| |
Translated by J. G. Lockhart
KING ALMANZOR of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound, | |
| He hath summoned all the Moorish lords from the hills and plains around; | |
| From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, | |
| They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel. | |
| ’T is the holy Baptist’s feast they hold in royalty and state, | 5 |
| And they have closed the spacious lists, beside the Alhambra’s gate; | |
| In gowns of black with silver laced, within the tented ring, | |
| Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed, in presence of the king. | |
| |
| Eight Moorish lords, of valor tried, with stalwart arm and true, | |
| The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through: | 10 |
| The deeds they ’ve done, the spoils they ’ve won, fill all with hope and trust; | |
| Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they all have bit the dust! | |
| |
| Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour: | |
| Make room, make room for Gazul!—throw wide, throw wide the door!— | |
| Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still! more loudly strike the drum!— | 15 |
| The alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth come. | |
| |
| And first before the king he passed, with reverence stooping low; | |
| And next he bowed him to the queen, and the Infantas all a-row; | |
| Then to his lady’s grace he turned, and she to him did throw | |
| A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow. | 20 |
| |
| With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the sand, | |
| Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta’en his stand; | |
| And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye: | |
| But firmly he extends his arm,—his look is calm and high. | |
| |
| Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on: | 25 |
| He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rejon; | |
| Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow, | |
| He blindly totters and gives back across the sand to go. | |
| |
| “Turn, Gazul,—turn!” the people cry: the third comes up behind; | |
| Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind;— | 30 |
| The mountaineers that lead the steers without stand whispering low, | |
| “Now thinks this proud alcayde to stun Harpado so?” | |
| |
| From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, | |
| From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill; | |
| But where from out the forest burst Xarama’s waters clear, | 35 |
| Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed,—this proud and stately steer. | |
| |
| Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil, | |
| And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil: | |
| His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow; | |
| But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe. | 40 |
| |
| Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near,— | |
| From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they appear; | |
| His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old, knotted tree, | |
| Whereon the monster’s shagged mane, like billows curled, ye see. | |
| |
| His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night, | 45 |
| Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might; | |
| Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock, | |
| Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the alcayde’s shock. | |
| |
| Now stops the drum: close, close they come; thrice meet, and thrice give back; | |
| The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger’s breast of black,— | 50 |
| The white foam of the charger on Harpado’s front of dun; | |
| Once more advance upon his lance,—once more, thou fearless one! | |
| |
| Once more, once more!—in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel!— | |
| In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel!— | |
| In vain, in vain, thou noble beast!—I see, I see thee stagger! | 55 |
| Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern alcayde’s dagger! | |
| |
| They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in, | |
| And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din. | |
| Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow | |
| Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low! | 60 |
| |
