Chapter XX: Book III: I (3)

He was one of the proscribed clan Gregor, and a notorious lifter of
cattle in the Highlands of Perthshire for some time before 1636. In
February of that year seven of his accomplices were taken, tried,
condemned, and executed at Edinburgh. These men were apprehended
chiefly through the exertions of the Stewarts of Athol, and in
revenge Gilderoy burned several of the houses belonging to the
Stewarts. In a few months, however, he was captured, as before
mentioned, and in July, 1636, was hanged with five accomplices at
the Gallowlee, between Leith and Edinburgh. As a mark of unenviable
distinction, Gilderoy was hanged on a gallows higher than the rest.
It is curious that this wretched miscreant, who robbed the poor and
outraged all women who came in his way, should have become popular
in the south of Britain. His adventures, with the various details
noticed above by Percy, are related in Captain Alexander Smith's
_History of Highwaymen_, &c., 1719, and in Johnson's _Lives and
Exploits of Highwaymen_, 1734.

The earliest known version of this song was printed in London in
1650, and another is included in _Westminster Drollery_, 1671. The
latter consists of five stanzas, the first being:

"Was ever grief so great as mine
Then speak dear bearn, I prethee,
That thus must leave my Gilderoy,
O my benison gang with thee.
Good speed be with you then Sir she said
For gone is all my joy:
And gone is he whom I love best,
My handsome Gilderoy."

The second stanza is Percy's fifth, with some of the "luxuriances"
he refers to. The third stanza is a variation of Percy's first.

"Now Gilderoy was bonny boy
Would needs to th' King be gone
With his silken garters on his legs,
And the roses on his shoone.
But better he had staid at home
With me his only joy,
For on a gallow tree they hung
My handsome Gilderoy."

The fourth stanza is a variety of Percy's eleventh, and the fifth
of his ninth.

There is another version of this song in the _Collection of
Old Ballads_, 1723 (vol. i.), entitled "The Scotch Lover's
Lamentation, or Gilderoy's last farewell," which contains some
few "luxuriances," but is on the whole superior to the "improved"
one here printed. This was altered by Lady Wardlaw, who added the
stanzas between brackets, besides the one quoted above by Percy.

Gilderoy is now, perhaps, better known by Campbell's song than by
this ballad. The name is a corruption of the Gaelic _gille roy_,
red-haired boy.]

* * * * *

Gilderoy was a bonnie boy,
Had roses tull[1016] his shoone,
His stockings were of silken soy,[1017]
Wi' garters hanging doune:
It was, I weene, a comelie sight, 5
To see sae trim a boy;
He was my jo[1018] and hearts delight,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! sike twa charming een he had,
A breath as sweet as rose, 10
He never ware a Highland plaid,
But costly silken clothes;
He gain'd the luve of ladies gay,
Nane eir tull him was coy:
Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day 15
For my dear Gilderoy.

My Gilderoy and I were born,
Baith in one toun together,
We scant were seven years beforn,
We gan to luve each other; 20
Our dadies and our mammies thay,
Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,
To think upon the bridal day,
Twixt me and Gilderoy.

For Gilderoy that luve of mine, 25
Gude faith, I freely bought
A wedding sark[1019] of holland fine,
Wi' silken flowers wrought:
And he gied me a wedding ring,
Which I receiv'd wi' joy, 30
Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing,
Like me and Gilderoy.

Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime,
Till we were baith sixteen,
And aft we past the langsome time, 35
Among the leaves sae green;
Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,
And sweetly kiss and toy,
Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair
My handsome Gilderoy. 40

[Oh! that he still had been content,
Wi' me to lead his life;
But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent,
To stir in feates of strife:
And he in many a venturous deed, 45
His courage bauld wad try;
And now this gars[1020] mine heart to bleed,
For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he tuik,
The tears they wat mine ee, 50
I gave tull him a parting luik,
"My benison gang wi' thee;
God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy;
My heart is rent sith we maun part, 55
My handsome Gilderoy."]

My Gilderoy baith far and near,
Was fear'd in every toun,
And bauldly bare away the gear,[1021]
Of many a lawland loun: 60
Nane eir durst meet him man to man,
He was sae brave a boy;
At length wi' numbers he was tane,
My winsome[1022] Gilderoy.

Wae worth[1023] the loun that made the laws, 65
To hang a man for gear,
To 'reave of life for ox or ass,
For sheep, or horse, or mare:
Had not their laws been made sae strick,
I neir had lost my joy, 70
Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek,
For my dear Gilderoy.

