;
His pale lips quiver, and his wandering eyes
Fly round like swallows in the midst of storm.
At last he cast his mantle off, and sprang
Into the midst. "Where is the story's end?
Sing me at once the end or give the lute.
Why stand'st thou trembling? Give the lute to me.
Fill up the goblets; I will sing the end
If thou dost fear to sing it.

"I know ye. Every song the Wajdelote sings
Portendeth woe, as howls of dogs at night.
Murders and burnings ye delight to sing,
Ye leave to us--glory and sorrowing.
Yet in the cradle doth your traitorous song
Circle the infant's breast in reptile form,
And cruellest poison sheds into the soul,
Foolish desire of praise and patriot love.
"She follows hard the footsteps of a youth
Like shade of slaughtered foe, sometimes reveals
Herself in midst of banquets, mixing blood
In cups of joy. I have heard the song--too well,
Alas! Tis done, 'tis done! I know thee, traitor!
Thou winnest! War! what triumph for a poet!
Give to me wine; now my designs are working.

"I know the song's end. No! I'll sing another.
When on the mountains of Castile I fought,
There the Moors taught me ballads. Old man! play
That melody, that childish melody,
Which in the valley,--'twas a blessed time;
Unto that music did I ever sing.
Return at once, old man, for by all gods,
German or Prussian----"

The old man must return.
He struck the lute, and with uncertain voice
Followed the savage tones of Konrad, as
A slave may walk behind his angry lord.

Meanwhile the lights went out upon the table.
The knights had slumbered at the lengthy banquet,
But Konrad sings, and they awake again.
They stand, and, in a narrow circle pressed,
Attentive marked the ballad's every word.

BALLAD.

ALPUJARA.

Ruined lie the Moorish cities,
Still the Moors upraise the sword;
In the country still resisting,
Reigns the pestilence as lord.

And the towers of Alpujara
Brave Almanzor still defends:
Floats below the Spaniard's banner,
Siege to-morrow he intends.

Roar the guns at sunrise loudly,
Ramparts break, and crumble walls;
From the towers the cross gleams proudly,--
Now the Spaniard owns these halls.

Sad Almanzor views his warriors
Slain in battle desperate;
Hews his way through swords and lances,
Flieth Spain's pursuing hate.

Now the Spaniards in the fortress,
'Mid the stones and corpses there,
Hold the feast and drain the