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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
Compline long past, the eldest of those knights,
By name Don Raymond, Lord of Barcelona,
Not rising, thus addressed low-toned his mates:
With great desire the nations will desire
To know our Cid in ages yet to come,
And yet will know him not. He was not one
Who builds a history up, complete and whole,
A century's blazon crying, ‘That was I!’
The day's work ever was the work he worked,
And laughingly he wrought it. Spake another:
Ay, 'twas no single act that made his greatness:
Yet greatness flashed from all his acts—the least;
A peasant cried one day, ‘God sent that man;’
A realm made answer, ‘God.’
By name Don Raymond, Lord of Barcelona,
Not rising, thus addressed low-toned his mates:
With great desire the nations will desire
To know our Cid in ages yet to come,
And yet will know him not. He was not one
Who builds a history up, complete and whole,
A century's blazon crying, ‘That was I!’
The day's work ever was the work he worked,
245
Ay, 'twas no single act that made his greatness:
Yet greatness flashed from all his acts—the least;
A peasant cried one day, ‘God sent that man;’
A realm made answer, ‘God.’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |