University of Virginia Library

Sirs, a tale
For children made might here find happy end;
But life, a teacher rough, when all looks well
Genders its tempest worst. Winter went by
With feast and tourney rich. Spring-tide returned:
A sudden flame of flowers o'er-ran the earth;
To see that sight, they clomb again that tower:
What met their eyes? A spectacle unlooked for!
The horizon line was white with countless sails.
The Cid but smiled: ‘I told you not of this,
A sorry seasoning for your winter banquets,
But knew it well. In far Morocco sits
The Emperor of the Afric Moors. Yon fleet
Wafts here his son, with thirty kings all vowed
Their steeds to water in our Holy Wells
Then stable them in every Christian church:
What sayst thou, lady mine?’ Ximena spake:
‘How many come they?’ And the Cid replied
‘Full fifty thousand; and five thousand ours!’
Death-pale his daughters grew and silent stood:
Ximena made reply, her large black eyes
Dilating at each word, ‘What God inflicts
Man can endure.’ That moment strange eclipse
Darkened the sun; and from that fleet storm-hid
The Arab tambours rolled their thunders forth:
The Cid but stroked his beard, and smiling said:
‘Daughters, take heart! The larger yonder host
The shamefuller their defeat; our spoil the greater!
I promised you long since good mates in time:
This day I promise you fair marriage portions!’
He turned; not once again he sought that tower:
Not once he sallied from Valencia's wall
Till the last Moor had landed.