sealed the scrip and sent it to the Moorish maiden's bower.

ZAIDA OF TOLEDO

Upon a gilded balcony, which decked a mansion high,
A place where ladies kept their watch on every passer-by,
While Tagus with a murmur mild his gentle waters drew
To touch the mighty buttress with waves so bright and blue,
Stands Zaida, radiant in her charms, the flower of Moorish maids,
And with her arching hand of snow her anxious eyes she shades,
Searching the long and dusty road that to Ocana leads,
For the flash of knightly armor and the tramp of hurrying steeds.
The glow of amorous hope has lit her cheek with rosy red,
Yet wrinkles of too anxious love her beauteous brow o'er-spread;
For she looks to see if up the road there rides a warrior tall--
The haughty Bencerraje, whom she loves the best of all.
At every looming figure that blots the vega bright,
She starts and peers with changing face, and strains her eager sight;
For every burly form she sees upon the distant street
Is to her the Bencerraje whom her bosom longs to greet.
And many a distant object that rose upon her view
Filled her whole soul with rapture, as her eager eyes it drew;
But when it nearer came, she turned away, in half despair,
Her vision had deceived her, Bencerraje was not there.
"My own, my Bencerraje, if but lately you descried
That I was angry in my heart, and stubborn in my pride,
Oh, let my eyes win pardon, for they with tears were wet.
Why wilt thou not forgive me, why wilt thou not forget?
And I repented of that mood, and gave myself the blame,
And thought, perhaps it was my fault that, at the jousting game,
There was no face among the knights so filled with care as thine,
So sad and so dejected, yes, I thought the blame was mine!
And yet I was, if thou with thought impartial wilt reflect,
Not without cause incensed with thee, for all thy strange neglect.
Neglect that not from falseness or words of mine had sprung
But from the slanderous charges made by a lying tongue;
And now I ask thee pardon, if it be not too late,
Oh, take thy Zaida to thy heart, for she is desolate!
For if thou pardon her, and make her thine again, I swear
Thou never wilt repent, dear love, thou thus hast humored her!
It is the law of honor, which thou wilt never break,
That the secret of sweet hours of love thou mayst not common make.
That never shouldst thou fail in love, or into coldness fall,