Illustration

The Broken Pitcher.

It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell,
When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo—
Alphonzo Guzman was he hight, the Count of Tololedo.

“Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden, why sit’st thou by the spring?
Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
Why dost thou look upon me, with eyes so dark and wide,
And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?”

“I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
Because an article like that hath never come my way;
And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

“My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,—
A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;
I would not stand his nonsense, so ne’er a word I spoke,
But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

“My uncle, the AlcaydÈ, he waits for me at home,
And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come:
I cannot bring him water—the pitcher is in pieces—
And so I’m sure to catch it, ’cos he wallops all his nieces.”

“Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me?
Then wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;
And I’ll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
To carry home the water to thy uncle, the AlcaydÈ.”

He lighted down from off his steed—he tied him to a tree—
He bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three;
“To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!”
And he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.

Up rose the Moorish maiden—behind the knight she steals,
And caught Alphonzo Guzman in a twinkling by the heels:
She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,—
“Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet’s daughter!”

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo;
She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Tololedo.
I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,
How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.

Illustration

Don Fernando Gomersalez.
From the Spanish of Astley’s.

Don Fernando Gomersalez! [7] basely have they borne thee down;
Paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body thrown;
Fetters have they bound upon thee—iron fetters, fast and sure;
Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art captive to the Moor!

Illustration

Long within a dingy dungeon pined that brave and noble knight,
For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his might;
Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed of stone,
Till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone.

On the twentieth day of August—’twas the feast of false Mahound—
Came the Moorish population from the neighbouring cities round;
There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there to sing,
And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, [8] the King!

First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at their utmost speed,
Then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light jereed;
Then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow flies,
Did they spurn the yellow sawdust in the rapt spectators’ eyes.

Illustration

Proudly did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior greet,
As he sate enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath his feet;
“Tell me, thou black-bearded Cadi! are there any in the land,
That against my janissaries dare one hour in combat stand?”

Then the bearded Cadi answered—“Be not wroth, my lord the King,
If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing;
Valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards are long and hairy,
And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary:

“But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forget that fearful day,
When I saw the Christian army in its terrible array;
When they charged across the footlights like a torrent down its bed,
With the red cross floating o’er them, and Fernando at their head!

“Don Fernando Gomersalez! matchless chieftain he in war,
Mightier than Don Sticknejo, [11] braver than the Cid Bivar!
Not a cheek within Grenada, O my king, but wan and pale is,
When they hear the dreaded name of Don Fernando Gomersalez!”

“Thou shalt see thy champion, Cadi! hither quick the captive bring!”
Thus in wrath and deadly anger spoke Al-Widdicomb, the King:
“Paler than a maiden’s forehead is the Christian’s hue, I ween,
Since a year within the dungeons of Grenada he hath been!”

Then they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the warrior in;
Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was pale and thin;
But the ancient fire was burning, unsubdued, within his eye,
And his step was proud and stately, and his look was stern and high.

Scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried crowd refrain,
For they knew Don Gomersalez and his prowess in the plain;
But they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons in steel,
So their sympathy descended in the fruitage of Seville. [12]

“Wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the dungeon dark and drear,
Where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinement for a year?
Dost thou lead me forth to torture?—Rack and pincers I defy!
Is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero die?”

“Hold thy peace, thou Christian caitiff, and attend to what I say!
Thou art called the starkest rider of the Spanish cur’s array
If thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of yore,
Thou mayst yet achieve thy freedom,—yet regain thy native shore.

“Courses three within this circus ’gainst my warriors shalt thou run,
Ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon muslin sun;
Victor—thou shalt have thy freedom; but if stretched upon the plain,
To thy dark and dreary dungeon they shall hale thee back again.”

“Give me but the armour, monarch, I have worn in many a field,
Give me but my trusty helmet, give me but my dinted shield;
And my old steed, Bavieca, swiftest courser in the ring,
And I rather should imagine that I’ll do the business, King!”

