His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night,
  Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might;
  Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock,
  Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the alcayde’s shock.

  Now stops the drum—­close, close they come—­thrice meet, and thrice give
                back;
  The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger’s breast of black—­
  The white foam of the charger on Harpado’s front of dun—­
  Once more advance upon his lance—­once more, thou fearless one!

  Once more, once more;—­in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel—­
  In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel—­
  In vain, in vain, thou noble beast, I see, I see thee stagger,
  Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern alcayde’s dagger!

  They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in,
  And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din. 
  Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow
  Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low.

THE ZEGRI’S BRIDE

[The reader cannot need to be reminded of the fatal effects which were produced by the feuds subsisting between the two great families, or rather races, of the Zegris and the Abencerrages of Granada.  The following ballad is also from the “Guerras Civiles.”]

  Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is Lisaro,
  To wield rejon like him is none, or javelin to throw;
  From the place of his dominion, he ere the dawn doth go,
  From Alcala de Henares, he rides in weed of woe.

  He rides not now as he was wont, when ye have seen him speed
  To the field of gay Toledo, to fling his lusty reed;
  No gambeson of silk is on, nor rich embroidery
  Of gold-wrought robe or turban—­nor jewelled tahali.

  No amethyst nor garnet is shining on his brow,
  No crimson sleeve, which damsels weave at Tunis, decks him now;
  The belt is black, the hilt is dim, but the sheathed blade is bright;
  They have housened his barb in a murky garb, but yet her hoofs are light.

  Four horsemen good, of the Zegri blood, with Lisaro go out;
  No flashing spear may tell them near, but yet their shafts are stout;
  In darkness and in swiftness rides every armed knight—­
  The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white.

  Young Lisaro, as on they go, his bonnet doffeth he,
  Between its folds a sprig it holds of a dark and glossy tree;
  That sprig of bay, were it away, right heavy heart had he—­
  Fair Zayda to her Zegri gave that token privily.

  And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady’s boon. 
  “God knows,” quoth he, “what fate may be—­I may be slaughtered soon;
  Thou still art mine, though scarce the sign of hope that bloomed whilere,
  But in my grave I yet shall have my Zayda’s token dear.”