wine-cup,
And the spoils and captives share.

Soon the guard.without announces
That a stranger knight doth wait,
Craving for a swift admittance,
Bringing tidings of great weight

'Twas the vanquished Moor Almanzor.
Swift his mantle off was thrown;
To the Spaniards he surrenders,
And he craves for life alone.

"I am come, ye Christian warriors,
To submit me to your power;
I will serve the God of Christians,
Own your prophet from this hour,

"Let the blast of fame, world-filling,
Say, the Arab chief o'erthrown
Would be brother to his victors,
Vassal of a stranger's crown."

Well the Spaniard prizes valour.
So the great Almanzor knowing,
They embraced him, circled round him,
As their true companion showing.

Each one then Almanzor greeted,
And their captain close embraced:
Hung upon his neck, and kissed him;
Such true love their friendship graced.

All at once his strength grew feebler,
And he fell upon the ground;
But he drew the Spaniard with him,
To his feet the turban bound.

All with wonder looked upon him,
And his livid visage scan;
Horrid smiles deformed his features,
And with blood his eyes o'erran.

"Christian dogs," he cries, "look on me,
If you understand this thing;
I deceived you, from Granada
Come I, and the plague I bring.

"For my kiss breathed venom in ye,
And the plague shall lay you low;
Come and look upon my tortures--
Ye such death must undergo."

Wide he cast his eyes around him,
As he would eternally
Chain all Spaniards to his bosom;
And a horrid laugh laughed he.

Laughed, and died; his eyes yet open,
Open yet his lips remained:
In that hellish smile for ever
Those cold features still were strained.

Fled the Spaniards from the city.
But the plague their steps pursuing,
Ere they left doomed Alpujara,
Was that gallant host's undoing.

"Thus years ago the Moors avenged themselves;
Would you the vengeance of the Litwin know?
What if some day it issue forth in words,
And come to mingle poison in the wine?
But no! ah, no! to-day are other customs,
Prince Witold; for to-day the Litwin lords
Come to deliver us their native land,
And seek for vengeance on their harassed people.

"But yet, indeed, not all--oh! no, by Perun!
There are in Litwa yet--I'll sing yet to you!
Away from me that lute--a string is broken.
No song will be--but I do trust indeed
One time there will be. This day, o'er filled cups,--
I have drunk too much--rejoice you