I.At Sansueña,3in 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 Sansueña's plain,Yet wistfully the lady her weary eyes doth strain.II.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.III.She from her window reaches forth her hand a sign to make,"O, 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.IV."O, if ye be a Christian knight, and if to France you go,I pr'ythee tell Gayferos 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.V."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."—VI.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'll be far away"—so spake the Knight Gayferos.VII.She has made the sign of the Cross divine, and an Ave she hath said,And she dares the leap both wide and deep—that damsel 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.
At Sansueña,3in 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 Sansueña'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.
She from her window reaches forth her hand a sign to make,"O, 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.
"O, if ye be a Christian knight, and if to France you go,I pr'ythee tell Gayferos 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'll be far away"—so spake the Knight Gayferos.
She has made the sign of the Cross divine, and an Ave she hath said,And she dares the leap both wide and deep—that damsel 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.
Of Bernardo del Carpio, we find little or nothing in the French romances of Charlemagne. He belongs exclusively to Spanish History, or rather perhaps to Spanish Romance; in which the honour is claimed for him of slaying the famous Orlando, or Roland, the nephew of Charlemagne, in the fatal field of Roncesvalles.
The continence which procured for Alonzo, who succeeded 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 Saldenha, Donna Ximena, sister of this virtuous prince, bore a son. Some historians 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 sainted 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, the famous Bernardo del Carpio. 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 ordinary manner, he proposed the inheritance of his throne as the price of the alliance of Charles. But the nobility, headed by Bernardo del Carpio, remonstrated against the king's choice of a successor, and would on no account consent to receive a Frenchman as 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 Carpio.
The following ballad describes the enthusiasm excited among the Leonese, when Bernard first raised his standard to oppose the progress of Charlemagne's army.
I.With three thousand Men of Leon, from the city Bernard goes,To protect the soil Hispanian from the spear of Frankish foesFrom the city which is planted in the midst between the seas,To preserve the name and glory of old Pelayo's victories.II.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.III.The youth who shows a maiden's chin, whose brows have ne'er been boundThe 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.IV.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.V."Free were we born," 'tis thus they cry, "though to our King we oweThe 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 enslavèd land.VI."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'll sell our birthright dear, no bloodless prize they'll win.VII."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.VIII."The Lion4that hath bathed his paws in seas of Libyan 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."
With three thousand Men of Leon, from the city Bernard goes,To protect the soil Hispanian from the spear of Frankish foesFrom 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 shows a maiden's chin, whose brows have ne'er been boundThe 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 oweThe 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 enslavèd 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'll sell our birthright dear, no bloodless prize they'll 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 Lion4that hath bathed his paws in seas of Libyan 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."
The following is an attempt to render one of the most admired of all the Spanish ballads.
En Paris esta Doña Alda, la esposa de Don Roldan,Trecientas damas con ella, para la accompañar,Todas visten un vestido, todas calçan un calçar, &c.
En Paris esta Doña Alda, la esposa de Don Roldan,Trecientas damas con ella, para la accompañar,Todas visten un vestido, todas calçan un calçar, &c.
In its whole structure and strain it bears a very remarkable resemblance to several of our own old ballads—both English and Scottish.
I.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.II.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?"—"O, my maidens!" quoth the lady, "my heart it is full sore!I have dreamt a dream of evil, and can slumber never more.III."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."—IV.Out spake the foremost damsel was in her chamber there—(You may hear the words she says), "O! 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 blithe of cheer, my lady, for the dream thou must not grieve,It means but that thy bridegroom shall come to thee at eve."—V."If thou hast read my vision, and read it cunningly"—Thus said the Lady Alda, "thou shalt not lack thy fee." Butwoe 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 had been slaughtered in the chase of Roncesval.
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.
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?"—"O, 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), "O! 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 blithe of cheer, my lady, for the dream thou must not grieve,It means but that thy bridegroom shall come to thee at eve."—
"If thou hast read my vision, and read it cunningly"—Thus said the Lady Alda, "thou shalt not lack thy fee." Butwoe 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 had been slaughtered in the chase of Roncesval.
This 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 caça de Roncesvalles."
