse, so be he is not dead, 
 All gallantly caparisoned, with plate on breast and head, 
 And give the lance I brought from France ; and if I win it not, 
 My life shall be the forfeiture, — I '11 yield it on the spot.' 
 
 The jailer wondered at his words : thus to the knight said he, 
 ' Seven weary years of chains and gloom have little humbled thee : 
 There 's never a man in Spain, I trow, the like so well might bear 
 And if thou wilt, I with thy vow will to the King repair.' 
 
 The jailer put his mantle on, and came unto the King, 
 He found him sitting on the throne, within his listed ring ; 
 Close to his ear he planted him, and the story did begin, 
 How bold Guarinos vaunted him the spearman's prize to win. 
 
 Of 
 
That, were he mounted but once more on his own gallant grey, 
 And arméd with the lance he bore on Roncesvalles' day, 
 What never Moorish knight could pierce, he would pierce it at a blow, 
 Or give with joy his life-blood fierce, at Marlotes' feet to flow. 
 
 4 
 
 1 
 
 Much marvelling, then said the King, — ' Bring Sir Guarinos forth, 
 And in the grange go seek ye for his grey steed of worth ; 
 His arms are rusty on the wall, — seven years have gone, I judge, 
 Since that strong horse has bent his force to be a carrion drudge ; 
 
 ' Now this will be a sight indeed, to see the enfeebled lord 
 Essay to mount that ragged steed, and draw that rusty sword ; 
 And for the. vaunting of his phrase he well deserves to die, 
 So, jailer, gird his harness on, and bring your champion nigh.' 
 
 They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they 've clasped. 
 And they've barred the helm on his visage pale, and his hand the lance hath grasped, 
 And they have caught the old grey horse, the horse he loved of yore, 
 And he stands pawing at the gate — caparisoned once more. 
 
 When the knight came out, the Moors did shout, and loudly laughed the King, 
 For the horse he pranced and capered, and furiously did fling ; 
 But Guarinos whispered in his ear, and looked into his face, 
 Then stood the old charger like a lamb, with a calm and gentle grace. 
 
HMHl. ' ' - -aw MWIillMlBlMI 
 
THE ADMIRAL GUARINOS. 
 
 Oh ! lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree, 
 And slowly riding down made halt before Marlotes' knee ; 
 Again the heathen laughed aloud, — ' All hail, sir knight,' quoth he, 
 ' Now do thy best, thou champion proud : thy blood I look to see !' 
 
 With that, Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rode, 
 Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down his turban trode 
 Now ride, now ride, Guarinos — nor lance nor rowel spare — 
 Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life : the land of France lies there ! 
 
1^ 
 
 Cíje Haüg of tfje &m. 
 
 HE following is one of the few old Spanish ballads in which 
 mention is made of the Fairies. The sleeping child's being 
 taken away from the arms of the nurse, is a circumstance 
 quite in accordance with our own tales of Fairyland ; but 
 the seven years' enchantment in the tree reminds us more 
 of those oriental fictions, the influence of which has stamped so many indelible 
 traces on the imaginative literature of Spain. 
 
 The knight had hunted long, and twilight closed the day, 
 His hounds were weak and weary,— his hawk had flown away ; 
 He stopped beneath an oak, an old and mighty tree, 
 Then out the maiden spoke, and a comely maid was she. 
 
THE LADY OF THE TREE. 
 
 The knight 'gan lift his eye the shady boughs between ; 
 She had her seat on high, among the oak leaves green ; 
 Her golden curls lay clustering above her breast of snow, 
 But when the breeze was westering, upon it they did flow. 
 
 ' Oh, fear not, gentle knight ! there is no cause for fear ; 
 I am a good king's daughter, long years enchanted here ; 
 Seven cruel fairies found me, — they charmed a sleeping child ; 
 Seven years their charm hath bound me, a damsel undefiled. 
 
 ' Seven weary years are gone since o'er me charms they threw 
 I have dwelt here alone, — I have seen none but you. 
 My seven sad years are spent; — for Christ that died on rood, 
 Thou noble knight consent, and lead me from the wood ! 
 