Giff Gilderoy had done amisse,
He mought hae banisht been;
Ah! what fair cruelty is this, 75
To hang sike handsome men:
To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy;
Nae lady had sae white a hand,
As thee, my Gilderoy. 80

Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were,
They bound him mickle strong,
Tull Edenburrow they led him thair,
And on a gallows hung:
They hung him high aboon the rest, 85
He was sae trim a boy;
Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Thus having yielded up his breath,
I bare his corpse away, 90
Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I washt his comelye clay;
And siker[1024] in a grave sae deep,
I laid the dear-lued boy,
And now for evir maun I weep, 95
My winsome Gilderoy.

[***]

FOOTNOTES:

[1016] [for _till_ to.]

[1017] [silk.]

[1018] [sweetheart.]

[1019] [shift.]

[1020] [makes.]

[1021] [property.]

[1022] [winning.]

[1023] [woe betide.]

[1024] [secure.]

XIII.

WINIFREDA.

This beautiful address to conjugal love, a subject too much neglected by the libertine Muses, was, I believe, first printed in a volume of _Miscellaneous Poems, by several hands_, published by D. [David] Lewis, 1726, 8vo.

It is there said, how truly I know not, to be "a translation from the ancient British language."

* * * * *

Away; let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What tho' no grants of royal donors 5
With pompous titles grace our blood;
We'll shine in more substantial honors,
And to be noble we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where-e'er 'tis spoke: 10
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.

What though from fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess;
We'll find within our pittance plenty, 15
And be content without excess.

Still shall each returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live. 20

Through youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures, 25
While round my knees they fondly clung;
To see them look their mothers features,
To hear them lisp their mothers tongue.

And when with envy time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys, 30
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go a wooing in my boys.

XIV.

THE WITCH OF WOKEY

Was published in a small collection of poems, intitled _Euthemia, or the Power of Harmony_, &c. 1756, written in 1748, by the ingenious Dr. _Harrington_, of Bath, who never allowed them to be published, and withheld his name till it could no longer be concealed. The following copy was furnished by the late Mr. _Shenstone_, with some variations and corrections of his own, which he had taken the liberty to propose, and for which the author's indulgence was intreated. In this edition it was intended to reprint the author's own original copy; but, as that may be seen correctly given in _Pearch's_ Collection, vol. i. 1783, p. 161, it was thought the reader of taste would wish to have the variations preserved, they are, therefore, still retained here, which it is hoped the worthy author will excuse with his wonted liberality.

_Wokey-hole_ is a noted cavern in Somersetshire, which has given birth to as many wild fanciful stories as the Sybils Cave, in Italy. Thro' a very narrow entrance, it opens into a very large vault, the roof whereof, either on account of its height, or the thickness of the gloom, cannot be discovered by the light of torches. It goes winding a great way underground, is crossed by a stream of very cold water, and is all horrid with broken pieces of rock: many of these are evident petrifactions; which, on account of their singular forms, have given rise to the fables alluded to in this poem.

* * * * *

In aunciente days tradition showes
A base and wicked elfe arose,
The Witch of Wokey hight:
Oft have I heard the fearfull tale
From Sue, and Roger of the vale, 5
On some long winter's night.

Deep in the dreary dismall cell,
Which seem'd and was ycleped hell,
This blear-eyed hag did hide:
Nine wicked elves, as legends sayne, 10
She chose to form her guardian trayne,
And kennel near her side.

Here screeching owls oft made their nest,
While wolves its craggy sides possest,
Night-howling thro' the rock: 15
No wholesome herb could here be found;
She blasted every plant around,
And blister'd every flock.

Her haggard face was foull to see;
Her mouth unmeet a mouth to bee; 20
Her eyne of deadly leer,
She nought devis'd, but neighbour's ill;
She wreak'd on all her wayward will,
And marr'd all goodly chear.

All in her prime, have poets sung, 25
No gaudy youth, gallant and young,
E'er blest her longing armes;
And hence arose her spight to vex,
And blast the youth of either sex,
By dint of hellish charms. 30

From Glaston came a lerned wight,
Full bent to marr her fell despight,
And well he did, I ween:
Sich mischief never had been known,
And, since his mickle lerninge shown, 35
Sich mischief ne'er has been.

He chauntede out his godlie booke,
He crost the water, blest the brooke,
Then--pater noster done,--
The ghastly hag he sprinkled o'er; 40
When lo! where stood a hag before,
Now stood a ghastly stone.

