The Complaint of the Count of Saldenha

The Count Don Sancho Diaz, the Signior of Saldane,
Lies weeping in his prison, for he cannot refrain:—
King Alphonso and his sister, of both doth he complain,
But most of bold Bernardo, the champion of Spain.

"The weary years I durance brook, how many they have been,
When on these hoary hairs I look, may easily be seen;
When they brought me to this castle, my curls were black, I ween;
Wo worth the day! they have grown grey these rueful walls between.

"They tell me my Bernardo is the doughtiest lance in Spain,
But if he were my loyal heir, there's blood in every vein
Whereof the voice his heart would hear—his hand would not gainsay;—
Though the blood of kings be mix'd with mine, it would not have all the sway.

"Now all the three have scorn of me—unhappy man am I!
They leave me without pity—they leave me here to die.
A stranger's feud, albeit 'rude, were little dole or care,
But he's my own, both flesh and bone;—his scorn is ill to bear.

"From Jailer and from Castellain I hear of hardiment
And chivalry in listed plain on joust and tourney spent;—
I hear of many a battle, in which thy spear is red,
But help from thee comes none to me where I am ill bested.

"Some villain spot is in thy blood to mar its gentle strain,
Else would it shew forth hardihood for him from whom 'twas ta'en;
Thy hope is young, thy heart is strong, but yet a day may be,
When thou shalt weep in dungeon deep, and none thy weeping see."—