It seemed that heaven was quenched in night. 
  A page came riding up the street,
  Bringing the knight his jennets fleet,
  With plumes and harness all bedight
  And saddled well with housings bright;
  The lance which he on entering bore
  Brandished the knight with spirit sore,
    And dashed it to the wall,
  And head and butt, at that proud door,
    In myriad fragments fall. 
  He bade them change from green to gray;
    The plumes and harness borne that day
  By all the coursers of his train. 
    In rage disconsolate,
  He rode from Gelva, nor drew rein
    Up to Sanlucar’s gate.

VENGEANCE OF GAZUL

  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,