There you might see the Moors arming themselves in haste, And the two main battles how they were forming fast: Horsemen and footmen mixed, a countless troop and vast. The Moors are moving forward, the battle soon must join, "My men stand here in order, ranged upon a line! Let not a man move from his rank before I give the sign." Pero Bermuez heard the word, but he could not refrain. He held the banner in his hand, he gave his horse the rein; "You see yon foremost squadron there, the thickest of the foes, Noble Cid, God be your aid, for there your banner goes! Let him that serves and honors it, show the duty that he owes." Earnestly the Cid called out, "For Heaven's sake, be still!" Bermuez cried, "I cannot hold," so eager was his will. He spurred his horse, and drove him on amid the Moorish rout; They strove to win the banner, and compassed him about. Had not his armor been so true he had lost either life or limb: Dixo el Campeador: valelde por caridad. Embrazan los escudos delant los corazones, Abaxan las lanzas apuestas de los pendones, Enclinaron las caras desuso de los arzones, Ybanlos ferir de fuertes corazones, A grandes voces lama el que en buen ora násco: Feridlos, caballeros, por amor de caridad: Yo so Ruy Diaz el Cid Campeador de Bibar. Todos fieren en el haz do está Pero Bermuez Trescientas lanzas son, todas tienen pendones. Sennos Moros mataron, todos de sennos colpes. A la tornada que facen otros tantos son. Tanta loriga falsa desmanchar, en sangre, Tantos buenos cavallos sin sos dueños andar. The Cid called out again, "For Heaven's sake, succor him!" Their shields before their breasts, forth at once they go, Their lances in the rest levelled fair and low; Their banners and their crests waving in a row, Their heads all stooping down toward the saddlebow. The Cid was in the midst, his shout was heard afar, "I am Ruy Diaz, the Champion of Bivar; Strike amongst them, gentlemen, for sweet mercies' sake!" There where Bermuez fought, amidst the foe they brake, Three hundred bannered knights, it was a gallant show: Three hundred Moors they killed, a man with blow; every When they wheeled and turned, as many more lay slain, You might see them raise their lances and level them again. There you might see the breastplates, how they were cleft in twain, And many a Moorish shield lie shattered on the plain. The pennons that were white marked with a crimson stain, The horses running wild whose riders had been slain. Los Moros laman Mafomat: los Christianos Sanctiague. Cayen en un poco de logar Moros muertos mill è trecientos ya. * * * * Mio Cid Ruy Diaz, el que en buen ora násco, From text of Damas Hinard, Paris, 1858. From Toledo REARING their crests amid the cloudless skies, And darkly clustering in the pale moonlight Toledo's holy towers and spires arise, As from a trembling lake of silver white. The Christians call upon St. James, the Moors upon Mahound, There were thirteen hundred of them slain on a little spot of ground. The Cid rode to King Fariz, and struck at him three blows; The third was far the best, it forced the blood to flow: The stream ran from his side, and stained his arms below; The King caught round the rein and turned his back to go, The Cid has won the battle with that single blow. Tr. by John Hookham Frere. Burial of Sir John Moore (La Coruña) NOT [OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, |