“Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup
  I have drained; then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up!”

  For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred—­
  Then exclaimed:  “For ever sacred must remain a monarch’s word. 
  Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give: 
  Drink, I said before, and perish—­now I bid thee drink and live!”

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

* * * * *

BATTLE SCENE.

FROM “THE CID.”

  Then cried my Cid—­“In charity, as to the rescue—­ho!”
  With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing low,
  With stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle-bow,
  All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe. 
  And he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out,
  And clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle shout: 
  “Among them, gentlemen!  Strike home for the love of charity! 
  The champion of Bivar is here—­Ruy Diaz—­I am he!”
  Then bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight,
  Three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering white;
  Down go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow;
  And when they wheel, three hundred more, as charging back they go. 
  It was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day;
  The shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay;
  The pennons that went in snow-white came out a gory red;
  The horses running riderless, the riders lying dead;
  While Moors call on Mohammed, and “St. James!” the Christians cry,
  And sixty score of Moors and more in narrow compass lie.

From the Spanish. 
Translation of JOHN ORMSBY.

* * * * *

THE LORD OF BUTRAGO.

  “Your horse is faint, my King, my Lord! your gallant horse is sick,—­
  His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick;
  Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! 
  Or in my arms I’ll lift your Grace,—­their trampling hoofs are nigh!

  “My King, my King,! you’re wounded sore,—­the blood runs from your feet;
  But only lay a hand before, and I’ll lift you to your seat;
  Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!—­I hear their coming cry,—­
  Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,—­I’ll save you though I die!

  “Stand, noble steed! this hour of need,—­be gentle as a lamb;
  I’ll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,—­thy master dear I am,—­
  Mount, Juan, mount; whate’er betide, away the bridle fling,
  And plunge the rowels in his side.—­My horse shall save my King!

  “Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours,
  And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures;
  If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead,
  How could I stand ’mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head?