GENTLE river, gentle river, | |
| Lo, thy streams are stained with gore, | |
| Many a brave and noble captain | |
| Floats along thy willowed shore. | |
| |
| All beside thy limpid waters, | 5 |
| All beside thy sands so bright, | |
| Moorish Chiefs and Christian Warriors | |
| Joined in fierce and mortal fight. | |
| |
| Lords and dukes and noble princes | |
| On thy fatal banks were slain: | 10 |
| Fatal banks that gave to slaughter | |
| All the pride and flower of Spain. | |
| |
| There the hero, brave Alonzo, | |
| Full of wounds and glory, died: | |
| There the fearless Urdiales | 15 |
| Fell a victim by his side. | |
| |
| Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra | |
| Through their squadrons slow retires; | |
| Proud Seville, his native city, | |
| Proud Seville his worth admires. | 20 |
| |
| Close behind a Renegado | |
| Loudly shouts with taunting cry: | |
| “Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra, | |
| Dost thou from the battle fly? | |
| |
| “Well I know thee, haughty Christian, | 25 |
| Long I lived beneath thy roof; | |
| Oft I ’ve in the lists of glory | |
| Seen thee win the prize of proof. | |
| |
| “Well I know thy aged parents, | |
| Well thy blooming bride I know; | 30 |
| Seven years I was thy captive, | |
| Seven years of pain and woe. | |
| |
| “May our prophet grant my wishes! | |
| Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine: | |
| Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow | 35 |
| Which I drank when I was thine.” | |
| |
| Like a lion turns the warrior, | |
| Back he sends an angry glare: | |
| Whizzing came the Moorish javelin, | |
| Vainly whizzing through the air. | 40 |
| |
| Back the hero full of fury | |
| Sent a deep and mortal wound: | |
| Instant sunk the Renegado, | |
| Mute and lifeless on the ground. | |
| |
| With a thousand Moors surrounded, | 45 |
| Brave Saavedra stands at bay: | |
| Wearied out, but never daunted, | |
| Cold at length the warrior lay. | |
| |
| Near him fighting great Alonzo | |
| Stout resists the Paynim bands; | 50 |
| From his slaughtered steed dismounted | |
| Firm entrenched behind him stands. | |
| |
| Furious press the hostile squadron, | |
| Furious he repels their rage: | |
| Loss of blood at length enfeebles: | 55 |
| Who can war with thousands wage! | |
| |
| Where yon rock the plain o’ershadows, | |
| Close beneath its foot retired, | |
| Fainting sunk the bleeding hero, | |
| And without a groan expired. | 60 |
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