132 THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. As mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, Brave Aliatar led forward A hundred Moors to go And now his bier is at the gate, From whence he pricked his steed. While mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, The knights of the Grand Master They rushed upon him where the reeds Were thick beside the way; They smote him till he died, The afflicted warriors come, THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. 133 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: Nor Zayda weeps him only, 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. 12 THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA. (FROM THE SPANISH.) To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde, "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 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, Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground; Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dies. Shadowy, and close, and cool, The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook; Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook; Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. Thou, who alone art fair, Unless thy smile be there, It makes me sad to see the earth so gay; Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. |