University of Virginia Library

Amid the wan moon's ghastly light
They sought the battle-plain that night,
And bore the wounded knights away,
Who in the bloody carnage lay.
Where strongest poured the battle's tide
And man and steed together died,
Stretched on a heap of lifeless foes
They found the knight, whose crimson plume
Through the dim war-cloud fell and rose,
And guided in the thickest gloom,
Like the old conqueror's cross of flame,
Their swords to victory and to Fame!

They raised him from among amongst the slain,
(Life had not yet given o'er her reign)
Dashed on his brow the streamlet's spray
And strove to bear his arms away.
But vainly tried they to unclasp
His cold hand's fixed and giant grasp,
Which held as firm the battle-blade
As when War's lightnings round him played!

Alfonso watched with anxious heart,
The magic of the leech's art,
Who sought by all his power and skill
To heal the brave one's grievous ill.
At last, with look of deep delight,
He said “God spares the noble knight!
His helm received the Emir's blade,
Which hath this death-like stupor made;
A few short hours of slumber o'er,
And he can lift the lance once more!

Another day! how glorious fell
The morning rays o'er stream and dell!
The red light on the hills of snow,
Shone like the festal torches' glow,
And with a brighter, deeper dye
Lit up the broad dome of the sky,
As if the slain had lent their hue
To crimson morning's heaven of blue!
The pure, fresh air brought healing power
Unto the warriors, at that hour,
As, rising heavily and slow,
They hied unto the streamlet's flow,
From battered arms, to wash away
The bloody stains of yesterday.

A trumpet note rang wild and shrill
And woke the echoes of the hill,
As King Alfonso rose again
Monarch of free, victorious Spain!
The peal broke Alvar's death-like rest,
Brought life and strength into his breast
And summoned back to heart and brain,
Their fiery vigor once again,
He seized in haste his trusty steel
And shouted loud “For old Castile!”
Leaped in the mailed warrior's ring
And stood before the astonished king.

The cool fresh air—the morning ray—
Chased from his mind the mist away,
Yet still bewildered and amazed,
Upon the knights around he gazed,
At last, a fond, familiar face—
“Father!”—then clasped in mute embrace
The sire and son: whose joyous tears
Repaid old Nunez' darkest fears.
How sad had seemed each pageant bright,
When Nunez' name would set in night;
When, placed no more 'mid Castile's brave,
His son should find a songless grave!

Around the startled warriors came
And echoed Alvar's well known name.
The king drew near:—“And is't thy brow
Young Nunez, wears the laurel now?
By Santiago! 'tis a crown
Not e'en a monarch might cast down!
And well its glory from thy name
Has reft its shadowing cloud of shame.
Yes, well thy hot youth's hasty sin
By yesterday atoned hath been;
No more may aught obscure thy name,
But Virtue proudly dwell with Fame!”
A thrill shot through his bounding breast—
At last he stood before them free!
He wore again his spotless crest,
That led, of old, to victory!
How changed seemed all since yestermorn!
A nameless shield he then had worn;
No herald then, with loud acclaim,
Could echo Nunez' once-proud name,
When dark eyes shine, and white hands wave
Beauty's loved plaudits to the brave!
All passed so sudden, it would seem
To be some strange, bewildering dream
That weighs upon the sleeper's breast,
Till, starting from his couch of rest,
His cry of fear its fetters breaks,
And with a thrill of joy he wakes.

“Thanks, thanks, my liege; I fain would ask,
(Since I must now my tale unmask)
If, in the thronged knights by your side,
Your trusted stay and Castile's pride,
Be one, who boasts a daughter fair,
Of stately step, yet winning air,
Who doth the name Ximena bear?”
Instant, stepped forth an aged knight
Who bore the bloody marks of fight—
“And what but Valdi's house of power
Its storied halls, its pomp and pride,
Can boast the loveliest, fairest flower
That decks the rude Sierra's side?”

“Then hear my tale: Three moons ago
I dwelt amid yon hills of snow.
I sought afar in hatred then,
A refuge from the gaze of men,
I could not calmly, tamely brook,
All eyes upon my shame should look;
So, from the heartless world removed,
My rugged cavern-home I loved.
One day, far down the craggy steep,
I saw a grim and gaunt wolf leap,
When from below there came a cry
Of wild despairing agony;
I hastened down the lonely glade
And saw a young and lovely maid,
While, full before, the crouched wolf lay;
My swift spear quivered through the air,
And joyous saw she, in the way,
The fearful monster bleeding there.

