Плач дона Родриго

Испанская баллада

Взирает дон Родриго и видит смерти рок,
Как косит беспощадно рать дона враг жесток;
Неделю бойцы бились, пока все не легли,
Из боя дона вынес конь из последних сил.

В крови, безумен, в пене, исполнив долг, конь пал,
Король, слепой от горя, в слезах пред ним стоял.
Ужасен был и жалок Родриго бледный лик,
Шатался он без мочи, как в сердце ранен бык.

Весь буро-алый с боя, в крови весь и грязи,
Горя огнём, Родриго мечом врага разил;
Был плащ его разодран, и с вмятиною шлем,
Порублены доспехи, и рана на челе.

Он с боем взял вершину высокого холма,
Откуда поле битвы узрел он без ума:
Везде его солдаты убитые лежат,
Повсюду крики мавров победные гласят.

Он помнил всех идальго Испании в лицо,
Они теперь средь мёртвых, в живых нет никого!
Искать живых напрасно, одно лишь вороньё
Кружит над их телами, и тут заплакал дон:

«Я только прошлой ночью был грандов королём,
В великолепных замках пил с ними за столом,
И сто пажей служили по слову моему,
И кто теперь я ныне, приказывать кому?

О, горе мне! Будь проклят тот злополучный час,
Когда над всей Испанией звезда моя зажглась!
Так пусть она не выйдет в сегодняшнюю ночь,
О, Смерть! что медлишь? Бежишь от дона прочь?»

The lamentation of Don Roderick

The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in dismay,
When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor hope had they;
He, when he saw the field was lost, and all his hope was flown,
He turned him from his flying host and took his way alone.

His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame, he could no farther go,
Dismounted, without path or aim, the king stepped to and fro.
It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick,
For sore athirst and hungry he staggered faint and sick.

All stained and strewed with dust and blood, like to some smouldering brand
Pluck'd from the flame, Rodrigo shew'd. His sword was in his hand;
But it was hacked into a saw of dark and purple tint;
His jewell'd mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint.

He climbed unto a hill-top, the highest he could see,
Thence all about of that wild route his last long look took he.
He saw his royal banners where they lay drenched and torn,
He heard the cry of victory, the Arabs' shout of scorn.

He look'd for the brave captains that had led the hosts of Spain,
But all were fled except the dead, and who could count the slain?
Where'er his eye could wander, all bloody was the plain;
And while thus he said the tears he shed ran down his checks like rain:

"Last night I was the King of Spain, to-day no king am I;
Last night fair castles held my train, to-night where shall I lie;
Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee,
To-night not one I call my own, not one pertains to me.

"O luckless, luckless was the hour, and cursed was the day
When I was born to have the power of this great seigniory;
Unhappy me that I should live to see the sun go down this night,
O Death, why now so slow art thou, why fearest thou to smite?"