SONGS OF THE CID.

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The following ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the "wild and wonderful" traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and the ancient poem of the Cid.

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SONGS OF THE CID.

THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE.

WITH Sixty knights in his gallant train,
Went forth the Campeador of Spain;
For wild sierras and plains afar,
He left the lands of his own Bivar. (1)

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent,
From his home in good Castile he went;
To the wasting siege and the battle's van,
-For the noble Cid was a banish'd man!

Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze play'd,
And his native streams wild music made,
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay,
When for march and combat he took his way.

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took,
And he turn'd his steed for a parting look,
For a parting look at his own fair towers;
-Oh! the Exile's heart hath weary hours!

The pennons were spread, and the band array'd,
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stay'd;
It was but a moment-the halls were lone,
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.

There was not a steed in the empty stall,

Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall,
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door,
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor. (2)

Then a dim tear swell'd to the warrior's eye,
As the voice of his native groves went by;
And he said- —"My foemen their wish have won
Now the will of God be in all things done!"

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer,
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear,
And the fields of his glory lay distant far,
-He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar!

THE CID'S DEATHBED.

It was an hour of grief and fear

Within Valencia's walls,

When the blue Spring-heaven lay still and clear Above her marble halls.

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes,

And steps of hurrying feet,

Where the Zambra's (3) notes were wont to rise, Along the sunny street.

It was an hour of fear and grief,
On bright Valencia's shore,

For death was busy with her chief,
The noble Campeador.

The Moor-king's barks were on the deep,
With sounds and signs of war,

For the Cid was passing to his sleep,

In the silent Alcazar.

No moan was heard through the towers of state,

No weeper's aspect seen,

But by the couch Ximena sate,

With pale yet steadfast mien. (4)

Stillness was round the leader's bed,
Warriors stood mournful nigh,
And banners, o'er his glorious head,
Were drooping heavily.

And feeble grew the conquering hand,
And cold the valiant breast;

He had fought the battles of the land,
And his hour was come to rest.

What said the Ruler of the field?

His voice is faint and low;

The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield Hath louder accents now.

"Raise ye no cry, and let no moan

Be made when I depart;

The Moor must hear no dirge's tone,

Be ye of mighty heart!

"Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain
From your walls ring far and shrill;

And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain
Shall grant you victory still.