“I scarce need tell thee that my heart
Soon learned the mystic lore of love,
And that with life my breast would part
Ere aught its constancy could move.
From her I learned—what thou hast known;—
But yesterday I trust, hath shown
That aught which veiled my name before,
Shall ne'er its glory tarnish more!”

De Valdi mused a little space,
Then turning back to Alvar, said;
“I vowed revenge against thy race
But vengeance from my heart has fled,
Since in the field I saw thy form
Glance like the lightning through the storm,
And, with God's aid, redeem again
The glorious hills and streams of Spain!
Ill boots it now to cherish hate,
For vengeance cannot conquer fate;
And in the battle, well I see
The mighty hand of Destiny!
Take her thou lov'st! I know thy heart
From Glory's path will ne'er depart,
Nor foul Dishonour soil again
The sword so nobly drawn for Spain!”

[OMITTED]

Once more with song and trumpet's sound,
Along the mountain's side they wound;
Not with the anxious hearts they bore
Up the rude steep, three morns before,
But through each pass, and darkning dell,
Their joyous songs of triumph swell.
Yet louder strike the sounding strain,
Till the wild echoes reach yon plain,
Where far below 'neath sunnier skies
De Valdi's castle walls arise,
Strike, till the glad notes reach her ear,
Who waits with mingled hope and fear—
For he, her hero-love hath come
With sword unstained and lofty name;
Whose virtue, on the shrine of Home,
Shall feed the altar-fire of Fame!

Back rolled the ponderous gateway door—
Across the creaking bridge they pour,
With banners, steeds and war-drum's peal,
And rattling arms, and glittering steel.
Joy for De Valdi's halls to-night,
For Castile's monarch, from the light,
Hath come to view the beauteous bride,
Who soon shall stand by Alvar's side.
But where is she they thus would greet?
Why comes she not her sire to meet?
Why rings not, through the arching dome,
Her joyous cry of welcome home?
They seek in vain the hall and tower,
The olive grove—the orange bower—
The turret high—the shrine of prayer—
All her loved haunts—she is not there!
A sudden fear crossed Alvar's breast,
Vague, boding doubts his mind opprest.
Yet as they sought, and found her not,
Unconsciously, toward the spot,
Where, on the lonely mountain side,
With all a lover's joy and pride
He heard her vows, his footsteps strayed;
The clustering firs a deep gloom made,
And crags uppiled, on either side,
Aspired the glowing heaven to hide.
Even the old and sombre trees
Scarce whispered in the evening breeze,
As if they feared its breath would tall
Some secret of the lonely dell.
The shadows constant slept, unstirred
By springing wolf or flitting bird—
Where Silence at her altar knelt
And with her sister Sadness dwelt.

As through the gloomy grove he passed,
A sound came by upon the blast.
He heard a war-steed's heavy tread
Sounding amid the rocks o'erhead,
And saw, the mingled boughs among,
A showy courser, stout and strong,
Slow down the dark and winding way,
It came, amid the glimmering ray,
'Till as it nearer, nearer drew,
A silver cross gleamed on his view!
He knew that helm, whose plume of yore
Had waved above the Campeador,
And with a thrill of deep-felt awe,
That white and spectral war-steed saw,
Scarce had the vision met his gaze,
When “Alvar!” rung upon the air;
The spear is dropped—the helmet raised—
What phantom stood before him there!
O'er steel-clad breast dark ringlets flow,
'Neath crested helm the soft eyes glow,
And rosy lip and cheek takes place
Of manhood's bronzed and bearded face!

Dumb with amazement stood he now,
His clasped hands pressed upon his brow—
When, as she dropped the slackened rein
And feebly grasped the steed's loose mane,
He sprung, and caught her fainting form
That drooped, like flowers before the storm,
He bore her where the white cascade
Dashed down the dark and lonely glade
And shook the cool drops o'er her face,
Till life resumed its wonted place.
The light again beamed from her eye
Like the first star of evening's sky
And glowed o'er lip and cheek, the hue
Of spring's first rose, when gemm'd with dew.
Thank Heaven thou liv'st! Now gently rest
Thy weary head upon my breast
And tell me wherefore thou art here?
Why in this guise thou dost appear?
'Tis like a dream—it cannot be
I see the Campeador in thee!”

