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"What a to-do is here, my lords! was the like ever seen? What talk is this about my Cid — him of Bivar I mean? To Riodouirna let him go to take his miller's rent,

And keep his mills agoing there, as once he was content.
He, forsooth, mate his daughters with the Counts of Carrion!"
Upstarted Muño Gustioz: "False, foul-mouthed knave, have


Thou glutton, wont to break thy fast without a thought of prayer, Whose heart is plotting mischief when thy lips are speaking fair; Whose plighted word to friend or lord hath ever proved a lie; False always to thy fellow-man, falser to God on high.

No share in thy good will I seek; one only boon I pray :

The chance to make thee own thyself the villain that I say."

Then spoke the king: "Enough of words: ye have my leave to fight,

The challenged and the challengers; and God defend the right."

But lo! two cavaliers came into court: one, Oiarra by name, the other Yenego Simenez; the one the Infante of Navarre, the other the Infante of Aragon. They kiss King Alfonso's hand, and ask the daughters of my Cid the Campeador for Queens of Navarre and Aragon; whereat the Court was silent and gave ear. My Cid rose to his feet. "So please your grace, King Alfonso, for this do I thank the Creator, that from Navarre and Aragon they ask them of

You gave them in marriage before, not I. My daughters are in your hands. Without your command, I will do nothing." The king rose and bade the Court keep silence. "Of you, Cid, noble Campeador, I ask consent that this marriage be ratified to-day in this court, for it brings to you honor and territory." Said my Cid: Since it is pleasing to you, I agree to it." Then said the king, "I ratify this marriage of the daughters of my Cid, Doña Elvira and Doña Sol, with the Infantes of Navarre and Aragon. Let this debate end; and to-morrow, at the rising of the sun, shall be the combat, three against three, of those engaged by challenge in the court.' "9

The marshals leave them face to face and from the lists are gone;
Here stand the champions of my Cid, there those of Carrion;
Each with his gaze intent and fixed upon his chosen foe,
Their bucklers braced before their breasts, their lances pointing low,
Their heads bent down, as each man leans above his saddlebow.
Then with one impulse every spur is in the charger's side,
And earth itself is felt to shake beneath their furious stride;
Till, midway meeting, three with three, in struggle fierce they lock,
While all account them dead who hear the echo of the shock.

Ferrando and his challenger, Pero Bermuez, close;

Firm are the lances held, and fair the shields receive the blows.
Through Pero's shield Ferrando drove his lance, a bloodless stroke;
The point stopped short in empty space, the shaft in splinters broke.
But on Bermuez, firm of seat, the shock fell all in vain;
And while he took Ferrando's thrust he paid it back again.

The armored buckler shattering, right home his lance he pressed, Driving the point through boss and plate against his foeman's breast,

Three folds of mail Ferrando wore, they stood him in good stead;
Two yielded to the lance's point, the third held fast the head.
But forced into the flesh it sank a hand's-breadth deep or more,
Till bursting from the gasping lips in torrents gushed the gore.
Then, the girths breaking, o'er the croup borne rudely to the

He lay, a dying man it seemed to all who stood around.
Bermuez cast his lance aside, and sword in hand came on;

Ferrando saw the blade he bore, he knew it was Tizon:

Quick ere the dreaded brand could fall, "I yield me," came the cry.

Vanquished the marshals granted him, and Pero let him lie.
And Martin Antolinez and Diego-fair and true

Each struck upon the other's shield, and wide the splinters flew.
Then Antolinez seized his sword, and as he drew the blade,

A dazzling gleam of burnished steel across the meadow played;
And at Diego striking full, athwart the helmet's crown,

Sheer through the steel plates of the casque he drove the falchion down,

Through coif and scarf, till from the scalp the locks it razed away,
And half shorn off and half upheld the shattered head-piece lay.
Reeling beneath the blow that proved Colada's cruel might,
Diego saw no chance but one, no safety save in flight:
He wheeled and fled, but close behind him Antolinez drew;
With the flat blade a hasty blow he dealt him as he flew;

But idle was Diego's sword; he shrieked to Heaven for aid:

"O God of glory, give me help! save me from yonder blade!" Unreined, his good steed bore him safe and swept him past the bound,

And Martin Antolinez stood alone upon the ground.

"Come hither," said the king; "thus far the conquerors are ye."
And fairly fought and won the field the marshals both agree.
So much for these and how they fought: remains to tell you yet
How meanwhile Muño Gustioz Assur Gonzalez met.
With a strong arm and steady aim each struck the other's shield,
And under Assur's sturdy thrust the plates of Muño's yield;

But harmless passed the lance's point, and spent its force in air.
Not so Don Muño's; on the shield of Assur striking fair,

Through plate and boss and foeman's breast his pennoned lance he sent,

Till out between the shoulder blades a fathom's length it went.
Then, as the lance he plucked away, clear from the saddle swung,
With one strong wrench of Muño's wrist to earth was Assur flung;
And back it came, shaft, pennon, blade, all stained a gory red;
Nor was there one of all the crowd but counted Assur sped,
While o'er him Muño Gustioz stood with uplifted brand.
Then cried Assur Gonzalez: "In God's name hold thy hand!
Already have ye won the field; no more is needed now."
And said the marshals, "It is just, and we the claim allow."
And then the King Alfonso gave command to clear the ground,
And gather in the relics of the battle strewed around.

And from the field in honor went Don Roderick's champions three.
Thanks be to God, the Lord of all, that gave the victory.

