Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume VIII. National Spirit. 1904. | | | | III. War | | Battle Scene | | Anonymous |
| | From the Spanish by John Ormsby
From “The Cid”
THEN cried my Cid—“In charity, as to the rescue—ho!” | |
| With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing low, | |
| With stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle-bow, | |
| All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe. | |
| And he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out, | 5 |
| And clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle shout: | |
| “Among them, gentlemen! Strike home for the love of charity! | |
| The champion of Bivar is here—Ruy Diaz—I am he!” | |
| Then bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight, | |
| Three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering white; | 10 |
| Down go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow; | |
| And when they wheel, three hundred more, as charging back they go. | |
| It was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day; | |
| The shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay; | |
| The pennons that went in snow-white came out a gory red; | 15 |
| The horses running riderless, the riders lying dead; | |
| While Moors call on Mohammed, and “St. James!” the Christians cry, | |
| And sixty score of Moors and more in narrow compass lie. | | | | |
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