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Moor had beleaguer'd Valencia's towers, And lances gleam'd up through her citron-bowers, And the tents of the desert had girt her plain, And camels were trampling the vines of Spain; For the Cid was gone to rest.

There were men from wilds where the death-wind sweeps, There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps, There were bows from sands where the ostrich runs, For the shrill horn of Afric had call'd her sons To the battles of the West.

The midnight bell, o'er the dim seas heard, Like the roar of waters, the air had stirr'd; The stars were shining o'er tower and wave, And the camp lay hush'd, as a wizard's cave; But the Christians woke that night.