That to hear of, is to see thee; and to see, is to desire! 
  Yet unless my Vindaraja I could look upon awhile,
  As some traveller in a desert I should perish for her smile;
  For ’tis longing for her presence makes the spring of life to me,
  And allays the secret suffering none except her eye can see. 
  In this thought alone my spirit finds refreshment and delight;
  This is sweeter than the struggle, than the glory of the fight;
  And if e’er I could forget her heaving breast and laughing eye,
  Tender word, and soft caresses—­Vindaraja, I should die! 
  If the King should bid me hasten to release thee from thy chain,
  Oh, believe me, dearest lady, he would never bid in vain;
  Naught he could demand were greater than the price that I would pay,
  If in high Alhambra’s halls I once again could see thee gay! 
  None can say I am remiss, and heedless of thy dismal fate;
  Love comes to prompt me every hour, he will not let my zeal abate. 
  If occasion call, I yield myself, my soul to set thee free;
  Take this offering if thou wilt, I wait thy word on bended knee. 
  Dost thou suffer, noble lady, by these fancies overwrought? 
  Ah, my soul is filled with sorrow at the agonizing thought;
  For to know that Vindaraja languishes, oppressed with care,
  Is enough to make death welcome, if I could but rescue her. 
  Yes, the world shall know that I would die not only for the bliss
  Of clasping thee in love’s embrace and kindling at thy tender kiss. 
  This, indeed, would be a prize, for which the coward death would dare—­
  I would die to make thee happy, tho’ thy lot I might not share! 
  Then, though I should fail to lift the burden on my darling laid,
  Though I could not prove my love by rescuing my Moorish maid,
  Yet my love would have this witness, first, thy confidence sublime,
  Then my death for thee, recorded on the scroll of future time! 
  Yes, my death, for should I perish, it were comfort but to think
  Thou couldst have henceforth on earth no blacker, bitterer cup to drink! 
  Sorrow’s shafts would be exhausted, thou couldst laugh at fortune’s
                power. 
  Tho’ I lost thee, yet this thought would cheer me in my parting hour. 
  Yet I believe that fate intends (oh, bear this forecast in thy mind!)
  That all the love my passions crave will soon a full fruition find;
  Fast my passion stronger grows, and if of love there measure be,
  Believe it, dearest, that the whole can find its summary in me! 
  Deem that thou art foully wronged, whose graces have such power to bless,
  If any of thy subject slaves to thee, their queen, should offer less,
  And accept this pledged assurance, that oblivion cannot roll
  O’er the image of thy beauty stamped on this enamored soul. 
  Then dismiss thy anxious musings, let them with the wind away,
  As the gloomy clouds are scattered at