Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume VIII. National Spirit. 1904. | | | | III. War | | The Lord of Butrago | | Anonymous |
| | From the Spanish by John Gibson Lockhart
“YOUR horse is faint, my King, my Lord! your gallant horse is sick,— | |
| His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; | |
| Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! | |
| Or in my arms I ’ll lift your Grace,—their trampling hoofs are nigh! | |
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| “My King, my King! you ’re wounded sore,—the blood runs from your feet; | 5 |
| But only lay a hand before, and I ’ll lift you to your seat; | |
| Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!—I hear their coming cry,— | |
| Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,—I ’ll save you though I die! | |
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| “Stand, noble steed! this hour of need,—be gentle as a lamb; | |
| I ’ll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,—thy master dear I am,— | 10 |
| Mount, Juan, mount; whate’er betide, away the bridle fling, | |
| And plunge the rowels in his side.—My horse shall save my King! | |
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| “Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours, | |
| And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures; | |
| If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead, | 15 |
| How could I stand ’mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head? | |
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| “Castile’s proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain, | |
| And say there ’s one that ran away when our good lords were slain! | |
| I leave Diego in your care,—you ’ll fill his father’s place; | |
| Strike, strike the spur, and never spare—God’s blessing on your Grace!” | 20 |
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| So spake the brave Montañez, Butrago’s lord was he; | |
| And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee; | |
| He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill,— | |
| He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its fill. | | | | |
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