She came in sight of proud Seville; but the darkness bade her wait Till dawn; when she alighted before a kinsman's gate. Swift flew the days, and when at last the joyful truth she learned, That she had been deceived; in joy to Xerez she returned. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" ZAIDA'S CURSE And Zaida Cegri, desolate, Whom by the cruel cast of fate, Within one hour, the brandished blade From wife had mourning widow made, On Albenzaide's corse was bowed, Shedding hot tears, with weeping loud. Bright as the gold of Araby Shone out her locks unbound; And while, as if to staunch the blood, Her hand lay on the wound, She fixed her glances on Gazul, Still by his foes attacked. "'Twas cruel rage, not jealous love, That urged this wicked act." (Thus she began with trembling voice.) "And I to God will pray That for thy treacherous violence Thy dastard life shall pay. And midway, on thy journey down To fair Sidonia's castled town, Mayst thou alone, with no retreat, The valiant Garci-Perez meet; And mayst thou, startled at the sight, Lose all the vigor of thy might; Thy reins with palsied fingers yield; And find no shelter in thy shield. There sudden death or captive shame Blot all thy valor but the name. Thy warrior garb thou turnest To the livery of the slave; Thy coat of steel is no cuirass, No harness of the brave; When to Sidonia thou art come, To meet thy amorous mate, May foul suspicion turn her heart From love to deadly hate. Begone! no more the course pursue Of faithless love and vows untrue. To remain true to such as thee Were naught but blackest perjury. I fear not, hound, thy sword of might; Turn, traitor, turn and leave my sight, For thou wert born to change thy mind, And fling all fealty to the wind. Ignoble origin is thine, For lovers of a noble line Have no such rancorous hearts as thine. And here I pray that God will bring His curse upon thy soul, That thou in war, in peace, in love May meet with failure foul, And that Sanlucar's lady, Whom thou wishest for a bride, Thee from her castle entrance May spurn thee in her pride. A widowed wife with bleeding heart, Hear me one moment ere we part! Thy knightly service I distrust, I hear thy voice with deep disgust." Cut to the heart by words so rude, The Moor within the palace stood; Say what he could, 'twas but to find His vain word wasted on the wind. THE TOURNAMENT OF ZAIDE