Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Spain, Portugal, Belgium, and Holland: Vols. XIV–XV. 1876–79. | | | | Spain: Saragossa (Zaragoza; Sansueña) | | Melisendra | | Spanish Ballad |
| | Translated by J. G. Lockhart
AT Sansueña, in the tower, fair Melisendra lies, | |
| Her heart is far away in France, and tears are in her eyes; | |
| The twilight shade is thickening laid on Sansueña’s plain, | |
| Yet wistfully the lady her weary eyes doth strain. | |
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| She gazes from the dungeon strong, forth on the road to Paris, | 5 |
| Weeping, and wondering why so long her Lord Gayferos tarries, | |
| When lo! a knight appears in view,—a knight of Christian mien, | |
| Upon a milk-white charger he rides the elms between. | |
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| She from her window reaches forth her hand a sign to make: | |
| “O, if you be a knight of worth, draw near for mercy’s sake; | 10 |
| For mercy and sweet charity, draw near, Sir Knight, to me, | |
| And tell me if ye ride to France, or whither bowne ye be. | |
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| “O, if ye be a Christian knight, and if to France you go, | |
| I pr’ythee tell Guyferos that you have seen my woe; | |
| That you have seen me weeping, here in the Moorish tower, | 15 |
| While he is gay by night and day, in hall and lady’s bower. | |
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| “Seven summers have I waited, seven winters long are spent, | |
| Yet word of comfort none he speaks, nor token hath he sent; | |
| And if he is weary of my love, and would have me wed a stranger, | |
| Still say his love is true to him,—nor time nor wrong can change her.” | 20 |
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| The knight, on stirrup rising, bids her wipe her tears away,— | |
| “My love, no time for weeping, no peril save delay. | |
| Come, boldly spring, and lightly leap; no listening Moor is near us, | |
| And by dawn of day we ’ll be far away,”—so spake the knight Guyferos. | |
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| She hath made the sign of the cross divine, and an Ave she hath said, | 25 |
| And she dares the leap, both wide and deep,—that damsel without dread; | |
| And he hath kissed her pale pale cheek, and lifted her behind, | |
| Saint Denis speed the milk-white steed,—no Moor their path shall find. | | | | |
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