His Majesty, God guard him, gave order for the fleet
To sail at early daybreak the Turkish foe to meet.
The admiral's ship at midnight fires the signal gun,
And to the quay distracted the maids and matrons run.
Sons and lovers they embrace; they weep with bitter tears;
Their voices break with sorrow; their hearts are swelled with
fears.
On board the busy vessels the noises grow more loud,
The masters and the boatswains rush eager in the crowd,
The captain of each frigate his silver whistle blows,
And on the lofty yard-arms the sailors stand in rows.
The white sails drop and belly out before the swelling breeze;
The white foam curls along the prow; the brave fleet seeks
the seas.
Don Juan held his course before the favoring gale,
At midday to the watchman he gave a roaring hail.
"Get higher to the mast-head!" he shouted strong and loud.
The sailor quickly mounted the thin and shaking shroud.
"Sail ho, sail ho," he shouted, "a mighty fleet's ahead,
Across the whole horizon the line of ships is spread."
A Spanish renegade commanded that proud fleet
Who by his beard had sworn Don Juan to defeat.
Don Juan trusted Christ and made a solemn vow,
The cross within his arms, and standing on the prow.
Oh, Son of Virgin Mary, give us the heart to fight
Those dogs of heathen pride, and scatter them in flight.
The midday sun was bright, when the two fleets grappled
close,
And from the roaring cannon a blinding smoke arose,
The bullets crashed in splinters and shattered plank and
beam.
To the sea the scuppers poured a hot and crimson stream.
The bleeding corpses lay in heaps upon the reeking decks,
With tattered sails and rudderless the ships were drifting
wrecks.
The Turkish captain's galley swung helpless on the sea.
Of its three hundred sailors were left but forty-three,
Along its shattered gunwales the masts and hamper drag,
And weltering in the wake trails its dishonored flag.
The Turkish fleet was beaten, and fled with sail and oar,
Until it reached the harbor and anchored by the shore.
Said the Sultan, "How came this? Who struck this deadly
blow?"
"'T was Don Juan d' Armada, who brought our pennons low."
"I do not mourn the galleys, for I can build me more,
But I regret my sailors that never will see shore.
For Don Juan d'Armada give him the honor due;
He is the king of captains, since he has conquered you."
As in the Spanish romances, there are numerous allusions in the Portuguese ballads to the constant warfare waged with the Barbary corsairs, and the adventures of the unhappy captives who fell into their hands and were reduced to cruel servitude. A favorite theme with the ballad-writers was the rescue of the captive through the means of the Moorish damsel, who had fallen in love with him as she saw him laboring at his tasks. No doubt some such adventures actually happened, and at any rate the theme was one which appealed strongly to the imagination of the popular poets. This one ends with a touch of sentiment which might seem a modern addition, if the authenticity of the whole ballad was not vouched for by so careful a collector as Braga.
I sailed from Hamburg port one mom
Upon a bonny caravel.
'T was neither war nor peace at sea,
When pirate Moors upon us fell.
They took me as a slave to sell,
Unto their country of Salee,
But neither Moor nor Mussulman
Would give a silver groat for me.
'T was only a false Jewish dog,
Who wished to have me for his slave,
He made my life a bitter pain,
And beat me like a scurvy knave.
All day I wove esparto grass,
At night I turned the hard corn mill,
A wooden gag between my jaws
Lest of the meal I'd steal my fill.
But fortune brought me a kind dame,
Who pitied the sad life I led,
She sent me from her table rich
Fresh meat and wine and good white bread.
She gave me all things that I asked,
And something I asked not, as well,
Within Jewessa's arms I wept,
But not for her the salt tears fell.
"Christian, you need not weep," she said,
"I know your grief ere it is told."
"But how can I my home regain
Without a single piece of gold?"
"H't is to buy a horse you need,
I 'll give to you my pretty mare,
You need not wait to find a ship,
But take the shallop anchored there."
"Fair dame, 't is not a horse will serve,
For far is Ceuta and Castille,
To take a ship and run away,
Would be your father's slave to steal."
