So secretly would she proceed, her very breath she held,
  Tho’ with a rising storm of sighs her snowy bosom swelled. 
  And here and there she made a halt, and bent her head to hear
  If footsteps sounded; then, assured, renewed her swift career. 
        And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
        “And who would wish to die,” she said, “though death be free from
                pain?”

  Her fancy in the silent air could whispering voices hear;
  “I’ll make of thee a sacrifice, to Albenzaide dear;”
  This fancy took her breath away, lifeless she sank at length,
  And grasped the saddle-bow; for fear had sapped her spirit’s strength. 
        And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
        “And who would wish to die,” she said, “though death be free from
                pain?”

  She came in sight of proud Seville; but the darkness bade her wait
  Till dawn; when she alighted before a kinsman’s gate. 
  Swift flew the days, and when at last the joyful truth she learned,
  That she had been deceived; in joy to Xerez she returned. 
        And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
        “And who would wish to die,” she said, “though death be free from
                pain?”

ZAIDA’S CURSE

  And Zaida Cegri, desolate,
  Whom by the cruel cast of fate,
  Within one hour, the brandished blade
  From wife had mourning widow made,
  On Albenzaide’s corse was bowed,
  Shedding hot tears, with weeping loud. 
  Bright as the gold of Araby
    Shone out her locks unbound;
  And while, as if to staunch the blood,
    Her hand lay on the wound,
  She fixed her glances on Gazul,
    Still by his foes attacked. 
  “’Twas cruel rage, not jealous love,
    That urged this wicked act.” 
  (Thus she began with trembling voice.)
    “And I to God will pray
  That for thy treacherous violence
    Thy dastard life shall pay. 
  And midway, on thy journey down
  To fair Sidonia’s castled town,
  Mayst thou alone, with no retreat,
  The valiant Garci-Perez meet;
  And mayst thou, startled at the sight,
  Lose all the vigor of thy might;
  Thy reins with palsied fingers yield;
  And find no shelter in thy shield. 
  There sudden death or captive shame
  Blot all thy valor but the name. 
  Thy warrior garb thou turnest
    To the livery of the slave;
  Thy coat of steel is no cuirass,
    No harness of the brave;
  When to Sidonia thou art come,
    To meet thy amorous mate,
  May foul suspicion turn her heart
    From love to deadly hate. 
  Begone! no more the course pursue
  Of faithless love and vows untrue. 
  To remain true to such as thee
  Were naught but blackest perjury. 
  I fear not, hound, thy sword of might;
  Turn, traitor, turn and leave my sight,