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Translated by W. A. Butler
I. BEFORE Saint Stephen of Gormaz | |
| Loud the brazen trumpets ring; | |
| ’T is where Ferdinand of Castile | |
| Holds his camp, the valiant king! | |
| Almanzor, the Moorish monarch, | 5 |
| From Cordova hastening down, | |
| With a mighty host is marching, | |
| To besiege the loyal town; | |
| Armed already, firmly mounted, | |
| Waits the proud Castilian band, | 10 |
| While through all the ranks, impatient, | |
| Rides the gallant Ferdinand. | |
| “Pascal Vivas! Pascal Vivas! | |
| Pride of all the knightly race, | |
| Wherefore, on the eve of battle, | 15 |
| Art thou wanting at thy place? | |
| Thou, who once to arm wast foremost, | |
| Foremost in the deadly fray, | |
| Hear’st thou not the warlike trumpet, | |
| And the battle-cry to-day? | 20 |
| While the Christian ranks are fighting, | |
| Shall they vainly seek thine aid? | |
| Shall thy well-won trophies wither, | |
| And thy laurels droop and fade?” | |
| Pascal Vivas cannot hear him, | 25 |
| In the distant forest glade; | |
| Where Saint George’s holy chapel | |
| Stands beneath the ancient shade. | |
| At the gate his steed is waiting, | |
| There his spear and shield recline, | 30 |
| While the knight, in silence kneeling, | |
| Prays before the sacred shrine; | |
| Buried in a deep devotion, | |
| Thinks not of the distant war, | |
| As its rising din is echoing | 35 |
| Through the forest depths afar; | |
| Marks not now his steed’s loud neighing, | |
| As the tumult strikes his ears; | |
| But Saint George, his Patron, watches, | |
| And the distant battle hears. | 40 |
| From the clouds the Saint descending | |
| Dons the armor of the knight, | |
| Mounts the gallant steed, impatient, | |
| Hastens onward to the fight. | |
| Flashing through the fray, triumphant, | 45 |
| As the lightning from the sky, | |
| See, he grasps Almanzor’s banner, | |
| And the Moorish squadrons fly! | |
| Pascal Vivas’ prayers are ended, | |
| Now he seeks the cloister gate, | 50 |
| Where, as when at first he left them, | |
| Steed and spear and armor wait. | |
| Thoughtful towards the camp he hastens, | |
| And he marvels much to see, | |
| That they come with shouts to greet him, | 55 |
| And the songs of victory: | |
| “Pascal Vivas! Pascal Vivas! | |
| Hail to Castile’s noblest son, | |
| Welcome to the valiant victor | |
| Who Almanzor’s banner won!” | 60 |
| Pascal Vivas vainly wonders, | |
| Fain would still the festive cries, | |
| Humbly bows his head in silence, | |
| Points in silence to the skies! | |
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II. In her bower, the Donna Julia | 65 |
| Lingers at the close of day; | |
| Fatiman, Almanzor’s kinsman, | |
| Comes and bears her thence away! | |
| With his precious booty swiftly | |
| Through the forest takes his flight, | 70 |
| Ten bold Moorish riders with him | |
| Follow, armed for deadly fight. | |
| On the second morning, early, | |
| Now they gain the distant glade, | |
| Where Saint George’s holy chapel | 75 |
| Stands beneath the ancient shade. | |
| In the distance, through the forest, | |
| Well the sacred shrine is known, | |
| By the Saint’s proud form and lofty, | |
| Sculptured in the solid stone, | 80 |
| As of old he fought the dragon, | |
| Closing in the fatal shock, | |
| While the princess waits in terror | |
| Chained upon the cruel rock. | |
| Weeping, and her fair hands wringing, | 85 |
| Donna Julia, at the sight, | |
| Cries, “Saint George, thou heavenly warrior, | |
| Save me from the dragon’s might!” | |
| See, from out the chapel springing, | |
| On his steed he comes, the brave, | 90 |
| In the breeze his locks so golden, | |
| And his crimson mantle wave. | |
| Fatal is his spear’s encounter, | |
| Fatiman, the robber, dies,— | |
| As of old the slaughtered dragon, | 95 |
| Bleeding on the earth he lies; | |
| And his ten bold Moorish riders, | |
| With a sudden, fearful cry, | |
| Casting shields and lances from them, | |
| Through the fatal forest fly. | 100 |
| On her knees, the Donna Julia | |
| Scarce her weeping eyes can raise; | |
| “Ah, Saint George! thou valiant savior, | |
| Thine forever be the praise!” | |
| But a second glance she ventures, | 105 |
| And though fearful still and faint, | |
| Strangest sight of all, discovers, | |
| Pascal Vivas is the Saint! | |
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