Full well 'tis known adown the dale:
Tho' passing strange indeed the tale,
And doubtfull may appear, 45
I'm bold to say, there's never a one,
That has not seen the witch in stone,
With all her household gear.

But tho' this lernede clerke did well;
With grieved heart, alas! I tell, 50
She left this curse behind:
That Wokey-nymphs forsaken quite,
Tho' sense and beauty both unite,
Should find no leman kind.

For lo! even, as the fiend did say, 55
The sex have found it to this day,
That men are wondrous scant:
Here's beauty, wit, and sense combin'd,
With all that's good and virtuous join'd,
Yet hardly one gallant. 60

Shall then sich maids unpitied moane?
They might as well, like her, be stone,
As thus forsaken dwell.
Since Glaston now can boast no clerks;
Come down from Oxenford, ye sparks, 65
And, oh! revoke the spell.

Yet stay--nor thus despond, ye fair;
Virtue's the gods' peculiar care;
I hear the gracious voice:
Your sex shall soon be blest agen, 70
We only wait to find sich men,
As best deserve your choice.

XV.

BRYAN AND PEREENE,

A WEST INDIAN BALLAD,

Is founded on a real fact, that happened in the island of St. Christophers about the beginning of the present reign. The Editor owes the following stanzas to the friendship of Dr. _James Grainger_[1025] who was an eminent physician in that island when this tragical incident happened, and died there much honoured and lamented in 1767. To this ingenious gentleman the public are indebted for the fine _Ode on Solitude_, printed in the fourth vol. of Dodsley's _Miscel._ p. 229, in which are assembled some of the sublimest images in nature. The reader will pardon the insertion of the first stanza here, for the sake of rectifying the two last lines, which were thus given by the author:

"O Solitude, romantic maid,
Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the desart's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,
Or starting from your half-year's sleep
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or at the purple dawn of day
Tadmor's marble wastes survey," &c.

alluding to the account of Palmyra published by some late ingenious travellers, and the manner in which they were struck at the first sight of those magnificent ruins by break of day.[1026]

* * * * *

The north-east wind did briskly blow,
The ship was safely moor'd;
Young Bryan thought the boat's-crew slow,
And so leapt over-board.

Pereene, the pride of Indian dames, 5
His heart long held in thrall;
And whoso his impatience blames,
I wot, ne'er lov'd at all.

A long long year, one month and day,
He dwelt on English land, 10
Nor once in thought or deed would stray,
Tho' ladies sought his hand.

For Bryan he was tall and strong,
Right blythsome roll'd his een,
Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung, 15
He scant had twenty seen.

But who the countless charms can draw,
That grac'd his mistress true;
Such charms the old world seldom saw,
Nor oft I ween the new. 20

Her raven hair plays round her neck,
Like tendrils of the vine;
Her cheeks red dewy rose-buds deck,
Her eyes like diamonds shine.

Soon as his well-known ship she spied, 25
She cast her weeds away,
And to the palmy shore she hied,
All in her best array.

In sea-green silk so neatly clad,
She there impatient stood; 30
The crew with wonder saw the lad
Repell the foaming flood.

Her hands a handkerchief display'd.
Which he at parting gave;
Well pleas'd the token he survey'd, 35
And manlier beat the wave.

Her fair companions one and all,
Rejoicing crowd the strand;
For now her lover swam in call,
And almost touch'd the land. 40

Then through the white surf did she haste,
To clasp her lovely swain;
When, ah! a shark bit through his waste:
His heart's blood dy'd the main!

He shriek'd! his half sprang from the wave, 45
Streaming with purple gore,
And soon it found a living grave,
And ah! was seen no more.

Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray,
Fetch water from the spring: 50
She falls, she swoons, she dies away,
And soon her knell they ring.

Now each May morning round her tomb
Ye fair, fresh flowerets strew,
So may your lovers scape his doom, 55
Her hapless fate scape you.

FOOTNOTES:

[1025] Author of a poem on the Culture of the _Sugar-Cane_, &c.

[1026] So in p. 235, it should be, _Turn'd her magic ray_.

XVI.

GENTLE RIVER, GENTLE RIVER,

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH.

