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: