he scutcheon of thy sires
Thou plantest many a stain;
The pillars of thine ancient house
Will ne'er be firm again.
But, oh, may Allah vengeance take
For thine unkind deceit,
And sorely weeping mayst thou pay
The vengeance that is meet.
Thus shalt thou pay--thy lover's bliss
Thou shalt not, canst not share,
But feel the bitter mockery
Thy day-long shame must bear.
And what revenge 'twill be to note
When thou dost kiss his brow,
How thy gold tresses, soft and light,
Blend with his locks of snow;
And what revenge to hear him
To thee his loves recount,
Praising some Moorish lass, or mark
His sons thy staircase mount.
Yes, thou shalt pay the penalty,
When, from sweet Genil's side,
Thou passest to the stormy waves
Of Tagus' rushing tide;
Abencerrajes are not there,
And from thy balcony
Thou shalt not hear the horsemen
With loud hoof rushing by.
Thoughts of lost days shall haunt thee then
And lay thy spirit waste,
When thy past glories thou shalt see
All faded and effaced;
All gone, those sweet, seductive wiles--
The love note's scented scroll--
The words, and blushing vows, that brought
Damnation to thy soul.
Thus the bright moments of the past
Shall rise to memory's eye,
Like vengeance-bearing ministers
To mock thy misery.
For time is father of distress;
And he whose life is long
Experiences a thousand cares,
A thousand shapes of wrong.
Thou shalt be hated in the court,
And hated in the stall,
Hated in merry gathering,
In dance and festival.
Thou shalt be hated far and wide;
And, thinking on this hate,
Wilt lay it to the black offence
That thou didst perpetrate.
Then thou wilt make some weak defence,
And plead a father's will,
That forced thee shuddering to consent
To do the act of ill.
Enjoy then him whom thus constrained
Thou choosest for thine own;
But know, when love would have his way,
He scorns a father's frown.

THE GALLEY-SLAVE OF DRAGUT

Ah, fortune's targe and butt was he,
On whom were rained the strokes from hate
From love that had not found its goal,
From strange vicissitudes of fate.
A galley-slave of Dragut he,
Who once had pulled the laboring oar,
Now, 'mid a garden's leafy boughs,
He worked and wept in anguish sore.
"O Mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impa