Although the English are remarkable for the number and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain perhaps a greater fondness for these old simple rhapsodies of their ancestors, than most other nations; they are not the only people who have distinguished themselves by compositions of this kind. The Spaniards have great multitudes of them, many of which are of the highest merit. They call them in their language _Romances_, and have collected them into volumes under the titles of _El Romancero_, _El Cancionero_,[1027] &c. Most of them relate to their conflicts with the Moors, and display a spirit of gallantry peculiar to that romantic people. But of all the Spanish ballads none exceed in poetical merit those inserted in a little Spanish _History of the civil wars of Granada_, describing the dissensions which raged in that last seat of Moorish empire before it was conquered in the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, in 1491. In this history (or perhaps romance) a great number of heroic songs are inserted and appealed to as authentic vouchers for the truth of facts. In reality the prose narrative seems to be drawn up for no other end, but to introduce and illustrate those beautiful pieces.

The Spanish editor pretends (how truly I know not) that they are translations from the Arabic or Morisco language. Indeed, from the plain unadorned nature of the verse, and the native simplicity of the language and sentiment, which runs through these poems, one would judge them to have been composed soon after the conquest of Granada[1028] above mentioned; as the prose narrative in which they are inserted was published about a century after. It should seem, at least, that they were written before the Castillians had formed themselves so generally, as they have done since, on the model of the Tuscan poets, or had imported from Italy that fondness for conceit and refinement, which has for near two centuries past so much infected the Spanish poetry, and rendered it so frequently affected and obscure.

As a specimen of the ancient Spanish manner, which very much resembles that of our English bards and minstrels, the reader is desired candidly to accept the two following poems. They are given from a small collection of pieces of this kind, which the Editor some years ago translated for his amusement when he was studying the Spanish language. As the first is a pretty close translation, to gratify the curious it is accompanied with the original. The metre is the same in all these old Spanish ballads: it is of the most simple construction, and is still used by the common people in their extemporaneous songs, as we learn from _Baretti's Travels_. It runs in short stanzas of four lines, of which the second and fourth alone correspond in their terminations; and in these it is only required that the vowels should be alike, the consonants may be altogether different, as

pone casa meten arcos
noble cañas muere gamo

Yet has this kind of verse a sort of simple harmonious flow, which atones for the imperfect nature of the rhyme, and renders it not unpleasing to the ear. The same flow of numbers has been studied in the following versions. The first of them is given from two different originals, both of which are printed in the _Hist. de las civiles guerras de Granada_, Mad. 1694. One of them hath the rhymes ending in _aa_, the other in _ia_. It is the former of these that is here reprinted. They both of them begin with the same line:

"Rio verde, rio verde,"[1029]

which could not be translated faithfully:

"Verdant river, verdant river,"

would have given an affected stiffness to the verse; the great merit of which is easy simplicity; and therefore a more simple epithet was adopted, though less poetical or expressive.

* * * * *

[The two following Spanish ballads are peculiarly out of place in a
collection of English ballads, and they are not very good specimens
of the class from which they are taken. Those who wish for
information on Spanish ballads must refer to Ticknor's _History of_
_Spanish Literature_; T. Rodd's _Ancient Spanish Ballads, relating_
_to the Twelve Peers of France mentioned in Don Quixote_, 2 vols.
London, 1821; and J. G. Lockhart's _Ancient Spanish Ballads,_
_historical and romantic_, 1823.]

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

Y tus ondas cristalinas 5
De roxa sangre se esmaltan:
Entre Moros y Christianos
Muy gran batalla se trava.

Murieron Duques y Condes,
Grandes señores de salva: 10
Murio gente de valia
De la nobleza de España.

En ti murio don Alonso,
Que de Aguilar se Ilamaba;
El valeroso Urdiales, 15
Con don Alonso acababa.

Por un ladera arriba
El buen Sayavedra marcha;
Naturel es de Sevilla,
De la gente mas granada. 20

Tras el iba un Renegado,
Desta manera le habla;
Date, date, Sayavedra,
No huyas de la Batalla.

Yo te conozco muy bien, 25
Gran tiempo estuve en tu casa;
Y en la Plaça de Sevilla
Bien te vide jugar cañas.

* * * * *

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, 5
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: 10
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 15
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. 20

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, 25
Long I liv'd beneath thy roof;
Oft I've in the lists of glory
Seen thee win the prize of proof.

Conozco a tu padre y madre,
Y a tu muger doña Clara; 30
Siete anos fui tu cautivo,
Malamente me tratabas.

Y aora lo seras mio,
Si Mahoma me ayudara;
Y tambien te tratare, 35
Como a mi me tratabas.

Sayavedra que lo oyera,
Al Moro bolvio la cara;
Tirole el Moro una flecha,
Pero nunca le acertaba. 40

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

Sayavedra fue cercado 45
De mucha Mora canalla,
Y al cabo cayo alli muerto
De una muy mala lançada.

