For I have lost my sire, and I have lost my lover brave,
  For here I languish all alone, a subject and a slave. 
  And yet the Moor, altho’ he left with me his loving heart,
  I fear may have forgotten that I own his better part. 
  And now the needle that I ply is witness to the state
  Of bondage, which I feel to-day with heart disconsolate. 
  And here upon the web be writ, in the Arabian tongue,
  The legend that shall tell the tale of how my heart is wrung. 
  Here read:  ’If thou hast ta’en my heart when thou didst ride away,
  Remember that myself, my living soul, behind thee stay.’ 
  And on the other side these words embroidered would I place: 
  ‘The word shall never fail that once I spake before thy face.’ 
  And on the border underneath this posy, written plain: 
  ‘The promise that I made to thee still constant shall remain.’ 
  And last of all, this line I add, the last and yet the best: 
  ‘Thou ne’er shalt find inconstancy in this unchanging breast.’ 
  Thus runs the embroidery of love, and in the midst appears
  A phoenix, painted clear, the bird that lives eternal years. 
  For she from the cold ashes of life at its last wane,
  Takes hope, and spreads her wings and soars through skyey tracks again. 
  And there a hunter draws his bow outlined with skilful thread,
  And underneath a word which says, ‘Nay, shoot not at the dead.’”
  Thus spake the Moorish maiden, and in her eyes were tears of grief,
  Tho’ in her busy needle she seemed to find relief. 
  And the kindly countess called from far:  “Zara, what aileth thee? 
  Where art thou?  For I called, and yet thou didst not answer me.”

THE JEALOUS KING

  ’Twas eight stout warriors matched with eight, and ten with valiant ten,
  As Aliatare formed a band allied with Moslem men,
  To joust, with loaded canes, that day in proud Toledo’s ring,
  Against proud Adelifa’s host before their lord the King. 
  The King by proclamation had announced the knightly play,
  For the cheerful trumpets sang a truce upon that very day;
  And Zaide, high Belchite’s King, had sworn that war should cease,
  And with Tarfe of Valentia had ratified the peace. 
  But others spread the news, that flew like fire from tongue to tongue,
  That the King was doting-mad with love, for then the King was young;
  And had given to Celindaja the ordering of the day. 
  And there were knights beside the King she loved to see at play. 
  And now the lists are opened and, lo! a dazzling band,
  The Saracens, on sorrel steeds leap forth upon the sand;
  Their trailing cloaks are flashing like the golden orange rind,
  The hoods of green from their shoulders hang and flutter in the wind. 
  They carry targets blazoned bright with scimitars arow,
  But each deadly blade is deftly made into a Cupid’s bow. 
  A shining legend can be seen in letters