From off his bonnet brim he tears,
  He will no longer carry them;
    They are the colors Zaida wears. 
  He recks no more of woman’s love,
    His city now he bids farewell,
  And swears he will no more return
    Nor in Granada seek to dwell.

WOMAN’S FICKLENESS

  A stout and valorous gentleman,
    Granada knew his worth,
  And rich with many a spoil of love,
    Went Abenamar forth. 
  Upon his bonnet, richly dyed,
    He bore a lettered scroll,
  It ran, “’Tis only love that makes
    The solace of my soul.” 
  His bonnet and his brow were hid
    Beneath a hood of green,
  And plumes of violet and white
    Above his head were seen. 
  And ’twixt the tassel and the crown
    An emerald circlet shone. 
  The legend of the jewel said,
    “Thou art my hope alone.” 
  He rode upon a dappled steed
    With housings richly dight,
  And at his left side clanking hung
    A scimitar of might. 
  And his right arm was sleeved in cloth
    Of tawny lion’s hue,
  And at his lance-head, lifted high,
    A Turkish pennon flew. 
  And when he reached Daraja’s camp
    He saw Daraja stand
  Beside his own perfidious love,
    And clasp her by the hand. 
  He made to her the wonted sign,
    Then lingered for a while,
  For jealous anguish filled his heart
    To see her tender smile. 
  He spurred his courser to the blood;
    One clattering bound he took,
  The Moorish maiden turned to him. 
    Ah, love was in her look! 
  Ah, well he saw his hopeless fate,
    And in his jealous mood
  The heart that nothing feared in fight
    Was whelmed in sorrow’s flood. 
  “O false and faithless one,” he said,
    “What is it that I view? 
  Thus the foreboding of my soul
    I see at last come true;
  Shame that a janizary vile,
    Of Christian creed and race,
  A butt of bright Alhambra’s feasts,
    Has taken now my place. 
  Where is the love thou didst avow,
    The pledge, the kiss, the tear,
  And all the tender promises
    Thou whisperedst in my ear? 
  Thou, frailer than the withered reed,
    More changeful than the wind,
  More thankless than the hardest heart
    In all of womankind;
  I marvel not at what I see,
    Nor yet for vengeance call;
  For thou art woman to the core,
    And in that name is all.” 
  The gallant Moor his courser checked,
    His cheek with anger burned,
  Men saw, that all his gallant mien
    To gloom and rage was turned.

KING JUAN