 ' Oh, bring me forth again from out this darksome place ! 
 I dare not sleep for terror of the unholy race. 
 Oh, take me, gentle sir! I '11 be a wife to thee, — 
 I '11 be thy lowly leman, if wife I may not be !' — 
 
 ' Till dawns the morning, wait, thou lovely lady ! here ; 
 I'll ask my mother straight, for her reproof I fear.' 
 ' Oh, ill beseems thee knight !' said she, that maid forlorn, 
 ' The blood of kings to slight, — a lady's tears to scorn !' 
 
 He came when morning broke, to fetch the maid away, 
 But could not find the oak wherein she made her stay; 
 
THE LADY OF THE TREE. 
 
 All through the wilderness he sought in bower and tree 
 Fair lordlings, well ye guess what weary heart had he ! 
 
 There came a sound of voices from up the forest glen, 
 The King had come to find her with all his gentlemen ; 
 They rode in mickle glee — a joyous cavalcade — 
 Fair in the midst rode she, but never word she said, 
 
 Though on the green he knelt, no look on him she cast- 
 His hand was on the hilt ere all the train was past, 
 ' Oh shame to knightly blood! Oh, scorn to chivalry! 
 1 '11 die within the wood; — No eye my death shall see !' 
 
HE ballad of the Infante Vengador is proved to be of very 
 high antiquity by certain particulars in its language. The 
 circumstance of the tiled floor, and some others of the same 
 sort, will not escape the notice of the antiquarian reader. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! avoid the way of the Avenging Childe ; 
 His horse is swift as sands that drift, — an Arab of the wild ; 
 His gown is twisted round his arm, — a ghastly cheek he wears ; 
 And in his hand, for deadly harm, a hunting knife he bears. 
 
 Avoid that knife in battle-strife : — that weapon short and thin, 
 The dragon's gore hath bathed it o'er, seven times 'twas steeped therein 
 Seven times the smith hath proved its pith, — it cuts a coulter through 
 In France the blade was fashioned, — from Spain the shaft it drew. 
 
 He sharpens it, as he doth ride, upon his saddle bow, — 
 He sharpens it on either side, he makes the steel to glow : 
 He rides to find Don Quadros, that false and faitour knight ; 
 His glance of ire is hot as fire, although his cheek be white. 
 
 Of* 
 
THE AVENGING CHILDE. 
 
 He found him standing by the King within the judgment-hall ; 
 He rushed within the barons' ring, — he stood before them all : 
 Seven times he gazed and pondered, if he the deed should do ; 
 Eight times distraught he looked and thought — then out his dagger 
 flew. 
 
 He stabbed therewith at Quadros : — the King did step between ; . 
 It pierced his royal garment of purple wove with green : 
 He fell beneath the canopy, upon the tiles he lay. 
 ' Thou traitor keen, what dost thou mean ? — thy King why wouldst 
 thou slay ?' 
 
 ' Now, pardon, pardon,' cried the Childe, ' I stabbed not, King, at thee. 
 But him, that caitiff, blood defiled, who stood beside thy knee ; 
 Eight brothers were we, — in the land might none more loving be, — 
 They all are slain by Quadros' hand, — they all are dead but me ! 
 
 ' Good King, I fain would wash the stain, — for vengeance is my cry ; 
 This murderer with sword and spear to battle I defy !' — 
 But all took part with Quadros, except one lovely May, — 
 Except the King's fair daughter, none word for him would say. 
 
 She took their hands, she led them forth into the court below ; 
 She bade the ring be guarded, — she bade the trumpet blow ; 
 From lofty place for that stern race the signal she did throw : — 
 ' With truth and right the Lord will fight, — together let them go.' 
 
 ÉÉlr 
 
THE AVENGING CHILDE. 
 
 The one is up, the other down : the hunter's knife is bare ; 
 It cuts the laee beneath the face, — it cuts through beard and hair ; 
 Right soon that knife hath quenched his life, the head is sundered sheer 
 Then gladsome smiled the Avenging Childe, and fixed it on his spear. 
 
