In mourning garments all are clad,
  Fit harness for the occasion sad;
  But, four by four the mighty throng
  In slow procession streams along. 
  Ah!  Aliatar! well he knew
  The soldiers of his army true,
  The soldiers whose afflicted strain
  Gives utterance to their bosom’s pain.

  Sadly we march along the crowded street,
  While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

  The phoenix that would shine in gold
  On the high banner’s fluttering fold,
  Scarce can the breeze in gladness bring
  To spread aloft its waving wing. 
  It seemed as if the fire of death
  For the first time had quenched her breath. 
  For tribulation o’er the world
  The mantle of despair had furled;
  There was no breeze the ground to bless,
  The plain lay panting in distress;
  Beneath the trailing silken shroud
  Alfarez carried through the crowd.

  Sadly we march along the crowded street,
  While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

  For Aliatar, one sad morn,
  Mounted his steed and blew his horn;
  A hundred Moors behind him rode;
  Fleeter than wind their coursers strode. 
  Toward Motril their course is made,
  While foes the castle town blockade;
  There Aliatar’s brother lay,
  Pent by the foes that fatal day. 
  Woe work the hour, the day, when he
  Vaulted upon his saddle-tree! 
  Ne’er from that seat should he descend
  To challenge foe or welcome friend,
  Nor knew he that the hour was near,
  His couch should be the funeral bier.

  Sadly we march along the crowded street,
  While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

  That day the master’s knights were sent,
  As if on sport and jousting bent;
  And Aliatar, on his way,
  By cruel ambush they betray;
  With sword and hauberk they surround
  And smite the warrior to the ground. 
  And wounded deep from every vein
  He bleeding lies upon the plain. 
  The furious foes in deadly fight
  His scanty followers put to flight,
  In panic-stricken fear they fly,
  And leave him unavenged to die.

  Sadly we march along the crowded street,
  While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

  Ah sadly swift the news has flown
  To Zaida in the silent town;
  Speechless she sat, while every thought
  Fresh sorrow to her bosom brought;
  Then flowed her tears in larger flood,
  Than from his wounds the tide of blood. 
  Like dazzling pearls the tear-drops streak
  The pallid beauty of her cheek. 
  Say, Love, and didst thou e’er behold
  A maid more fair and knight more bold? 
  And if thou didst not see him die,
  And Zaida’s tears of agony,
  The bandage on thine orbs draw tight—­
  That thou mayst never meet the sight!

  Sadly we march along the crowded street,
  While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.