THE RENEGADE

  Through the mountains of Moncayo,
    Lo! all in arms arrayed,
  Rides pagan Bobalias,
    Bobalias the renegade.

  Seven times he was a Moor, seven times
    To Christ he trembling turned;
  At the eighth, the devil cozened him
    And the Christian cross he spurned,
  And took back the faith of Mahomet,
    In childhood he had learned.

  He was the mightiest of the Moors,
    And letters from afar
  Had told him how Sevila
    Was marshalling for war.

  He arms his ships and galleys,
    His infantry and horse,
  And straight to Guadalquivir’s flood
    His pennons take their course.

  The flags that on Tablada’s plain
    Above his camp unfold,
  Flutter above three hundred tents
    Of silk brocade and gold.

  In the middle, the pavilion
    Of the pagan they prepare;
  On the summit a ruby stone is set,
    A jewel rich and rare.

  It gleams at morn, and when the night
    Mantles the world at length,
  It pours a ray like the light of day,
    When the sun is at its strength.

THE TOWER OF GOLD

  Brave Arbolan a prisoner lay
    Within the Tower of Gold;
  By order of the King there stood
    Four guards to keep the hold. 
  ’Twas not because against his King
    He played a treacherous part;
  But only that Guhala’s charms
    Had won the captive’s heart.

      “Guhala, Guhala,
    My longing heart must cry;
      This mournful vow I utter now—­
    To see thee or to die.”

  No longer free those sturdy limbs! 
    Revenge had bid them bind
  The iron chain on hands and feet;
    They could not chain his mind! 
  How dolorous was the warrior’s lot! 
    All hope at last had fled;
  And, standing at the window,
    With sighing voice he said: 

      “Guhala, Guhala,
    My longing heart must cry;
      This mournful vow I utter now—­
    To see thee or to die.”

  He turned his eyes to where the banks
    Of Guadalquivir lay;
  “Inhuman King!” in grief he cried,
    “Thy mandates I obey;
  Thou bidst them load my limbs with steel;
    Thy cruel sentinel
  Keeps watch beside my prison door;
    Yet who my crime can tell?

      “Guhala, Guhala,
    My longing heart must cry;
      This mournful vow I utter now—­
  To see thee or to die.”

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.