The Dirge For Aliatar

No azure-hued tahalia now
Flutters about each warrior's brow;
No crooked scimitars display
Their gilded scabbards to the day.
The Afric turbans, that of yore
Were fashioned on Morocco's shore,
To-day their tufted crown is bare;
There are no fluttering feathers there.
In mourning garments all are clad,
Fit harness for the occasion sad;
But, four by four the mighty throng
In slow procession streams along.
Ah! Aliatar! well he knew
The soldiers of his army true,
The soldiers whose afflicted strain
Gives utterance to their bosom's pain.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

The phoenix that would shine in gold
On the high banner's fluttering fold,
Scarce can the breeze in gladness bring
To spread aloft its waving wing.
It seemed as if the fire of death
For the first time had quenched her breath.
For tribulation o'er the world
The mantle of despair had furled;
There was no breeze the ground to bless,
The plain lay panting in distress;
Beneath the trailing silken shroud
Alfarez carried through the crowd.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

For Aliatar, one sad morn,
Mounted his steed and blew his horn;
A hundred Moors behind him rode;
Fleeter than wind their coursers strode.
Toward Motril their course is made,
While foes the castle town blockade;
There Aliatar's brother lay,
Pent by the foes that fatal day.
Woe work the hour, the day, when he
Vaulted upon his saddle-tree!
Ne'er from that seat should he descend
To challenge foe or welcome friend,
Nor knew he that the hour was near,
His couch should be the funeral bier.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

That day the master's knights were sent,
As if on sport and jousting bent;
And Aliatar, on his way,
By cruel ambush they betray;
With sword and hauberk they surround
And smite the warrior to the ground.
And wounded deep from every vein
He bleeding lies upon the plain.
The furious foes in deadly fight
His scanty followers put to flight,
In panic-stricken fear they fly,
And leave him unavenged to die.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

Ah sadly swift the news has flown
To Zaida in the silent town;
Speechless she sat, while every thought
Fresh sorrow to her bosom brought;
Then flowed her tears in larger flood,
Than from his wounds the tide of blood.
Like dazzling pearls the tear-drops streak
The pallid beauty of her cheek.
Say, Love, and didst thou e'er behold
A maid more fair and knight more bold?
And if thou didst not see him die,
And Zaida's tears of agony,
The bandage on thine orbs draw tight--
That thou mayst never meet the sight!

Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

Not only Zaida's eyes are wet,
For him her soul shall ne'er forget;
But many a heart in equal share
The sorrow of that lady bare.
Yes, all who drink the water sweet
Where Genil's stream and Darro meet,
All of bold Albaicins's line,
Who mid Alhambra's princes shine--
The ladies mourn the warrior high,
Mirror of love and courtesy;
The brave lament him, as their peer;
The princes, as their comrade dear;
The poor deplore, with hearts that bleed,
Their shelter in the time of need.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.