Say not my voice is magic-thy pleasure is to hear
The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.
Well, follow thou thy choice-to the battle-field away,
To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.
Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,
And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.
Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,
On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.
Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,
From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.
Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong.
These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine

own,

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.

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR.

FROM THE SPANISH.

'Tis not with gilded sabres

That gleam in baldricks blue,
Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,
Of gay and gaudy hue-

But, habited in mourning weeds,

Come marching from afar,

By four and four, the valiant men
Who fought with Aliatar.

All mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,

To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

The banner of the Phenix,

The flag that loved the sky,

That scarce the wind dared wanton with,
It flew so proud and high—
Now leaves its place in battle-field,
And sweeps the ground in grief,

The bearer drags its glorious folds

Behind the fallen chief,

As mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,

To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

Brave Aliatar led forward

A hundred Moors to go

To where his brother held Motril
Against the leaguering foe.

On horseback went the gallant Moor,

That gallant band to lead;

And now his bier is at the gate,

From whence he pricked his steed.

While mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,

To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

The knights of the Grand Master

In crowded ambush lay;

They rushed upon him where the reeds

Were thick beside the way;

They sinote the valiant Aliatar,

They smote the warrior dead,

And broken, but not beaten, were
The gallant ranks he led.

Now mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,

To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

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 didst thou see her tears :
Oh, no! he drew more tight

The blinding fillet o'er his lids.
spare his eyes the sight.

To

While mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

Nor Zayda weeps him only,

But all that dwell between

The great Alhambra's palace walls

And springs of Albaicin.

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.