But fearing treachery, that night upon their way they went,
As King Alfonso's honored guests in safety homeward sent,
And to Valencia city day and night they journeyed on,

To tell my Cid Campeador that his behest was done.
But in the lands of Carrion it was a day of woe,

And on the lords of Carrion it fell a heavy blow.

He who a noble lady wrongs and casts aside—may he

Meet like requital for his deeds, or worse, if worse there be.

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But let us leave them where they lie - their meed is all men's scorn.
Turn we to speak of him that in a happy hour was born.
Valencia the Great was glad, rejoiced at heart to see
The honored champions of her lord return in victory:

And Ruy Diaz grasped his beard: "Thanks be to God," said he, "Of part or lot in Carrion now are my daughters free;

Now may I give them without shame whoe'er the suitors be."
And favored by the king himself, Alfonso of Leon,
Prosperous was the wooing of Navarre and Aragon.
The bridals of Elvira and of Sol in splendor passed;
Stately the former nuptials were, but statelier far the last.
And he that in a good hour was born, behold how he hath sped!
His daughters now to higher rank and greater honor wed:
Sought by Navarre and Aragon for queens his daughters twain;
And monarchs of his blood to-day upon the thrones of Spain.
And so his honor in the land grows greater day by day.
Upon the feast of Pentecost from life he passed away.
For him and all of us the Grace of Christ let us implore.
And here ye have the story of my Cid Campeador.

VOL. IX. -8



[FRIEDRICH MAX MÜLLER, Cosmopolitan philologist, was born December 6, 1823, at Dessau, Germany, where his father, Wilhelm Müller, the poet, was librarian. He studied at several great universities, making Sanskrit his specialty, and edited the Rig-veda, 1849-1874. He was professor at Oxford of modern languages, and later of comparative philology, which he has popularized beyond any other man by his writings. His "Chips from a German Workshop" is a well-known collection of his essays; his "Comparative Mythology," "Science of Language," "Science of Religion," "Science of Thought," "Science of Mythology," etc., have been very influential.]

SEVEN hundred years ago! What a long time it seems! Philip Augustus, King of France; Henry II., King of England; Frederick I., the famous Barbarossa, Emperor of Germany! When we read of their times, the times of the Crusades, we feel as the Greeks felt when reading of the War of Troy. We listen, we admire, but we do not compare the heroes of Saint Jean d'Acre with the great generals of the nineteenth century. They seem a different race of men from those who are now living, and poetry and tradition have lent to their royal frames such colossal proportions that we hardly dare to criticise the legendary history of their chivalrous achievements.

It was a time of heroes, of saints, of martyrs, of miracles! Thomas à Becket was murdered at Canterbury, but for more than three hundred years his name lived on, and his bones were working miracles, and his soul seemed as it were embodied and petrified in the lofty pillars that surround the spot of his martyrdom. Abélard was persecuted and imprisoned, but his spirit revived in the Reformers of the sixteenth century, and the shrine of Abélard and Héloïse in the Père La Chaise is still decorated every year with garlands of immortelles. Barbarossa was drowned in the same river in which Alexander the Great had bathed his royal limbs, but his fame lived on in every cottage of Germany, and the peasant near the Kyffhäuser still believes that some day the mighty Emperor will awake from his long slumber, and rouse the people of Germany from their fatal dreams. We dare not hold communion with such stately heroes as Frederick the Red-beard and Richard the Lion-heart; they seem half to belong to the realm of fable. We feel from our very school days as if we could shake hands with a Themistocles and sit down in the company of a Julius Cæsar, but

we are awed by the presence of those tall and silent knights, with their hands folded and their legs crossed, as we see them reposing in full armor on the tombs of our cathedrals.

And yet, however different in all other respects, these men, if they once lift their steel beaver and unbuckle their rich armor, are wonderfully like ourselves. Let us read the poetry which they either wrote themselves, or to which they liked to listen in their castles on the Rhine or under their tents in Palestine, and we find it is poetry which a Tennyson or a Moore, a Goethe or Heine, might have written. Neither Julius Cæsar nor Themistocles would know what was meant by such poetry. It is modern poetry, poetry unknown to the ancient world, -and who invented it nobody can tell. It is sometimes called Romantic, but this is a strange misnomer. Neither the Romans, nor the lineal descendants of the Romans, the Italians, the Provençals, the Spaniards, can claim that poetry as their own. It is Teutonic poetry, - purely Teutonic in its heart and soul, though its utterance, its rhyme and meter, its grace and imagery, show the marks of a warmer clime. It is called sentimental poetry, the poetry of the heart rather than of the head, the picture of the inward rather than of the outward world. It is subjective, as distinguished from objective poetry, as the German critics, in their scholastic language, are fond of expressing it. It is Gothic, as contrasted with classical poetry. The one, it is said, sublimizes nature, the other bodies forth spirit; the one deifies the human, the other humanizes the divine; the one is ethnic, the other Christian. But all these are but names, and their true meaning must be discovered in the works of art themselves, and in the history of the times which produced the artists, the poets, and their ideals. We shall perceive the difference between these two hemispheres of the Beautiful better if we think of Homer's "Helena" and Dante's "Beatrice," if we look at the "Venus of Milo" and a "Madonna" of Francia, than in reading the profoundest systems of æsthetics.

A volume of German poetry is called "Des Minnesangs Frühling," "the Spring of the Songs of Love"; and it contains a collection of the poems of twenty German poets, all of whom lived during the period of the Crusades, under the Hohenstaufen Emperors, from about 1170 to 1230. This period may well be called the spring of German poetry, though the summer that followed was but of short duration, and the autumn was cheated of the rich harvest which the spring had promised.

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