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Updated: June 11, 2025
"For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arm be free." The beauty of Granada crowds Elvira's gate this night; There are straining necks and flushing cheeks when Celin comes in sight; And whispered tales go round the groups, and hearts indignant swell, As they think what in Granada that hero knight befell.
An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry; Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazèd eye. Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago; She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know. With one deep shriek she thro' doth break, when her ears receive their wailing "Let me kiss my Celin ere I die Alas! alas for Celin!"
The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door, One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew Upon their broidered garments of crimson, green, and blue Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low "Alas! alas for Celin!"
But when the news of gladness reached Adalifa's ear, Her loving heart was touched with grief and filled with jealous fear; And she wrote to Celin, bidding him to hold no revel high, For the thought of such rejoicing brought the tear-drop to her eye; The Moor received the letter as Granada came in sight, And straight he turned his courser's head toward Jaen's towering height, And exchanged for hues of mourning his robe of festal white.
"For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart is broke unless the warrior's arm be free." Brave Celin came, the valiant son of him the castelain Of the fortress of Alora and Alhama's windy plain. He came to see great Baza, where he in former days Had won from Zara's father that aged warrior's praise.
And he called the warden of his keep, Celin his henchman tried, And he pointed to Azarque, and, flushed with anger, cried "The sun upon that haughty shield myself will bid it set; It works some mischief upon me, like an evil amulet." Azarque drew his ready lance, his strong arm hurled it high, The light shaft soared amid the clouds, and vanished in the sky.
Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw; Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing, For all have heard the misery. "Alas! alas for Celin!"
Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view; Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale; When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing, And all the people, far and near, cry "Alas! alas for Celin!"
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