130

FATIMA AND RADUAN.

Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know,

They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go; But thou giv'st me little heed-for I speak to one who

knows

That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear
What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care.
Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah! thou
know'st I feel

That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel.
'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart

with pain;

But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again.

I would proclaim thee as thou art—but every maiden knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan,
Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran :
The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was,

He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his

cause:

Oh, lady, dry those star-like eyes--their dimness does me

If

my

wrong;

heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image long:

Thou hast uttered cruel words--but I grieve the less for

those,

Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR.

(FROM THE SPANISH.)

"Tis not with gilded sabres

That gleam in baldricks blue,
Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,
Of gay and gaudy hue-
But, habited in mourning weeds,
Come marching from afar,
By four and four, the valiant men
Who fought with Aliatar.
All mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

The banner of the Phenix,

The flag that loved the sky,
That scarce the wind dared wanton witn,
It flew so proud and high—

Now leaves its place in battle-field,

And sweeps the ground in grief The bearer drags its glorious folds Behind the fallen chief,

132

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR.

As mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

Brave Aliatar led forward

A hundred Moors to go
To where his brother held Motril
Against the leaguering foe.
On horseback went the gallant Moor,
That gallant band to lead;

And now his bier is at the gate,

From whence he pricked his steed. While mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,

To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

The knights of the Grand Master
In crowded ambush lay;

They rushed upon him where the reeds
Were thick beside the way;

They smote the valiant Aliatar,
They smote him till he died,
And broken, but not beaten, were
The brave ones by his side.

Now mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR.

Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow,

How passionate her cries!

Her lover's wounds streamed not more free
Than that poor maiden's eyes.

Say, Love-for thou didst see her tears:

Oh, no! he drew more tight
The blinding fillet o'er his lids,
To spare his eyes the sight.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

Nor Zayda weeps him only,
But all that dwell between
The great Alhambra's palace walls
And springs of Albaicin.

The ladies weep the flower of knights

The brave the bravest here;

The people weep a champion,

The Alcaydes a noble peer.

While mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

12

133

THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA.

(FROM THE SPANISH.)

To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,
The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.
The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,
With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.
He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vein,
And towards his lady's dwelling, he rode with slackened rein;
Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,
From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard.
"Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the
Moor,

"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.

Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,

That one in love with peace, should have loved a man of

blood!

Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight, But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight. Ah thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree. Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife