Legend the First.

Through Gormaz, Saint Stephen's city,
Shrilly rings the trumpet's peal;
There his camp holds brave Fernando,
Gallant Count of fair Castile.

Soon the Moorish king, Almansor,
Leading swarthy hosts untold,
From Cordova's towers advancing
Hastes to storm the Christian hold.

Now full-armed, for battle mounted,
Shines Castile's array afar;
Slowly rides the brave Fernando,
Searching through the files of war.

" Pascal Vivas! Pascal Vivas!
Pride of Spanish chivalry!
All our knights are armed and mounted,
Still the battle waits for thee.

Thou, once first to mount thy charger,
Once in battle foremost found,
Hear'st thou not to-day my summons,
Nor the trumpet's warlike sound?

Failest thou the Christian army
Needing now thine utmost aid?
Shall thy wreath of glory wither?
Shall thy fame's bright lustre fade? "

Pascal Vivas hears no summons: —
Through a wood his path he wound
Tow'rds a smooth and grassy hillock
By Saint George's chapel crowned.

At the portal stands his charger,
Spear and steel cuirass lie there,
Whilst before the holy altar
Kneels the knight in fervent prayer.

Whilst he kneels in deep devotion,
Vainly warning trumpets blow,
Like the moans of distant tempest
Through the woodlands sounding low.

Loudly neighs his steed unheeded,
All unheard, his armour rings,
As Saint George, the Christian bulwark,
Prompt to hear his prayer, upsprings.

He, from clouds of heaven descending,
Dons the champion's armour bright,
Lightly mounts the champion's charger,
Flies to join the tide of fight.

None but he can charge so fiercely,
Heav'n-sprung thunderbolt of war!
See! he grasps Almansor's standard,
Scattering routed Moors afar.

Pascal Vivas now hath ended
At the sacred shrine his prayer;
Issues from Saint George's chapel,
Finds his steed and armour there.

Tow'rds the camp he rideth thoughtful,
Wond'ring as he nears the throng
Why the trumpets sound to greet him,
Mixed with bursts of festal song.

" Pascal Vivas! Pascal Vivas!
Pride of Spanish chivalry!
Thou hast ta'en Almansor's standard,
Thine the praise, great victor, be!

See! how stained with blood thy weapons,
Hacked with fiercest thrusts and blows;
Wounded is the steed that bore thee
Bravely through the thickest foes! "

Scarce the knight restrains their triumph,
Checks their praise, too freely given;
And, his head in meekness bending,
Mutely upward points to heaven!

Legend the Second.

In the garden's shade, at even,
Whilst the Countess Julia strayed,
Fatiman, Almansor's nephew,
Seized by stealth the beauteous maid.

With his charming prize he hastens
Through the woods by night and day;
With him ride ten Moorish horsemen,
Knights full-armed in rich array.

When the third chill morn was dawning,
In the woods that space they found
Where the verdant hillock rises
By Saint George's chapel crowned.

E'en from far the Countess fixes
On the sculptured stone her gaze,
Which, above the chapel's portal,
Great Saint George's form displays.

Through the dragon's throat the hero
Drives the lance with furious shock,
While, fast bound, the king's fair daughter
Watches from the lonely rock.

Clasping tight her hands, the Countess
Weeping, shrieks in wild affright:
" Help, Saint George, thou warrior holy,
Save me from the dragon's might! "

See! who spurs his snow-white charger,
Leaves the shrine, in haste to save!
In the winds his locks are streaming,
See his scarlet mantle wave!

Sternly is his spear uplifted,
Struck to earth the robber lies;
Like the wounded, writhing dragon,
Pierced he struggles, writhes, and dies!

Whilst the ten false Moorish horsemen
Raise in fear a piercing wail;
Shield and spear in haste abandoned,
Fast they flee o'er hill and dale.

On her knees the ransomed Countess
Sinks, nor dares her eyes to raise;
" Great Saint George, thou warrior holy,
Thrice renowned — receive my praise. "

When her eyes once more she raises,
There the saint no longer stands;
Hence 'twas said that Pascal Vivas
Saved her from the robber's hands.