SPANISH BALLADS.
Translated from the Spanish.

BY EDWARD MATURIN.

BALLAD XVIII.

THE DESTRUCTION OF NUMANTIA.

The Spanish chronicler says "The invasion of the French is so fresh in the memory, that it is sufficient to say, the inhabitants of Zaragossa imitated the desperate example of Numantia against Scipio."

Monti, in his tragedy of Caius Grachus, alludes thus to Scipio, and the bitter extremities, of want and suffering experienced by the Numantians-"Rememb'rest thou not the fell work of the destroyer (Scipio), and the famine of Numantia, which blackened and cursed our name throughout the world?"

With haughty Rome's unconquer'd band, that ne'er knew flight or fear,
To desolate Iberia's land, with fire, and sword and spear,
The conqueror of Carthage goes, in Afric's fields renown'd,
To win for Rome Numantia, or raze her to the ground.

No sooner, then, his warrior-men, with sword and buckler bright,
In war-array, at break of day, in glitt'ring armour dight,
Were marshalled on the grassy plain, by Darro's golden water,
Than Scipio thus arous'd his men to deeds of blood and slaughter:

"Soldiers! the banners that ye bear are emblems of the day;
Rome's haughty eagle flies, where'er is felt its genial ray.
May the shouts of Roman triumph sustain her as she flies,
To make her bright pavillion in the depths of yonder skies!"

"Remember, that to-day ye fight to gain a brighter name,
Than e'er was set by Glory yet, upon the scroll of Fame!
Remember, that the deeds of war shall live to future years-
The victors! the triumphal car! the captive chain'd in tears!"

Nor heard these men their leader, then, impatient for the fray;
For eager cries did rend the skies, and cleave the vault of day:
To arms! to arms!" from left to right, from right to left they cry-
The spear upon the shield they smite, and raise their banners high.

The Numantine, in serried line, as he looks from his guarded tower
And sees advance, with targe and lance, the might of Roman power,
Resolves to make the tented field the proud Numantian's grave,
Ere Spain to Roman sword should yield, or crouch as Roman slave.
No bread they have for famish'd life, within those 'leaguer'd walls;
She bares her breast, the fearless wife, and 'fore her husband falls;
She quails not at the naked knife, and with her babe she prays,
Death from the arm that guarded her from wrong in other days.

This river (an abbreviation for the Spanish De Oro), derives its name from the tradition that its sands were golden.

They build a blazing fire the while, and in their strong despair,
Resolve to make that flame the pile of all that's rich and fair.
In low, but sternest voice, they cry, that pale but iron band:
"THAT day shall rather see them die, than Spain a conquer'd land!”

Th' exulting Roman, heedless, then, of what was done or said,
Amid that ghastly troop of men, resolv'd and undismay'd:

"To arms! to arms!". from left to right, from right to left they cry;
The spear upon the shield they smite, and raise their banners high!

BALLAD XIX.

BOABDIL'S LAMENT.

The Moorish king doth ride alone, alone without his host;
And many a tear and bitter groan proclaim Alhama lost.
He rideth from Elvira's gate, forth thro' Granada's town,
That town he sway'd as king of late, with sceptre and with crown.

Woe betide the hapless hour when King Boabdil heard,
That fallen was Alhama's tower beneath the Christian sword;
Woe worth the messenger! woe worth the tidings that he bore!
He smote the trembling slave to earth-the hated tidings tore.

Then vaulted on his steed, the rein he grasp'd with trembling hand;

Fate darkly whisper'd-" Christian Spain would yet sway Moorish land!” Along the Zacatin he guides his mettled Arab roan;

And thousands eye him as he rides, a king without a throne!"

And scarce within Alhambra's walls the king his entry made,
When Zegris to his aid he calls, Alfaqui and Alcayde-

"Let ev'ry trumpet peal," he cried, "within Elvira's gate;

Spread our Prophet's jewell'd banner wide! Allah! God is great!”

"Peal ev'ry trumpet! Let the drum thunder the note of war!
Alhama's lost! The Christian's come! Blaze ev'ry scymitar!
Peal ev'ry gong and atabal with a burst shall rend the skies;
Be vengeance for Alhama's fall-the Moslem's Paradise!"

The Moors upon the Vega, and the Moors within the gate,
Hear in the blast their king's command, as 'twere the tongue of Fate;
With breathless speed, and sweating steed, they press in full career;
With scymitar bare, they smite the air, and tilt the burnish'd spear.

