With juice of any earthly tree to slake her fevered pain. 
  “Now let the sport be ended,” the angry King decreed. 
  The joust was late, and every judge in weariness agreed. 
  And as they closed the empty lists, they heard the King’s command,
  “Now seize, now seize Azarque, a traitor to this land.” 
  The double lines of cavaliers who led the jousting train
  Threw down upon the open square the spear of idle cane;
  Then swiftly seized the lance of steel and couching it for fight,
  According to the royal wish rode down upon the knight. 
    For arms and plea must ever bootless prove
    To curb the passions of a king in love.

  The other band came forth to save Azarque from his foes,
  But the stout Moor waves his hand to them ere they in battle close. 
  Then calmly cries:  “Tho’ love, it seems, has no respect for law,
  ’Tis right that ye keep peace to-day and from the lists withdraw! 
  Nay, gentlemen, your lances lower before it be too late;
  And let our foes their lances raise, in sign of passion’s hate;
  Thus without blood accorded be a victory and defeat. 
  ’Tis only bloodshed makes the one more bitter or more sweet,
    For arms or reason unavailing prove
    To curb the passions of a king in love.”

  At last they seize the struggling Moor, the chains are on his hands;
  And the populace, with anger filled, arrange themselves in bands. 
  They place a guard at every point, in haste to set him free,
  But where the brave commander who shall lead to victory? 
  And where the leader who shall shout and stir their hearts to fight? 
  These are but empty braggarts, but prowlers of the night,
  Cut-throats and needy idlers—­and so the tumult ends—­
  Azarque lies in prison, forsaken by his friends. 
    For, ah, both arms and reason powerless prove
    To turn the purpose of a king in love.

  Alone does Celindaja the coward crowd implore,
  “Oh, save him, save him, generous friends, give back to me my Moor.” 
  She stands upon the balcony and from that lofty place
  Would fling herself upon the stones to save him from disgrace. 
  Her mother round the weeping girl has flung her withered arm. 
  “O fool,” she whispers in her ear, “in Mary’s name be calm!”
  Thou madly rushest to thy death by this distracted show. 
  Surely thou knowest well this truth, if anyone can know,
    How arms and reason powerless prove
    To turn the purpose of a king in love.

  Then came a message of the King, in which the monarch said
  That a house wherein his kindred dwelt must be a prison made. 
  Then Celindaja, white with rage:  “Go to the King and say
  I choose to be my prison-house for many and many a day,
  The memory of Azarque, in which henceforth I live: 
  But the treachery of a monarch my heart will not forgive. 
    For the will of one weak woman shall never powerless prove
    To turn the foolish purpose of a king who is in love.