The Lamentation of Don Roderick

The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scatter'd in dismay,
When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor hope had they;—
He, when he saw that field was lost, and all his hope was flown,
He turn'd him from his flying host, and took his way alone.

His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame—he could no farther go;
Dismounted, without path or aim, the King stepp'd to and fro;
It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick,
For, sore athirst and hungry, he stagger'd faint and sick.

All stain'd and strew'd with dust and blood, like to some smouldering brand
Pluck'd from the flame Rodrigo shew'd:—his sword was in his hand,
But it was hack'd into a saw of dark and purple tint;
His jewell'd mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint.

He climb'd unto a hill top, the highest he could see,
Thence all about of that wide route his last long look took he;
He saw his royal banners, where they lay drench'd and torn,
He heard the cry of victory, the Arab's shout of scorn.

He look'd for the brave captains that had led the hosts of Spain,
But all were fled except the dead, and who could count the slain!
Where'er his eye could wander, all bloody was the plain,
And while thus he said, the tears he shed run down his cheeks like rain:—

"Last night I was the King of Spain—to-day no king am I;
Last night fair castles held my train, to-night where shall I lie?
Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee
To-night not one I call mine own:—not one pertains to me.

"O luckless, luckless was the hour, and cursed was the day,
When I was born to have the power of this great signiory!
Unhappy me, that I should see the sun go down to-night!
O Death, why now so slow art thou, why fearest thou to smite?"—