She feebly raised at length her head
And in a faint, low whisper said—
“My reeling sense and wilder'd brain
Scarce gives me power to think again.
The more than woman's strength I felt
Like winter's snowy wreaths doth melt—
The power that nerved my shrinking soul
No more may bear its wild control.
But wherefore here? I saw thee fall
Where death and darkness circled all!
How cam'st thou from the mingled slain
That strewed the gory battle-plain?”
“The Moslem's blow of force intense,
But stunned awhile my soul and sense;
The trumpet called, from sleep like death,
To life and love, my spirit's breath.
Haste! haste! thy tale!”

“When from my sight
Thou hadst departed, that blest night,
A something whispered to my brain,
Even I might save the hills of Spain!
So when my sire had left his halls
And took the banners from the walls—
When shouts along the far hill rose,
The gathering cry of Castile's foes—
I sought the chapel, where of old
Was placed, in massive urn of gold,
The armor of the Campeador,
Whose breast might never wear it more!
I took his lance and cross of pride,
And on this snowy war-steed hied
O'er crags where nought but deer had stood,
Toward the scene of strife and blood.

“I felt not fear—a mystic power
Gave more than earthly strength my soul;
I thought upon that parting hour,
And spurred my wild barb to the goal.
'Twas as if he whose arms I bore
Still blessed the hills he loved of yore,
And transfused through my woman frame
His proud soul's high, unconquered flame!
Down through the pass—I recked not how,
I hurried from the mountain's brow.
I saw the rush of the hosts below—
And heard the cry of the rushing foe;
And with vizor closed and lance in rest
And the Cid's white cross upon my breast,
Through the flying Christian band I passed
And saved the shrines of Spain at last!
But the lofty strength of my soul gave way
'Neath the bloody terrors of the fray;
The path of my steed was through streams of gore—
On the breasts of the ghastly dead he bore,
And the heavy sound of his iron hoof
Was like a voice of stern reproof.
Then I saw the fear of the coward foe
And turned from the fight—but none may know
That the phantom Cid and his spectral steed
Was a weak, yet loving woman's deed—
That the spirit which every fear could move,
Was strengthened and steeled by the might of Love!”

“Oh! worthy to be a warrior's bride!
Thou now art doubly dear to me,
And thy cheek shall glow with a brighter pride,
At the joyous tale I bear to thee!
But let us hence! thy sire doth miss
Thy sunny smile and welcome kiss;
The guests within the festive hall,
Wait till in dance thy footsteps fall,
And Castile's monarch, throned in pride,
Hath come to bless thy Alvar's bride!”

Amid De Valdi's glittering throng
The hours went by on wings of song;
Hands that had borne War's crimson stain,
Now pour the gleaming wine again,
And myrtles crown the brow, instead
Of the battered helm, with its blood-rust red.
The crested banners rose and fell
With the wild war-music's glorious swell,
And gems that flash on Beauty's brow
Are brighter far than the torches now!
Then the king called forth his minstrel boy—
“Come, sing me a song of love and joy!”
De Valdi stood by the monarch's side
And gazed with joy on the blushing bride,
While Alvar's bliss was raised yet higher
As the minstrel woke his sounding lyre:

The lay is o'er. The spirit of the past
That bade me wake the strains of other days,
Has died upon the lyre—it is the last!
Its fitful breath bid for a moment raise
Long-buried forms—themes of romantic lays,
Whose Memory lingers still around that shore,
Like some dim light that on a ruin plays
And calls to mind the splendor that is o'er—
The only relic left of long-forgotten lore.

If from the wreck and ruin of that age
Some noble deed the bard may haply find,
To glow a moment on his humble page
And bid the world-benumbed and weary mind
Awhile forget the cares its path that bind,
Not vainly has he written. He doth dwell
'Mid scenes so long to silent gloom consigned,
To breathe a fleeting strain—to wake the knell
Of former fame. Lone, shattered, tuneless lyre, Farewell!