Obedient to that warlike blast, they stand in glittering ring,

When a hoary Moor spake out at fast-" Wherefore that summons, king?" Wherefore?" the king replied, with brow now pale, now red with fear;

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"Alhama is the Christians' now-read thou my summons there!"

The spake an old Alfaqui, hoar and weak with years he stood:
Remember, king! thy palace-floor is stain'd with Moslem blood;
Th' Abencerrage's blood was shed within this very room;
In Alhama's cold and spectal dead, king! read thou thy doom!"

BALLAD XX.

BOABDIL'S FAREWELL.

There's weeping in Granada's town-there's wailing near and far-
Dim is the Zegris's emerald crown, and wan'd the crescent-star!
Alfaquis chaunt the Prophet's praise, as they move in sadness on,
While monks their pious voices raise to the glory of the Son!"

Where the Crescent late its lustre shed a milder glory falls,
For the banner'd Cross is widely spread within Granada's walls;
Within the mosque the Christian kneels, without are Christian spears;
And as Te Deum loudly peals, the Moor drops burning tears!

Wave high the banners of Castille above the Christian band;
Bursts forth in wild and joyous peal-" The Moor hath left the land!"
March on the Moslems thro' one gate, their pennons drooping low;
Thro' the other come with step elate, the proud, exulting foe!

His beard he tore the gems he wore tramples the king to earth;
While his Spahis heard Boabdil pour these words of sadness forth :
"Fair city of my home and faith! Granada! fare thee well;
For love of thee his latest breath thy king would dearly sell!

"The Moor full seven hundred years within thy walls held sway-
Woe worth the Christian for the tears he makes us shed to-day!
In thee I drew my earliest breath, but far from thee shall die-
Mahoun! avenge Granada's faith! Thy sword smite Christentie!

"Mother of gentle dames wert thou, of high and honor'd name-
Thou'st wove for many a champion's brow the chaplet of his fame
For years of deadly hate we've striven 'gainst yon exulting lord,
And hop'd to find the Moslem's heaven lay 'neath the Christian's sword.

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Thy children's hopes, alas! were vain, tho' we struggled, toild and bled; Better than wear this galling chain thy suffering sons were dead!

Granada! look upon thy chief! Fair city look thy last!
Granade-Alhambra-Generalife, your day of glory's past

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There's not a flower within thy walls that is not doom'd to die; No fount again within thy halls shall glad the gazer's eyeCrownless and sceptreless, I leave my cradle-kingdom-home! A pilgrim doom'd-mayhap the wave may prove Boabdil's tomb !"

He said, and gave his barb the rein. His knights and cavaliers
Begirt the monarch's mourning-train, with their bright and glistening spears,
When, lo! a voice upon his ears, like wind that lulls the wave:

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Better, my son! than thou be here Granada were thy grave!

"People, and kingdom, all are gone! Son, wherefore dost thou breathe? Down with yon waving gonfalon!-your swords, ye traitors, sheathe! Thou'st hung upon these breasts, but now this arm could smite thee dead; For I spurn the brand, in a craven's hand, as the crown on a traitor's head!"

BALLAD XXI.

LAMENT OF DON RODERICK.

The painted bird forgets his lay, and folds his wings in rest,
Faded the amber light of day, and gloom is in the West;
The earth in solemn silence hears the murmur of the wave,
As its watery tribute on it bears, to make the sea its grave.

Dimly shines the evening-star, like the fair bride of night,
Sailing in her pearly car o'er waves of misty light;

And scarce, I ween, the moon is seen through rack and drifting cloud,
For the storm hath wrapt the midnight sky in a pale and dismal shroud.

And who is he o'er mount and vale who wends his weary way-
Worn his weeds, his cheek is pale, and hair in disarray?
Rodrigo, from the bloody plain of Jerez takes his flight,

To shun the heaps of his thousands slain-for a King a sorry sight!

And he hath ta'en a sad disguise on that drear and lonely way—
Weeds that a Palmer would not prize, so torn and bare are they;
No jewell'd crown upon his head-no sceptre doth he hold;
But poor and tatter'd robes instead of purple and of gold.

