The Moors of haughty Gelves have changed their gay attire. 
  The caftan and the braided cloak, the brooch of twisted wire,
  The gaudy robes, the mantles of texture rich and rare,
  The fluttering veils and tunic bright the Moors no longer wear. 
  And wearied is their valorous strength, their sinewy arms hang down;
  No longer in their lady’s sight they struggle for the crown. 
  Whether their loves are absent or glowing in their eyes,
  They think no more of jealous feud nor smile nor favor prize;
  For love himself seems dead to-day amid that gallant train
  And the dirge beside the bier is heard and each one joins the strain,
  And silently they stand in line arrayed in mourning black
  For the dismal pall of Portugal is hung on every back. 
  And their faces turned toward the bier where Abenamar lies,
  The men his kinsmen silent stand, amid the ladies’ cries
  And thousand thousands ask and look upon the Moorish knight,
  By his coat of steel they weeping kneel, then turn them from the sight. 
  And some proclaim his deeds of fame, his spirit high and brave,
  And the courage of adventure that had brought him to the grave. 
  Some say that his heroic soul pined with a jealous smart,
  That disappointment and neglect had broke that mighty heart;
  That all his ancient hopes gave way beneath the cloud of grief,
  Until his green and youthful years were withered like a leaf;
  And he is wept by those he loved, by every faithful friend,
  And those who slandered him in life speak evil to the end. 
  They found within his chamber where his arms of battle hung
  A parting message written all in the Moorish tongue: 
  “Dear friends of mine, if ever in Gelves I should die,
  I would not that in foreign soil my buried ashes lie. 
  But carry me, and dig my grave upon mine own estate,
  And raise no monument to me my life to celebrate,
  For banishment is not more dire where evil men abound,
  Than where home smiles upon you, but the good are never found.”

BALLAD OF ALBAYALDOS

  Three mortal wounds, three currents red,
    The Christian spear
  Has oped in head and thigh and head—­
    Brave Albayaldos feels that death is near.

  The master’s hand had dealt the blow,
    And long had been
  And hard the fight; now in his heart’s blood low
    He wallows, and the pain, the pain is keen.

  He raised to heaven his streaming face
    And low he said: 
  “Sweet Jesus, grant me by thy grace,
    Unharmed to make this passage to the dead.

  “Oh, let me now my sins recount,
    And grant at last
  Into thy presence I may mount,
    And thou, dear mother, think not of my past.

  “Let not the fiend with fears affright
    My trembling soul;
  Though bitter, bitter is the night
    Whose darkling clouds this moment round me roll.