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To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. Where Antequera's city stands, upon the southern plain, The captive Vindaraja sits and mourns her lot in vain.
She sent it by a Moorish knight, and sealed it with her ring; He was warden of Alhambra and stood beside the King, And he had come sent by the King to Antequera's tower, To learn how Vindaraja fared within that prison bower.
And, falling on the bloody point, she pierced her bosom through, And Tartagona breathed her last, mourned by that robber crew. And there she lay, clasping in death her lover's lifeless face, Her valor's paragon, and she the glass of woman's grace. And since that hour the tale is told, while many a tear-drop falls, Of the lovers of the vega by Antequera's walls.
My name is high, my lineage long, yet none of all my line Have reached the pitch of glory which men allow is mine. Narvarez is a knight of name, in love and arms adept, In Antequera's castle he well the marches kept. Jarifa was a captive maid, he loved Jarifa well, And oft the maiden visited within her prison cell.
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