“By Heaven, the Moors prevail! the Christians yield! Their coward leader gives for flight the sign! The sceptred craven mounts to quit the field— Is not yon steed Orelio?—Yes, ’tis mine! But never was she turned from battle-line: Lo! where the recreant spurs o’er stock and stone!— Curses pursue the slave, and wrath divine! Rivers ingulph him!”—“Hush,” in shuddering tone, The Prelate said; “rash Prince, yon visioned form’s thine own.”
Just then, a torrent crossed the flier’s course; The dangerous ford the Kingly Likeness tried; But the deep eddies whelmed both man and horse, Swept like benighted peasant down the tide; And the proud Moslemah spread far and wide, As numerous as their native locust band; Berber and Ismael’s sons the spoils divide, With naked scimitars mete out the land, And for the bondsmen base the free-born natives brand.
Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose The loveliest maidens of the Christian line; Then, menials, to their misbelieving foes, Castile’s young nobles held forbidden wine; Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation’s sign, By impious hands was from the altar thrown, And the deep aisles of the polluted shrine Echoed, for holy hymn and organ-tone, The Santon’s frantic dance, the Fakir’s gibbering moan.
How fares Don Roderick?—E’en as one who spies Flames dart their glare o’er midnight’s sable woof, And hears around his children’s piercing cries, And sees the pale assistants stand aloof; While cruel Conscience brings him bitter proof, His folly, or his crime, have caused his grief; And while above him nods the crumbling roof, He curses earth and Heaven—himself in chief— Desperate of earthly aid, despairing Heaven’s relief!
That scythe-armed Giant turned his fatal glass And twilight on the landscape closed her wings; Far to Asturian hills the war-sounds pass, And in their stead rebeck or timbrel rings; And to the sound the bell-decked dancer springs, Bazars resound as when their marts are met, In tourney light the Moor his jerrid flings, And on the land as evening seemed to set, The Imaum’s chant was heard from mosque or minaret.
So passed that pageant. Ere another came, The visionary scene was wrapped in smoke Whose sulph’rous wreaths were crossed by sheets of flame; With every flash a bolt explosive broke, Till Roderick deemed the fiends had burst their yoke, And waved ’gainst heaven the infernal gonfalone! For War a new and dreadful language spoke, Never by ancient warrior heard or known; Lightning and smoke her breath, and thunder was her tone.