What soldier now could recognize the King he once ador'd?
Who could think that tatter'd guise concealed a kingly sword?
Where are the glittering gems that shone in victory's bright day—
Gems the Goths themselves had won from foes as strong as they?

Many a dint his armor bears, and many a crimson stain
Upon its polish'd face appears-the blood of Moorish slain;

With blood and dust his face was smear'd-his head in thought was bent;
The triumph of that luckless day was the reed on which he leant!

Through vale and plain, with slacken'd rein, Orelia bears him on ;
His courser true, that weary day, master and steed alone!
With weary limb and lightless eye, with faint and drooping head,
Orelia trod the midnight way, unknowing where it led.

Sad images the horseman's eye at ev'ry step assail,
Anon he hears the Moorish cry, anon the Christian wail;
He dares not look to heaven, for there God speaks in ev'ry tone;
He dares not look to earth-alas! that earth is not his own!

That land is now another's-he has nor crown nor throne;
He throws with pride the tear aside, and stifles ev'ry groan.
"Wo! wo betide the hour," he cried, "I first felt passion's fires—
Wo worth the day I fell a prey to Love's accurst desires!

""Twas not the part of Gothic King his people to bewray
For the deadly wile of woman's smile, or her eyes' deceitful ray.
Where is my kingdom's glory gone, and where my people's trust?
Where are my sceptre and my throne? All trampled to the dust!

"And Cava!-thou, fair enemy; thou Helena of Spain!
Oh would to God that I were blind ere I had worn thy chain;
But in thy beauty slept the fire the flint within it bears:
Our luckless passion now, alas! can scarce be quench'd by tears.

"Would, Julian, that thy dagger's point-foul traitor that thou art! -
Had found its way through harness-joint, and pierc'd my very heart!
The swarthy hordes of Afric's land o'erspread our hills and plains-
I would the fragment of this brand could rend thy traitor's veins !"

He bow'd his head upon his breast-his words were low and faint-
His lips in agony were prest to the image of his saint ;*

The weary steed to earth fell dead! The knight full sore he weeps―
Upon the sward he makes his bed, and vigil sad he keeps.

And ever from his lips there fell a prayer for conquer'd Spain,
That God would smite the Infidel, and break his country's chain;
And oft amid the ling'ring night he'd gaze upon his steed,
Dream o'er again the Moorish fight and Orelia's arrowy speed.

BALLAD XXII.

LAMENT OF RODERICK IN THE GARDEN.

Amid the garden's clust'ring beds, where rose and lily pale
Shroud, tremblingly, their dewy heads 'neath ev'nings dusky veil,
The throneless King Rodrigo strays, while thought with magic wand
Conjures bright dreams of other days, when the Goth ruled o'er the land.

The sparkle of the fountain bright falls darkly on his eye;
The murmur of its arrowy flight upon his heart sank heavily;
The rose hath lost her damask hue-all wither'd is her leaf;
And the lily, 'tis the emblem true of Rod'rick's pallid grief.

Bright hues, in clusters, 'round were spread to glad the gazer's eye;
Nature's bright hand aronnd had shed a flower'd galaxy;
But evening wav'd her shadowy wand o'er every flowret's breast,
And lull'd, as by a mother's hand, they clos'd their leaves in rest.

His hurried step betray'd the thought, repentance' keenest pang;
In solitude the Goth had sought to blunt her poison'd fang.
He lean'd in sadness 'gainst a tree, its boughs of leaves were bare,
And with a broken voice spake he, in accents of despair.

"Lo! every plague beneath the heav'n within this breast hath found
Its darken'd home, by vengeance giv'n, to rend each gaping wound ;
The elements themselves conspire, for water dims the eye;
Within my breast 's a raging fire, and air begets the sigh.

"The earth alone hath mercy shown-her terrors are conceal'd,
For in the tomb, that darkened home, Life's fountains are congeal'd;
And with meteor-speed the hour of Fate comes upon friend and foe,
And stifl'd is the burning pulse of Hate, in icy realins below.

"These odors sweet, that float and stray, as they heavenward take their flight, Like incense laid by dying Day on the altar of the Night,

Are link'd with tearful memory of hours forever fled;

Those flowers have grown beneath thine eye, and now, alas! they're dead'

"In every faded rose I seek that bright and blushing bloom,

That, Cava, once adorn'd thy cheek, dark signet of my doom'

* The Goths were Christians.-Vide Sismondi's “Histoire du Midi."