Bereft of mother first, then fatherless,
Through hostile land—­it was my own—­I fled. 
The brave Castilians me from place to place,
Like shelterers of villainy did lead,
And hid me from my uncle of Leon,
Since death did threaten host as well as guest. 
But everywhere they tracked me up and down. 
Then Estevan Illan, a don who long
Hath slept beneath the greensward of the grave,
And this man here, Manrique Lara, led me
To this, the stronghold of the enemy,
And hid me in the tower of St. Roman,
Which there you see high o’er Toledo’s roofs. 
There lay I still, but they began to strew
The seed of rumor in the civic ear,
And on Ascension Day, when all the folk
Was gathered at the gate of yonder fane,
They led me to the tower-balcony
And showed me to the people, calling down,
“Here in your midst, among you, is your King,
The heir of ancient princes; of their rights
And of your rights the willing guardian.” 
I was a child and wept then, as they said. 
But still I hear it—­ever that wild cry,
A single word from thousand bearded throats,
A thousand swords as in a single hand,
The people’s hand.  But God the vict’ry gave,
The Leonese did flee; and on and on,
A standard rather than a warrior,
I with my army compassed all the land,
And won my vict’ries with my baby smile. 
These taught and nurtured me with loving care,
And mother’s milk flowed from their wounds for me. 
And so, while other princes call themselves
The fathers of their people, I am son,
For what I am, I owe their loyalty.

MANRIQUE.  If all that now thou art, most noble Sire,
             Should really, as thou sayest, spring from thence,
             Then gladly we accept the thanks, rejoice
             If these our teachings and our nurture, thus
             Are mirrored in thy fame and in thy deeds,
             Then we and thou are equally in debt.

(To the QUEEN.)

Pray gaze on him with these thy gracious eyes;
Howe’er so many kings have ruled in Spain,
Not one compares with him in nobleness. 
Old age, in truth, is all too wont to blame,
And I am old and cavil much and oft;
And when confuted in the council-hall
I secret wrath have ofttimes nursed—­not long,
Forsooth—­that royal word should weigh so much;
And sought some evil witness ’gainst my King,
And gladly had I harmed his good repute. 
But always I returned in deepest shame—­
The envy mine, and his the spotlessness.

KING.  A teacher, Lara, and a flatt’rer, too? 
             But we will not dispute you this and that;
             If I’m not evil, better, then, for you,
             Although the man, I fear me, void of wrong,
             Were also void of excellence as well;
             For as the tree with sun-despising roots,