The Literary Gazette, 12th October 1822
BALLAD.
The Cid's departure into exile.
[See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid.]
With sixty Knights in his gallant train,
Went forth the Campeador of Spain;
For wild sierras and plains afar,
He left the lands of his own Bivar.
To march o'er field and to watch in tent,
From his home in good Castile he went;
To the wasting siege and the battle's van,
For the noble Cid was a banish'd man!
Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze play'd,
And his native streams wild music made;
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay,
When for march and combat he took his way.
With a thoughtful spirit his way he took,
And he turn'd his steed for a parting look,
For a parting look at his own fair towers,—
Oh! the Exile's heart hath weary hours!
The pennons were spread, and the band array'd;
But the Cid at his threshold a moment stay'd:—
It was but a moment—the halls were lone,
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.
There was not a steed in the empty stall,
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall;
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door,
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.
Then a dim tear swell'd to the warrior's eye,
As the voice of his native groves went by;
And he said, "My Foemen their wish have won,—
Now the will of God be in all things done!"
But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer,
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear;
And the fields of his glory lay distant far;—
He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar!—H.
