She spake unto her wardour good:
"Now, wardour, tell thou me

How many years thou here hast stood
To watch the far countree."

The wardour stout, he straight spake out:
"Sweet ladye, there have been,
Since first I clombe this lofty dome,
Methinks full years fifteen.

"And every night, and every morn,
Noontide and eve the same,
I still was wont to wind my horn,
For still a stranger came;
Now, twice three days are fully past,
I gazed both far and wide,
Nor have I wound a single blast,
Nor have I aught espied."

The ladye dried her pearly tears,
That flow'd like summer rain;
"Ah, wardour, spare a woman's fears,
Go up yet once again!
Perchance thine eye my lord

Far in the distant west,

may spy

For yestereen he should have been
Enfolded to this breast."

The wardour clombe the weary stair;
And long and closely gazed;
At last his glad shout rent the air,-
“Hurrah! Saint James be praised!
I see a knight-the glimmering light
Just glances from his shield;

His pace is slow, his plume droops low-
He comes from a foughten field.”

Then joyful was that ladye bright

With measureless content,

And forth to meet the coming knight
In eager haste she went.

"Now, maidens mine, bring food and wine,
And spread the festal board;
Soft music bring, rich incense fling,

To welcome back my lord."

She placed her on a palfrey good,
As well beseem'd her state,

And forth she rode in mirthful mood
Down to the castle-gate:
"Now, maidens, stay your pace, I pray,
And let us gladly wait

Till yonder knight shall here alight
By his own castle-gate."

They had not stay'd an hour's brief space
Beneath that sinking sun,

When, lo, with stern and darkened face
That stranger knight came on;
The lady saw his brow of awe,
And mark'd his greeting word,
Then veil'd her eyes in wild surprise,
And shriek'd, ""Tis not my lord!"
His mien was sad, his crest defaced,
His mail besprent with gore,
He lighted off his steed in haste,
Hard by the castle-door;

He flung aside his helm of pride,
He bent his forehead low,

And scarcely knew that war's red dew
Fell trickling from his brow.

። "Ah, ladye," (thus the stranger said,) "Ill tidings must I tell;

Your lord will surely lose his head

Before the matin-bell.

His gallant host are slain and lost,
His friends are all dispersed ;
The cruel Moor is at his door:
Yet is not this the worst!

"Pent in Alhama's fort he lies,
Bereft of every hope;

In vain his utmost strength he tries
With triple force to cope;

The Moor hath sworn, ere break of morn

The fortress shall be won,

And he will hang in ruthless scorn
Its valiant garrison.

"Your lord commends him to your love, And prays, in piteous kind,

That ere the morrow shine above,

Some succour thou mayst find.

He bade me tell, that, if he fell,
Ere life's last pang were o'er "-
Oh, cease thy tale, thou warrior pale !
The ladye hears no more!

Then loud her maidens wail and weep,
And mourn so sad an hour,
They lift her up in deathful sleep,

They bear her to her bower;

And loyal grief for their good chief
Spreads far on every part,
Through all Leòn there is not one
But bears a heavy heart.

K

PART II.

In proud Medina's castle fair
The rosy wine flows bright,
For proud Medina's valiant heir
Brings home his bride to-night.
Mirth smiles on every lip, and shines
In every gleaming eye,

And the sound of merry laughter joins
With lutes and minstrelsy.

Full many a knight of high degree
Sate at Medina's board,

But the morning-star of chivalry

Was he, their stately lord.

The haughtiest monarchs bow'd them down
In reverence of his fame,
And the trumpet-tones of loud renown

Were weary of his name.

The health pass'd joyously about

That table fair and wide,

And every guest with eager shout

Gave honour to the bride.

The old hall rang to their joyous peal ;-
While, on its sides so high,

The clattering sound of the shaken steel
Gave faint but stern reply!

Was that the sound of lance or sword
'Gainst the mailèd hauberk ringing,
Which circles above the festive board,

And the lordly banners swinging?

Lo, every lip forsakes the cup

Lo, every knight starts breathless up
For wheeling around

That ancient hall,

Came the murmuring sound
Of a trumpet-call,-
Sinking and swelling, slow and soft,
And lost in the night-wind's whistle oft.

It ceased, that low and fitful sound,
It died on the evening gale,

And the knights they all gazed grimly round, And the ladies all wax'd pale;

The baron bold was first to break

The silence of his hall:

"What made this bode ?"-'twas thus he

spake

"Now rede me, warriors all."

Then up spake Guzman of Mindore

A holy monk was he—

""Tis the sound," quoth he, "of the coming

Moor;

Oh, let us turn and flee!"

Him answer'd straight Sir Leoline,

A true and stalwart knight,

""Tis the sound of the coming Moor, I wecn;

Let us go forth and fight."

Then every gauntlet sought his sword
With a quick and friendly greeting,
And a clash arose at the festive board,
But not of goblets meeting.