 But when the King beholds him bring that token of his truth, 
 Nor scorn nor wrath his bosom hath : — ' Kneel down, thou noble youth ; 
 Kneel down, kneel down, and kiss my crown, I am no more thy foe ; 
 My daughter now may pay the vow she plighted long ago !' 
 
 m 
 
££ong for tfje iB owing 
 al tf)t 
 
 Bag of Saint 3foJm tfje iSapttst. 
 
 HE Marquis du Palmy said, many years ago, in his inge- 
 nious essay, ' Sur la vie privée des Francois,' — ' Les feux 
 de la Saint Jean, fondés sur ce qu'on lit dans le Nouveau 
 Testament (St. Luc. i., 14), que les nations se réjouirent a la 
 naissance de Saint Jean, sont presque eteints par tout.' 
 Both in the northern and the southern parts of Europe, 
 =-l there prevailed of old a superstitious custom, of which the 
 traces probably linger to this day in many simple districts. The young women 
 rose on this sacred morning ere the sun was up, and collected garlands of flowers, 
 which they bound upon their heads; and according as the dew remained upon 
 these a longer or a shorter time, they augured more or less favourably of the 
 constancy of their lovers. 
 
 Another ceremony was to enclose a wether in a hut of heath, and dance and 
 sing round it, while she who desired to have her fortune told stood by the door. 
 If the wether remained still, the omen was good. If he pushed his horns through 
 the frail roof or door, then the lover was false-hearted. 
 
 That the day of the Baptist was a great festival among the Spanish Moors, 
 the reader may gather from many passages in the foregoing ballads, particularly 
 that of "The Admiral Guarinos." There are two in the Cancionero, which shew 
 
 w 
 
SONG FOR THE MORNING OF THE DAY OF ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. 
 
 that some part at least of the amorous superstitions of the day were also shared 
 by them. One of them begins — 
 
 ' La mañana de San Juan, salen a coger guirnaldas, 
 Zara muger del Rey Chico, con sus mas queridas damas :' &c. 
 
 The other, — 
 
 ' La mañana de San Juan, a punta que alboreava, 
 Gran fiesta hazen los Moros por la vega de Granada, 
 Rebolviendo sus cavallos, y jugando con las lanzas, 
 Ricos pendones en ellas, labrados por las amadas. 
 ****** 
 
 El moro que amores tiene, señales dellos monstrava, 
 Y el que amiga no tenia, allí no escaramucava,' SfC. 
 
 The following song is one that used to be sung by the Spanish country-girls, 
 as they went out to gather their dew and their flowers, on St. John's day in the 
 morning. There are many of the same kind ; such as that beginning — 
 
 ' Este dia de San Juan 
 Ay de mi ! 
 
 Que no solia ser ansi !' &c. 
 
 And that other, — 
 
 ' Yo no me pome guirnalda 
 La mañana de San Juan, 
 Pues mis amores se van,' &c. 
 
FOR n, e 
 
 V^if^^T^^^^V^' 11 ^^^^^ " "^' r °' JUI ~ m ' riE BAPTIST^ 
 
 |£ Come forth, come forth, my maidens, 'tis the day of good St. John, — ^^sl 
 || It is the Baptist's morning that breaks the hills upon ; "¿¡fr 
 I And let us all go forth together, while the blessed day is new, v _ 
 5, To dress with flowers the snow-white wether, ere the sun has dried the dew. 
 
 Come forth, come forth, &c. 
 
 ML - ^ 
 
 K' Come forth, come forth, my maidens, the woodlands all are green, $ 
 ipr" And the little birds are singing the opening leaves between ; . 
 jgj And let us all go forth together, to gather trefoil by the stream,^ 
 fh Ere the face of Guidalquiver glows beneath the strengtheningbeam 
 
 ¡jS? Come forth, come forth, &c £g 
 
S0N3 FOR THE MORNING OF THE DAY OF ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. 
 
 9') ñ 
 
 v ^ 
 
 Come forth, come forth, my maidens, and slumber not away 
 
 The blessed blessed morning of the holy Baptist's day ; 
 
 There 's trefoil on the meadow, and lilies on the lee, 
 
 And hawthorn blossoms on the bush, which you must pluck with me. 
 
