’Twas not to the husband’s jealous Feelings, but to his low envy That as victim fell Fredrego, Chief of Calatrava’s order. For the crime Don Pedro never Would forgive him, was his glory,-- Glory such as Donna Fama Loves with trumpet-tongue to herald-- Never could Don Pedro pardon His magnanimous high spirit, Or the beauty of his person, Which was but his spirit’s image. Still within my memory blossoms That slim graceful hero-flower; Ne’er shall I forget those lovely Dream-like, soft and youthful features. They were just of that description That the fairies take delight in, And a fable-seeming secret Spoke from all those features plainly. Blue his eyes were, their enamel Being dazzling as a jewel, But a jewel’s staring hardness Seem’d reflected in them likewise. Black his hair was in its colour, Bluish black, and strangely glistening, And in fair luxuriant tresses Falling down upon his shoulders. In the charming town of Coimbra Which he from the Moors had taken, For the last time I beheld him, In this world,--unhappy prince! He was coming from Alcanzor, Through the narrow streets fast riding Many a fair young Moorish maiden Eyed him from her latticed window. O’er his head his helm-plume floated Gallantly, and yet his mantle’s Rigid Calatrava cross Scared away all loving fancies. By his side, and gaily wagging With his tail, his favourite Allan Sprang,--a beast of proud descent, And whose home was the Sierra. He, despite his size gigantic, Was as nimble as a reindeer; Noble was his head to look at, Though the fox’s it resembled. Snow-white and like silk in softness, Down his back his long hair floated, And with rubies bright incrusted Was his broad and golden collar. It was said this collar hid the Talisman fidelity; Never did the faithful creature Leave the side of his dear master. O that fierce fidelity! It excites my startled feelings, When I think how ’twas made public Here, before our frighten’d presence. O that day so full of horror! Here, within this hall, it happen’d, And as I to-day am sitting, At the monarch’s table sat I. At the high end of the table, Where to-day young Don Henrico Gaily tipples with the flower Of Castilian chivalry, On that day there sat Don Pedro Darkly silent, and beside him, Proudly radiant as a goddess, Sat Maria de Padilla. At the table’s lower end, where Here to-day we see the lady With the linen frill capacious, Like a white plate in appearance. Whilst her yellow face is gilded With a smile of sour complexion, Like the citron that is lying On the plate already mention’d,--