Not Rodamont the African,
The ruler of Argel,
And King of Zarza's southern coast,
Was filled with rage so fell,
When for his darling Doralice
He fought with Mandricard,
As filled the heart of bold Gazul
When, past Sidonia's guard,
He sallied forth in arms arrayed,
With courage high prepared
To do a deed that mortal man
Never before had dared.
It was for this he bade them bring
His barb and coat of mail;
A sword and dusky scabbard
'Neath his left shoulder trail;
In Fez a Christian captive
Had forged it, laboring
At arms of subtile temper
As bondsman of the King.
More precious 'twas to bold Gazul
Than all his realms could bring.
A tawny tinted _alquizel_
Beneath his arms he wore;
And, to conceal his thoughts of blood,
No towering spear he bore.
He started forth for Jerez,
And hastening on his course,
Trampled the vega far and wide
With hoof-prints of his horse.
And soon he crossed the splashing ford
Of Guadelate's tide,
Hard by the ancient haven
Upon the valley-side.
They gave the ford a famous name
The waters still retain,
Santa Maria was it called,
Since Christians conquered Spain.
The river crossed, he spurred his steed,
Lest he might reach the gate
Of Jarez at an hour unfit,
Too early or too late.
For Zaida, his own Zaida,
Had scorned her lover leal,
Wedding a rich and potent Moor
A native of Seville;
The nephew of a castellan,
A Moorish prince of power,
Who in Seville was seneschal
Of castle and of tower.
By this accursed bridal
Life's treasure he had lost;
The Moor had gained the treasure,
And now must pay the cost.
The second hour of night had rung
When, on his gallant steed,
He passed thro' Jerez' gate resolved
Upon a desperate deed.
And lo! to Zaida's dwelling
With peaceful mien he came,
Pondering his bloody vengeance
Upon that house of shame.
For he will pass the portal,
And strike the bridegroom low;
But first must cross the wide, wide court,
Ere he can reach his foe.
And he must pass the crowd of men,
Who in the courtyard stand,
Lighting the palace of the Moor,
With torches in their hand.
And Zaida in the midst comes forth,
Her lover at her side;
He has come, amid his groomsmen,
To take her for his bride.
And bold Gazul feels his heart bound
With fury at the sight;
A lion's rage is in his soul,
His brow is black as night.
But now he checks his anger,
And gently on his steed
Draws near, with smile of greeting,
That none may balk the deed.
And when he reached the bridal,
Where all had taken their stand,
Upon his mighty sword-hilt
He sudden laid his hand;
And in a voice that all could hear
"Base craven Moor," said he,
"The sweet, the lovely Zaida
Shall ne'er be bride to thee.
And count me not a traitor, I
Defy thee face to face,
Lay hand upon thy scimitar
If thou hast heart of grace."
And with these words he dealt one stroke,
A cruel stroke and true,
It reached the Moor, it struck his heart
And pierced it through and through.
Down fell the wretch, that single stroke
Had laid him with the dead--
"Now let him die for all his deeds,"
The assembled people said.
Gazul made bravely his defence,
And none could check his flight;
He dashed his rowels in his steed,
And vanished in the night.