Fernando, king of Aragon, before Granada lies,
With dukes and barons many a one, and champions of emprise;
With all the captains of Castile that serve his lady’s crown,
He drives Boabdil from his gates, and plucks the Crescent down.
The Cross is rear’d upon the towers, for our Redeemer’s sake!
The king assembles all his powers, his triumph to partake;
Yet at the royal banquet, there’s trouble in his eye—
“Now speak thy wish, it shall be done, great king!” the lordings cry.
Then spake Fernando: “Hear, grandees! which of ye all will go,
And give my banner in the breeze of Alpujar to blow?
Those heights along, the Moors are strong; now who, by dawn of day,
Will plant the Cross their cliffs among, and drive the dogs away?”
Then champion on champion high, and count on count doth look;
And falt’ring is the tongue of lord, and pale the cheek of duke;
Till starts up brave Alonzo, the knight of Aguilar,
The lowmost at the royal board, but foremost still in war.
And thus he speaks: “I pray, my lord, that none but I may go:
For I made promise to the queen, your consort, long ago,
That ere the war should have an end, I, for her royal charms,
And for my duty to her grace, would show some feat of arms!”
Much joy’d the king these words to hear—he bids Alonzo speed;
And long before the revel’s o’er the knight is on his steed;
Alonzo’s on his milk-white steed, with horsemen in his train,
A thousand horse, a chosen band, ere dawn the hills to gain.
They ride along the darkling ways, they gallop thro’ the night;
They reach Nevada ere the cock hath harbinger’d the light;
But ere they’ve climb’d that steep ravine, the east is glowing red,
And the Moors their lances bright have seen, and Christian banners spread.
Beyond the sands, between the rocks, where the old cork-trees grow,
The path is rough, and mounted men must singly march and slow;
There, o’er the path, the heathen range their ambuscado’s line,
High up they wait for Aguilar, as the day begins to shine.
There, nought avails the eagle-eye, the guardian of Castile,
The eye of wisdom, nor the heart that fear might never feel,
The arm of strength, that wielded well the strong mace in the fray,
Nor the broad plate, from whence the edge of faulchion glanced away.
Not knightly valour there avails, nor skill of horse and spear;
For rock on rock comes rumbling down from cliff and cavern drear;
Down—down like driving hail they come, and horse and horsemen die;
Like cattle whose despair is dumb when the fierce lightnings fly.