ut only that Guhala's charms
Had won the captive's heart.

"Guhala, Guhala,
My longing heart must cry;
This mournful vow I utter now--
To see thee or to die."

No longer free those sturdy limbs!
Revenge had bid them bind
The iron chain on hands and feet;
They could not chain his mind!
How dolorous was the warrior's lot!
All hope at last had fled;
And, standing at the window,
With sighing voice he said:

"Guhala, Guhala,
My longing heart must cry;
This mournful vow I utter now--
To see thee or to die."

He turned his eyes to where the banks
Of Guadalquivir lay;
"Inhuman King!" in grief he cried,
"Thy mandates I obey;
Thou bidst them load my limbs with steel;
Thy cruel sentinel
Keeps watch beside my prison door;
Yet who my crime can tell?

"Guhala, Guhala,
My longing heart must cry;
This mournful vow I utter now--
To see thee or to die."

THE DIRGE FOR ALIATAR

No azure-hued tahalia now
Flutters about each warrior's brow;
No crooked scimitars display
Their gilded scabbards to the day.
The Afric turbans, that of yore
Were fashioned on Morocco's shore,
To-day their tufted crown is bare;
There are no fluttering feathers there.
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 f