"To arms!" the battle bugles blew. The daughter of their Chief was she,-- Lord of a thousand spears and true;-- He but a squire of low degree.
The horns of war blew up to horse: He kissed her mouth; her face was white: "God grant they bear thee back no corse!" "God give I win my spurs to-night!"
The watch-towers' blazing beacons scarred With blood-red wounds the face of night: She heard men gallop battleward; She saw their armor gleam with light.
"My God, deliver me and mine! My child! my love!"--all night she prayed: She watched the battle beacons shine; She watched the battle beacons fade....
They brought him on a bier of spears.-- For him, the death-won spurs and name; For her, the grief of lonely years, And donjon walls to hide her shame.
He had no hope to win her hand, A harper in a loveless land, And yet he sang of love; And marked the blue vein of her throat Swell with mute rage at every note: And when he ceased she spake him then,-- "Such whining slaves are less than men!" And anger in her dark eyes wrote Contempt thereof.
He had no hope to win her hand, A harper in a hostile land, And yet he sang of peace; And marked how mock'ry curled her lip With scorn as, 'neath each finger-tip, The chords breathed pastoral content: Till haughtiness, that beauty lent To beauty, sneered, "Would'st feel the whip?-- O fool, surcease!"
He had no hope to win her hand, A harper in a tyrant's land, And so he sang of war-- "Oh, fling thy harp away!" she said. "O war, thy singers are not dead!-- Seat thee beside me; now I see Thou art for battle, and must be Brave as thy song.--Well hast thou pled. My warrior!"
The times they had kissed and parted That night were over a score; Each time that the cavalier started, Each time she would swear him o'er:--
"Thou art going to Barcelona!-- To make Naxera thy bride! Seduce the Lady Iona!-- And thy lips have lied! have lied!
"I love thee! I love thee, thou knowest! And thou shalt not give away The love to my life thou owest; And my heart commands thee stay!
"I say thou hast lied and liest!-- For--where is there war in the State?-- Thou goest, by Heaven the highest! To choose thee a fairer mate.
"Wilt thou go to Barcelona When thy queen in Toledo is?-- To wait on the haughty Iona, When thou hast these lips to kiss?"