As Royal John
Rode out one day,
Granada’s town
Before him lay,
With sudden start,
“Fair town,” said he,
“My hand and heart
I give to thee.
“Thee will I wive,
And to thee will
Cordova give,
And proud Seville.
Robes rich and fair,
And jewels fine,
Shall all declare
My love is thine.”
Granada cried,
“Great Leon’s king!
I’m the Moor’s bride,
I wear his ring.
So keep thy own;
The gems I wear
Are a gorgeous zone
And children dear.”
Thou promis’d’st thus,
But kept’st not well,
O woe for us!
Granada fell.
A Christian base,
Abencerrage,
Rules thy birthplace;
’Twas in Fate’s page.
To that tomb ne’er,
The pool so near,
Shall camel bear
Medina’s seer.
A Christian base,
Abencerrage,
Rules thy birthplace;
’Twas in Fate’s page.
Alhambra’s tow’rs!
Palace of God!
Town of fair flow’rs
And fountains broad!
A Christian base,
Abencerrage,
Rules thy birthplace;
’Twas in Fate’s page.
The plaintive artlessness of this lament affected even the proud Don Carlos, notwithstanding the imprecations it pronounced against the Christians. He would have wished to be excused from singing himself, but, out of courtesy to Lautrec, he felt obliged to yield to his entreaties. Aben-Hamet handed the guitar to Blanca’s brother, who celebrated the exploits of the Cid, his illustrious ancestor.[7]
Bright in his mail, with love and valour fired,
The Cid, about to part for Afric’s war,
Stretched at Ximena’s feet, as love inspired,
Thus sung his parting to the sweet guitar:
“My love hath said: Go forth and meet the Moor,
Return victorious from the well-fought field;
Yes! I shall then believe thou canst adore,
If, at my wish, thy love to honour yield!
“Then give to me my helmet and my spear!
In bloody fight the Cid his love shall prove,
Amidst the din of war the Moor shall hear
His battle-cry, ‛My honour and my love!’
“O gallant Moor, vaunt not thy tuneful strain,
My song shall be a nobler theme than thine,
Ere long it will become the folly of Spain,
As one where love with honour doth combine.
“Oft in my native valleys shall be heard
In the old Christians’ mouth Rodrigo’s name,
Who nobly to inglorious life preferred
His God, his king, his honour, and his flame.”
Don Carlos appeared so proud in singing these words, in a masculine and sonorous voice, that he might have been taken for the Cid himself. Lautrec shared the warlike enthusiasm of his friend; but the Abencerrage had turned pale at the name of the Cid.
“This knight,” said he, “whom the Christians denominate the Flower of Battles, bears with us the name of the Cruel. Had his generosity but equalled his valour!...”
“His generosity,” said Don Carlos, interrupting Aben-Hamet, warmly, “was even greater than his courage, and none but a Moor would calumniate the hero to whom my family owes its birth.”
“What sayest thou?” exclaimed Aben-Hamet, springing up from the seat on which he lay half reclined: “dost thou reckon the Cid among thy ancestors?”
“His blood flows in my veins,” replied Don Carlos, “and I recognize my possession of that noble blood by the hatred with which my heart burns against the foes of my God.”
“It follows then,” said Aben-Hamet, looking at Blanca, “that you belong to the family of the Bivars who, after the conquest of Granada, invaded the possessions of the unfortunate Abencerrages, and put to death an ancient knight of that name, who attempted to defend the tomb of his forefathers.”
“Moor!” exclaimed Don Carlos, inflamed with rage, “know that I do not suffer myself to be interrogated. If I now possess the spoils of the Abencerrages, my ancestors acquired them at the price of their blood, and to their sword only do they owe them.”