The lamentation of Don Roderick

The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in dismay,

When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor hope had they;

He, when he saw the field was lost, and all his hope was flown,

He turned him from his flying host and took his way alone.

His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame, he could no farther go,

Dismounted, without path or aim, the king stepped to and fro.

It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick,

For sore athirst and hungry he staggered faint and sick.

All stained and strewed with dust and blood, like to some smouldering brand

Pluck'd from the flame, Rodrigo shew'd. His sword was in his hand;

But it was hacked into a saw of dark and purple tint;

His jewell'd mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint.

He climbed unto a hill-top, the highest he could see,

Thence all about of that wild route his last long look took he.

He saw his royal banners where they lay drenched and torn,

He heard the cry of victory, the Arabs' shout of scorn.

He look'd for the brave captains that had led the hosts of Spain,

But all were fled except the dead, and who could count the slain?

Where'er his eye could wander, all bloody was the plain;

And while thus he said the tears he shed ran down his checks like rain:

"Last night I was the King of Spain, to-day no king am I;

Last night fair castles held my train, to-night where shall I lie;

Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee,

To-night not one I call my own, not one pertains to me.

"O luckless, luckless was the hour, and cursed was the day

When I was born to have the power of this great seigniory;

Unhappy me that I should live to see the sun go down this night,

O Death, why now so slow art thou, why fearest thou to smite?"