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O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. Fired with that ardor, which, in days of yore, To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore; Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal, They come, the gallant children of Castile; The proud, the calmly dignified:—and there Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair, And those who guide the fiery steed of war From yon rich province of the western star.10

But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene, Stern grandeur stamp'd upon thy princely mien; Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,11 Young Aben-Zurrah! midst that host of foes, Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose! Why rise the tents, where dwell thy kindred train, O son of Afric, midst the sons of Spain? Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired, Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired? How art thou changed! Still first in every fight, Hamet, the Moor! Castile's devoted knight!