_Isabel._ Oh yes. Thinkest thou that Isabel can look with coldness Upon the brave preserver of her honor? Thy welfare, trust me, Shall ever be the object of my care; And still the tender tie of gratitude Shall bind my heart to thee. _Muza._ Say, dear one, say the tender tie of love. _Isabel._ Urge me not, Muza, urge me not too far. But come, I claim a promise: wilt thou not Fulfil it now? I long to hear thee tell The wild, romantic history of thy life;-- For such it must be, if I can surmise Aught from the hints which thou hast thrown around thee. _Muza._ I will obey thee, Isabel, Though I would rather pour into thine ear The breathings of my soul, than now recount A dull detail of cold and lifeless facts. Know, then, I spring not from the Moorish race, But Christian blood bounds freely through these veins. No more I know; the secret of my birth Is wrapt in mystery; But yet within my mind faint traces live, When the paternal hand upon this head Rested with fondness, and a mother’s eye, Radiant with love, beamed brightly on my heart; But then, there comes a blank in memory’s page: And next, dark visions flit before my mind Of bloodshed, death and slaughter, while to view The swarth and fiery visage of the Moor Starts up, attended with appalling horrors. A truce to memory. What I am I know; Thou askest, and shalt know. A warrior bold I dwell upon the banks of fair Xenil, Where that bright river, with its winding stream, Laves proud Granada’s walls. Ask Muza’s name Within Alhambra’s towers. ’Tis he whose heart Is boldest in the fight, whose daring valor Oft sweeps the plains of fertile Andalusia. _Isabel._ Oh, boast not of these actions, where the cross, The sacred symbol of my holy faith, Bows down before the crescent. Tell me, Muza, Does not thy heart reproach thee when this sword Is stained with Christian blood--perhaps the blood Of friends and kindred, who would gladly lose Their lives to rescue thee?