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THE DEATH OF ALIATAR.

As mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

Brave Aliatar led forward

A hundred Moors to go
To where his brother held Motril
Against the leaguering foe.
On horseback went the gallant Moor,
That gallant band to lead;

And now his bier is at the gate,

From whence he pricked his steed. While mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,

To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

The knights of the Grand Master
In crowded ambush lay;

They rushed upon him where the reeds
Were thick beside the way;

They smote the valiant Aliatar,
They smote him till he died,
And broken, but not beaten, were
The brave ones by his side.
Now mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR.

Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow,

How passionate her cries!

Her lover's wounds streamed not more free
Than that poor maiden's eyes.

Say, Love-for thou didst see her tears:

Oh, no! he drew more tight The blinding fillet o'er his lids, To spare his eyes the sight. While mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

Nor Zayda weeps him only,

But all that dwell between
The great Alhambra's palace walls
And springs of Albaicin.

The ladies weep the flower of knights

The brave the bravest here;

The people weep a champion,

The Alcaydes a noble peer.

While mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

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To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,
The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.
The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,
With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.
He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vein,
And towards his lady's dwelling, he rode with slackened rein;
Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,
From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard.
"Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the
Moor,

"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.

Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,

That one in love with peace, should have loved a man of

blood!

Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight, But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight. Ah thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree. Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.

THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA.

135

Say not my voice is magic-thy pleasure is to hear
The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.
Well, follow thou thy choice-to the battle-field away,
To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.
Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,
And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.
Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,
On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.
Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,
From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguënza's rocks.
Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong.
These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more
thine own,

Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone."

She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry

cheek,

Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.

FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS.

'Tis sweet, in the green Spring,
To gaze upon the wakening fields around;
Birds in the thicket sing,

Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground;
A thousand odours rise,

Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dies.

Shadowy, and close, and cool,

The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook;
For ever fresh and full,

Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook;
And the soft herbage seems

Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams.

Thou, who alone art fair,
And whom alone I love, art far away.

Unless thy smile be there,

It makes me sad to see the earth so gay;
I care not if the train

Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again.

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