 Come forth, come forth, my maidens, the air is calm and cool, 
 And the violet blue far down ye '11 view, reflected in the pool ; 
 The violets and the roses, and the jasmines all together, 
 We '11 bind in garlands on the brow of the strong and lovely wether. 
 
 Come forth, come forth, my maidens, we '11 gather myrtle boughs, 
 And we shall learn from the dews of the fern, if our lads will keep their vows : 
 If the wether be still, as we dance on the hill, and the dew hangs sweet on 
 the flowers, 
 
 Then we '11 kiss off the dew, for our lovers are true, and the Baptist's blessing 
 is ours. 
 
 Come forth, corns forth, my maidens, 't is the day of good St. John, 
 
 It is the Baptist's morning that breaks the hills upon ; 
 
 And let us all go forth together, while the blessed day is new, 
 
 To'dress with flowers the snow-white wether, ere the sun has dried the dew. 
 
 «■■'XI 
 
Sultana. 
 
 HE following ballad is inserted in this place on account of 
 an allusion it contains to the ancient custom which forms 
 the subject of the preceding one. It seems to represent the 
 frenzy of a Spanish knight, who has gone mad, in conse- 
 quence of his mistress having been carried off in the course 
 of a Moorish foray. 
 
 'Arriba! canes, arriba! que rabia mala os mate, 
 En jueves matays el puerco, y en viernes comeys la carne,' &c. 
 
 ' Off ! off! ye hounds ! — in madness an ill death be your doom ! 
 The boar ye killed on Thursday on Friday ye consume! 
 Ay me ! and it is now seven years I in this valley go ; 
 Barefoot I wander, and the blood from out my nails doth flow. 
 
 ' I eat the raw flesh of the boar, — I drink his red blood here, 
 Seeking, with heavy heart and sore, my princess and my dear 
 'Twas on the Baptist's morning the Moors my princess found, 
 While she was gathering roses upon her father's ground.' 
 
JULIANA. 
 
 Fair Juliana heard his voice where by the Moor she lay, 
 Even in the Moor's encircling arms she heard what he did say ; 
 The lady listened, and she wept within that guarded place, — 
 While her Moor lord beside her slept, the tears fell on his face. 
 
V 
 
 C5 
 
 THE SONG OF THE GALLEY. 
 
 \ 
 
 33 
 
 ' The wind is blowing strong, 
 The breeze will aid your oars ; 
 
 Oh, swiftly fly along ! 
 
 For he lies among the Moors ! 
 
 ' The sweet breeze of the sea 
 Cools every cheek but mine ; 
 
 Hot is its breath to me, 
 
 As I gaze upon the brine. 
 
 ' Lift up, lift up your sail ! 
 
 And bend upon your oars ; 
 Oh, lose not the fair gale, 
 
 For he lies among the Moors ! 
 
 ' It is a narrow strait, 
 
 I see the blue hills over ; 
 
 Your coming I '11 await, 
 
 And thank you for my lover. 
 
 ' To Mary I will pray, 
 
 While ye bend upon your oars ; 
 'T will be a blessed day, 
 
 If ye fetch him from the Moors ! 
 
 V 
 
 C5 
 
Efje ©aptíbe ISntgíjt anti tlje SSiacfcíiirtJ. 
 
 HE following is a translation of a ballad in the Cancionero 
 of Antwerp, 1555. 
 
 ' Pues el mes era de Mayo,' &c. 
 
 There is one in the Cancionero General of Valencia, 
 1511, of which this would seem to have been no more than 
 an expansion. The older is perhaps the finer of the two. It is, at all events, 
 so short, that I shall transcribe it. 
 
 ' Que por Mayo era por Mayo, 
 Cuando los blandos calores, 
 Cuando los enamorados 
 Van a servir sus amores ; 
 Sino yo, triste Mezquino, 
 Que yago en estas prisiones, 
 Que ni se cuando es de dia 
 Ni menos cuando es de Noche , 
 Sino por una avecilla 
 Que me cantaba al albore. — 
 Matomela un ballestero 
 Dele Dios mal galardone !' 
 
