The bugle blast upon the air with clarion tone is heard,
The burghers on the city wall reply with scoffing word;
And like the noise of thunder the clattering squadrons haste,
And on his charger fleet he leads his army o'er the waste.
In front of his attendants his march the hero made,
He tarried not for retinue or clattering cavalcade,
And they who blamed the rash assault with weak and coward minds
Deserted him their leader bold or loitered far behind.
And now he stands beneath the wall and sees before him rise
The object of the great campaign, his valor's priceless prize;
He dreams one moment that he holds her subject to his arms,
He dreams that to Granada he flies from war's alarms,
Each battlement he fondly eyes, each bastion grim and tall,
And in fancy sees the crescents rise above the Christian wall.
But suddenly an archer has drawn his bow of might,
And suddenly the bolt descends in its unerring flight,
Straight to the heart of Reduan the fatal arrow flies,
The gallant hero struck to death upon the vega lies.
And as he lies, from his couch of blood, in melancholy tone,
Thus to the heavens the hero stout, though fainting, makes his moan,
And ere his lofty soul in death forth from its prison breaks,
Brave Reduan a last farewell of Lindaraja takes:
"Ah, greater were the glory had it been mine to die,
Not thus among the Christians and hear their joyful cry,
But in that happy city, reclining at thy feet,
Where thou with kind and tender hands hast wove my winding-sheet.
Pages:
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238