  In the Aula at Toledo Loudly are the trumpets blowing To the spiritual tourney, Gaily dress’d, the crowd are going. This is no mere worldly combat, Not one arm of steel here glances; Sharply pointed and scholastic Words are here the only lances. Gallant Paladins here fight not, Ladies’ honest fame defending; Capuchins and Jewish Rabbis Are the knights who’re here contending. In the place of helmets are they Scull caps and capouches wearing; Scapular and Arbecanfess Are the armour they are bearing. Which God is the one true God? He, the Hebrew stern and glorious Unity, whom Rabbi Juda Of Navarre would see victorious? Or the triune God, whom Christians Hold in love and veneration, As whose champion Friar Jose, The Franciscan, takes his station? By the might of weighty reasons, And the logic taught at college, And quotations from the authors Whose repute one must acknowledge, Either champion ad absurdum His opponent would bring duly, And the pure divinity Of his own God point out truly. ’Tis laid down that he whose foeman Manages his cause to smother, Should be bound to take upon him The religion of the other, And the Jew be duly christen’d,— This was the express provision,— On the other hand the Christian Bear the rite of circumcision. Each one of the doughty champions Has eleven comrades by him, All to share his fate determined, And for weal or woe keep nigh him. While the monks who back the friar With assurance full and steady Hold the holy-water vessels For the rite of christening ready, Swinging sprinkling-brooms and censers, Whence the incense smoke is rising,— All their adversaries briskly Whet their knives for circumcising. By the lists within the hall stand, Ready for the fray, both forces, And the crowd await the signal, Eager for the knights’ discourses. ’Neath a golden canopy, While their courtiers duly flatter, Both the king and queen are sitting; Quite a child appears the latter. With a small French nose, her features Are in roguishness not wanting, And the ever laughing rubies Of her mouth are quite enchanting. Fragile fair inconstant flower,— May the grace of God be with her!— From the merry town of Paris She has been transplanted hither, To the country where the Spanish Old grandees’ stiff manners gall her; Whilome known as Blanche de Bourbon, Donna Blanca now they call her. And the monarch’s name is Pedro, With the nickname of The Cruel; But to-day, in gentle mood, he Looks as if he ne’er could do ill. With the nobles of his court he Enters into conversation, And both Jew and Moor addresses With a courteous salutation. For these sons of circumcision Are the monarch’s favourite creatures; They command his troops, and also In finances are his teachers. Suddenly the drums ’gin beating, And the trumpets’ bray announces That the conflict is beginning, Where each knight the other trounces. The Franciscan monk commences, Bursting into furious passion, And his voice, now harsh, now growling, Blusters in a curious fashion. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit In one sentence he comprises, And the seed accurst of Jacob In the Rabbi exorcises. For in suchlike controversies Little devils oft are hidden In the Jews, and give them sharpness, Wit, and arguments when bidden. Having thus expell’d the devil By his mighty exorcism, Comes the monk, dogmatically, Quoting from the catechism. He recounts how in the Godhead Persons three are comprehended, Who, whenever they so will it, Into one are straightway blended. ’Tis a mystery unfolded But to those who, in due season, Have escaped from out the prison And the chains of human reason. He recounts how God was born at Bethlehem, of a tenderhearted Virgin, whose divine unsullied Innocency ne’er departed. How they laid the Lord Almighty In a lowly stable manger, Where the calf and heifer meekly Stood around the newborn stranger. He recounts, too, how the Lord From King Herod’s minions flying, Went to Egypt, how still later Death’s sharp pangs he suffer’d, dying. In the time of Pontius Pilate, Who subscribed his condemnation, Urged on by the Jew “Which is right, I cannot tell you, “But I have a shrewd suspicion “That the Rabbi and the monk are “Both in stinking bad condition.” |
|