Don Alonso en este tiempo
Bravamente peleava, 50
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, 55
Don Alonso se desmaya.

Al fin, al fin cayo muerto
Al pie de un pena alta.----
----Muerto queda don Alonso,
Eterna fama ganara. 60

* * * * *

Well I know thy aged parents,
Well thy blooming bride I know; 30
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, 35
Which I drank when I was thine.

Like a lion turns the warrior,
Back he sends an angry glare:
Whizzing came the Moorish javelin,
Vainly whizzing thro' the air. 40

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, 45
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; 50
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: 55
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. 60

* * * * *

[***] 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."

FOOTNOTES:

[1027] _i.e._ The ballad-singer.

[1028] See vol. iii. Appendix.

[1029] Literally, _Green river, green river_. [Percy found out, after writing this, that _Rio Verde_ is the name of a river in Spain, a fact, which he writes, "ought to have been attended to by the translator, had he known it."]

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, 5
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; 10
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 15
Softly steps the timorous fair.

Lovely seems the moon's fair lustre
To the lost benighted swain,
When all silvery bright she rises,
Gilding mountain, grove, and plain. 20

Lovely seems the sun's full glory
To the fainting seaman's eyes,
When some horrid storm dispersing
O'er the wave his radiance flies.

But a thousand times more lovely 25
To her longing lover's sight
Steals half-seen the beauteous maiden
Thro' the glimmerings of the night.

Tip-toe stands the anxious lover,
Whispering forth a gentle sigh: 30
Alla[1030] keep thee, lovely lady;
Tell me, am I doom'd to die?

Is it true the dreadful story,
Which thy damsel tells my page,
That seduc'd by sordid riches 35
Thou wilt sell thy bloom to age?

An old lord from Antiquera
Thy stern father brings along;
But canst thou, inconstant Zaida,
Thus consent my love to wrong? 40

If 'tis true now plainly tell me,
Nor thus trifle with my woes;
Hide not then from me the secret,
Which the world so clearly knows.

Deeply sigh'd the conscious maiden, 45
While the pearly tears descend:
Ah! my lord, too true the story;
Here our tender loves must end.

Our fond friendship is discover'd,
Well are known our mutual vows: 50
All my friends are full of fury;
Storms of passion shake the house.

Threats, reproaches, fears surround me;
My stern father breaks my heart:
Alla knows how dear it costs me, 55
Generous youth, from thee to part.

Ancient wounds of hostile fury
Long have rent our house and thine;
Why then did thy shining merit
Win this tender heart of mine? 60

Well thou know'st how dear I lov'd thee
Spite of all their hateful pride,
Tho' I fear'd my haughty father
Ne'er would let me be thy bride.

Well thou know'st what cruel chidings 65
Oft I've from my mother borne;
What I've suffered here to meet thee
Still at eve and early morn.

I no longer may resist them;
All, to force my hand combine; 70
And to-morrow to thy rival
This weak frame I must resign.

Yet think not thy faithful Zaida
Can survive so great a wrong;
Well my breaking heart assures me 75
That my woes will not be long.

Farewell then, my dear Alcanzor!
Farewell too my life with thee!
Take this scarf a parting token;
When thou wear'st it think on me. 80

Soon, lov'd youth, some worthier maiden
Shall reward thy generous truth;
Sometimes tell her how thy Zaida
Died for thee in prime of youth.

--To him all amaz'd, confounded, 85
Thus she did her woes impart:
Deep he sigh'd, then cry'd,--O Zaida!
Do not, do not break my heart.

Canst thou think I thus will lose thee?
Canst thou hold my love so small? 90
No! a thousand times I'll perish!----
My curst rival too shall fall.

Canst thou, wilt thou yield thus to them?
O break forth, and fly to me!
This fond heart shall bleed to save thee, 95
These fond arms shall shelter thee.

'Tis in vain, in vain, Alcanzor,
Spies surround me, bars secure:
Scarce I steal this last dear moment,
While my damsel keeps the door. 100

Hark, I hear my father storming!
Hark, I hear my mother chide!
I must go: farewell for ever!
Gracious Alla be thy guide!

FOOTNOTES:

[1030] _Alla_ is the Mahometan name of God.

THE END OF THE THIRD BOOK.

APPENDIX I.

AN ESSAY ON THE ANCIENT MINSTRELS IN ENGLAND.