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 foes the castle town blockade; There Aliatar's brother lay, Pent by the foes that fatal day. Woe work the hour, the day, when he Vaulted upon his saddle-tree! Ne'er from that seat should he descend To challenge foe or welcome friend, Nor knew he that the hour was near, His couch should be the funeral bier. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. That day the master's knights were sent, As if on sport and jousting bent; And Aliatar, on his way, By cruel ambush they betray; With sword and hauberk they surround And smite the warrior to the ground. And wounded deep from every vein He bleeding lies upon the plain. The furious foes in deadly fight His scanty followers put to flight, In panic-stricken fear they fly, And leave him unavenged to die. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. Ah sadly swift the news has flown To Zaida in the silent town; Speechless she sat, while every thought Fresh sorrow to her bosom brought; Then flowed her tears in larger flood, Than from his wounds the tide of blood. Like dazzling pearls the tear-drops streak The pallid beauty of her cheek. Say, Love, and didst thou e'er behold A maid more fair and knight more bold? And if thou didst not see him die, And Zaida's tears of agony, The bandage on thine orbs draw tight-- That thou mayst never meet the sight!