The Zegris’ Bride
“The Zegris’ Bride” tells in ballad form of the fierce feud between the two Moorish parties in Granada, the Zegris and the Abencerrages, the Montagues and Capulets of the last of the Moorish strongholds, when factious strife certainly accelerated the fall of their city. The ballad is well turned, and attractive in rhythm:
Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is Lisaro,
To wield rejon like him is none, or javelin to throw;
From the place of his dominion, he ere the dawn doth go,
From Alcala de Henares, he rides in weeds of woe.
Such a phrase as “the place of his dominion” is not suited to ballad composition, nor is the four-line rhyming grateful to the ear, although the measure is all that could be desired. Once more I think I see the hand of Scott in this translation, his ‘equestrian’ rhythm, his fondness for introducing words intended to assist local colour, as
Of gold-wrought robe or turban—nor jewelled tahali,
which he must, perforce, explain in a note as ‘scimitar.’ The young Zegri, we are told, is attired for action, not for the cavalcade or procession. Indeed, his armour and even his horse are camouflaged to assist his passage through an enemy’s country without observation.
The belt is black, the hilt is dim, but the sheathed blade is bright;
They have housen’d his barb in a murky garb, but yet her hoofs are light.
And again:
In darkness and in swiftness rides every armed knight,
The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white.
Lisaro wears on his bonnet a sprig of bay given him by Zayda, his lady.
And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady’s boon.
“God knows,” quoth he, “what fate may be—I may be slaughtered soon.”
But he lives to win his bride, as we are told in the curt final verse:
Young Lisaro was musing so, when onwards on the path
He well could see them riding slow; then prick’d he in his wrath.
The raging sire, the kinsmen of Zayda’s hateful house,
Fought well that day, yet in the fray the Zegri won his spouse.