Classic Poem

On St. Hubert's day—the year was
Thirteen hundred, three and eighty—
We were bidden to a banquet
At Segovia by the King.

Royal banquets never vary;
At the festive board of princes
Sovereign dulness, undisputed,
Yawns presiding at the table;

Gorgeous vessels, gold and silver,
Dainties brought from every region,
Leaden-flavoured as the dishes
From the kitchen of Locusta.

'Tis the same silk rabble always,
Gaily decked, politely bowing,
Like a flaunting bed of poppies;
Nothing changes but the sauces.

And the buzz and murmur round one
Soothe the senses like the poppy,
Till the trumpets blow, and waken
From the masticating stupor.

By good luck I had beside me
Don Diego Albuquerque,
From whose clever lips unwearied
Flowed delightful conversation.

Quite entrancingly he told me
Many bloody tales and scandals
Of the days of that Don Pedro
Who was called the cruel king.

When I asked him why Don Pedro
Caused his brother Don Fredrego
To be secretly beheaded,
With a sigh my neighbour answered,

“Señor, never trust the truth of
What the muleteers and rhymesters
On their slack guitars keep strumming
In the pot-house and posada.

“Never trust the stuff they drivel
Of the love of Don Rodrego
For Don Pedro's fair young consort,
She of Bourbon, Donna Blanca.

“Twas not marital suspicion,
It was envy pure and simple
Doomed unhappy Don Rodrego,
Chief of Calatrava's order.

“Yes, the crime Don Pedro's envy
Could not pardon in his brother
Was the glory Donna Fama
Loved to trumpet to the world;

“And beyond forgiveness, also,
His nobility of nature,
And the beauty of his body,
Fit expression of his soul.

“In my memory still blooming
Lives that slender knight and peerless;
Unforgettable the dreamy
Youthful fairness of his face is.

“He was just the sort of stripling
That the fairies fall in love with,
And a subtle secret magic
Peeped and spoke from all his features;

“Eyes of blue, whose bright enamel
Was as dazzling as a jewel,
Like a jewel's, too, their hardness
And their steadiness and courage;

“Black his hair—a bluey blackness
Of a rare and wondrous lustre—
That luxuriantly curled,
Falling down upon his shoulders.

“Ah, the last time that I saw him
Still alive was in Coimbra,
Fair Coimbra, when he won it
From the Moors—unhappy Prince!

“He was coming from Alcanzar,
Through the narrow street was riding;
Many a Moorish maid was peeping
From behind her latticed window.

“Free his gallant plume was waving,
But the cross of Calatrava,
Sternly wrought upon his mantle,
Hindered light and tender longings.

“And the dog he loved, his Allan,
Leapt and wagged his tail beside him;
Of a gallant stock the beast came,
Mountain-bred in the Sierras;

“And, for all his size gigantic,
He was nimble as a deer,
His sagacious head was noble
Although somewhat like a fox's.

“White as snow, and soft and silken
Hung his wavy hair about him,
And with rubies rich encrusted
Was his broad and golden collar.

“And they said that hid beneath it
Was the talisman of truth;
He was never known to wander
From his master for a moment.

“O fidelity appalling!
Still I tremble and I shudder
When I think how he displayed it
In the hall before our eyes here.

“Ah, that day of woe and horror!
In this very hall it happened!
I was sitting as at present,
To the royal table bidden.

“At the far end of the table
Where to-day sits Don Henrico
Drinking gaily with the flower
Of the knighthood of Castile,

“Sat that day Don Pedro, gloomy,
Silent, sullen, and beside him,
Proud and radiant as a goddess,
Sat Maria de Padilla.

“At the other end, the lower,
Where you see that lady seated
Whose enormous frill of linen
Looks so like a great white platter,

“While her shrunken face and yellow,
With its sneering smile and bitter,
Might be taken for the lemon
That might lie on such a platter—

“Down below here, at the table,
We observed a place was empty,
And the golden chair seemed waiting
For a guest of royal rank.

“Don Rodrego was the guest
That the golden chair was meant for;
But he came not. Ah, we know now
Well the reason why he lingered.

“Yes, the deed of blood and darkness
Was that very hour accomplished,
And the young and guileless hero
Was by treachery surprised;

“By the minions of Don Pedro
Was attacked and overpowered,
Bound, and dragged towards a dungeon
Of the castle, lit by torches,

“Where the headsman's grim attendants
And the man in red stood waiting.
On his axe the latter leaning,
With a heavy heart said sadly,

“‘Make thy peace with heaven straightway,
O Grand Master of San Jago;
Fifteen minutes are allowed thee
For the saying of thy prayers.’

