And to his home by some fond Moor in bridal veil be led. Ah! many are the lovely dames, tall and of beauteous face, Who are burning in Granada to take my envied place. They look at thee with loving eyes and from the window call; And, Zaide, thou deservest well the brightest of them all, For thou thyself thine amorous eyes have turned and yet will turn Upon the Moorish maidens who for thy embraces burn." Then with dejected visage the Moor this answer made, While a thousand thoughts of sorrow his valorous breast invade: "Ah, little did I think," he said, "and little did I know That thou, my lovely Zaida, would ever treat me so; And little did I think thou wouldst have done this cruel deed And by thy changeful heart would thus have made my heart to bleed. And this for one unworthy, a man who could not claim That thou should sacrifice to him thy love, thy life, thy name. And art thou she who long ago, when evening veiled the sky, Didst say to me with tender smile from the lofty balcony, 'Zaide, I am thine own, thine own, thine own I still shall be, And thou the darling of my soul art life itself to me'?" GUHALA'S LOVE The bravest youth that e'er drew rein Upon Granada's flowery plain, A courteous knight, of gentle heart, Accomplished in the jouster's art; Well skilled to guide the flying steed, And noted for each warlike deed; And while his heart like steel was set When foeman in the battle met, 'Twas wax before his lady's eyes And melted at her amorous sighs; And he was like a diamond bright Amid the sword-thrusts of the fight, And in the zambra's festive hour Was gracious as the summer's flower. In speech he showed the generous mind, Where wit and wisdom were combined; And, while his words no envy woke, He weighed each sentence that he spoke. And yet his mantle was of blue, And tinged with sorrow's violet hue; For fair Guhala, Moorish maid, Her spell upon his heart had laid; And thus his cape of saffron bare The color emblem of despair; On turban and on tassel lie The tints that yield an August sky; For anxious love was in his mind; And anxious love is ever blind. With scarce a word did he forsake The lady pining for his sake; For, when the festal robe he wore, Her soul the pall of sorrow wore. And now he journeyed on his way To Jaen, for the jousting day, And to Guhala, left alone, All relic of delight was gone. Tho' the proud maid of matchless face A thousand hearts would fain embrace, She loved but one, and swiftly ran And spake her mind to Arbolan. "O Arbolan, my Moor, my own, Surely thy love is feeble grown! The least excuse can bid thee part, And tear with pain this anxious heart. Oh, that it once were granted me To mount my steed and follow thee; How wouldst thou marvel then to see That courage of true love in me, Whose pulse so feebly throbs in thee." Thus to see Arbolan depart