ABENUMEYA’S LAMENT

  The young Abenumeya, Granada’s royal heir,
  Was brave in battle with his foe and gallant with the fair. 
  By lovely Felisarda his heart had been ensnared,
  The daughter of brave Ferri; the captain of the guard. 
  He through the vega of Genii bestrode his sorrel steed,
  Alone, on melancholy thoughts his anxious soul to feed,
  The tints that clothed the landscape round were gloomy as the scene
  Of his past life, wherein his lot had naught but suffering been. 
  His mantle hue was of iron gray bestrewn with purple flowers,
  Which bloomed amid distress and pain, like hope of happier hours. 
  And on his cloak were columns worked, (his cloak was saffron hued,)
  To show that dark suspicion’s fears had tried his fortitude;
  His shield was blazoned with the moon, a purple streak above,
  To show that fears of fickleness are ever born with love. 
  He bore an azure pennant ’neath the iron of his spear,
  To show that lovers oft go wrong deceived by jealous fear. 
  The hood he wore was wrought of gold and silk of crimson clear;
  His bonnet crest was a heron plume with an emerald stone beneath;
  And under all a motto ran, “Too long a hope is death.” 
  He started forth in such array, but armed from head to heel
  With tempered blade and dagger and coat of twisted steel. 
  And hangling low at his saddle-bow was the helmet for his head;
  And as he journeyed on his way the warrior sighed and said: 
  “O Felisarda, dearest maid, him in thy memory keep
  Who in his soul has writ thy name in letters dark and deep. 
  Think that for thee in coat of mail he ever rides afield,
  In his right hand the spear must stand, his left must grasp the shield. 
  And he must skirmish in the plain and broil of battle brave,
  And wounded be, for weapons ne’er from jealousy can save.” 
  And as he spoke the lonely Moor from out his mantle’s fold
  With many a sigh, that scorched the air, a lettered page unrolled. 
  He tried in vain to read it but his eyes with tears were blind,
  And mantling clouds of sorrow hid the letters from his mind. 
  The page was moistened by the tears that flowed in plenteous tide,
  But by the breath of sighs and sobs the softened page was dried. 
  Fresh wounds he felt at sight of it, and when the cause he sought,
  His spirit to Granada flew upon the wings of thought. 
  He thought of Albaicin, the palace of the dame,
  With its gayly gilded capitals and its walls of ancient fame. 
  And the garden that behind it lay in which the palm was seen
  Swaying beneath the load of fruit its coronet of green. 
  “O mistress of my soul,” he said, “who callest me thine own,
  How easily all bars to bliss thy love might trample down! 
  But time, that shall my constancy, thy fickleness will show,