The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 7, Pages 376 to 378
The Moor had beleaguer'd Valencia's towers,
And lances gleam'd up through her citron bowers,
And the tents of the Desert had girt her plain,
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain;
For the Cid was gone to rest.
There were men from wilds where the death-wind sweeps,
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps,
There were bows from sands where the ostrich runs,
For the shrill horn of Afric had call'd her sons
To the battles of the West.
The midnight bell, o'er the dim seas heard,
Like the roar of waters the air had stirr'd;
The stars were shining o'er tower and wave,
And the camp lay hush'd, as a wizard's cave:
But the Christians woke that night.
They rear'd the Cid on his barbed steed,
Like a warrior mail'd for the hour of need,
And they fix'd the sword in the cold right hand,
Which had fought so well for his father's land,
And the shield from his neck hung bright.
There was arming heard in Valencia's halls,
There was vigil kept on the rampart-walls;
Stars had not faded, nor clouds turn'd red,
When the Knights had girded the noble Dead,
And the burial-train moved out.
With a measured pace, as the pace of one,
Was the still death-march of the host begun;
With a silent step went the cuirass'd bands,
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands,
And they gave no battle-shout.
- ↑ * See the Legends recorded in Southey's Chronicle of the Cid.
