| |
| IT was an hour of grief and fear | |
| Within Valencia’s walls, | |
| When the blue spring heaven lay still and clear | |
| Above her marble halls. | |
| |
| There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes, | 5 |
| And steps of hurrying feet, | |
| Where the Zambra’s notes were wont to rise, | |
| Along the sunny street. | |
| |
| It was an hour of fear and grief | |
| On bright Valencia’s shore, | 10 |
| For Death was busy with her chief, | |
| The noble Campeador. | |
| |
| The Moor king’s barks were on the deep, | |
| With sounds and signs of war; | |
| But the Cid was passing to his sleep, | 15 |
| In the silent Alcazar. | |
| |
| No moan was heard through the towers of state, | |
| No weeper’s aspect seen, | |
| But by the couch Ximena sate, | |
| With pale yet steadfast mien. | 20 |
| |
| Stillness was round the leader’s bed, | |
| Warriors stood mournful nigh, | |
| And banners o’er his glorious head | |
| Were drooping heavily. | |
| |
| And feeble grew the conquering hand, | 25 |
| And cold the valiant breast; | |
| He had fought the battles of the land, | |
| And his hour was come to rest. | |
| |
| What said the ruler of the field? | |
| His voice is faint and low; | 30 |
| The breeze that creeps o’er his lance and shield | |
| Hath louder accents now. | |
| |
| “Raise ye no cry, and let no moan | |
| Be made when I depart; | |
| The Moor must hear no dirge’s tone; | 35 |
| Be ye of mighty heart! | |
| |
| “Let the cymbal clash and the trumpet strain | |
| From your walls ring far and shrill; | |
| And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain | |
| Shall grant you victory still. | 40 |
| |
| “And gird my form with mail array, | |
| And set me on my steed; | |
| So go ye forth on your funeral way, | |
| And God shall give you speed. | |
| |
| “Go with the dead in the front of war, | 45 |
| All armed with sword and helm, | |
| And march by the camp of King Bucar, | |
| For the good Castilian realm. | |
| |
| “And let me slumber in the soil | |
| Which gave my fathers birth; | 50 |
| I have closed my day of battle-toil, | |
| And my course is done on earth.” | |
| |
| Now wave, ye glorious banners! wave! | |
| Through the lattice a wind sweeps by, | |
| And the arms, o’er the death-bed of the brave, | 55 |
| Send forth a hollow sigh. | |
| |
| Now ware, ye banners of many a fight! | |
| As the fresh wind o’er you sweeps; | |
| The wind and the banners fall hushed as night: | |
| The Campeador,—he sleeps! | 60 |
| |
| Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn, | |
| And swell out the trumpet’s blast, | |
| Till the notes prevail o’er the voice of wail, | |
| For the noble Cid hath passed! | |
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