Near him, fighting, great Alonso
Stout resists the Paynim bands;
From his slaughtered steed dismounted
Firm entrenched behind him stands.

Furious press the hostile squadrons
Furious he repels their rage;
Loss of blood at length enfeebles;
Who can war with thousands wage?

Where yon rock the plain o'shadows
Close behind its foot retired,
Fainting sank the bleeding hero,

And without a groan expired.

(Thomas Percy)

ABENAMAR, ABENAMAR

O THOU Moor of Morería,

There were mighty signs and aspects
On the day when thou wert born,
Calm and lovely was the ocean,
Bright and full the moon above.
Moor, the child of such an aspect
Never ought to answer falsely.
Then replied the Moorish captive,
(You shall hear the Moor's reply):

Nor will I untruly answer,
Though I died for saying truth.
I am son of Moorish sire.

My mother was a Christian slave.
In my childhood, in my boyhood,
Often would my mother bid me
Never know the liar's shame.

Ask thou, therefore, King, thy question.
Truly will I answer thee.

Thank thee, thank thee, Abenamar,
For thy gentle answer, thanks.
What are yonder lofty castles,
Those that shine so bright on high?

That, O King, is the Alhambra,
Yonder is the Mosque of God.
There you see the Alixares,

Works of skill and wonder they;

Ten times ten doubloons the builder

Daily for his hire received;

If an idle day he wasted

Ten times ten doubloons he paid.
Farther is the Generalife,

Peerless are its garden groves.

Those are the Vermilion Towers,
Far and wide their fame is known.

Then spake up the King Don Juan
(You shall hear the Monarch's speech):
Wouldst thou marry me Granada,
Gladly would I for thy dowry
Cordoba and Seville give.

I am married, King Don Juan.
King, I am not yet a widow.
Well I love my noble husband.
Well my wedded Lord loves me.

(Robert Southey)

THE SONG OF THE GALLEY

YE mariners of Spain,

Bend strongly on your oars,
And bring my love again,-

For he lies among the Moors!

The wind is blowing strong,-
The breeze will aid your oars;
O, swiftly fly along,-

For he lies among the Moors!

Lift up, lift up your sail,

And bend upon your oars;
O, lose not the fair gale,—
For he lies among the Moors!

It is a narrow strait,

I see the blue hills over;

Your coming I'll await,

And thank you for my lover.

To Mary I will pray,

While ye bend upon your oars;

"Twill be a blessed day,

If ye fetch him from the Moors!

(John Gibson Lockhart)

THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN

Ar the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred, At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard;

There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow,

And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of

woe!

"What tower is fallen? what star is set; what chief come these bewailing?"

"A tower is fallen! a star is set!-Alas! alas for Celin!"

Three times they knock, three times they cry,-and wide the doors they throw;

Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go;

In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch,

Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch;

Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,

For all have heard the misery,-"Alas! alas for Celin!"

Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerrage's blood,— 'Twas at the solemn jousting,-around the nobles stood;

The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair

Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share:

But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing,

For he was Granada's darling knight,—“Alas! alas for Celin!"

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two,

With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view; Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale;

When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing,

And all the people, far and near, cry,-"Alas! alas for Celin!"

O, lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all!

His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale,

The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail;

And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing,

Its sound is like no earthly sound,-"Alas! alas for Celin!"

The Moorish maid at the lattice Stands, the Moor stands at his door;

One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping

sore;

Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew

Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and

blue;

Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing,

From door and lattice, high and low,-"Alas! alas for Celin!"

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry,

Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye; 'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed

him long ago:

She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know!

With one deep shriek, she through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing,

"Let me kiss my Celin, ere I die!-Alas! alas for

Celin!"

(John Gibson Lockhart)