For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred-- Then exclaimed: "For ever sacred must remain a monarch's word. Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give: Drink, I said before, and perish--now I bid thee drink and live!"
Then cried my Cid--"In charity, as to the rescue--ho!" With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing low, With stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle-bow, All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe. And he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out, And clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle shout: "Among them, gentlemen! Strike home for the love of charity! The champion of Bivar is here--Ruy Diaz--I am he!" Then bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight, Three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering white; Down go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow; And when they wheel, three hundred more, as charging back they go. It was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day; The shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay; The pennons that went in snow-white came out a gory red; The horses running riderless, the riders lying dead; While Moors call on Mohammed, and "St. James!" the Christians cry, And sixty score of Moors and more in narrow compass lie.
From the Spanish. Translation of JOHN ORMSBY.
"Your horse is faint, my King, my Lord! your gallant horse is sick,-- His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace,--their trampling hoofs are nigh!
"My King, my King,! you're wounded sore,--the blood runs from your feet; But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat; Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!--I hear their coming cry,-- Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,--I'll save you though I die!
"Stand, noble steed! this hour of need,--be gentle as a lamb; I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,--thy master dear I am,-- Mount, Juan, mount; whate'er betide, away the bridle fling, And plunge the rowels in his side.--My horse shall save my King!
"Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours, And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures; If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead, How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head?