sighs and sobs the softened page was dried.
Fresh wounds he felt at sight of it, and when the cause he sought,
His spirit to Granada flew upon the wings of thought.
He thought of Albaicin, the palace of the dame,
With its gayly gilded capitals and its walls of ancient fame.
And the garden that behind it lay in which the palm was seen
Swaying beneath the load of fruit its coronet of green.
"O mistress of my soul," he said, "who callest me thine own,
How easily all bars to bliss thy love might trample down!
But time, that shall my constancy, thy fickleness will show,
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