From the French of Victor Hugo

by Kingston

My sire, strong hero with a saint-like smile,

Attended by a warrior whom he loved

Both for his prowess, and his god-like form,

On horseback rode when evening closed a fight.

The field was covered with the stricken dead.

Sudden he thought he heard a feeble sound.

It was a Spaniard of the conquered foe,

Who in the shadows trailed his bleeding form,

Battered and bruised, and only half alive,

He cried: "Give water, for the love of Heaven!"

Straightway my father to the warrior gave

His spirit-bottle from his saddle-bow,

And said: "Go, give that poor worn sufferer drink."

But at that moment that his follower stooped

To do his bidding, this same demi-Moor

Upraised a pistol which he feebly clutched,

Fired at my father's head and cried: "My curse."

So close the bullet sped, his very hat

Fell off, his charger plunged, and backward reared.

"No matter, give him drink," my father said.