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What boots it, Lindaraja, that I, at Jaen's gate, That unsurrendered city, have met my final fate? What boots it, that this city proud will ne'er the Soldan own, For thee and not for Jaen this hour I make my moan; I weep for Lindaraja, I weep to think that she May mourn a hostage and a slave in long captivity.
And dwelling on thy beauty he will deem it better far, To win fair Lindaraja than all the spoils of war, Yet would I pray if Mahomet, whose servant I have been, Should ever from the throne of God look on this bloody scene, And deem it right to all my vows requital fit to make, And for my valor who attacked the town I could not take, That he would make thy constancy as steadfast as the tower Of Jaen's mighty fortress, that withstood the Moorish power; Now as my life be ebbing fast, my spirit is oppressed, And Reduan the warrior bold is sinking to his rest, Oh, may my prayers be answered, if so kind heaven allow, And may the King forgive me for the failure of my vow, And, Lindaraja, may my soul, when it has taken its flight, And for the sweet Elysian fields exchange these realms of night, Contented in the joys and peace of that celestial seat, Await the happy moment when we once more shall meet."
Ah! now too late I mourn the word that sent me on this quest, For I see that death awaits me here whilst thou livest on at rest, For I must enter Jaen's gates a conqueror or be sent Far from Granada's happy hills in hopeless banishment; But sorest is the thought that I to Lindaraja swore: If Jaen should repulse me I'd return to her no more; No more a happy lover would I linger at her side, Until Granada's warrior host had humbled Jaen's pride."
And as he lies, from his couch of blood, in melancholy tone, Thus to the heavens the hero stout, though fainting, makes his moan, And ere his lofty soul in death forth from its prison breaks, Brave Reduan a last farewell of Lindaraja takes: "Ah, greater were the glory had it been mine to die, Not thus among the Christians and hear their joyful cry, But in that happy city, reclining at thy feet, Where thou with kind and tender hands hast wove my winding-sheet.
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