Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 7 1823/The Cid's Death-bed
The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 7, Pages 307 to 308
SONGS OF THE CID.—No. I.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
The Cid's Death-bed: a Ballad.
It was an hour of grief and fear,
Within Valencia's walls,
When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear
Above her marble halls.
There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes,
And steps of hurrying feet,
Where the Zambra's*[1] notes were wont to rise
Along the sunny street.
It was an hour of fear and grief,
On bright Valencia's shore,
For Death was busy with her chief,
The noble Campeador.
The Moor-king's barks were on the deep,
With sounds and signs of war,
But the Cid was passing to his sleep,
In the silent Alcazar.
No moan was heard through the halls of state,
No weeper's aspect seen;
But by the couch Ximena sate,
With pale, yet steadfast mien.
Stillness was round the conqueror's bed,
Warriors stood mournful nigh,
And banners, o'er his glorious head,
Were drooping heavily.
And feeble grew the mighty hand,
And cold the valiant breast;
—He had fought the battles of the land,
And his hour was come to rest.
What said the leader of the field?
His voice is faint and low,
The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield,
Hath louder accents now.
"Raise ye no cry, and let no moan
Be made when I depart;
The Moor must hear no dirge's tone,
Be ye of dauntless heart!
"Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet strain
From your walls ring far and shrill;
And fear ye not, for the Saints of Spain
Shall grant you victory still.
"And gird my form with mail-array,
And set me on my steed;
So go ye forth on your funeral-way,
And God shall give you speed.
"Go with the dead in the front of war,
All arm'd with sword and helm;
And march by the camp of King Bucar,
For the good Castilian realm.
"And let me slumber in the soil
Which gave my fathers birth;
I have closed my day of battle-toil,
And my course is done on earth."
—*[2] Now wave, ye stately banners, wave!
Through the lattice a wind sweeps by,
And the arms o'er the death-bed of the brave
Send forth a hollow sigh.
Now wave, ye banners of many a fight,
As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps;
—The wind and the banners fall hush'd as night;
The Campeador—he sleeps!
Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn,
And swell out the trumpet's blast!
Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail,
For the noble Cid hath pass’d.