I.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.II.There captured was Guarinos, King Charles's admiral;Seven Moorish kings surrounded him, and seized him for their thrall;Seven times, when all the chase was o'er, for Guarinos lots they cast;Seven times Marlotes won the throw, and the knight was his at last.III.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.IV."Now, for the sake of Alla, Lord Admiral GuarinosBe 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.V."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.VI."If more thou wishest, more I'll 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:VII."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'll wed no more in Spain;I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy or gain."—VIII.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 vault to lie,With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and sky.IX.With iron bands they bound his hands. That sore unworthy plightMight 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.X.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 Samson long ago,Before the Moorish rabble-rout to be a sport and show.XI.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 the maidens strip the bowers,And gladden mosque and minaret with the first fruits of the flowers.XII.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.XIII.Marlotes, in his joy and pride, a target high doth rear,Below the Moorish knights must ride and pierce it with the spear;But 'tis so high up in the sky, albeit much they strain,No Moorish lance so far may fly, Marlotes' prize to gain.XIV.Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld them fail,The whisker trembled on his lip, and 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."XV.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?Oh, Queen of Heaven! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud!XVI."O! 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?"—XVII.These words the jailer chanced to hear, and thus to him he said,"These tabors, 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.XVIII."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."—XIX.Then out and spake Guarinos, "O! soon each man should feed,Were I but mounted once again on my own gallant steed.O! were I mounted as of old, and harnessed cap-a-pee,Full soon Marlotes' prize I'd hold, whate'er its price may be.XX."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'll yield it on the spot."—XXI.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;An' if thou wilt, I with thy vow will to the King repair."—XXII.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.XXIII.That, were he mounted but once more on his own gallant grey,And armed with the lance he bore on the 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.XXIV.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.XXV."Now this will be a sight indeed, to see the enfeebled lordEssay 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."—XXVI.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 clasped,And they have caught the old grey horse, the horse he loved of yore,And he stands pawing at the gate—caparisoned once more.XXVII.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.XXVIII.O! 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."—XXIX.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 liesthere!
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 chase was o'er, for Guarinos lots they cast;Seven times Marlotes won the throw, and the knight was his at last.
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.
"Now, for the sake of Alla, Lord Admiral GuarinosBe 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'll 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'll wed no more in Spain;I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy or gain."—
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 vault to lie,With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and sky.
With iron bands they bound his hands. That sore unworthy plightMight 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 Samson 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 the maidens strip the bowers,And gladden mosque and minaret with the first fruits 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 'tis 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, and 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."
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?Oh, Queen of Heaven! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud!
"O! 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?"—
These words the jailer chanced to hear, and thus to him he said,"These tabors, 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, "O! soon each man should feed,Were I but mounted once again on my own gallant steed.O! 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'll 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;An' 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.
That, were he mounted but once more on his own gallant grey,And armed with the lance he bore on the 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.
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 lordEssay 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 clasped,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.
O! 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 liesthere!
This ballad is intended to represent the feelings of Don Sancho, Count of Saldenha or Saldaña, while imprisoned by King Alphonso, and, as he supposed, neglected and forgotten, both by his wife, or rather mistress, Donna Ximena, and by his son, the famous Bernardo del Carpio.
I.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.II."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,Woe worth the day! they have grown grey these rueful walls between.III."They tell me my Bernardo is the doughtiest lance in Spain,But if he were my loyal heir, there's blood in every veinWhereof the voice his heart would hear—his hand would not gainsay;—Though the blood of kings be mixed with mine, it would not have all the sway.IV."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.V."From Jailer and from Castellain I hear of hardimentAnd 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 where I am ill bested.VI."Some villain spot is in thy blood to mar its gentle strain,Else would it show forth hardihood for him from whom 'twas 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."
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,Woe 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 veinWhereof the voice his heart would hear—his hand would not gainsay;—Though the blood of kings be mixed with mine, it would 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.
"From Jailer and from Castellain I hear of hardimentAnd 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 where I am ill bested.
"Some villain spot is in thy blood to mar its gentle strain,Else would it show forth hardihood for him from whom 'twas 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."
The ballads concerning Bernardo del Carpio are, upon the whole, in accordance with his history as given in theCoronica General. According 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 Carpio, 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 gentlemen 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. "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 have 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 Sandiaz, 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.'"
I.All in the centre of the choir Bernardo's knees are bent,Before him for his murdered sire yawns the old monument.II.His kinsmen of the Carpio blood are kneeling at his back,With knightly friends and vassals good, all garbed in weeds of black.III.He comes to make the obsequies of a basely slaughtered man,And tears are running down from eyes whence ne'er before they ran.IV.His head is bowed upon the stone; his heart, albeit full sore,Is strong as when in days bygone he rode o'er Frank and Moor;V.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.VI.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.VII.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:—VIII."Go up, go up, thou blessed ghost, into the arms of God;Go, fear not lest revenge be lost, when Carpio's blood hath flowed;IX."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."
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 Carpio 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 bygone 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 arms of God;Go, fear not lest revenge be lost, when Carpio's blood hath flowed;
"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."
The incident recorded in this ballad may be supposed to have occurred immediately after the funeral of the Count of Saldenha. As to what was the end of the knight's history, we are left almost 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.
I.With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appearedBefore 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.II."A curse upon thee," cries the King, "who comest 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 braveMade think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's grave."III."Whoever told this tale the King hath rashness to repeat,"Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling beforethe liar'sfeet!No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in mine doth lie—Below the throne what knight will own the coward calumny?IV."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.V."Your horse was down—your hope was flown—I saw the falchion shine,That soon had drunk your royal blood, had not I ventured mine;But memory soon of service done deserteth the ingrate,And ye've thanked the son for life and crown by the father's bloody fate.VI."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.VII."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'll show—The King hath injured Carpio's line, and Bernard is his foe."VIII."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.IX.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, Condé, or Grandee."X.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.XI."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.
With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appearedBefore 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 comest 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 braveMade think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's grave."
