The Monk by Matthew Lewis Page A

hear the ballad which treats of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of Roncevalles?”
    “What you please, Matilda.”
    “Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your friend. Those are the names which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen.”
    She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect mistress of the instrument. The air which she played was soft and plaintive. Ambrosio, while he listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda changed the strain: with an hand bold and rapid, she struck a few loud martial chords, and then chanted the following ballad to an air at once simple and melodious:
D URANDARTE AND B ELERMA .
Sad and fearful is the story
Of the Roncevalles fight;
On those fatal plains of glory
Perished many a gallant knight.
There fell Durandarte: never
Verse a nobler chieftain named:
He, before his lips for ever
Clos’d in silence, thus exclaimed:
“Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear one,
For my pain and pleasure born,
Seven long years I serv’d thee, fair one,
Seven long years my fee was scorn.
“And when now thy heart, replying
To my wishes, burns like mine,
Cruel fate, my bliss denying,
Bids me every hope resign.
“Ah! though young I fall, believe me,
Death would never claim a sigh;
’Tis to lose thee, ’Tis to leave thee,
Makes me think it hard to die!
“Oh! my cousin Montesinos,
By that friendship firm and dear,
Which from youth has lived between us,
Now my last petition hear:
“When my soul, these limbs forsaking,
Eager seeks a purer air,
From my breast the cold heart taking,
Give it to Belerma’s care.
“Say, I of my lands possessor
Named her with my dying breath:
Say, my lips I op’d to bless her,
Ere they clos’d for aye in death:
“Twice a week, too, how sincerely
I ador’d her, cousin, say:
Twice a week, for one who dearly
Lov’d her, cousin, bid her pray.
“Montesinos, now the hour
Mark’d by fate is near at hand:
Lo! my arm has lost its power!
Lo! I drop my trusty brand.
“Eyes, which forth beheld me going,
Homewards ne’er shall see me hie:
Cousin, stop those tears o’erflowing,
Let me on thy bosom die.
“Thy kind hand my eye-lids closing,
Yet one favour I implore:
Pray thou for my soul’s reposing,
When my heart shall throb no more.
“So shall Jesus, still attending,
Gracious to a Christian’s vow,
Pleas’d accept my ghost ascending,
And a feat in heaven allow.”
Thus spoke gallant Durandarte;
Soon his brave heart broke in twain.
Greatly joy’d the Moorish party,
That the gallant knight was slain.
Bitter weeping, Montesinos
Took from him his helm and glaive;
Bitter weeping, Montesinos
Dug his gallant cousin’s grave.
To perform his promise made, he
Cut the heart from out the breast,
That Belerma, wretched lady!
Might receive the last bequest.
Sad was Montesinos’ heart, he
Felt distress his bosom rend.
“Oh! my cousin Durandarte,
Woe is me to view thy end!
“Sweet in manners, fair in favour,
Mild in temper, fierce in fight,
Warrior nobler, gentler, braver,
Never shall behold the light.
“Cousin, lo! my tears bedew thee;
How shall I thy loss survive?
Durandarte, he who slew thee,
Wherefore left he me alive?”
    While she sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: never had he heard a voice more harmonious; and he wondered how such heavenly sounds could be produced by any but angels. But though he indulged the sense of hearing, a single look convinced him, that he must not trust to that of sight. The songstress sat at a little distance from his bed. The attitude in which she bent over her harp was easy and graceful: her cowl had fallen backwarder than usual: two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and melting, and a chin, in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand Cupids. Her habit’s long sleeve would have swept along the chords of the instrument: to prevent