King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound,
  He hath summonded all the Moorish lords, from the hills and plains
                around;
  From vega and sierra, from Betis and Xenil,
  They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel.

  Tis the holy Baptist’s feast they hold in royalty and state,
  And they have closed the spacious lists beside the Alhambra’s gate;
  In gowns of black and silver laced, within the tented ring,
  Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in presence of the King.

  Eight Moorish lords of valor tried, with stalwart arm and true,
  The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through;
  The deeds they’ve done, the spoils they’ve won, fill all with hope and
                trust,
  Yet ere high in heaven appears the sun they all have bit the dust.

  Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour,
  Make room, make room for Gazul—­throw wide, throw wide the door;
  Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly strike the drum,
  The Alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth come.

  And first before the King he passed, with reverence stooping low,
  And next he bowed him to the Queen, and the Infantas all a-row;
  Then to his lady’s grace he turned, and she to him did throw
  A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow.

  With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the sand,
  Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta’en his stand;
  And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye,
  But firmly he extends his arm—­his look is calm and high.

  Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on,
  He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rejon;
  Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow
  He blindly totters and gives back, across the sand to go.

  “Turn, Gazul, turn,” the people cry—­the third comes up behind,
  Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind;
  The mountaineers that lead the steers, without stand whispering low,
  “Now thinks this proud alcayde to stun Harpado so?”

  From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil,
  From Gaudalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill;
  But where from out the forest burst Xarama’s waters clear,
  Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud and stately steer.

  Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil,
  And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil. 
  His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow;
  But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe.

  Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near,
  From out the broad and wrinkled skull, like daggers they appear;
  His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted tree,
  Whereon the monster’s shaggy mane, like billows curled, ye see.