“If, when the foe is face to face,
    Thou boastest as thou oft hast done
  When far away his ranks were ranged,
    And the fierce fight had not begun;—­

  “Go, Zaide, to the Alhambra go,
    And there defend thy soldier fame;
  For every tongue is wagging there,
    And all, derisive, speak thy name.

  “And if thou fear to go alone,
    Take others with thee to thine aid;
  Thy friends are ready at thy beck,
    And Zaide need not be afraid!

  “It is not in the palace court,
    Amid the throng of ladies bright,
  That the good soldier, by his tongue,
    Proves himself valorous in the fight.

  “It is not there his hands can show
    What in the battle he can do;
  But where the shock of onset tests
    The fearless heart, the iron thew.

  “Betake thee to the bloody field
    And let thy sword thy praises sing;
  But silence is most eloquent
    Amid the courtiers of the King.”

  Thus Tarfe wrote, the Moorish knight,
    His heart so filled with furious rage
  That where his fiery pen had passed
    It pierced and rent the flimsy page.

  He called his varlet to his side,
    “Now seek the Alhambra’s hall,” said he,
  “And privately to Zaide say
    That this epistle comes from me;

  “And whisper, that none else may hear,
    And say that I his coming wait,
  Where Genil’s crystal torrent laves
    The pillars of yon palace gate.”

THE ADMIRAL’S FAREWELL

  The royal fleet with fluttering sail is waiting in the bay;
  And brave Mustapha, the Admiral, must start at break of day. 
  His hood and cloak of many hues he swiftly dons, and sets
  Upon his brow his turban gay with pearls and amulets;
  Of many tints above his head his plumes are waving wide;
  Like a crescent moon his scimitar is dangling at his side;
  And standing at the window, he gazes forth, and, hark! 
  Across the rippling waters floats the summons to embark.

      Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain! 
      Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain. 
      Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring
      A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King!

  The haughty Turk his scarlet shoe upon the stirrup placed,
  Right easily he vaulted to his saddle-tree in haste. 
  His courser was Arabian, in whose crest and pastern show
  A glossy coat as soft as silk, as white as driven snow. 
  One mark alone was on his flank! ’twas branded deep and dark;
  The letter F in Arab script, stood out the sacred mark. 
  By the color of his courser he wished it to be seen
  That the soul of the King’s Admiral was white and true and clean. 
  Oh, swift and full of mettle was the steed which that day bore
  Mustapha, the High Admiral, down to the wave-beat shore! 
  The haughty Turk sails forth at morn, that Malta he may take,
  But many the greater conquest his gallant men shall make;
  For his heart is high and his soul is bent on death or victory,
  And he pauses, as the clashing sound comes from the distant sea;