“On his knees fell Don Rodrego,
Prayed with pious calm, unflinching;
Said serenely, ‘I have finished,’
And received the stroke of death.

“At that moment when, dissevered,
To the ground the head was falling,
Faithful Allan sprang and caught it,
Who unseen had slunk among them.

“With his teeth he gripped it tightly
By the dark and flowing tresses,
And, his precious booty bearing,
He was gone as if by magic.

“Screams of terror rang and echoed
All along the route he traversed.
Through the passages and chambers,
Up and down the stairs he speeded.

“Since the feast of King Belshazzar
Never company at table
Was so stricken and confounded
As was ours here at the banquet,

“When the monstrous creature entered
With the head of Don Rodrego,
From his teeth the burden hanging
By the dripping hair and bloody.

“On the chair that still was empty,
And that waited for his master,
Sprang the dog, and held the head out
To us all, like an accuser.

“Ah, how well we recognised it!
Knew the noble face, though paler
It appeared in death, and sterner
Than before, and grimly circled.

“By its wealth of raven tresses
That seemed writhing like the serpents
In the head of the Medusa
That could petrify the gazer.

“Yes, the sight to stone had turned us,
And we stared at one another;
Lamed was every tongue with horror,
And by etiquette held dumb.

“But Maria de Padilla
Broke the universal silence,
Wrung her hands and, loudly sobbing,
Wailed with bitter, wild foreboding.

“‘They will say this bloody murder
Was a crime of my contriving,
And will wreak, alas! their vengeance
On my innocent young children!’”

Don Diego's painful story
At this point was interrupted,
For we saw the guests were rising
And were moving from the chamber.

But the knight with courtly kindness
Was so good as to escort me
Through the ancient Gothic castle,
And we strolled about together.

In the archway leading outward
From the castle to the kennels,
Which proclaim afar their presence
By the sound of yelp and snarl,

I observed that there was sunken
In the wall a sort of hollow,
Like a cage, and barred securely
In the front with iron grating.

And within were human beings:
Boys, a couple of them, sitting
With their legs in iron fetters;
On the filthy straw they squatted.

Barely twelve I judged the younger;
Little older was the other;
Fair and noble were their faces,
Though with sickness wan and withered.

They were ragged, almost naked;
On their poor lean wounded bodies
There were signs of cruel usage;
Both were shivering with fever.

When they gazed on me, who stood there,
From their wretchedness abysmal,
With their eyes so white and ghostly,
I was overcome with horror.

“Who are these—woe's awful image?”
I exclaimed, and, startled, seized on
Don Diego's hand that trembled,
Even as mine did, when I touched it.

Don Diego seemed embarrassed,
Looked to see that no one listened,
Deeply sighed, and answered, feigning
Still a light and worldly manner,

“These are children early orphaned,
Royal princes who for father
Had Don Pedro, and whose mother
Was Maria de Padilla.

“When Henrico Transtamara
On the fateful field of Narvas
Freed his brother, poor Don Pedro,
From the burden of his crown,

“And that other burden also
Which we groan beneath, called life,
On his brother's children even
He bestowed his conquering bounty.

“As was seemly in an uncle
He adopted them and reared them,
And gratuitously gave them
Food and lodging in his castle.

“Though the room he has assigned them
Is perhaps a little narrow,
In the summer it is coolish,
And in winter might be colder.

“For their food he gives them rye bread
Which is quite as appetizing
As if Ceres' self had baked it
For her daughter Proserpine.

“And he sometimes even sends them
Quite a bowlful of garbanzos,
From which fact the youngsters gather
That the day in Spain is Sunday.

“But not every day is Sunday,
And garbanzos come not always,
And at times the master huntsman
With his whip regales them freely;

“For it happens that this huntsman
In whose charge the royal hounds are,
And the cage which Don Henrico
Has allotted to his nephews,

“Is the most unhappy husband
Of that woman like a lemon,
With the ruffle like a platter,
Whom I pointed out at table;

“And so shrewishly she scolds him,
That, his whip in fury seizing,
To the kennels here he hastens,
And both dogs and boys chastises.

“But the king has shown displeasure
At such conduct, and commanded
That his nephews shall no longer
Like the dogs receive correction;

“To a hireling's fist no longer
Shall their punishment be trusted;
He himself will in the future
With his royal hands bestow it.”

Don Diego stopped abruptly,
For the Seneschal approached us,
And inquired of us politely:
Had we both enjoyed our dinner?