# Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems/Bernardo Del Carpio

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.
The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned by King Alfonso of Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo's birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men of the land gathered round the King, and united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession of his father’s person, in exchange for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his stronghold, with all his captives; and being assured that his father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the King to meet him. "And when he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed," says the ancient chronicle, "'Oh, God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming?'—'Look where he is,' replied the cruel King, 'and now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to see.'" The remainder of the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to Bernardo's history after this event.
The warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprison'd sire;
"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—oh, break my father's chain!"
"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransom'd man this day; Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way." Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.
And lo! from far, as on they press'd, there came a glittering band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land;
"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd so long to see."
His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came and went; He reach'd that grey-hair'd chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,— What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?
That hand was cold—a frozen thing—it dropp'd from his like lead,— He look'd up to the face above—the face was of the dead!
A plume waved o'er the noble brow—the brow was fix'd and white;— He met at last his father's eyes—but in them was no sight!
Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? They hush'd their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze; They might have chain'd him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.
"Father!" at length he murmur'd low—and wept like childhood then,— Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!—
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown,— He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate down.
Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow, "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now.— My king is false, my hope betray'd, my Father—oh! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are pass'd away from earth!
"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet, 1 would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met,—
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then,—for thee my fields were won,— And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"
Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier train; And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the dead!—
"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?— Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this!
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they?— If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!
"Into these glassy eyes put light,—be still! keep down thine ire,— Bid these white lips a blessing speak—this earth is not my sire! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,— Thou canst not—and a king?—His dust be mountains on thy head!"
He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell,—upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look,—then turn'd from that sad place:
His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in martial strain,— His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain