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Translated by J. G. Lockhart
THE DAY of Roncesvalles was a dismal day for you, | |
| Ye men of France, for there the lance of King Charles was broke in two. | |
| Ye well may curse that rueful field, for many a noble peer, | |
| In fray or fight, the dust did bite, beneath Bernardo’s spear. | |
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| There captured was Guarinos, King Charles’s admiral; | 5 |
| Seven Moorish kings surrounded him, and seized him for their thrall; | |
| Seven times, when all the chace was o’er, for Guarinos lots they cast; | |
| Seven times Marlotes won the throw, and the knight was his at last. * * * * * | |
| With iron bands they bound his hands. That sore unworthy plight | |
| Might well express his helplessness, doomed nevermore to fight. | 10 |
| Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts of iron he bore, | |
| Which signified the knight should ride on charger nevermore. | |
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| Three times alone, in all the year, it is the captive’s doom, | |
| To see God’s daylight bright and clear, instead of dungeon-gloom; | |
| Three times alone they bring him out, like Samson long ago, | 15 |
| Before the Moorish rabble-rout to be a sport and show. | |
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| On three high feasts they bring him forth, a spectacle to be, | |
| The feast of Pasque, and the great day of the Nativity, | |
| And on that morn, more solemn yet, when the maidens strip the bowers, | |
| And gladden mosque and minaret with the first fruits of the flowers. | 20 |
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| Days come and go of gloom and show. Seven years are come and gone, | |
| And now doth fall the festival of the holy Baptist John; | |
| Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give it homage due; | |
| And rushes on the paths to spread they force the sulky Jew. | |
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| Marlotes, in his joy and pride, a target high doth rear, | 25 |
| Below the Moorish knights must ride and pierce it with the spear; | |
| But ’t is so high up in the sky, albeit much they strain, | |
| No Moorish lance so far may fly, Marlotes’ prize to gain. | |
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| Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld them fail, | |
| The whisker trembled on his lip, and his cheek for ire was pale; | 30 |
| And heralds proclamation made, with trumpets, through the town,— | |
| “Nor child shall suck, nor man shall eat, till the mark be tumbled down.” | |
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| The cry of proclamation, and the trumpet’s haughty sound, | |
| Did send an echo to the vault where the Admiral was bound. | |
| “Now, help me God!” the captive cries, “what means this din so loud? | 35 |
| O Queen of Heaven! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud! | |
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| “O, is it that some Pagan gay doth Marlotes’ daughter wed, | |
| And that they bear my scorned fair in triumph to his bed? | |
| Or, is it that the day is come,—one of the hateful three, | |
| When they, with trumpet, fife, and drum, make heathen game of me?” | 40 |
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| These words the jailer chanced to hear, and thus to him he said, | |
| “These tabours, Lord, and trumpets clear, conduct no bride to bed; | |
| Nor has the feast come round again, when he that has the right | |
| Commands thee forth, thou foe of Spain, to glad the people’s sight. | |
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| “This is the joyful morning of John the Baptist’s day, | 45 |
| When Moor and Christian feast at home each in his nation’s way; | |
| But now our king commands that none his banquet shall begin, | |
| Until some knight, by strength or sleight, the spearman’s prize do win.” | |
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| Then out and spake Guarinos, “O, soon each man should feed, | |
| Were I but mounted once again on my own gallant steed. | 50 |
| O, were I mounted as of old, and harnessed cap-a-pee, | |
| Full soon Marlotes’ prize I ’d hold, whate’er its price may be. | |
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| “Give me my horse, mine old gray horse, so be he is not dead, | |
| All gallantly caparisoned, with plate on breast and head, | |
| And give me the lance I brought from France, and if I win it not, | 55 |
| My life shall be the forfeiture,—I ’ll yield it on the spot.” * * * * * | |
| They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they ’ve clasped, | |
| And they ’ve barred the helm on his visage pale, and his hand the lance hath grasped, | |
| And they have caught the old gray horse, the horse he loved of yore, | |
| And he stands pawing at the gate,—caparisoned once more. | 60 |
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| When the knight came out the Moors did shout, and loudly laughed the king, | |
| For the horse he pranced and capered, and furiously did fling; | |
| But Guarinos whispered in his ear, and looked into his face, | |
| Then stood the old charger like a lamb, with a calm and gentle grace. | |
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| O, lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree, | 65 |
| And slowly riding down made halt before Marlotes’ knee; | |
| Again the heathen laughed aloud,—“All hail, sir knight,” quoth he, | |
| “Now do thy best, thou champion proud. Thy blood I look to see.” | |
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| With that Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rode, | |
| Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down his turban trode. | 70 |
| Now ride, now ride, Guarinos,—nor lance nor rowel spare,— | |
| Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life.—The land of France lies there! | |
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