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The city waits his coming, for the feast has been prepared, By rich and poor, by high and low the revel shall be shared; And there are warriors high in hope to win the jousting prize, And there are ladies longing for a smile from Celin's eyes.
Now a thousand Moorish warriors to Celin's fame aspire, And a thousand ladies gaze on him with passionate desire. And they talk of Adalifa, to whom he made his vow, Though neither speech nor written page unites them longer now. "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arms be free."
Its plumes unite the saffron's tint With heron's crest of snow, And one long spray of fluttering gray. Then give it e'er I go, And I'll put on the hood of blue That Celin's daughter fair, My Adelifa, best-beloved, Once gave to me to wear. And the square boss of metal bring, That circling boughs entwine With laurels, in whose leaves of gold The clustered emeralds shine.
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