Then they carried down the armour from the garret where it lay,
Oh! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn away:
And they led out Bavieca from a foul and filthy van,
For the conqueror had sold him to a Moorish dog’s-meat man.

When the steed beheld his master, loud he whinnied loud and free,
And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken knee;
And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior’s eyelids rose,
As he fondly picked a bean-straw from his coughing courser’s nose.

“Many a time, O Bavieca, hast thou borne me through the fray!
Bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this day;
Or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come to pass,
Time it is, my trusty charger, both of us were sent to grass!”

Then he seized his lance, and, vaulting, in the saddle sate upright;
Marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the mailÈd knight;
And a cry of admiration burst from every Moorish lady.
“Five to four on Don Fernando!” cried the sable-bearded Cadi.

Warriors three from Alcantara burst into the listed space,
Warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud Alhambra race:
Trumpets sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost straight went down,
Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, right before the jeering Clown.

In the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to the King,
And his saddle-girths were tightened by the Master of the Ring;
Through three blazing hoops he bounded ere the desperate fight began—
Don Fernando! bear thee bravely!—’tis the Moor Abdorrhaman!

Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sulphurous sky,
Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the sawdust fly;
And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fernando’s mail,
That he reeled, as if in liquor, back to Bavieca’s tail:

But he caught the mace beside him, and he gripped it hard and fast,
And he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bounded past;
And the deadly stroke descended through the skull and through the brain,
As ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in twain.

Sore astonished was the monarch, and the Moorish warriors all,
Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his brethren fall;
And the Clown, in haste arising from the footstool where he sat,
Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat;

Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwart Moor,—
Five beneath his stride so stately bear him o’er the trembling floor;
Five Arabians, black as midnight—on their necks the rein he throws,
And the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his toes. [18]

Never wore that chieftain armour; in a knot himself he ties,
With his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his thighs,
Till the petrified spectator asks, in paralysed alarm,
Where may be the warrior’s body,—which is leg, and which is arm?

“Sound the charge!” The coursers started; with a yell and furious vault,
High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous somersault;
O’er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he sprung,
Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crupper hung.

Illustration

Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its jewelled sheath,
And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled him beneath,
That the good Damascus weapon sank within the folds of fat,
And as dead as Julius CÆsar dropped the Gordian Acrobat.

Meanwhile fast the sun was sinking—it had sunk beneath the sea,
Ere Fernando Gomersalez smote the latter of the three;
And Al-Widdicomb, the monarch, pointed, with a bitter smile,
To the deeply-darkening canvas;—blacker grew it all the while.

“Thou hast slain my warriors, Spaniard! but thou hast not kept thy time;
Only two had sunk before thee ere I heard the curfew chime;
Back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou may’st be wondrous glad,
That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy work to-day, my lad!

“Therefore all thy boasted valour, Christian dog, of no avail is!”
Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Fernando Gomersalez:—
Stiffly sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the ring,
Laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at the King.

“Oh, thou foul and faithless traitor! wouldst thou play me false again?
Welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the captive’s chain!
But I give thee warning, caitiff! Look thou sharply to thine eye—
Unavenged, at least in harness, Gomersalez shall not die!”

Thus he spoke, and Bavieca like an arrow forward flew,
Right and left the Moorish squadron wheeled to let the hero through;
Brightly gleamed the lance of vengeance—fiercely sped the fatal thrust—
From his throne the Moorish monarch tumbled lifeless in the dust.

Illustration

Speed thee, speed thee, Bavieca! speed thee faster than the wind!
Life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase behind!
Speed thee up the sloping spring-board; o’er the bridge that spans the seas;
Yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of canvas trees.

Close before thee Pampeluna spreads her painted pasteboard gate!
Speed thee onward, gallant courser, speed thee with thy knightly freight!
Victory! The town receives them!—Gentle ladies, this the tale is,
Which I learned in Astley’s Circus, of Fernando Gomersalez.

Illustration

Illustration

The Courtship of our Cid.

