Song Of The Cid.[194]

The Cid is sitting, in martial state,     Within Valencia's wall;      And chiefs of high renown attend     The knightly festival.      Brave Alvar Fanez, and a troop     Of gallant men, were there;      And there came Donna Ximena,     His wife and daughters fair.      When the footpage bent on his knee,     What tidings brought he then?      Morocco's king is on the seas,     With fifty thousand men.      Now God be praised! the Cid he cried,     Let every hold be stored:      Let fly the holy Gonfalon,[195]     And give, "St James," the word.      And now, upon the turret high,     Was heard the signal drum;      And loud the watchman blew his trump,     And cried, They come! they come!      The Cid then raised his sword on high,     And by God's Mother swore,      These walls, hard-gotten, he would keep,     Or bathe their base in gore.      My wife, my daughter, what, in tears!     Nay, hang not thus your head;      For you shall see how well we fight;     How soldiers earn their bread.      We will go out against the Moors,     And crush them in your sight;      And all the Christians shouted loud,     May God defend the right!      He took his wife and daughter's hand,     So resolute was he,      And led them to the highest tower     That overlooks the sea.      They saw how vast a pagan power     Came sailing o'er the brine;      They saw, beneath the morning light,     The Moorish crescents shine.      These ladies then grew deadly pale,     As heart-struck with dismay;      And when they heard the tambours beat,     They turned their heads away.      The thronged streamers glittering flew,     The sun was shining bright,      Now cheer, the valiant Cid he cried,     This is a glorious sight!      Whilst thus, with shuddering look aghast,     These fearful ladies stood,      The Cid, he raised his sword, and cried,     All this is for your good:      Ere fifteen days are gone and past,     If God assist the right,      Those tambours that now sound to scare,     Shall sound for your delight.      The Moors who pressed beneath the towers,     Now Allah! Allah! sung;      Each Christian knight his broadsword drew,     And loud the trumpets rung.      Then up, the noble Cid bespoke,     Let each brave warrior go,      And arm himself, in dusk of morn,     Ere chanticleer shall crow;      And in the lofty minster church,     On Santiago call, -      That good Bishop Hieronymo,     Shall there absolve you all.      But let us prudent counsel take,     In this eventful hour;      For yon proud infidels, I ween,     They are a mighty power.      Then Alvar Fanez counselled well,     I, noble Cid, will go,      And ambush with three hundred men,     Ere the first cock doth crow:      And when against the Moorish men     You, Cid, lead on your powers,      We, dauntless, on the other side     Will fall on them with ours.      This counsel pleased the Chieftain well:     He said, it should be so;      And the good Bishop should sing mass,     Ere the first cock did crow.      The day is gone, the night is come;     At cock-crow all appear,      In Pedro's church to shrive themselves,     And holy mass to hear:      On Santiago there they called,     To hear them and to save;      And that good Bishop, at the mass,     Great absolution gave.      Fear not, he cried, when thousands bleed,     When horse on man shall roll!      Whoever dies, I take his sins,     And God be with his soul.      A boon! a boon! the Bishop cried,     I have sung mass to-day;      Let me the brunt of battle bear,     Cid, in the bloody fray.      Now Alvar Fanez and his men     Had gained the thicket's shade;      And, with hushed breath and anxious eye,     Had there their ambush laid.      Four thousand men, in glittering arms,     All issued from the gate;      Whilst the bold Cid, before them all,     On Bavieca sate.      They passed the ambush on the left,     And marched o'er dale and down,      Till soon they got the Moorish camp     Betwixt them and the town.      The Cid then spurred his horse, and set     The battle in array.      Pero Bermudez proudly bore     His standard on that day.      When this the Moors astonied saw,     Allah! began their cry:      The tambours beat, the cymbals rung,     As they would rend the sky.      Banner, advance! the Cid he cried,     And raised aloft his sword:      And all the host set up the shout,     St Mary and our Lord!      That good Bishop Hieronymo,     Bravely his battle bore;      And shouted, as he spurred his steed,     For bold Campeador!      The Moorish and the Christian host     Now mix their dying cries;      And many a horse along the plain,     Without his rider flies.      Now sinks the Crescent, now the Cross,     As the fierce hosts assail;      But what against o'erwhelming might     Can valour's self avail?      Campeador, all bathed in blood,     Spurred on his horse amain;      And, Santiago! cried aloud,     For Bivar and for Spain!      Now Alvar Fanez and his men,     Who crouched in thickets low,      Leaped up, and, with the lightning glance,     Rushed, shouting, on the foe.      The Moors, who saw their pennons gay     All waving in the wind,      Fled in dismay, for still they feared,     A greater host behind.      The Crescent falls. Pursue! pursue!     Haste - spur along the plain!      See where they sink - see where they lie,     The fainting and the slain!      Of fifty thousand, who at morn     Came forth in armour bright,      Scarce fifteen thousand souls were left,     To tell the tale at night.      The Cid then wiped his bloody brow,     And thus was heard to say:      Well, Bavieca, hast thou sped,     My noble horse, to-day!      If thousands then escaped the sword,     Let none the Cid condemn;      For they were swept into the sea,     And the surge went over them.      There's many a maid of Tetuan,     All day shall sit and weep,      But never see her lover's sail     Shine on the northern deep.      There's many a mother, with her babe,     Shall pace the sounding shore,      And think upon its father's smile,     Whom she shall see no more.      Rock, hoary ocean, mournfully,     Upon thy billowy bed;      For, dark and deep, thy surges sweep,     O'er thousands of the dead.