Still within my memory blossoms
That slim graceful hero-flower;
Ne’er shall I forget those lovely
Dream-like, soft and youthful features.
They were just of that description
That the fairies take delight in,
And a fable-seeming secret
Spoke from all those features plainly.
Blue his eyes were, their enamel
Being dazzling as a jewel,
But a jewel’s staring hardness
Seem’d reflected in them likewise.
Black his hair was in its colour,
Bluish black, and strangely glistening,
And in fair luxuriant tresses
Falling down upon his shoulders.
In the charming town of Coimbra
Which he from the Moors had taken,
For the last time I beheld him,
In this world,—unhappy prince!
He was coming from Alcanzor,
Through the narrow streets fast riding
Many a fair young Moorish maiden
Eyed him from her latticed window.
O’er his head his helm-plume floated
Gallantly, and yet his mantle’s
Rigid Calatrava cross
Scared away all loving fancies.
By his side, and gaily wagging
With his tail, his favourite Allan
Sprang,—a beast of proud descent,
And whose home was the Sierra.
He, despite his size gigantic,
Was as nimble as a reindeer;
Noble was his head to look at,
Though the fox’s it resembled.
Snow-white and like silk in softness,
Down his back his long hair floated,
And with rubies bright incrusted
Was his broad and golden collar.