C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Ballad of Guibour
By Frédéric Mistral (1830–1914)
A
By the swift Rhône water,
A hundred thousand on either side,
Christian and Saracen, fought till the tide
Ran red with the slaughter.
Of direful war!
The Count of Orange on that black morn
By seven great kings was overborne,
And fled afar
Of his nephew slain.
Now are the kings upon his trail;
He slays as he flies: like fiery hail
His sword-strokes rain.
No shelter there!
A Moorish hive is the home of the dead,
And hard he spurs his goodly steed
In his despair.
Flies Count Guillaume;
By sun and by moon he ever sees
The coming cloud of his enemies;
Thus gains his home,
A mighty cry,
Calling his haughty wife by name;
“Guibour, Guibour, my gentle dame,
Open! ’Tis I!
Ta’en is the city
By thirty thousand Saracen,
Lo, they are hunting me to my den:
Guibour, have pity!”
“Nay, chevalier,
I will not open my gates to thee;
For, save the women and babes,” said she,
“Whom I shelter here,
Alone am I.
My brave Guillaume and his barons all
Are fighting the Moor by the Aliscamp wall,
And scorn to fly!”
And those men of mine
(God rest their souls!) they are dead,” he cried,
“Or rowing with slaves on the salt sea-tide.
I have seen the shine
I have heard one shriek
Go up from all the arenas where
The nuns disfigure their bodies fair
Lest the Marran wreak
Will fall to-day!
Sweetheart, I faint; oh, let me in
Before the savage Mograbin
Fall on his prey!”
“Thou base deceiver!
Thou art perchance thyself a Moor
Who whinest thus outside my door;—
My Guillaume, never!
And fired by—thee!
Guillaume to see his comrades die,
Or borne to sore captivity,
And then to flee!
Where others fly!
The heathen spoiler’s doom is sure,
The virgin’s honor aye secure,
When he is by!”
Between his teeth,
While tears of love and tears of shame
Under his burning eyelids came,
And hard drew breath,
Right deep, and so
A storm, a demon, did descend
To roar and smite, to rout and rend
The Moorish foe.
The heathen slain
Upon the tender grass fall thick,
Until the flying remnant seek
Their ships again.
And when once more
He turned him homeward from the fight,
Upon the drawbridge long in sight
Stood brave Guibour.
My lord!” she cried;
And might no further welcome speak,
But loosed his helm, and kissed his cheek,
With tears of pride.