[LXXIV]
ALHAMA
The Moorish King rides up and down, Through Granada's royal town; From Elvira's gates to those Of Bivarambla on he goes. Woe is me, Alhama!
Letters to the monarch tell How Alhama's city fell: In the fire the scroll he threw, And the messenger he slew. Woe is me, Alhama!
He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his course; Through the street of Zacatin To the Alhambra spurring in. Woe is me, Alhama!
When the Alhambra walls he gained, On the moment he ordained That the trumpet straight should sound With the silver clarion round. Woe is me, Alhama!
And when the hollow drums of war Beat the loud alarm afar, That the Moors of town and plain Might answer to the martial strain— Woe is me, Alhama!—
Then the Moors, by this aware, That bloody Mars recalled them there One by one, and two by two, To a mighty squadron grew. Woe is me, Alhama!
Out then spake an aged Moor In these words the king before, ‘Wherefore call on us, O King? What may mean this gathering?’ Woe is me, Alhama!
‘Friends! ye have, alas! to know Of a most disastrous blow; That the Christians, stern and bold, Have obtained Alhama's hold.’ Woe is me, Alhama!
Out then spake old Alfaqui, With his beard so white to see, ‘Good King! thou art justly served, Good King! this thou hast deserved. Woe is me, Alhama!