THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA FROM THE SPANISH To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde, With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound. He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vain, And towards his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein; Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third, From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard. 'Now if thou wert not shameless,' said the lady to the Moor, 'Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door. Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood, of blood! Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight, But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight. Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree. Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife. Say not my voice is magic-thy pleasure is to hear The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear. Well, follow thou thy choice to the battle-field away, To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they. 22 Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand, And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand. Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead, On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed. Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks, From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks. Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long, And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong. 30 These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own, Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone.' She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek, Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak. THE DEATH OF ALIATAR FROM THE SPANISH 'Tis not with gilded sabres That gleam in baldricks blue, But, habited in mourning weeds, By four and four, the valiant men The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, ΤΟ The banner of the Phoenix, The flag that loved the sky, As mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, Brave Aliatar led forward The afflicted warriors come, The knights of the Grand Master They rushed upon him where the reeds They smote the valiant Aliatar, 20 330 40 Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow, How passionate her cries! Her lover's wounds streamed not more free Say, Love-for didst thou see her tears: And beat of muffled drum. Nor Zayda weeps him only, The great Alhambra's palace walls The ladies weep the flower of knights, The afflicted warriors come, 70 To the deep wail of the trumpet, LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR THE earth was sown with early flowers, As lovely as the light. I knew him not-but in my heart And well I marked his open brow, His sweet and tender eyes, His ruddy lips that ever smiled And flowing robe embroidered o'er And brightly in his stirrup glanced Fast rode the gallant cavalier, 'Peyre Vidal! know that I am Love,' A dame of high degree; This maid is Chastity,' he said, ΙΟ 20 28 THE LOVE OF GOD FROM THE PROVENÇAL OF BERNARD RASCAS ALL things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for ay. The forms of men shall be as they had never been; The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills, ΙΟ |