59

THE DEATH OF

Don Alonso D'Aguilar.

A SPANISH BALLAD.

ROUND Granada's walls

The tented squadron lay,

With the brave King Fernando,

A goodly host were they ;

There were many a duke, and many a count,

And lords of high degree,

With valiant chiefs, the flower of Spain,

And the pride of chivalry.

Fernando called his captains,

And, when they stood around,

Said he, too long the Moorish flag

The mountain top has crowned!

My brave companions! who of ye,

On the dawning of the morrow,

Will plant my standard on the top
Of snowy Alpuxarro?—

They looked upon each other,

And wondered as they gazed;

No voice was heard, but all around

Stood trembling and amazed,

When forth stood Don Alonso,

He came from Aguilar,—

And the king had often found his sword A goodly sword in war:

My Liege!-he said, this enterprise

I prithee trust to me,

For my lady, the Queen,

Has willed it so to be,

And to the Sierra I will go,

On the dawning of the morrow,

And plant our standard on the top

Of snowy Alpuxarro!

Away went Don Alonso,

On the morrow of that day;

The morning had not dawned,

Ere his troop was on its way:

A thousand men at arms,

And five hundred horse were there,The trumpets blew, and proudly waved Their banners in the air.

The Moors, by traitors well advised,
From a mountain ambush rose,

And a cruel havoc made they

Amongst their Christian foes ;

The horsemen soon were killed,

For the passes all were narrow,

And rocky was the footing,

On the side of Alpuxarro.

Some flying from the slaughter,

Back to Granada go,

With bleeding wounds, and heavy hearts,

To tell the tale of woe:

Don Alonso called his men at arms,

That day they struggled well;

But the Moors were twice as many,

And one by one they fell.

Alone was Don Alonso,

His soldiers all were dead;

And, like a lion, still he fought

Till the ground with blood was red;

But many were the Moorish chiefs

Who in upon him poured,

And little room they gave him

To wield his goodly sword.

Then down he fell expiring,

And Adalin, the Moor,

Cut from his head the colours red,

And helmet which he bore;

And o'er his gallant corse,

Outstretched upon the ground,

In silent wonder bending,

His foemen stood around.

There was weeping in Granada

For many a mournful day,

For the noble and the brave,

Who on the mountain lay; Fernando's heart was sorrowful,

And the Queen shed many a tear,

For Alonso d'Aguilar

Was her chosen cavalier.