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For Aliatar, one sad morn, Mounted his steed and blew his horn; A hundred Moors behind him rode; Fleeter than wind their coursers strode. Toward Motril their course is made, While foes the castle town blockade; There Aliatar's brother lay, Pent by the foes that fatal day. Woe work the hour, the day, when he Vaulted upon his saddle-tree!
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