THE CID’S FUNERAL PROCESSION.
The Moor had beleaguer’d Valencia’s towers,
And lances gleam’d up through her citron bowers,
And the tents of the desert had girt her plain,
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain;
For the Cid was gone to rest.
There were men from wilds where the death-wind sweeps,
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps,
There were bows from sands where the ostrich runs,
For the shrill horn of Afric had call’d her sons