And the crested form of a warrior tall,
With a sword of fire, went before them all;
With a sword of fire, and a banner pale,
And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail,
He rode in the battle's van!

There was fear in the path of his dim white horse,
There was death in the giant-warrior's course!
Where his banner stream'd with its ghostly light,
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying flight,
For it seem'd not the sword of man!

The field and the river grew darkly red,

As the kings and leaders of Afric fled;

There was work for the men of the Cid that day!
-They were weary at eve, when they ceased to slay,
As reapers whose task is done!

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled!
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread;
But the sea had its share of the Paynim-slain,
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain;
-So the Cid to his grave pass'd on!

THE CID'S RISING.

'Twas the deep mid-watch of the silent night,
And Leon in slumber lay,

When a sound went forth in rushing might,
Like an army on its way! (9)

In the stillness of the hour,

When the dreams of sleep have power,

And men forget the day.

Through the dark and lonely streets it went,
Till the slumberers woke in dread;-
The sound of a passing armament,

With the charger's stony tread.
There was heard no trumpet's peal,
But the heavy tramp of steel,

As a host's to combat led.

Through the dark and lonely streets it pass'd,
And the hollow pavement rang,

And the towers, as with a sweeping blast,
Rock'd to the stormy clang!

But the march of the viewless train
Went on to a royal fane,

Where a priest his night-hymn sang.

There was knocking that shook the marble floor,
And a voice at the gate, which said-
"That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador,
Was there in his arms array'd;

And that with him, from the tomb,
Had the Count Gonzalez come

With a host, uprisen to aid!

"And they came for the buried king that lay
At rest in that ancient fane;

For he must be arm'd on the battle-day,
With them, to deliver Spain!"

-Then the march went sounding on,

And the Moors, by noontide sun,
Were dust on Tolosa's plain.

11*

NOTES.

NOTE 1.

Bivar, the supposed birthplace of the Cid, was a castle, about two leagues from Burgos.

NOTE 2.

Tornaba la cabeza, e estabalos catando:
Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin canados,
Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin mantos:
E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados.

Sospiró mio Cid.

NOTE 3.

Poem of the Cid.

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.

NOTE 4.

The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently alluded to in the

romances.

NOTE 5.

Banderas antiguas, tristes

De victorias un tiempo amadas,
Tremolando estan al viento

Y lloran aunque no hablan, &c.

Herder's translation of these romances (Der Cid, nach Spanischen Romanzen besungen) are remarkable for their spirit and scrupulous fidelity.

NOTE 6.

"And while they stood there they saw the Cid Ruy Diez coming up with three hundred knights; for he had not been in the battle, and they knew his green pennon.”.

Chronicle of the Cid.

NOTE 7.

SOUTHEY'S

Alvar Fañez Minaya, one of the Cid's most distinguished warriors.

NOTE 8.

The Archer Queen.

A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of female warriors, accompanied King Bucar from Africa. Her arrows were so unerring, that she obtained the name of the Star of Archers.

Una Mora muy gallarda,
Gran maestra en el tirar,
Con Saetas del Aljava,
De los arcos de Turquia
Estrella era nombrada,
Por la destreza que avia
En el herir de la Xára.

NOTE 9.

See SOUTHEY'S Chronicle of the Cid, p. 352.

128

FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRUTLI.

ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRÜTLI

WHENCE art thou, flower? from holy ground,
Where freedom's foot hath been!

Yet bugle-blast or trumpet sound
Ne'er shook that solemn scene.

Flower of a noble field! thy birth
Was not where spears have cross'd,
And shiver'd helms have strewn the earth,
'Midst banners won and lost.

But where the sunny hues and showers
Unto thy cup were given,

There met high hearts at midnight hours,
Pure hands were raised to heaven.

And vows were pledged that man should roam
Through every Alpine dell,

Free as the wind, the torrent's foam,

The shaft of William Tell.

And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer,
Hallow'd the pastoral sod,

And souls grew strong for battle there,
Nerved with the peace of God.

Before the Alps and stars they knelt,
That calm devoted band,

And rose, and made their spirits felt
Through all the mountain land.