fair wedded love;
And I a child from that mother mild, who taught me at her knee
Was ever told to be true and bold with a tongue that was frank and free,
That the liar's art and the caitiff heart would lead to the house of
doom;
And still I must hear my mother dear, for she speaks to me from the tomb.
Then give me my task, O King, and ask what question thou mayst choose;
I will give to you the word that is true, for why should I refuse?"
"I give you grace for your open face, and the courteous words you use.
What castles are those on the hill where grows the palm-tree and the
pine?
They are so high that they touch the sky, and with gold their pinnacles
shine."
"In the sunset's fire there glisten, sire, Alhambra's tinted tiles;
And somewhat lower Alijire's tower upon the vega smiles,
And many a band of subtile hand has wrought its pillared aisles.
The Moor whose thought and genius wrought those works for many moons
Received each day a princely pay--five hundred gold doubloons--
Each day he left his labor deft, his guerdon was denied;
Nor less he lost than his labor cost when he his hand applied.
And yonder I see the Generalife with its orchard green and wide;
There are growing there the apple and pear that are Granada's pride.
There shadows fall from the soaring wall of high Bermeja's tower;
It has flourished long as a castle strong, the seat of the Soldan's
power."
The King had bent and his ear had lent to the words the warrior spoke,
And at last he said, as he raised his head before the crowd of folk:
"I would take thee now with a faithful vow, Granada for my bride,
King Juan's Queen would hold, I ween, a throne and crown of pride;
That very hour I would give thee dower that well would suit thy will;
Cordova's town should be thine own, and the mosque of proud Seville.
Nay, ask not, King, for I wear the ring of a faithful wife and true;
Some graceful maid or a widow arrayed in her weeds is the wife for you,
And close I cling to the Moorish King who holds me to his breast,
For well I ween it can be seen that of all he loves me best."

ABENAMAR'S JEALOUSY

Alhambra's bell had not yet pealed
Its morning note o'er tower and field;
Barmeja's bastions glittered bright,
O'ersilvered with the morning light;
When rising from a pallet blest
With no refreshing dews of rest,
For slumber