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Translated by J. G. Lockhart
AT the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred, | |
| At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard; | |
| There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, | |
| And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe!— | |
| “What tower is fallen? what star is set? what chief come these bewailing?” | 5 |
| “A tower is fallen! a star is set!—Alas! alas for Celin!” | |
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| Three times they knock, three times they cry,—and wide the doors they throw; | |
| Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; | |
| In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch, | |
| Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch; | 10 |
| Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,— | |
| For all have heard the misery,—“Alas! alas for Celin!” | |
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| Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerrage’s blood,— | |
| ’T was at the solemn jousting,—around the nobles stood; | |
| The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair | 15 |
| Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share: | |
| But now the nobles all lament,—the ladies are bewailing,— | |
| For he was Granada’s darling knight,—“Alas! alas for Celin!” | |
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| Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, | |
| With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view; | 20 |
| Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, | |
| Between the tambour’s dismal strokes take up their doleful tale; | |
| When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing, | |
| And all the people, far and near, cry,—“Alas! alas for Celin!” | |
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| O, lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, | 25 |
| The flower of all Granada’s youth, the loveliest of them all! | |
| His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale, | |
| The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail; | |
| And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing,— | |
| Its sound is like no earthly sound,—“Alas! alas for Celin!” | 30 |
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| The Moorish maid at the lattice stands,—the Moor stands at his door; | |
| One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore; | |
| Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew | |
| Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and blue; | |
| Before each gate the bier stands still,—then bursts the loud bewailing, | 35 |
| From door and lattice, high and low,—“Alas! alas for Celin!” | |
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| An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry,— | |
| Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye; | |
| ’T was she that nursed him at her breast,—that nursed him long ago: | |
| She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know! | 40 |
| With one deep shriek, she through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing,— | |
| “Let me kiss my Celin, ere I die!—Alas! alas for Celin!” | |
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