The Lamentation for the Death of Celin

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barr'd,
At twilight at the Vega gate there is a trampling heard;
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow,
And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe.
"What tower is fall'n, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing?"—
"A tower is fall'n, a star is set. Alas! alas for Celin!"—

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!"—

Him yesterday a Moor did slay of Bencerraje's blood,
'Twas at the solemn jousting, around the nobles stood;
The nobles of the land were there, and the ladies bright and fair
Look'd from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share;
But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing,
For he was Granada's darling knight.' 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 wrapp'd 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!"—

Oh lovely lies he on the bier above the purple pall,
The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all;
His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale,
The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnish'd mail,
And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing,
Its sound is like no earthly sound—"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 broider'd 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!"—

An old old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry;
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed 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 through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing—
"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die—Alas! alas for Celin!"—