u should sacrifice to him thy love, thy life, thy name.
And art thou she who long ago, when evening veiled the sky,
Didst say to me with tender smile from the lofty balcony,
'Zaide, I am thine own, thine own, thine own I still shall be,
And thou the darling of my soul art life itself to me'?"

GUHALA'S LOVE

The bravest youth that e'er drew rein
Upon Granada's flowery plain,
A courteous knight, of gentle heart,
Accomplished in the jouster's art;
Well skilled to guide the flying steed,
And noted for each warlike deed;
And while his heart like steel was set
When foeman in the battle met,
'Twas wax before his lady's eyes
And melted at her amorous sighs;
And he was like a diamond bright
Amid the sword-thrusts of the fight,
And in the zambra's festive hour
Was gracious as the summer's flower.
In speech he showed the generous mind,
Where wit and wisdom were combined;
And, while his words no envy woke,
He weighed each sentence that he spoke.
And yet his mantle was of blue,
And tinged with sorrow's violet hue;
For fair Guhala, Moorish maid,
Her spell upon his heart had laid;
And thus his cape of saffron bare
The color emblem of despair;
On turban and on tassel lie
The tints that yield an August sky;
For anxious love was in his mind;
And anxious love is ever blind.
With scarce a word did he forsake
The lady pining for his sake;
For, when the festal robe he wore,
Her soul the pall of sorrow wore.
And now he journeyed on his way
To Jaen, for the jousting day,
And to Guhala, left alone,
All relic of delight was gone.
Tho' the proud maid of matchless face
A thousand hearts would fain embrace,
She loved but one, and swiftly ran
And spake her mind to Arbolan.
"O Arbolan, my Moor, my own,
Surely thy love is feeble grown!
The least excuse can bid thee part,
And tear with pain this anxious heart.
Oh, that it once were granted me
To mount my steed and follow thee;
How wouldst thou marvel then to see
That courage of true love in me,
Whose pulse so feebly throbs in thee."
Thus to see Arbolan depart
So fills with grief Guhala's heart.
The Moorish maid, while on he sped,
Lies sickening on her mournful bed.
Her Moorish damsels strive to know
The secret of this sudden blow;
They ask the cause that lays her low;
They seek the sad disease to heal,
Whose cause her feigning words conceal.
And