ANCIENT BALLADS.
Romantic ballads grew up in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Spain, centering chiefly about the national hero, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, who was called THE CID, some account of whom is necessary in order to an understanding of the poems.
History—Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, born 1030-40, died 1099, was the foremost warrior of the great struggle between the Christians and the Moors in Spain. The Moors called him the CID (Seid, the Lord), and the Champion (El Campeador). He was a vigorous, unscrupulous fighter, now on one side, now on the other. He was at one time entrusted with high embassies of state, at others, a rebel. His true place in history seems to be that of a great freebooter and guerrilla. His contemporary fame was really great.
Legend—During the lifetime of the CID many marvels and myths grew up about him, and within the next century they became almost numberless. He became the hero of poet and of romancer to the Spanish people. His story was told everywhere by the wandering minstrels, and his name became the center of all popular romances.
Literature.—At once, then, a large literature sprang up concerning the CID—ballads, romances, and incipient dramas. The chief pieces are (1)"The Ballads of the Cid", composed from the twelfth to the fifteenth century, of which nearly two hundred survive; (2)"The Poem of the Cid", a noble fragment; (3)"The Chronicle of the Cid".
The early history of Spain's popular hero is traced very accurately in (1)"The General Chronicle of Spain", compiled under Alphonso X. (died 1284); (2)"The Chronicle of the Cid", perhaps extracts from the first, and (3) Various Poems and Romances of the CID from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century.
The following give some of his adventures, and show the spirit of this interesting early literature—the earliest ballad literature in Europe.
From the Cid Ballads.
CUYDANDO DIEGO LAYNEZ. (THE TEST.)
Brooding sat Diego Laynez o'er the insult to his name,
Nobler and more ancient far than Inigo Abarca's fame;
For he felt that strength was wanting to avenge the craven blow,
If he himself at such an age to fight should think to go.
Sleepless he passed the weary nights, his food untasted lay,
Ne'er raised his eyes from off the ground, nor ventured forth to
stray,
Refused all converse with his friends, impelled by mortal fear,
Lest fame of outrage unatoned should aggravate his care.
While pondering thus his honor's claims in search of just
redress,
He thought of an expedient his failing house to test;
So summoning to his side his sons, excused all explanation,
Silent began to clutch their hands in proper alternation,
(Not by their tender palms to trace the chiromantic linings,
For at that day no place was found in Spain for such divinings),
But calling on his honor spent for strength and self-denial,
He set aside parental love and steeled his nerves to trial,
Griping their hands with all his might till each cried: "Hold,
Sir, hold!
What meaneth this? pray, let me go; thou'rt killing me, behold!"
Now when he came to Roderick, the youngest of them all,
Despair had well-nigh banished hope of cherished fruit withal
(Though ofttimes lingering nearest when farthest thought to be);
The young man's eyes flashed fury, like tiger fierce stood he
And cried: "Hold, father, hold, a curse upon ye, stay!
An ye were not my father, I would not stop to pray,
But by this good right arm of mine would straight pluck out your
life
With a bare digit of my hand, in lieu of vulgar knife!
The old man wept for joy: "Son of my soul," quoth he,
"Thy rage my rage disarmeth, thine ire is good to see;
Prove now thy mettle, Rod'rick; wipe out my grievous stain,
Restore the honor I have lost, unless thou it regain—"
Then quickly told him of the wrong to which he was a prey,
Gave him his blessing and a sword and bade him go his way
To end the Count's existence and begin a brighter day.