University of Virginia Library

Such was the warrior-song that rose
Through the still air, at evening's close,
And blended with the trumpet's clang
Amid the rugged cliffs it rang,
'Till rocks and woods, in twilight dim,
Resounded with the battle-hymn.
As swelled the wild and stirring peal,
How drew each knight his flashing steel!
How beamed and burned each kindling eye—
How throbbed each bold heart free and high!
And dimly glowed amid the gloom,
Lit by the torch's lurid glare,
The burnished shield, and lance and plume,
Worn by the stalwart warriors there.

The hours flew by—the song was hushed,
Which but so late had wildly gushed;
The clash of steel was heard no more,
But stretched upon the rocky floor,
Toil-worn and faint, in dreams of bliss,
They wander far from scenes like this,
Throw by the buckler, and the brand,
And fondly clasp the loved one's hand.
The drooping banners to and fro
Swing with a strange and noiseless flow,
Like pale ghosts of the unburied slain
Who nightly walk the battle-plain,
And count the living who must die
Ere eve again steals o'er the sky!

[OMITTED]

Long had the sleeping warriors lain,
And the pennon waved in the chilly air,
But now the stars are on the wane
And the trumpet calls to matin-prayer.
Slowly the freshening breeze unrolls
The red-cross banner's drooping folds,
As proudly flung to the wind on high
They glow like flames in the morning sky.
The tents are raised and the trumpets blown—
The proud steeds neigh at the thrilling tone.
The lances gleam and the snow plumes wave
O'er the brows of the fearless and the brave;
Each breast is filled with a knightly fire
And throbs with a wild and strong desire;
Each brow is lit with a restless flame—
With the high resolve to win a name
That shall glow for aye, with a fadeless light—
A meteor on the brow of night!

The mist, that hung on the mountain side
Is scattered by the sunbeam's glance,
As a trembling host, by the gory tide
Of some fame-wedded warrior's lance;
Slow up the towering crags it rolled,
And, balanced on its wings of gold,
It seemed a fitting canopy
For that vast temple of the free,
Whose pillars are the untrod hills,
Whose organ-chime, the leaping rills,
And soaring peaks, by thunder riven,
The lofty spires that point to Heaven!

Then winding through the narrow way,
They saw the Moorish hordes appear;
Their sabres gleaming to the day,
As the loud war-cry echoed near.
Sounded the clarion's thrilling blast
As king Alfonso toward them passed;
Toledo's bishop, by his side
Rode with a grave and stately pride,
Lifting high in the calm sunshine,
The glowing cross of Constantine!

Amid the knights that 'round them throng,
Who for the fight have waited long,
Was one in sable armor drest,
With crimson plumes upon his crest,
While now and then they could descry
Through the barr'd vizor his dark eye,
Ah! little thought they, that stern form
Had braved with them the battle storm,
Had drained with them the red wine oft,
When festive bowls were held aloft,
And trod, in pride, the knightly ground,
The victor of the tourney crowned!

But louder rolls the battle-drum,
And nearer through the pass they come,
And wilder swells the tecbir-shout,
Ringing upon the free air out.
In the midst, upon his charger, came
Alnazir, of the dreaded name;
Bright gems upon his mantle glow,
And his steed's rich trappings hanging low.
The prophet's sacred book he bore,
And the brand, oft dimmed with Christian gore;
This was the creed of the Moslem horde—
Offering the Koran or the sword!

A thunder-crash when the storm is high
And the big clouds meet in air;
That shakes the halls of the upper sky,
So deep are its echoes there—
The sound of the avalanche, dull and dread,
As it sweeps to the vale below;
A herald of death, by the ice-bolt sped
From the realm of eternal snow—
Such was the sound of the meeting foes,
That the far-off echoes stirred;
Such were the charging shouts that rose,
Through the din of conflict heard.

'Twas a narrow and a dark defile,
As if by some convulsion riven,
Where down through the giant mountain pile
The thunderbolt had once been driven;
Rocks, jutting crags, that seemed bestrown
By some demoniac power alone,
Amid whose chasms, dark and deep,
The flashing rills in sunshine leap,
And down to the sunny valleys go,
Fresh from their founts in the trackless snow!
And well it was, that the final strife
For spotless Freedom and for life,
Should be tried amidst the dark defiles
Of old Morena's rugged wilds:
The soaring peaks, that lift sublime
Their snowy summits, mocking Time,
Are the shrines of Freedom; for she dwells
Not in the dark, monastic cells,
Not in the pomp of courts and kings,
Where the soul is wedded to meaner things—
But 'mid the proud and ancient hills
And the rifted chasms, high and far—
By the snow-fed source of the mountain rills,
Her holiest altars are!
And the warrior's heart as he looks around,
And treads upon the enchanted ground,
Will gain yet a deeper, higher glow
To strike for the dear loved land below,
As if the goddess, lingering there,
Had breathed her soul in the mountain air!

