"Then lay aside the silken robes, the glittering brocade; Be all in vest of leather and twisted steel arrayed; On each left arm be hung the shield, safe guardian of the breast, And take the crooked scimitar and put the lance in rest, And face the fortune of the day, for it is vain to fly, And the coward and the braggart now alone are doomed to die. And let each manly bosom show, in the impending fray, A valor such as Mars himself in fury might display. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. He spoke, and at his valiant words, that rang through all the square, The veriest cowards of the town resolved to do and dare; And stirred by honor's eager fire forth from the gate they stream, And plumes are waving in the air, and spears and falchions gleam; And turbaned heads and faces fierce, and smiles in anger quenched, And sweating steeds and flashing spurs and hands in fury clenched, Follow the fluttering banners that toward the vega swarm, And many a voice re-echoes the words of wild alarm. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. And, like the timid lambs that crowd with bleatings in the fold, When they advancing to their throats the furious wolf behold, The lovely Moorish maidens, with wet but flashing eyes, Are crowded in a public square and fill the air with cries; And tho', like tender women, 'tis vain for them to arm, Yet loudly they re-echo the words of the alarm. To heaven they cry for succor, and, while to heaven they pray, They call the knights they love so well to arm them for the fray. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. The foremost Moorish nobles, Molina's chosen band, Rush forward from the city the invaders to withstand. There marshalled in a squadron with shining arms they speed, Like knights and noble gentlemen, to meet their country's need. Twelve thousand Christians crowd the plain, twelve thousand warriors tried, They fire the homes, they reap the corn, upon the vega wide; And the warriors of Molina their furious lances ply, And in their own Arabian tongue they raise the rallying cry. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. THE LOVES OF BOABDIL AND VINDARAJA