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There streams into Granada's gate a stately cavalcade Of prancing steeds caparisoned, and knights in steel arrayed; And all their acclamations raise, when Celin comes in sight "The foremost in the tournament, the bravest in the fight" And Moorish maiden Cegri straight to the window flies, To see the glittering pageant and to hear the joyous cries.
The Moor went forth to victory, He was not pleasure's slave; His gallant heart was ever prompt To keep the pledge he gave. Azarco on his balcony With humble Cegri stood. He talked, and Cegri listened In a sad and listless mood; For of his own exploits he read, Writ in an open scroll, But envious Cegri heard the tale With rage and bitter dole.
And Zaida Cegri, desolate, Whom by the cruel cast of fate, Within one hour, the brandished blade From wife had mourning widow made, On Albenzaide's corse was bowed, Shedding hot tears, with weeping loud. Bright as the gold of Araby Shone out her locks unbound; And while, as if to staunch the blood, Her hand lay on the wound, She fixed her glances on Gazul, Still by his foes attacked.
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