sound. 
  The silver moon had shed its ray upon their targes round,
  The targes shot the message to the silent watch-towers by,
  And watch-towers sent their tidings by flames that lit the sky;
  And the fires had called the bells on high to ring their clear alarms—­
  That tocsin roused the lover locked in the lady’s arms. 
  Ah, sorely felt he in his heart the spur of honor prick,
  But love’s appeal that held him, it pierced him to the quick. 
  ’Twas cowardice to dally and shrink that foe to face,
  But, ah, it was ingratitude to leave her in that case. 
  And hanging round her lover’s neck, she saw that he turned pale,
  And seized his sword and cast one glance upon his coat of mail;
  And, with a burst of sighs and tears she bowed her beauteous head;
  “Oh, rise, my lord, gird on thy arms, and join the fray,” she said;
  “Oh, let my tears this couch bedew; this couch of joy shall be
  As dolorous as the dreary field of battle, without thee! 
  Arm, arm thyself and go to war!  Hark, hark! the foes approach. 
  Thy general waits; oh, let him not thy knightliness reproach! 
  Oh, direly will he visit thee for cowardice to-day,
  For dire the crime in any clime of soldiers who betray. 
  Well canst thou glide unnoticed to the camp, without thy sword;
  Wilt thou not heed my tears, my sighs—­begone without a word! 
  Thy bosom is not made of flesh, for, ah! thou canst not feel,
  Thou hast no need of arms in fight, for it is hard as steel.” 
  The Spaniard gazed upon her, his heart was full of pride;
  She held him fast and even her words retained him at her side. 
  “Lady,” he said, and kissed her, “spite of thy words unwise,
  Thou art as sweet as ever in thy lover’s faithful eyes. 
  And since to love and honor this night thou hast appealed,
  I take my arms and go, for right it is to thee I yield;
  I go into the battle and my body seeks the fight,
  But my soul behind me lingers in thy bosom of delight;
  Oh, grant me, Lord and Master, to seek the camp below,
  Oh, let me take the name to-night and I will cheerful go,
  Bearing the sword, the lance, and coat of mail against the foe!”

MOORISH ROMANCES

[Metrical Translation by J. Lockhart]

MOORISH ROMANCES

THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL

[Gazul is the name of one of the Moorish heroes who figure in the “Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada.”  The following ballad is one of very many in which the dexterity of the Moorish cavaliers in the bull-fight is described.  The reader will observe that the shape, activity, and resolution of the unhappy animal destined to furnish the amusement of the spectators, are enlarged upon, just as the qualities of a modern race-horse might be among ourselves:  nor is the bull without his name.  The day of the Baptist is a festival among the Mussulmans, as well as among Christians.]