The world shall then my steadfast heart, thy tongue of treachery know. 
  Woe worth the day when, for thy sake, I fair Granada sought,
  These anxious doubts may cloud my brow, they cannot guard thy thought. 
  My foes increase, thy cruelty makes absence bitterer still,
  But naught can shake my constancy, and none can do me ill.” 
  On this from Alpujarra the tocsin sounded high. 
  He rushed as one whose life is staked to save the maid or die.

THE DESPONDENT LOVER

  He leaned upon his sabre’s hilt,
    He trod upon his shield,
  Upon the ground he threw the lance
    That forced his foes to yield. 
  His bridle hung at saddle-bow,
    And, with the reins close bound,
  His mare the garden entered free
    To feed and wander round. 
  Upon a flowering almond-tree
    He fixed an ardent gaze;
  Its leaves were withered with the wind
    That flowers in ruin lays. 
  Thus in Toledo’s garden park,
    Did Abenamar wait,
  Who for fair Galliana
    Watched at the palace gate. 
  The birds that clustered on the towers
    Spread out their wings to fly,
  And from afar his lady’s veil
    He saw go floating by. 
  And at this vision of delight,
    Which healed his spirit’s pain,
  The exiled Moor took courage,
    And hope returned again. 
  “O Galliana, best beloved,
    Whom art thou waiting now? 
  And what has treacherous rendered
    My fortune and thy vow? 
  Thou swearedst I should be thine own,
    Yet ’twas but yesterday
  We met, and with no greeting
    Thou wentest on thy way. 
  Then, in my silence of distress,
    I wandered pondering—­
  If this is what to-day has brought,
    What will to-morrow bring? 
  Happy the Moor from passion free,
    In peace or turmoil born,
  Who without pang of hate or love,
    Can slumber till the morn. 
  O almond-tree, thou provest
    That the expected hours
  Of bliss may often turn to bane,
    As fade thy dazzling flowers. 
  A mournful image art thou
    Of all that lays me low,
  And on my shield I’ll bear thee
    As blazon of my woe. 
  For thou dost bloom in many a flower,
    Till blasted by the wind,
  And ’tis of thee this word is true—­
    ‘The season was not kind.’”
  He spoke and on his courser’s head
    He slipped the bridle rein,
  And while he curbed his gentle steed
    He could not curb his pain,
  And to Ocana took his course,
    O’er Tagus’ verdant plain.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY

  “Unless thou wishest in one hour
    Thine April hope shouldst blighted be,
  Oh, tell me, Tarfe, tell me true,
    How I may Zaida chance to see. 
  I mean the foreigner, the wife
    New wedded, her with golden hair,
  And for each lock a charm besides