Four horsemen good, of the Zegri blood, with Lisaro go out;
No flashing spear may tell them near, but yet their shafts are stout;
In darkness and in swiftness rides every armed knight--
The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white.
Young Lisaro, as on they go, his bonnet doffeth he,
Between its folds a sprig it holds of a dark and glossy tree;
That sprig of bay, were it away, right heavy heart had he--
Fair Zayda to her Zegri gave that token privily.
And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady's boon.
"God knows," quoth he, "what fate may be--I may be slaughtered soon;
Thou still art mine, though scarce the sign of hope that bloomed whilere,
But in my grave I yet shall have my Zayda's token dear."
Young Lisaro was musing so, when onward on the path,
He well could see them riding slow; then pricked he in his wrath.
The raging sire, the kinsmen of Zayda's hateful house,
Fought well that day, yet in the fray the Zegri won his spouse.
THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA
[The following ballad has been often imitated by modern poets, both in
Spain and in Germany:
"_Pon te a las rejas azules, dexa la manga que labras,
Melancholica Xarifa, veras al galan Andalla.
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