"Oh, take this purse of yellow silk,
My mother dying gave to me,
The golden pieces it contains
Will richly pay your ransom fee.
"And when at home returned again,
To Christian maidens you can say
How Jewish hearts can sacrifice
And show a deeper love than they."
As thus she spoke, the master came.
"Oh, master," said I, "God be praised,
Good news has come across the sea,
My friends the ransom price have raised."
"Ah, Christian, what is that you say,
Many cruzadoes it will need.
Who gives you enough of gold
To pay the heavy ransom's meed?"
"My sisters twain have sent me part,
The other I had kept in store.
An angel has brought me the gold,
An angel bright from heaven's door."
"Hearken, Christian, change your faith, '
And you shall wed my daughter dear,
My goods and wealth shall all be thine,
And joy and peace surround you here."
"I will not be a cursed Jew,
Nor heathen Turk of grace denied,
Nor will I change for all your wealth
The faith of Jesus crucified."
"Why are you pale, Rachael, my girl,
Beloved child, tell me the truth;
Have you been brought to shameful harm
By this accursed Christian youth?"
"Oh, let the Christian youth go free,
For his amend I have no claim,
If my flower of love he's had,
I gave it, and he 's not to blame."
He shut her in a dungeon tower,
Which he with heavy stone blocks made,
That the base Moors might never know
That shame had touched a Jewish maid.
Oh, mandolin, my mandolin,
Rest silent hung upon the wall,
My longing love across the sea
Is borne away beyond recall.
The Faithful Paladin has a more tragical ending for the captive. The ballad had its origin in the province of Algarve, but there are several variants in Portuguese as well as similar ballads in Spanish. Calderon has made the theme the subject of a drama under the title of The Constant Prince, relating to the captivity and sufferings of Don Fernando, heir to the throne of Portugal, who was captured by the Moors in 1438,
Adventured in a Moorish land,
A paladin, heartstrong and brave,
Fell into Miramolin's hands,
To serve him as a captive slave.
The Moorish king a daughter had,
More white and fair than jasmine flower.
Her eyes with sparkling light were glad,
And youth and bloom her beauty's dower.
To Safim as she looked one day
Celima saw the captive knight,
With pensive gaze turned far away,
And sadness in his empty sight.
The touch she felt within her heart
She sought with shamefaced care to hide,
None guessed the wound that gave the smart,
Or heard her weeping when she cried.
Since then her pastimes had no zest,
Nor could she even peace regain,
The longing love that filled her breast
Grew every day a deeper pain.
Upon the terrace hours and hours
She sat and watched the slave below
Dig at his task among the flowers,
In summer sunshine's burning glow.
At last her longing broke her pride,
She told her passion on her knees.
He silent stood, and only sighed
For her he loved beyond the seas.
Faithful and true to his fond love,
It fenced his heart with triple shield,
Not all Celima's charms could move
A more than pitying grace to yield.
"My gold and jewels shall be thine,
If only you but wish it so,
And with your freedom give me mine;
Tell me, Christian, yes or no."
"I wish no jewels from your hand,
Or aught that may belong to thee,
Some one will come from my far land,
And for my ransom pay the fee."
"Then let me be your humble slave
To serve you wheresoe'er you go.
No better fortune can I crave,
Tell me, Christian, yes or no."
"My humble slave you must not be,
A better fortune is your due;
How came your love to fix on me,
Who have no heart to give to you?"
"My God and father I 'll forswear,
And only yours will seek to know;
Every curse of heaven I 'll dare,
Tell me, Christian, yes or no."
"Your love and riches tempt me not.
Both love and riches wait for me.
Accursed be the fatal lot
That brought me o'er the sad, salt sea.
''I spurn a soul that turns to God,
A heart for me that suffers pain.
Be happy in the paths you've trod,
And love a youth who loves again."
When these sad words the captive said,
With sudden wrath she turned away.
In seven days the knight was dead.
Was it her deed? No one can say.
