THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA. FROM THE SPANISH. To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde, brigade. The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound, With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound. He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vain, And towards his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein; Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third, From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard. "Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor, "Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door. Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood, That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood! Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight, But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight. Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agrec. Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife. THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA. 165 Say not my voice is magic-thy pleasure is to hear The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear Well, follow thou thy choice-to the battle-field away, To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they. Thrust thy brand, arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand. Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead, On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed. Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks, From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguënza's rocks. Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long, And in the life thou lovest, forget whom thou dost wrong. These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own, Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone." She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and an gry cheek, Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak. THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. FROM THE SPANISH. 'Tis not with gilded sabres That gleam in baldricks blue, The banner of the Phenix, The flag that loved the sky, That scarce the wind dared wanton with It flew so proud and highNow leaves its place in battle-field, And sweeps the ground in grief, The bearer drags its glorious folds Behind the fallen chief, As mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum. Brave Aliatar led forward A hundred Moors to go THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. On horseback went the gallant Moor, From which he pricked his steed. The knights of the Grand Master The afflicted warriors come, Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow, Her lover's wounds streamed not more free, Nor Zayda weeps him only, 167 The ladies weep the flower of knights, LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR. THE earth was sown with early flowers, He wore a chaplet of the rose ; His palfrey, white and sleek, |