treachery to say
  The flame that filled thy royal heart as yet had passed away. 
  Still, though too oft do lovers’ hearts in absent hours repine. 
  I know if there are faithful vows, then faithful will be thine! 
  ’Tis hard, indeed, for lovers to crush the doubting thought
  Which to the brooding bosom some lonely hour has brought. 
  There is no safety for the love, when languish out of sight
  The form, the smile, the flashing eyes that once were love’s delight;
  Nor can I, I confess it, feel certain of thy vow! 
  How many Moorish ladies are gathered round thee now! 
  How many fairer, brighter forms are clustered at thy throne,
  Whose power might change to very wax the heart of steel or stone! 
  And if, indeed, there be a cause why I should blame thy heart,
  ’Tis the delay that thou hast shown in taking here my part. 
  Why are not armies sent to break these prison bars, and bring
  Back to her home the Moorish maid, the favorite of the King? 
  A maid whose eyes are changed to springs whence flow the flood of tears,
  For she thinks of thee and weeps for thee through all these absent years. 
  Believe me, if ’twere thou, who lay a captive in his chain,
  My life of joy, to rescue thee, my heart of blood I’d drain! 
  O King and master, if, indeed, I am thy loved one still,
  As in those days when I was first upon Alhambra’s hill,
  Send rescue for thy darling, or fear her love may fade,
  For love that needs the sunlight must wither in the shade. 
  And yet I cannot doubt thee; if e’er suspicion’s breath
  Should chill my heart, that moment would be Vindaraja’s death. 
  Nor think should you forget me or spurn me from your arms,
  That life for Vindaraja could have no other charms. 
  It was thy boast thou once did love a princess, now a slave,
  I boasted that to thy behest I full obedience gave! 
  And from this prison should I come, in freedom once again,
  To sit and hear thy words of love on Andalusia’s plain,
  The brightest thought would be to me that thou, the King, has seen
  ’Twas right to free a wretched slave that she might be thy Queen. 
  Hard is the lot of bondage here, and heavy is my chain,
  And from my prison bars I gaze with lamentation vain;
  But these are slight and idle things—­my one, my sole distress
  Is that I cannot see thy face and welcome thy caress! 
  This only is the passion that can my bosom rend;
  ’Tis this alone that makes me long for death, my sufferings end. 
  The plagues of life are naught to me; life’s only joy is this—­
  To see thee and to hear thee and to blush beneath thy kiss! 
  Alas! perchance this evening or to-morrow morn, may be,
  The lords who hold me here a slave in sad captivity,
  May, since they think me wanton, their treacherous measures take
  That I should be a Christian and my former faith forsake.