Verhalen over het gebouwencomplex in Granada, dat eigendom was van de laatste islamitische vorsten in Spanje.
The prince turned to the parrot. “O most accomplished of birds,” said
he, “thou hast the gift of human speech. Hie thee to yon garden; seek
the idol of my soul, and tell her that Prince Ahmed, a pilgrim of love,
and guided by the stars, has arrived in quest of her on the flowery
banks of the Tagus.”
The parrot, proud of his embassy, flew away to the garden, mounted above
its lofty walls, and after soaring for a time over the lawns and groves,
alighted on the balcony of a pavilion that overhung the river. Here,
looking in at the casement, he beheld the princess reclining on a couch,
with her eyes fixed on a paper, while tears gently stole after each
other down her pallid cheek.
Pluming his wings for a moment, adjusting his bright-green coat, and
elevating his top-knot, the parrot perched himself beside her with a
gallant air; then assuming a tenderness of tone, “Dry thy tears, most
beautiful of princesses,” said he; “I come to bring solace to thy
heart.”
The princess was startled on hearing a voice, but turning and seeing
nothing but a little green-coated bird bobbing and bowing before her,
“Alas! what solace canst thou yield,” said she, “seeing thou art but a
parrot?”
The parrot was nettled at the question. “I have consoled many beautiful
ladies in my time,” said he; “but let that pass. At present I come
ambassador from a royal prince. Know that Ahmed, the prince of Granada,
has arrived in quest of thee, and is encamped even now on the flowery
banks of the Tagus.”
The eyes of the beautiful princess sparkled at these words even brighter
than the diamonds in her coronet. “O sweetest of parrots,” cried she,
“joyful indeed are thy tidings, for I was faint and weary, and sick
almost unto death with doubt of the constancy of Ahmed. Hie thee back,
and tell him that the words of his letter are engraven in my heart, and
his poetry has been the food of my soul. Tell him, however, that he must
prepare to prove his love by force of arms; to-morrow is my seventeenth
birthday, when the king my father holds a great tournament; several
princes are to enter the lists, and my hand is to be the prize of the
victor.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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