The epoch of the Crusades is beyond the limit of the popular ballads which have been preserved, although it is probable that they may have had their foundation in originals of that date. The story of the return of the spouse from the Holy Land, and his making himself known after various trials of his wife's fidelity, is a common one in the ballads of all European nations, and is of a character to appeal to the dramatic instincts of the popular poets. Close resemblances to the ballad of The Fair Princess can be found in German, French, and Spanish popular poetry, and the theme itself of course dates back to the return of Ulysses, and to the ballads which were the origin of the Odyssey.
The princess sat in her garden fair;
With a golden comb she combed her hair.
She raised her eyes to the azure bay.
A brave fleet bore in with pennons gay.
"Good captain, say, in the Holy Land
Have you seen my spouse with his brave band?
"In Holy Land is many a knight.
With what point device was he bedight?"
"His steed bore saddle of silver gilt
The cross of Christ was his gold sword hilt."
"A knight with these I saw bravely fall
In fierce assault on a city's wall."
"A wretched widow I have become
To mourn and weep in a ruined home,
I have three daughters, lovely and sage,
But spouseless and weak in orphanage."
"What gift to him who returns your spouse?"
"All the gold and silver in the house."
"Of gold and silver I have no need,
Some other guerdon must be my meed."
"I have three great mills; all shall be thine.
They grind white wheat and benzoin fine,
The delicate flour, so finely wrought,
The royal stewards have always sought."
"For your three mills I have no desire,
Some other reward must pay my hire."
"My roof tile of gold and ivory."
"Your gold and iv'ry tiles are not for me."
"My daughters fair, you shall have them all;
Two to serve you in your banquet hall;
The third and fairest shall be your bride,
In love's nest to slumber by your side."
"Princess, your fair daughters count for nought,
A costlier gift is in my thought."
"I have nothing more to offer thee;
No other gift can you ask of me."
"But I only ask, and you can spare
The simple gift of your body fair."
"A fouler insult knight ne'er gave.
Haste, vassals, and scourge this loathly knave."
"The wedding ring with diamonds bright,
We broke in twain on our bridal night.
Where is the half you have kept so dear?
The other half you can see it here."
"How many tears you have made me shed!
How slow the lingering years have fled!
What pains and griefs lie in your debt!
When bliss like this cannot forget."
The ballad of Dom Duardos and Flerida has an antique flavor in its simplicity and indefiniteness, as in its element of imaginative poetry, which would lead to a belief in its ancient origin, dating beyond the acquirement of more accomplished art in the popular poets. A similar ballad is to be found in the Castilian.
'T was in the month of April,
The day before May day,
When roses red, and lilies white,
Are blooming bright and gay.
The night was calm and cloudless,
With golden stars arrayed,
The Infanta, fair Flerida,
In her wide garden strayed.
"God guard you, tender flowers,
Great joy you've given me;
I go to a strange land;
Such is my fate's decree.
"If my father seeks me,
He who loves me well;
Tell him that love has drawn me
Within its fatal spell.
"Tell him that fateful love
Has seized me in its hold;
I know not where I go,
And none to me has told."
Then Dom Duardos spoke:
"Oh, weep not so, my dear,
In the great realm of England
Are fairer things than here.
"There are more limpid streams,
And gardens yet more fair.
A thousand flowers blooming,
And scenting all the air.
"Three hundred maids shall serve,
And all of noble strain,
And palaces of silver,
Where you shall nobly reign.
"With emeralds of green,
And finest Turkish gold,
Upon the shining walls
The story shall be told
"How, to do you honor,
I fought Primaleon.
I did not fear his strength,
When your bright glances shone."
When fair Flerida heard,
She wiped her tears away.
And hand in hand they went
To where his galleys lay.
The fifty galleys brave
Moved out upon the deep,
And to their chiming oars
Flerida fell asleep,
In Dom Duardos' arms,
Whose heart with joy did leap.
Know all men that are born,
How sure is fate's decree,
From neither love nor death
Can mortal man be free.
