  2.The cathedral left he quickly, On his wild steed speeding onward, While his moist locks and the feathers In his hat the wind is moving. On the road to Alcolea, By the side of Guadalquivir, Where the snowy almond blossoms, And the fragrant golden orange, Thither bastes the merry rider, Piping, singing, laughing gaily, And the birds all swell the chorus, And the torrent’s noisy waters. In the fort at Alcolea Dwelleth Clara de Alvares; In Navarre her sire is fighting, And she revels in her freedom. And afar Almansor heareth Sounds of kettle-drums and trumpets, And the castle lights beholds he Glittering through the trees’ dark shadows. In the fort at Alcolea Dance twelve gaily trick’d-out ladies With twelve knights attired as gaily, But Almansor’s the best dancer. As if wing’d by merry fancies, Round about the hall he flutters, Knowing how to all the ladies To address sweet flattering speeches. Isabella’s lovely hands he Kisses quickly, and then leaves her, And before Elvira stands he, Looking in her face so archly. He in turns assures each lady That he heartily adores her; “On the true faith of a Christian” Swears he thirty times that evening. 3.In the fort at Alcolea Merriment and noise have ceased now Knights and ladies all have vanish’d, And the lights are all extinguish’d. Donna Clara and Almansor In the hall above still linger, And one single lamp is throwing On them both its feeble lustre. On the seat the lady’s sitting, And the knight upon the footstool, And his head, by sleep o’erpower’d, On her darling knees is resting. From a golden flask some rose-oil Pours the lady, sadly musing, On Almansor’s dark-brown tresses,— From his inmost bosom sighs he. With her soft lips then the lady Gives a sweet kiss, sadly musing, On Almansor’s dark-brown tresses,— And his brow is clouded over. From her light eyes tears in torrents Weeps the lady, sadly musing, On Almansor’s dark-brown tresses,— And his lips begin to quiver. And he dreams he’s once more standing With his head bent down and weeping In fair Cordova’s cathedral, Many gloomy voices hearing. All the lofty giant-columns Hears he murmuring full of anger,— That no longer will they bear it, And they totter and they tremble. And they wildly fall together, Pale turn all the priests and people, Crashing falls the dome upon them, And the Christian gods wail loudly. |
|