What a pang of sweet emotion
Thrilled the Master of the Ring,
When he first beheld the lady
Through the stable portal spring!
Midway in his wild grimacing
Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown;
And the thunders of the audience
Nearly brought the gallery down.

Donna Inez Woolfordinez!
Saw ye ever such a maid,
With the feathers swaling o’er her,
And her spangled rich brocade?
In her fairy hand a horsewhip,
On her foot a buskin small,
So she stepped, the stately damsel,
Through the scarlet grooms and all.

And she beckoned for her courser,
And they brought a milk-white mare;
Proud, I ween, was that Arabian
Such a gentle freight to bear:
And the master moved to greet her,
With a proud and stately walk;
And, in reverential homage,
Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk.

Round she flew, as Flora flying
Spans the circle of the year;
And the youth of London, sighing,
Half forgot the ginger-beer—
Quite forgot the maids beside them;
As they surely well might do,
When she raised two Roman candles,
Shooting fireballs red and blue!

Swifter than the Tartar’s arrow,
Lighter than the lark in flight,
On the left foot now she bounded,
Now she stood upon the right.
Like a beautiful Bacchante,
Here she soars, and there she kneels,
While amid her floating tresses
Flash two whirling Catherine wheels!

Hark! the blare of yonder trumpet!
See, the gates are opened wide!
Room, there, room for Gomersalez,—
Gomersalez in his pride!
Rose the shouts of exultation,
Rose the cat’s triumphant call,
As he bounded, man and courser,
Over Master, Clown, and all!

Donna Inez Woolfordinez!
Why those blushes on thy cheek?
Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee,
He hath come thy love to seek!
Fleet thy Arab, but behind thee
He is rushing like a gale;
One foot on his coal-black’s shoulders,
And the other on his tail!

Onward, onward, panting maiden!
He is faint, and fails, for now
By the feet he hangs suspended
From his glistening saddle-bow.
Down are gone both cap and feather,
Lance and gonfalon are down!
Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet,
He has flung them to the Clown.

Faint and failing! Up he vaulteth,
Fresh as when he first began;
All in coat of bright vermilion,
’Quipped as Shaw, the Lifeguardsman;
Right and left his whizzing broadsword,
Like a sturdy flail, he throws;
Cutting out a path unto thee
Through imaginary foes.

Woolfordinez! speed thee onward!
He is hard upon thy track,—
Paralysed is Widdicombez,
Nor his whip can longer crack;
He has flung away his broadsword,
’Tis to clasp thee to his breast.
Onward!—see, he bares his bosom,
Tears away his scarlet vest;

Leaps from out his nether garments,
And his leathern stock unties—
As the flower of London’s dustmen,
Now in swift pursuit he flies.
Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles,
O’er the buckle, heel and toe!
Flaps his hands in his side-pockets,
Winks to all the throng below!

Onward, onward rush the coursers;
Woolfordinez, peerless girl,
O’er the garters lightly bounding
From her steed with airy whirl!
Gomersalez, wild with passion,
Danger—all but her—forgets;
Wheresoe’er she flies, pursues her,
Casting clouds of somersets!

Onward, onward rush the coursers;
Bright is Gomersalez’ eye;
Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez,
For his triumph sure is nigh!
Now his courser’s flanks he lashes,
O’er his shoulder flings the rein,
And his feet aloft he tosses,
Holding stoutly by the mane!

Then, his feet once more regaining,
Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls,
And in graceful folds around him
A bespangled tunic falls.
Pinions from his heels are bursting,
His bright locks have pinions o’er them;
And the public see with rapture
Maia’s nimble son before them.

Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez!
For a panting god pursues;
And the chalk is very nearly
Rubbed from thy white satin shoes;
Every bosom throbs with terror,
You might hear a pin to drop;
All is hushed, save where a starting
Cork gives out a casual pop.

One smart lash across his courser,
One tremendous bound and stride,
And our noble Cid was standing
By his Woolfordinez’ side!
With a god’s embrace he clasps her,
Raised her in his manly arms;
And the stables’ closing barriers
Hid his valour, and her charms!