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,