Then bathed in perfumed waters, and listened to the sound
Of singing founts diffusing a grateful coolness round.
While silvery Xenil wandered through blooming bower and plain,
Back came once more the splendor of Moorish rule in Spain;
I heard the stormy clarion, the atabal’s deep roll,
And felt the joy of battle awake within my soul.
Elvira’s gates unfolded, and, grim with many a scar,
A host of Moorish horsemen rode fiercely forth to war;
The standard of the Prophet above them was unrolled,
And dallied with the lifting wind its green and golden fold.