"Whoever told this tale the King hath rashness to repeat,"Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling beforethe liar'sfeet!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.
"Your horse was down—your hope was flown—I saw the falchion shine,That soon had drunk your royal blood, had not I ventured mine;But memory soon of service done deserteth the ingrate,And ye'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'll show—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, Condé, or Grandee."
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.
The Ballads in the Collection of Escobar, entitled "Romancero e Historia del muy valeroso Cavallero El Cid Ruy Diaz de Bivar," are said by Mr. 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:—Cavalga Diego Laynez al buen Rey besar la mano, &c.
I.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.II.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 caps and flaunting plume,—He crest untaught to quailIII.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."—IV.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."—V."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).VI."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.VII."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.VIII.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."IX.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 fathers kissed it, thereof ashamed I am."—X.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.
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 caps 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."—
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."
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 fathers 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.
This ballad, the sixth in Escobar, represents Ximena Gomez as, in person, demanding of the King vengeance for the death of her father, whom the young Rodrigo de Bivar had fought and slain.
I.Within the court at Burgos a clamour doth arise,Of arms on armour clashing, and screams, and shouts, and cries;The good men of the King, that sit his hall around,All suddenly upspring, astonished at the sound.II.The King leans from his chamber, from the balcony on high—"What means this furious clamour my palace-porch so nigh?"But when he looked below him, there were horsemen at the gate,And the fair Ximena Gomez, kneeling in woeful state.III.Upon her neck, disordered, hung down the lady's hair,And floods of tears were streaming upon her bosom fair.Sore wept she for her father, the Count that had been slain;Loud cursèd she Rodrigo, whose sword his blood did stain.IV.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.V."The King that doth not justice hath forfeited his claim,Both to his kingly station, and to his kingly name;He should not sit at banquet, clad in the royal pall,Nor should the nobles serve him on knee within the hall.VI."Good King, I am descended from barons bright of old,That with Castilian pennons, Pelayo did uphold;But if my strain were lowly, as it is high and clear,Thoustillshouldst prop the feeble, and the afflicted hear.VII."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 needst not spare,—I am Ximena Gomez, my slaughtered father's heir.VIII."Since thou hast slain the Knight that did our faith defend,And still to shameful flight all the Almanzors send,'Tis but a little matter that I confront thee so,Come, champion, slay his daughter, she needs must be thy foe."—IX.Ximena gazed upon him, but no reply could meet;His fingers held the bridle; he vaulted to his seat.She turned her to the nobles, I wot her cry was loud,But not a man durst follow; slow rode he through the crowd.
Within the court at Burgos a clamour doth arise,Of arms on armour clashing, and screams, and shouts, and cries;The good men of the King, that sit his hall around,All suddenly upspring, astonished at the sound.
The King leans from his chamber, from the balcony on high—"What means this furious clamour my palace-porch so nigh?"But when he looked below him, there were horsemen at the gate,And the fair Ximena Gomez, kneeling in woeful state.
Upon her neck, disordered, hung down the lady's hair,And floods of tears were streaming upon her bosom fair.Sore wept she for her father, the Count that had been slain;Loud cursèd she Rodrigo, whose sword his blood did stain.
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 kingly 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,That with Castilian pennons, Pelayo did uphold;But if my strain were lowly, as it is high and clear,Thoustillshouldst 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 needst 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,'Tis but a little matter that I confront thee so,Come, champion, slay his daughter, she needs must be thy foe."—
Ximena gazed upon him, but no reply could meet;His fingers held the bridle; he vaulted to his seat.She turned her to the nobles, I wot her cry was loud,But not a man durst follow; slow rode he through the crowd.
The reader will find the story of this ballad in Mr. Southey's "Chronicle of the Cid." "And the Moors entered Castile in great power, for there came with them five kings," &c. Book I. Sect. 4.
I.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.II.In Najara and Lograno 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.III.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.)IV.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 hills of Oca, where then the Moormen lay,He conquered all the Moormen, and took from them their prey.V.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.VI.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.
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 Lograno 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.)
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 hills 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.
See Mr. Southey's "Chronicle of the Cid" (Book I. Sect. V) for this part of the Cid's story, as given in the General Chronicle of Spain.
I.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.II.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.III."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.IV."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."—V.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.VI.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.VII.The King came out to meet him, with words of hearty cheer;Quoth he, "My good Rodrigo, you are right welcome here;This girl Ximena Gomez would have ye for her lord,Already for the slaughter her grace she doth accord.VIII."I pray you be consenting, my gladness will be great;You shall have lands in plenty, to strengthen your estate."—"Lord King," Rodrigo answers, "in this and all besideCommand, and I'll obey you. The girl shall be my bride."—IX.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:—X."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."
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."—
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, you are right welcome here;This girl Ximena Gomez would have ye for her lord,Already for the slaughter her grace she doth accord.
"I pray you be consenting, my gladness will be great;You shall have lands in plenty, to strengthen your estate."—"Lord King," Rodrigo answers, "in this and all besideCommand, and I'll obey you. 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."
The 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.