DURANDARTE AND BELERMA Sad and fearful is the story Of the Roncevalles fight; On those fatal plains of glory Perished many a gallant Knight.
There fell Durandarte; Never Verse a nobler Chieftain named: He, before his lips for ever Closed in silence thus exclaimed.
'Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear-one! For my pain and pleasure born! Seven long years I served thee, fair-one, Seven long years my fee was scorn: 'And when now thy heart replying To my wishes, burns like mine, Cruel Fate my bliss denying Bids me every hope resign.
'Ah! Though young I fall, believe me, Death would never claim a sigh; 'Tis to lose thee, 'tis to leave thee, Makes me think it hard to die!
'Oh! my Cousin Montesinos, By that friendship firm and dear Which from Youth has lived between us, Now my last petition hear!
'When my Soul these limbs forsaking Eager seeks a purer air, From my breast the cold heart taking, Give it to Belerma's care.
Say, I of my lands Possessor Named her with my dying breath: Say, my lips I op'd to bless her, Ere they closed for aye in death: 'Twice a week too how sincerely I adored her, Cousin, say; Twice a week for one who dearly Loved her, Cousin, bid her pray.
'Montesinos, now the hour Marked by fate is near at hand: Lo! my arm has lost its power! Lo! I drop my trusty brand!
'Eyes, which forth beheld me going, Homewards ne'er shall see me hie! Cousin, stop those tears o'er-flowing, Let me on thy bosom die!
'Thy kind hand my eyelids closing, Yet one favour I implore: Pray Thou for my Soul's reposing, When my heart shall throb no more; 'So shall Jesus, still attending Gracious to a Christian's vow, Pleased accept my Ghost ascending, And a seat in heaven allow.'
Thus spoke gallant Durandarte; Soon his brave heart broke in twain. Greatly joyed the Moorish party, That the gallant Knight was slain.
Bitter weeping Montesinos Took from him his helm and glaive; Bitter weeping Montesinos Dug his gallant Cousin's grave.
To perform his promise made, He Cut the heart from out the breast, That Belerma, wretched Lady! Might receive the last bequest.
Sad was Montesinos' heart, He Felt distress his bosom rend. 'Oh! my Cousin Durandarte, Woe is me to view thy end!
'Sweet in manners, fair in favour, Mild in temper, fierce in fight, Warrior, nobler, gentler, braver, Never shall behold the light!
'Cousin, Lo! my tears bedew thee! How shall I thy loss survive! Durandarte, He who slew thee, Wherefore left He me alive!'
While She sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: Never had He heard a voice more harmonious; and He wondered how such heavenly sounds could be produced by any but Angels. But though He indulged the sense of hearing, a single look convinced him that He must not trust to that of sight. The Songstress sat at a little distance from his Bed. The attitude in which She bent over her harp, was easy and graceful: Her Cowl had fallen backwarder than usual: Two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and melting, and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand Cupids. Her Habit's long sleeve would have swept along the Chords of the Instrument: To prevent this inconvenience She had drawn it above her elbow, and by this means an arm was discovered formed in the most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin might have contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to look on her but once: That glance sufficed to convince him, how dangerous was the presence of this seducing Object. He closed his eyes, but strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts. There She still moved before him, adorned with all those charms which his heated imagination could supply: Every beauty which He had seen, appeared embellished, and those still concealed Fancy represented to him in glowing colours. Still, however, his vows and the necessity of keeping to them were present to his memory. He struggled with desire, and shuddered when He beheld how deep was the precipice before him.