Like lightning-gleams through summer's cloud,
That shoot to earth, with death endowed,
The Moorish sabres flash and fall
Amid the cloud that covers all.
The lines of spear-heads gleam on high
Like stars upon a midnight sky,
And like the crests of Ocean's wave
When winter tempests wildly rave,
The white plumes of the Christian band
Break on the battle's bloody strand.
The turbaned and the helmed head
Together in the combat fell;
Together from their gory bed
Their charging shouts, expiring, swell!
'Till fiery noon glowed in the sky,
Still raged the tide of conflict high;
At last, within her balanced scale
Fate saw the Moslem host prevail.
Back through the pass the Christians go,
O'erwhelmed by myriads of the foe.
A deep fear seized Alfonso then—
But the sable knight rode forth alone,
And, shouting to the Christian men,
Against the opposing horde is gone!
Straight through the flying host he passed,
And blew a thrilling clarion-blast;
The red-cross banner, pressed by foes,
Like a wave-tossed feather, sunk and rose,
But as the lightning bolt which cleaves
The oak's green wealth of summer leaves,
And scatters 'round on every side
The lofty boughs which waved in pride,—
So 'neath the stroke of his ringing blade,
The frighted Moslems low were laid.
Back rolled the tide of fight once more
As the wave rebounds from a rocky shore;
Again the brave and fearless band
Thronged 'round the banner of their land,
While rose, amid the clash of steel—
“God and our swords for Old Custile!”

Then on his steed Alnazir came
And cried aloud—“Shame, ever shame
Shall rest on the head of the craven low
Who turns his back to a Christian foe!
Back! cowards, back! Who flies shall be
Branded with endless infamy!”
He said, and met the sable knight;
Their falchions flashed so broad and bright,
That one might deem a starry world,
Had from its course on high been hurled.
Hard was the strife; the wily foe
Upon his buckler caught the blow,
And when its sudden force had broke,
Gave the black knight a stunning stroke.

Yet ere he could renew the blow
Or snatch the sword from the fallen foe,
Down through the dark and rugged way
They saw a stranger knight appear;
A sudden calm stole o'er the fray
And rose a half-checked cry of fear.
Like a feathery shaft from an Arab bow
O'er cliff and yawning gulf he sped,
Where mortal foot had not dared to go,—
Chasms beneath and rocks o'erhead!
White as Morena's trackless snows,
A waving robe around him flows—
A white plume floats o'er his gleaming crest—
A silver cross is on his breast;
And by that sign the Christian saw
With deep and still and solemn awe,
That he whom foe could never quell
Had left, once more, his holy grave—
A sudden fear on the Moslem's fell,
While quailed the bravest of the brave,
Or trembling whispered each to each,
With lips that scarce could master speech,
“The Cid! the Cid! the Campeador!”
And well the warriors knew of yore
That knight; oft had they felt his power
'Mid clashing blades, in battle-hour,
When their frail strength was swept away
Beneath his arm, in mortal fray.
And well they knew the legend old,
By many a Moorish mother told—
When from his tomb the Campeador
Should ride on his good steed once more,
The cross should win the bloody field
And the pale vanquished crescent yield!

Wildly they gazed, in awe and fear,
As that pale horseman came more near,—
And when he slowly raised his lance
Awaking from their sudden trance
In wild dismay they turned and fled—
Followed their flying host the Dead!
A mingled shout pealed on the air,
A shout of joy and of despair,
As, like the Simoom's withering blast,
The charging Christians onward passed.
Adown the crags the foemen go,
Scarce heeding the dread death below
So wild they fled, when through the fight
They saw the white cross of the knight.

A few, faint struggling blows they gave
Like one when sinking 'neath the wave;
Behind them still the Christian host
Followed their ancient leader's ghost,
And few shall tell, by Darro's wave,
How fought and tell the Moslem brave;
And few, amid Grenada's walls
Where music ever softly falls
From crystal founts, whose airy play
Is tinged with gold by sunset's ray—
Relate, with troubled brow, the story
Of Moslem shame and Christian glory!

Yet whether, 'mid the gory fray,
He passed on Battle's wing away
Or whether up the crags he rode,
Where eagles make their lone abode,
No mortal knows; but minstrel's lay
Oft woke the glories of that day,
When he, with more than mortal might
Turned back the sanguine tide of fight;
And o'er his tomb the censer's flame
Breathes forth the odor meet for Fame!

The day was o'er; and when the sun
Sank slowly to the western wave,
Heaped with the slain lay many a one
Whose heart at morn beat high and brave.
The Christian there, lay cold and pale,
And by his side the lifeless foe—
Ah! many a mother long shall wail
For him whose proud form now lies low,
And bride, at eve, from bastion'd tower
Watch for his plumy crest afar,
Who now hath slumbered many an hour,
All coldly 'neath the evening star!
The moon again rose up the sky;
But ever closed was many an eye
That last night beamed so free and bright,
It seemed to be a quenchless light.
Last eve she shone on burnished crest
And sparkled back from mailed breast,
But now that crest in dust was laid
And dim with gore the shield and blade.
How wan and ghostlike seemed each face
Amid the pale and sickly beam!
A lurid glow, as if the trace
Of wizard-fires, by marshy stream
Seemed playing on each stony brow
Like sea-fires round some vessel's prow!

Yet, kneeling on the battle plain
At that still hour amid the slain,
The victors swelled the grateful hymn,
And solemn chant and fervent prayer
Ascended in the twilight dim,
Borne heavenward by the mountain air.