Ancient Spanish Ballads

T’”^HE hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in dismay, When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor hope had they; He, when he saw that field was lost, and all his hope was flown. He turned him from his flying host, and took his way alone.

His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame, — he could no farther go; Dismounted, without path or aim, the king stepped to and fro; It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick, For, sore athirst and hungry, he staggered, faint and sick.

All stained and strewed with dust and blood, like to some smouldering brand Plucked from the flame, Rodrigo showed: — his sword was in his hand, But it was hacked into a saw of dark and purple tint; His jewelled mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint.

He climbed unto a hill-top, the highest he could see, Thence all about of that wide rout his last long look took he; He saw his royal banners, where they lay drenched and torn, He heard the cry of victory, the Arab’s shout of scorn.