Ballads on the subject of the slaying a would-be ravisher with his own arms are common in popular poetry, and striking examples are found in Scotch, French, and Spanish. There are several variants in Portuguese of The Pilgrim Maid, but the best is that furnished by Almeida Garrett.
Adown the lofty mountain green
The pilgrim maid descends:
No fairer and no purer maid
To sacred station wends.
Her long robe catches in the thorns,
That strew the grassy mat,
Her lovely eyes are downward cast,
And hidden by her hat.
A knight pursues her footsteps fast,
With evil in his eyes,
But he can hardly reach her side,
Though his best speed he tries.
At last he's caught her, as she stops
Beside the olive tree,
That at the holy hermit's door
Stands fair and tall to see.
She leans against the sacred wood,—
"By God and Saint Marie,
This holy place should be my guard,
Oh, do no wrong to me."
The false knight was too base of heart
To feel God's sacred grace.
He throws his arms around her form
In strong and fierce embrace.
In mad and furious wrestle,
Their struggling arms are wound;
The maiden's strength is crushed by his:
She's cast upon the ground.
But as she falls she pulls the dirk,
That in his belt she spies;
She strikes it deep to his false heart,
And out the black blood flies.
"Oh, pilgrim maid, I beg and pray
By God and Saint Marie,
Tell not of my dishonored death,
Or how you've punished me."
"I 'll tell the tale in your own land,
And in mine vaunt it too,
How such a villain, false and base,
With his own blade I slew."
She pulls the cord that swings the bell;
It makes a solemn din.
"Oh, hermit, pray that God may save
This soul that dies in sin,
And grant a grave in holy ground His body to lie in."
The Portuguese ballads, which relate to domestic tragedies, without reference to historic events, are numerous, and very frequently of a high order of merit. They have the characteristics of folkpoetry in their dramatic interjections and irregularities, but often have a consistency and strength not found in the more romantic ballads. The Death-Bed Marriage is a specimen of this class.
From the frontier of Castille the bitter news has flown,
The brave Dom Juan is dying; how his dear love will moan;
Three doctors grave were summoned, the most renowned for
skill,
If they to life restore him gold will their purses fill.
The youngest two declared that the malady was slight;
But when the elder entered he saw with clearer light.
To the dying man he said, "You've but three hours to live,
To solemn thoughts and duties that short time you should
give.
"One will serve to make your will, and purge your burdened
soul,
One is for the sacrament, the church's sacred dole;
The third and last shall serve you, while tolls the passing bell
To see your best beloved, and say a last farewell."
While these sad words gave warning, fair Isabel stood by.
He turned to look upon her, with death mist in his eye.
"You have done well, my treasure, my death to look upon;
I 'll pray the Virgin Mary to heal the wrong I've done."
While thus he spoke in anguish, there came his mother dear,
"My darling son, what ails you, why is your soul in fear?"
"Oh, mother, I am dying; I have not long to last;
Three hours to live they gave me, and one's already past."
"Son of my womb, consider, with death's hand on you laid,
Have you no debt of honor to pay some noble maid?"
"Yes, mother, to my anguish I owe such debt of shame;
That God may not in judgment condemn my soul to flame!"
"It is to Dona Isabel I owe that shameful debt;
But a thousand cruzadoes a spouse for her will get."
"No gold nor silver money will pay for honor lost;
Thy cruzadoes are worthless as leaves the wind has tost."
"I 'll leave her to the doctors that they no skill may spare,
And you, my darling mother, will have her in your care,
A city for her dowry the day that she shall wed—
If any man refuse her, the axe shall have his head."
"The honor of a maid is not paid or bought with land,
Wed her, well-beloved, with your cold and dying hand,
That she may be your widow, and bear an honored name,
And though she weeps with sorrow it will not be for shame."
The ballad of Dom Aleixio, of which there are several versions, has a lightness of touch in the description of the masquerading maid, which is not often found in the popular ballads, although the conclusion is sufficiently tragic.