' 'T is now, they say, the month of May,— 'tis now the moons are bright ; 
 'T is now the maids, 'mong greenwood shades, sit with their loves by night ; 
 'T is now the hearts of lovers true are glad the groves among ; 
 'T is now they sit the long night through, and list the thrush's song. 
 
 ' Woe dwells with me, in spite of thee, thou gladsome month of May ! 
 I cannot see what stars there be, I know not night from day : 
 There was a bird, whose voice I heard, — oh ! sweet my small bird sung, — 
 I heard its tune when night was gone, and up the morning sprung. 
 
THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT AND THE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 ' To comfort me in darkness bound, comes now no voice of cheer ; 
 Long have I listened for the sound, there is no bird to hear : 
 Sweet bird ! he had a cruel heart, whose steel thy bosom tore ; 
 A ruffian hand discharged the dart, that makes thee sing no more. 
 
 ' I am the vassal of my King, — it never shall be said 
 
 That I even hence a curse could fling against my liege's head ; 
 
 But if the jailer slew the merle, no sin is in my word, 
 
 God look in anger on the churl that harmed my harmless bird ! 
 
 ' Oh, should some kindly Christian bring another bird to me, 
 Thy tune I in his ear would sing, till he could sing like thee ; 
 But were a dove within my choice, my song would soon be o'er, 
 For he would understand my voice, and fly to Leonore. 
 
 ' He would fly swiftly through the air, and though he could not speak, 
 He 'd ask a file, which he could bear within his little beak ; 
 Had I a file, these fetters vile I from my wrist would break, 
 And see right soon the fair May moon shine on my lady's cheek.' 
 
 It chanced while a poor captive knight, within yon dungeon strong, 
 Lamented thus the arrow's flight that stopped his blackbird's song, 
 (Unknown to him) the King was near : he heard him through the wall ; 
 ' Nay, since he has no merle to hear, 't is time his fetters fall.* 
 
[This is a translation from one of the ballads in Sepulveda's collection 
 (Antwerp, 1580) ; the author's name unknown — 
 
 ' En los tempos que me vi,' &c. p. 219.] 
 
 My heart was happy when I turned from Burgos to Valladolid ; 
 
 My heart that day was light and gay, — it bounded like a kid : 
 
 I met a Palmer on the way, my horse he bade me rein : 
 
 ' I left Valladolid to-day, I bring thee news of pain ! 
 
 The lady-love whom thou dost seek in gladness and in cheer, 
 
 Closed is her eye, and cold her cheek : I saw her on her bier. 
 
o 
 
 VALLADOLID. 
 
 ' The priests went singing of the mass,— my voice their song did aid 
 
 A hundred knights with them did pass to the burial of the maid ; 
 
 And damsels fair went weeping there, and many a one did say, 
 
 Poor cavalier! he is not here — 'tis well he's far away.' — 
 
 I fell when thus I heard him speak, — upon the dust I lay, 
 
 I thought my heart would surely break, — I wept for half a day. 
 
 When evening came I rose again, the Palmer held my steed ; 
 
 And swiftly rode I o'er the plain to dark Valladolid : 
 
 I came unto the sepulchre where they my love had laid, — 
 
 I bowed me down beside the bier, and there my moan I made : 
 
 ' Oh, take me, take me to thy bed, I fain would sleep with thee 
 
 My love is dead, my hope is fled, — there is no joy for me !' 
 
 I heard a sweet voice from the tomb, — I heard her voice so clear,— 
 ' Rise up, rise up, my knightly love ! thy weeping well I hear ; 
 Rise up and leave this darksome place, — it is no place for thee, 
 God yet will send thee helpful grace, in love and chivalry ; 
 Though in the grave my bed I have, for thee my heart is sore, — 
 'Twill ease my heart if thou depart, — thy peace may God restore !' 
 
IBragut, fyt (Korsatr. 
 
 [This celebrated corsair became ultimately High Admiral of the Turkish fleet, 
 and was slain at the great siege of Malta, A.D. 1565.] 
 
