And with a thoughtful air upon the maiden turned his eye,
  For suddenly the aged knight feels all his heart on fire,
  And all the frost of his broken frame is kindling with desire. 
  And while he fain would hide his pain he paces up and down
  Before the palace turrets that Toledo’s rampart crown. 
  With anger glows the maiden’s mind, “Now get thee gone,” she cries,
  “For can it be that love of me in blood like thine can rise? 
  I sicken at the very thought; thy locks, old man, are gray,
  Thy baldness and thy trembling hand a doting age betray. 
  Ah, little must thou count my years of beauty and of bloom,
  If thou wouldst wed them with a life thus tottering to the tomb,
  Decrepitude is now thy lot, and wherefore canst thou dare
  To ask that youthful charms these vile infirmities should share?”
  And Moorish Reduan heard her words, and saw the meaning plain. 
  Advancing to the balcony he answered her again: 
  “The sun is king of everything, o’er all he holds his sway,
  And thou art like the sun—­thy charms I own and I obey;
  Thy beauty warms my veins again, and in its rays, forsooth,
  I feel the blithe, courageous mood of long-forgotten youth;
  Sure love of mine can harm thee not, as sunlight is not lost
  When its kind radiance dissolves the fetters of the frost.” 
  Then turning round, a parchment did Reduan unfold,
  And on it was a writing in characters of gold;
  The meaning of the posy at once the maiden caught: 
  “Since I can venture, I can have; as yet, I am not naught.” 
  He shows upon his shield a sun, circled with burning rays;
  And on the rim was written a little verse which says,
  “Two suns, one on my shield, and one in beauty’s eyes, I trace.” 
  Then at the cold disdain he saw upon her lovely face,
  He covered with a gauzy veil the blazon of his shield,
  “The sun upon my targe,” he cried, “before thy light must yield.” 
  But as the maid still pouted and eyed him with disdain,
  “The mimic sun,” continued he, “which here is blazoned plain,
  Is overcast and hides itself from the true orb of day,
  And I by beauty’s radiance eclipsed must ride away.” 
  And as he spoke the Moor struck deep the rowels in his steed,
  And rode away from Tagus’ side across the grassy mead. 
  The Moorish maiden recked not if he were far or near,
  Her thoughts returned to fancies sweet of her absent cavalier.

FICKLENESS REBUKED

  While in the foeman’s ruddy gore
    I waded to the breast,
  And for mine own, my native shore
    Fought braver than the best,
  While the light cloak I laid aside,
    And doffed the damask fold,
  And donned my shirt of mail, the spoil
    Of foeman brave and bold,
  Thou, fickle Mooress, puttest on
    Thine odorous brocade,
  And hand in hand with thy false love
    Wert sitting in the shade.