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NOTES TO WELSH MELODIES

PAGE 248

12 Dinas Emrys, (the fortress of Ambrose,) a celebrated rock amongst the mountains of Snowdon, is said to be so called from having been the residence of Merddin Emrys, called by the Latins Merlinus Ambrosius, the celebrated prophet and magician and there, tradition says, he wrote his prophecies concerning the future state of the Britons.

"There is another curious tradition respecting a large stone, on the ascent of Snowdon, called Maen du yr Arddu, the black stone of Arddu. It is said, that if two persons were to sleep a night on this stone, in the morning one would find himself endowed with the gift of poetry, and the other would become insane."-WILLIAMS's Observations on the Snowdon Mountains.

13 "It is believed amongst the inhabitants of these mountains, that eagles have heretofore bred in the lofty clefts of their rocks. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, though very rarely, amongst the precipices."-Ibid.

SONGS OF THE CID

[THESE ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the "wild and wonderful" traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and the ancient Poem of the Cid.]

THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE

WITH Sixty knights in his gallant train,
Went forth the Campeador of Spain;
For wild sierras and plains afar,
He left the lands of his own Bivar.*

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent,
From his home in good Castile he went;
To the wasting siege and the battle's van,
-For the noble Cid was a banished man!

Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze played,
And his native streams wild music made,
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay,
When for march and combat he took his way.

* A castle, about two leagues from Burgos.

A

R

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took,
And he turned his steed for a parting look,
For a parting look at his own fair towers,
-Oh! the exile's heart hath weary hours!

The pennons were spread, and the band arrayed,
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stayed—
It was but a moment; the halls were lone,
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.

There was not a steed in the empty stall,
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall,
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door,
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.

Then a dim tear swelled to the warrior's eye,
As the voice of his native groves went by;
And he said "My foemen their wish have won:
Now the will of God be in all things done!"

But the trumpet blew with its note of cheer,
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear,
And the fields of his glory lay distant far,
-He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar!

THE CID'S DEATHBED

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.

THE CID'S DEATHBED

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes,

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,
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,

In the silent Alcazar.

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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.†

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,
And cold the valiant breast;

He had fought the battles of the land,
And his hour was come to rest.

*The Zambra, a Moorish dance. When Valencia was taken by the Cid, many of the Moorish families chose to remain there, and reside under his government.

The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently alluded to in the

romances.

What said the Ruler of the field?

-His voice is faint and low;

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;
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.

"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,
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;
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 deathbed of the brave,
Send forth a hollow sigh.