And were there some light pretext to keep him at her side,
  In chains of love she’d bind him there, whate’er the land betide. 
  Or, if ’twere fair that dames should dare the terrors of the fight,
  She’d mount her jennet in his train and follow with delight. 
  For soon as o’er the mountain ridge his bright plume disappears,
  She feels that in her heart the jealous smart that fills her eyes with
                tears. 
  Yet when he stands beside her and smiles beneath her gaze,
  Her cheek is pale with passion pure, though few the words she says. 
  Her thoughts are ever with him, and they fly the mountain o’er
  When in the shaggy forest he hunts the bristly boar. 
  In vain she seeks the festal scene ’mid dance and merry song,
  Her heart for Abenamar has left that giddy throng. 
  For jealous passion after all is no ignoble fire,
  It is the child of glowing love, the shadow of desire. 
  Ah! he who loves with ardent breast and constant spirit must
  Feel in his inmost bosom lodged the arrows of distrust. 
  And as the faithful lover by his loved one’s empty seat
  Knows that the wind of love may change e’er once again they meet,
  So to this sad foreboding do fancied griefs appear
  As he who has most cause to love has too most cause for fear. 
  And once, when placid evening was mellowing into night,
  The lovely Adelifa sat with her darling knight;
  And then the pent-up feeling from out her spirit’s deeps
  Rose with a storm of heavy sighs and trembled on her lips: 
  “My valiant knight, who art, indeed, the whole wide world to me,
  Clear mirror of victorious arms and rose of chivalry,
  Thou terror of thy valorous foe, to whom all champions yield,
  The rampart and the castle of fair Granada’s field,
  In thee the armies of the land their bright example see,
  And all their hopes of victory are founded upon thee;
  And I, poor loving woman, have hope in thee no less,
  For thou to me art life itself, a life of happiness. 
  Yet, in this anxious trembling heart strange pangs of fear arise,
  Ah, wonder not if oft you see from out these faithful eyes
  The tears in torrents o’er my cheek, e’en in thy presence flow. 
  Half prompted by my love for thee and half by fears of woe,
  These eyes are like alembics, and when with tears they fill
  It is the flame of passion that does that dew distil. 
  And what the source from which they flow, but the sorrow and the care
  That gather in my heart like mist, and forever linger there. 
  And when the flame is fiercest and love is at its height,
  The waters rise to these fond eyes, and rob me of my sight,
  For love is but a lasting pain and ever goes with grief,
  And only at the spring of tears the heart can drink relief. 
  Thus fire and love and fear combined bring to my heart distress,
  With jealous rage and dark distrust alarm