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But Guarinos whispered in his ear, and looked into his face, Then stood the old charger, like a lamb, with calm and gentle
Oh! lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree,
quoth he, “Now do thy best, thou champion proud; thy blood I look
With that Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rode, Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down his turban
trode. Now ride, now ride, Guarinos! nor lance nor rowel spare, Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life! The land of France lies there!
The “old grey steed” plays no mean part in the foregoing story; and of the many ballads that celebrate the glories of the Cid, I hardly know one more pleasing than that which describes the mingled spirit and gentleness of his favourite horse.
The King looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true;
“For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring So good as he, and certes the best befits my King.
But that you may behold him, and know him to the core,
With that the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furred and wide,
and down, and round and round so fierce was his career, Streamed like a pennon on the wind, Ruy Dias' minivere.
And all that saw them praised them; they lauded man and
horse, As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and force Ne’er had they looked on horseman might to this knight
come near, Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.
Thus to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed
And so he led him prancing and panting to the King ;
In these two ballads there is little mention of the ladies. But two of the most charming of the Moorish series are devoted to Spain exclusively. “The following,” says Mr. Lockhart, “has been often imitated in Spain and in Germany.” Its elegance could scarcely be increased in any language. .
THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA.
“Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
blowing; And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere, And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats
proudly in the air. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.
“ Arise, arise, Xarifa ; I see Andalla's face;
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of azure mixed with
white, I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.
“ What aileth thee, Xarifa ? what makes thine eyes look
down? Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the.
town? I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the
truth, Andalla rides without a peer among all Granada's youth; Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow.
Then rise, oh rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Unseen here, through the lattice, you may gaze with all the
The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down;
strove, And though her needle prest the silk, no flower Xarifa wove. One bonny rose-bud she had traced before the noise drew
nigh; That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from her eye. “No, no,” she sighs, “ bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion
down, To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town.”
“Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down? Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town? Hear, hear the trumpet. how it swells! and how the people
cry! He stops at Zara's palace-gate. Why sit ye still? Oh, why?”
“At Zara's gate stops Zara’s mate; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was
I will not rise with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down,
The next, still of a Moorish maiden, is even more charming.
“My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell.” 'Twas thus, Granada’s fountain by, spoke Albuharez'
daughter. “The well is deep; far down they lie, beneath the cold blue
water. To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell; And what to say, when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell.
"My ear-rings! my ear-rings ! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget; That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's
tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings
pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in
the well, Oh! what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell!
My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! he'll say they should have been
“He'll think, when I to market went, I loitered by the way;