On each tomb a statue lying,
Almost seems like life;
And, above, the banner flying
Seems to dare the strife—
Which again it may not dare.
Can the carved statues there
Suffice the Zegri Lady—
The Ladye weeping there.
While the others fled around them,
Did the seven die.—
In the front of war she found them
With none others nigh:—
Noble was the blood they shed.
Sacred in her grief and beauty—
Did the Ladye go?—
Asking life's last sacred duty
Of the Christian foe.
Those white feet were stain 'd with red,
When the King bestow'd her dead
On the lovely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
Never since the hour she brought them
To that ancient hall:—
Since with her sad hands she wrought them
Their embroider’d pall,
Hath the daylight seen her face.
Rosy o'er the Guadalquivir
Doth the morning gleam;
Pale the silver moonbeams shiver
O'er the haunted stream.
Nothing knows she of their grace—
Nothing cheers the funeral place
Of the lonely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
Those six tombs contain a brother—
All her house's pride:—
Six contain her line; one other
Riseth at her side.
Who is in that seventh tomb?
One far dearer than the others
Shares their place of rest:
Well she loved her noble brothers—
But she loved him best—
He who shared the warrior's doom
With the favour at his plume
Of the lovely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
Never more when first appearing
Will he watch her eye,
In the mounted lists careering,
When his steed went by
Rapid as the lance he flung.
Never more when night is lonely
Will the warrior glide
To the citron shade, where only
He was at her side,
