Fixed was the right-hand Giant’s brazen look Upon his brother’s glass of shifting sand, As if its ebb he measured by a book, Whose iron volume loaded his huge hand; In which was wrote of many a fallen land Of empires lost, and kings to exile driven: And o’er that pair their names in scroll expand— “Lo, DESTINY and TIME! to whom by Heaven The guidance of the earth is for a season given.”—
Even while they read, the sand-glass wastes away; And, as the last and lagging grains did creep, That right-hand Giant ’gan his club upsway, As one that startles from a heavy sleep. Full on the upper wall the mace’s sweep At once descended with the force of thunder, And hurtling down at once, in crumbled heap, The marble boundary was rent asunder, And gave to Roderick’s view new sights of fear and wonder.
For they might spy, beyond that mighty breach, Realms as of Spain in visioned prospect laid, Castles and towers, in due proportion each, As by some skilful artist’s hand portrayed: Here, crossed by many a wild Sierra’s shade, And boundless plains that tire the traveller’s eye; There, rich with vineyard and with olive glade, Or deep-embrowned by forests huge and high, Or washed by mighty streams, that slowly murmured by.
And here, as erst upon the antique stage Passed forth the band of masquers trimly led, In various forms, and various equipage, While fitting strains the hearer’s fancy fed; So, to sad Roderick’s eye in order spread, Successive pageants filled that mystic scene, Showing the fate of battles ere they bled, And issue of events that had not been; And, ever and anon, strange sounds were heard between.
First shrilled an unrepeated female shriek!— It seemed as if Don Roderick knew the call, For the bold blood was blanching in his cheek.— Then answered kettle-drum and attabal, Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear appal, The Tecbir war-cry, and the Lelie’s yell, Ring wildly dissonant along the hall. Needs not to Roderick their dread import tell— “The Moor!” he cried, “the Moor!—ring out the Tocsin bell!
“They come! they come! I see the groaning lands White with the turbans of each Arab horde; Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving bands, Alla and Mahomet their battle-word, The choice they yield, the Koran or the Sword— See how the Christians rush to arms amain!— In yonder shout the voice of conflict roared, The shadowy hosts are closing on the plain— Now, God and Saint Iago strike, for the good cause of Spain!