Rio verde, rio verde,
Quanto cuerpo en ti se baña
De Christianos y de Moros
Muertos por la dura espada!

Y tus ondas cristalinas

De roxa sangre se esmaltan :
Entre Moros y Christianos
Muy gran batalla se trava.

Murieron Duques y Condes,
Grandes señores de salva:
Murio gente de valia

De la nobleza de España.

En ti murio don Alonso,

Que de Aguilar se llamaba; El valeroso Urdiales,

Con don Alonso acababa.

Por un ladera arriba

El buen Sayavedra marcha; Naturel es de Sevilla,

De la gente mas granada.

Tras el iba un Renegado, Desta manera le habla ; "Date, date, Sayavedra,

No huyas de la Batalla.

GENTLE river, gentle river,

Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore!
Many a brave and noble captain
Floats along thy willow'd shore.

All beside thy limpid waters,

All beside thy sands so bright, Moorish Chiefs and Christian Warriors Join'd in fierce and mortal fight.

Lords, and dukes, and noble princes

On thy fatal banks were slain : Fatal banks that gave to slaughter All the pride and flower of Spain.

There the hero, brave Alonzo

Full of wounds and glory died: There the fearless Urdiales

Fell a victim by his side.

Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra

Thro' their squadrons slow retires;

Proud Seville, his native city,

Proud Seville his worth admires.

Close behind a Renegado

Loudly shouts with taunting cry;
"Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra,
Dost thou from the battle fly?

Well I know thee, haughty Christian,
Long I liv'd beneath thy roof;

Oft I've in the lists of glory

Seen thee win the prize of proof.

Well I know thy aged parents,
Well thy blooming bride I know;
Seven years I was thy captive,

Seven years of pain and woe.

May our prophet grant my wishes,

Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine: Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow, Which I drank when I was thine."

Sayavedra que lo oyera,
Al Moro bolvio la cara ;
Tirole el Moro una flecha,
Pero nunca le acertaba.

Hiriole Sayavedra

De una herida muy mala :
Muerto cayo el Renegado
Sin poder hablar palabra.
Sayavedra fue cercado

De mucha Mora canalla,
Y al cabo cayo alli muerto
De una muy mala lançada.
Don Alonso en este tiempo
Bravamente peleava,

Y el cavallo le avian muerto,
Y le tiene por muralla.
Mas cargaron tantos Moros

Que mal le hieren y tratan :
De la sangre, que perdia,
Don Alonso se desmaya.

Al fin, al fin cayo muerto
Al pie de un pena alta.-
-Muerto queda don Alonso,
Eterna fama ganara.

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60

Like a lion turns the warrior,
Back he sends an angry glare:
Whizzing came the Moorish javelin,
Vainly whizzing thro' the air.
Back the hero full of fury

Sent a deep and mortal wound :
Instant sunk the Renegado,

Mute and lifeless on the ground.

With a thousand Moors surrounded,
Brave Saavedra stands at bay :
Wearied out but never daunted,
Cold at length the warrior lay.

Near him fighting great Alonzo
Stout resists the Paynim bands;
From his slaughter'd steed dismounted
Firm intrench'd behind him stands.
Furious press the hostile squadron,
Furious he repels their rage:
Loss of blood at length enfeebles :
Who can war with thousands wage?

Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows
Close beneath its foot retir'd,
Fainting sunk the bleeding hero,
And without a groan expir'd.

*

In the Spanish original of the foregoing ballad, follow a few more stanzas, but being of inferior merit were not translated. "Renegado" properly signifies an apostate; but it is sometimes used to express an infidel in general; as it seems to do above in ver. 21, &c.

The image of the "Lion," &c. in ver. 37, is taken from the other Spanish copy, the rhymes of which end in ia, viz.

"Sayavedra, que lo oyera,

Como un leon rebolbia."

XVII.

ALCANZOR AND ZAYDA,

A Moorish Tale,

IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.

THE foregoing version was rendered as literal as the nature of the two languages would admit. In the following a wider compass hath been taken. The Spanish poem that was chiefly had in view, is preserved in the same history of the Civil wars of Granada, f. 22, and begins with these lines.

"Por la calle de su dama
Passeando se anda," &c.

SOFTLY blow the evening breezes,
Softly fall the dews of night;
Yonder walks the Moor Alcanzor,
Shunning every glare of light.

In yon palace lives fair Zaida,
Whom he loves with flame so pure :
Loveliest she of Moorish ladies;
He a young and noble Moor.

Waiting for the appointed minute,
Oft he paces to and fro ;

Stopping now, now moving forwards,
Sometimes quick, and sometimes slow.

Hope and fear alternate teize him,
Oft he sighs with heart-felt care.-
See, fond youth, to yonder window
Softly steps the timorous fair.

Lovely seems the moon's fair lustre
To the lost benighted swain,

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