“He’ll say, I am a woman, and we are all the same; He’ll say, I loved, when he was here, to whisper of his flame, But, when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Músa, and cared not for his token. My ear-rings! my ear-rings! oh, luckless, luckless well! For what to say to Músa, alas! I cannot tell.
“I’ll tell the truth to Músa--and I hope he will believe, That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve: That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; And that my mind was o’er the sea, when from my hand they fell, And that deep his love lies near my heart, as they lie in the well!”
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 comes here bewailing?” “A tower is fallen, a star is set!--Alas! alas for Celin!” 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; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing, For all have heard the misery.--Alas! alas for Celin!
Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Ben-cerraji’s blood-- ’Twas at the solemn jousting--around the nobles stood; The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share; But now the nobles all lament--the ladies are bewailing-- He was Granada’s darling knight.--Alas! alas for Celin!
Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view; 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!”
Oh! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, 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!