Verse > Anthologies > The World’s Best Poetry > Vol. VIII. National Spirit
Bliss Carman, et al., eds.  The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume VIII. National Spirit.  1904.
III. War
The Lord of Butrago
From the Spanish by John Gibson Lockhart

“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;        5
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,—        10
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,        15
How could I stand ’mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head?
“Castile’s proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain,
And say there ’s one that ran away when our good lords were slain!
I leave Diego in your care,—you ’ll fill his father’s place;
Strike, strike the spur, and never spare—God’s blessing on your Grace!”        20
So spake the brave Montañez, Butrago’s lord was he;
And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee;
He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill,—
He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its fill.

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