 Oh, swiftly, very swiftly, they up the Straits have gone, — 
 Oh, swiftly flies the corsair, and swift the cross comes on ; 
 The cross upon yon banner, that streams unto the breeze, 
 It is the sign of victory — the cross of the Maltese. 
 
 ' Row, row, my slaves,' quoth Dragut, — ' the knights, the knights are near 
 Row, row, my slaves, row swiftly, the starlight is too clear ! 
 The stars they are too bright, and he that means us well, 
 He harms us when he trims his light — yon Moorish centinel.' 
 
DRAGUT, THE CORSAIR. 
 
 There came a wreath of smoke from out a culverine, 
 
 The corsair's poop it broke, and it sunk into the brine : 
 
 Down Moor and fettered Christian went beneath the billows' roar, 
 
 But hell had work for Dragut yet, and he swam safe ashore. 
 
 One only of the captives, a happy man is he, 
 
 The Christian sailors see him, yet struggling in the sea ; 
 
 They hear the captive praying, — they hear the Christian tongue, 
 
 And swiftly from the galley a saving rope was flung. 
 
 It was a Spanish knight, who had long been in Algiers, 
 From ladies high descended, and noble cavaliers ; 
 But forced, for a season, a false Moor's slave to be — 
 Upon the shore his gardener, his galley-slave at sea. 
 
 But now his heart is dancing,' — he sees the Spanish land, 
 And all his friends advancing to meet him on the strand ; 
 His heart was full of gladness, albeit his eyes ran o'er, 
 For he wept as he stepped upon the Christian shore. 
 
(Üouitt Cláreos antr tije infanta jfcoUsa. 
 
 R. BOUTERWEK has analysed this ballad, and commented 
 upon it at some length, in his History of Spanish Literature. 
 (See Book i., Section 1.) He bestows particular praise upon 
 a passage, which the reader will find attempted in the fourth 
 line of the thirty-first stanza of the following version : — 
 
 ' Dedes me apa este hijo amamare por despedida.' 
 
 ' What modern poet,' says he, 'would have dared to imagine that trait, at once 
 so natural and so touching?' Mr. Bouterwek seems to be of opinion that the 
 story of the ballad had been taken from some prose romance of chivalry; 
 but I have not been able to find any trace of it. 
 
(Kount aiavcos antf tf)e Infanta Jfccltsa. 
 
 Alone, as was her wont, she sate, — within her bower alone ; 
 Alone and very desolate Solisa made her moan, 
 Lamenting for her flower of life, that it should pass away, 
 And she be never wooed to wife, nor see a bridal day. 
 
 Thus said the sad Infanta, — 1 I will not hide my grief, 
 I '11 tell my father of my wrong, and he will yield relief.' 
 The King, when he beheld her near, ' Alas ! my child/ said he, 
 ' What means this melancholy cheer ? — reveal thy grief to me.' 
 
COUNT ALARCOS AND THE INFANTA SOLISA. 
 
 ' Good King,' she said, ' my mother was buried long ago, 
 She left me to thy keeping, none else my grief shall know ; 
 I fain would have a husband, 't is time that I should wed ; 
 Forgive the words I utter, with mickle shame they're said.' 
 
 'T was thus the King made answer, — ' This fault is none of mine, 
 You to the Prince of Hungary your ear would not incline ; 
 Yet round us here where lives your peer? — nay, name him if you can, 
 Except the Count Alarcos, and he 's a married man.' 
 
 ' Ask Count Alarcos, if of yore his word he did not plight 
 To be my husband evermore, and love me day and night ; 
 If he has bound him in new vows, old oaths he cannot break : 
 Alas ! I've lost a loyal spouse, for a false lover's sake.' 
 
 The good King sate confounded in silence for some space, 
 
 At length he made his answer, with very troubled face : 
 
 ' It was not thus your mother gave counsel you should do ; 
 
 You 've done much wrong, my daughter; we're shamed, both I and you. 
 
 ' If it be true that you have said, our honour's lost and gone ; 
 And while the Countess is in life, remeed for us is none : 
 Though justice were upon our side, ill-talkers would not spare ; — 
 Speak, daughter, for your mother's dead, whose counsel eased my care.' 
 
