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Now a thousand Moorish warriors to Celin's fame aspire, And a thousand ladies gaze on him with passionate desire. And they talk of Adalifa, to whom he made his vow, Though neither speech nor written page unites them longer now. "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arms be free."
But he himself wore sober robes of white and lion gray, The emblems of the hopeless grief in which the warrior lay. And the thoughts of Adalifa, of her words and glancing eyes, Gave colors of befitting gloom to tint his dark disguise. And he came with purpose to perform some great and glorious deed, To drive away the saddening thoughts that made the bosom bleed.
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