Sentimental reciter/The Spanish Champion
THE SPANISH CHAMPION.
The warrior bow’d his crested head,
And tamed his heart of fire,
And sued the haughty king to free
His long imprisoned sire:
“I bring thee here my fortress keys,
I bring my captive train;
I pledge my faith, my liege, my lord,
Oh! break my father’s chain.”
“Rise, rise! even now thy father comes,
A ransomed man this day,
Mount thy good steed, and thou and I
Will meet him on his way.”
Then lightly rose that loyal son,
And bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in hand,
His charger’s foaming speed.
And lo! from far as on they press'd
They met a glittering band,
With one that ’mid them stately rode,
Like a leader in the land:
Now haste, Bernardo, haste,
For there in very truth is he,
The father—whom thy grateful heart
Hath yearned so long to see.
His proud breast heaved, his dark eye flash’d,
His cheeks’ hue came and went,
He reach’d that grey-haired chieftain’s side
And there dismounting bent;
A lowly knee to earth he bent,
His father’s hand he took—
What was there in its touch,
That all his fiery spirit shook?
That hand was cold—a frozen thing;
It dropp’d from his like lead:
He look’d up to the face above,
The face was of the dead;
A plume waved o’er the noble brow,
The brow was fixed and white;
He met at length his father’s eyes,
But in them was no sight!
Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed,
But who can paint that gaze?
They hush’d their very hearts who saw
Its horror and amaze;
They might have chained him, as before
That noble form he stood,
For the power was stricken from his arm,
And from his cheek the blood.
“Father!” at length he murmur'd low,
And wept like children then—
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen
The tears of warlike men—
He thought on all his glorious hopes,
On all his high renown,
Then flung the falchion from his side,
And in the dust sat down;
And covering, with his steel-gloved hands,
His darkly mournful brow,
“No more, there is no more,” he said,
“To lift the sword for now;
My king is false, my hope betray’d,
My father, oh! the worth,
The glory and the loveliness,
Are past away to earth!”
Up from the ground he sprung once more,
And seized the monarch’s rein:
Amid the pale and wilder’d looks
Of all the courtier train,
And with a fierce o’ermastering grasp,
The rearing war horse led,
And sternly set them face to face—
The king before the dead.
“Came I not here on thy pledge,
My father's hand to kiss?
Be still! and gaze thou on, false king,
And tell me what is this;
The look, the voice, the heart I sought—
Give answer, where are they?
If thou would’st clear thy perjured soul,
Put life in this cold clay.
“Into those glossy eyes put light;
Be still, keep down thine ire,
Bid those cold lips a blessing speak,
This earth is not my sire:
Give me back him for whom I fought,
For whom my blood was shed;
Thou canst not, and, O king! his blood
Be mountains on thy head!”
He loosed the rein, his slack hand
Fell upon the silent face,
He cast one long deep mournful glance,
And fled from that sad place;
His after fate no more was heard
Amid the martial train,
His banner led the spears no more
Among the hills of Spain!Hemans.