COUNT ALARCOS AND THE INFANTA SOLISA. 
 
 ' How can I give you counsel ? — but little wit have I ; 
 But certes, Count Alarcos may make this Countess die : 
 Let it be noised that sickness cut short her tender life, 
 And then let Count Alarcos come and ask me for his wife. 
 What passed between us long ago, of that be nothing said ; 
 Thus none shall our dishonour know, in honour I shall wed.' 
 
 The Count was standing with his friends — thus in the midst he spake 
 ' What fools be men ! — what boots our pain for comely woman's sake 
 I loved a fair one long ago ; — though I 'm a married man, 
 Sad memory I can ne'er forego, how life and love began.' 
 
 While yet the Count was speaking, the good King came full near ; 
 
 He made his salutation with very courteous cheer. 
 
 ' Come hither, Count Alarcos, and dine with me this day, 
 
 For I have something secret, I in your ear must say.' 
 
 The King came from the chapel, when he had heard the mass ; 
 With him the Count Alarcos did to his chamber pass : 
 Full nobly were they served there, by pages many a one ; 
 When all were gone, and they alone, 't was thus the King begun :- 
 
 ' What news be these, Alarcos, that you your word did plight, 
 To be a husband to my child, and love her day and night ? 
 If more between you there did pass, yourself may know the truth, 
 But shamed is my grey-head — alas ! — and scorned Solisa's youth. 
 
COUNT ALARCOS AND THE INFANTA SOLISA. 
 
 ' I have a heavy word to speak, — a lady fair doth lie 
 
 Within my daughter's rightful place, and certes ! she must die. 
 
 Let it be noised that sickness cut short her tender life, 
 
 Then come and woo my daughter, and she shall be your wife : 
 
 What passed between you long ago, of that be nothing said, 
 
 Thus none shall my dishonour know, — in honour you shall wed.' 
 
 Thus spake the Count Alarcos, — ' The truth I '11 not deny, 
 
 I to the Infanta gave my troth, and broke it shamefully ; 
 
 I feared my King would ne'er consent to give me his fair daughter ; 
 
 But, oh! spare her that 's innocent, — avoid that sinful slaughter.' 
 
 ' She dies ! she dies !' the King replies ; — ' from thine own sin it springs, 
 If guiltless blood must wash the blot that stains the blood of kings : 
 Ere morning dawn her life must end, and thine must be the deed, 
 Else thou on shameful block must bend : thereof is no remeed.' 
 
 ' Good King, my hand thou mayst command, else treason blots my name ! 
 I '11 take the life of my dear wife — (God ! mine be not the blame !) 
 Alas ! that young and sinless heart for others' sin should bleed ! 
 Good King, in sorrow I depart.' ' May God your errand speed !' 
 
 In sorrow he departed, dejectedly he rode 
 The weary journey from that place unto his own abode : 
 He grieved for his fair countess, dear as his life was she ; 
 Sore grieved he for that lady, and for his children three. 
 
COUNT AIAItCOS AND THE INFANTA SOLISA. 
 
 The one was yet an infant upon its mother's breast, 
 For though it had three nurses, it liked her milk the best ; 
 The others were young children, that had but little wit, 
 Hanging about their mother's knee while nursing she did sit. 
 
 ' Alas ! ' he said, when he had come within a little space, — 
 ' How shall I brook the cheerful look of my kind lady's face ? 
 To see her coming forth in glee to meet me in my hall, 
 When she so soon a corpse must be, and I the cause of all !' 
 
 Just then he saw her at the door with all her babes appear 
 (The little page had run before to tell his lord was near) : 
 ' Now welcome home, my lord, my life ! —Alas ! you droop your head 
 Tell, Count Alarcos, tell your wife, what makes your eyes so red ?' 
 
 4 I '11 tell you all— I '11 tell you all : it is not yet the hour ; 
 We '11 sup together in the hall, — I '11 tell you in your bower.' 
 The lady brought forth what she had, and down beside him sate ; 
 He sate beside her pale and sad, but neither drank nor ate. 
 
 The children to his side were led (he loved to have them so), 
 Then on the board he laid his head, and out his tears did flow : 
 ' I fain would sleep — I fain would sleep,' the Count Alarcos said : 
 Alas ! be sure, that sleep was none that night within their bed. 
 
 They came together to the bower where they were used to rest, 
 None with them but the little babe that was upon the breast : 
 
COUNT ALARCOS AND THE INFANTA SOLISA. 
 
 The count had barred the chamber doors— they ne'er were barred till then ; v (V5^ 
 ' Unhappy lady,' he began, ' and I most lost of men !' 
 
 ' Now, speak not so, my noble lord, my husband, and my life ! 
 Unhappy never can she be that is Alarcos' wife.' — 
 ' Alas ! unhappy lady, 't is but little that you know, 
 For in that very word you 've said is gathered all your woe. 
 
 ' Long since I loved a lady, — long since I oaths did plight, 
 
 To be that lady's husband, to love her day and night ; 
 
 Her father is our lord the King, to him the thing is known, 
 
 And now, that I the news should bring ! she claims me for her own. 
 
 • Alas ! my love ! — alas ! my life ! — the right is on their side ; 
 Ere I had seen your face, sweet wife, she was betrothed my bride ; 
 But, oh ! that I should speak the word — since in her place you lie, 
 It is the bidding of our Lord, that you this night must die.' — 
 
 ' Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and so leal ? 
 Oh, kill me not, thou noble count, when at thy foot I kneel ! 
 But send me to my father's house, where once I dwelt in glee, 
 There will I live a lone chaste life, and rear my children three. ' 
 
 ' It may not be, — mine oath is strong, — ere dawn of day you die !'— 
 ' Oh ! well 't is seen how all alone upon the earth am I ; — 
 My father is an old frail man,— my mother 's in her grave, — 
 And dead is stout Don Garci — alas ! my brother brave ! 
 
COUNT ALARCOS AND THE INFANTA SOLISA. 
 
 ' 'T was at this coward King's command they slew my brother dear, 
 And now I 'm helpless in the land : — it is not death I fear, 
 But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my children so, — 
 Now let me lay them to my heart, and kiss them ere I go.' 
 
 ' Kiss him that lies upon thy breast — the rest thou mayst not see.' 
 ' I fain would say an Ave.' ' Then say it speedily,' 
 She knelt her down upon her knee : ' Oh, Lord ! behold my case ; 
 Judge not my deeds, but look on me in pity and great grace.' 
 
 When she had made her orison, up from her knees she rose, — 
 ' Be kind, Alarcos, to our babes, and pray for my repose ; 
 And now give me my boy once more upon my breast to hold, 
 That he may drink one farewell drink, before my breast be cold.' 
 
 ' Why would you waken the poor child ? you see he is asleep ; 
 Prepare, dear wife, there is no time, the dawn begins to peep.' 
 ' Now hear me, Count Alarcos ! I give thee pardon free, — 
 I pardon thee for the love's sake wherewith I 've loved thee ; 
 
 ' But they have not my pardon, the King and his proud daughter ; 
 The curse of God be on them, for this unchristian slaughter ! 
 I charge them with my dying breath, ere thirty days be gone, 
 To meet me in the realm of death, and at God's awful throne !' 
 
COUNT ALARCOS AND THE INFANTA SOLISA. 
 
 He drew a kerchief round her neck, he drew it tight and strong, 
 Until she lay quite stiff and cold her chamber floor along ; 
 He laid her then within the sheets, and, kneeling by her side, 
 To God and Mary Mother in misery he cried. 
 
 Then called he for his esquires : — oh ! deep was their dismay, 
 When they into the chamber came, and saw her how she lay : 
 Thus died she in her innocence, a lady void of wrong — 
 But God took heed of their offence, — His vengeance stayed not long. 
 
 Within twelve days, in pain and dole, the Infanta passed away. 
 The cruel King gave up his soul upon the twentieth day ; 
 Alarcos followed ere the moon had made her round complete ; 
 Three guilty spirits stood right soon before God's judgment-seat.