Not only Zaida’s eyes are wet,
  For him her soul shall ne’er forget;
  But many a heart in equal share
  The sorrow of that lady bare. 
  Yes, all who drink the water sweet
  Where Genil’s stream and Darro meet,
  All of bold Albaicins’s line,
  Who mid Alhambra’s princes shine—­
  The ladies mourn the warrior high,
  Mirror of love and courtesy;
  The brave lament him, as their peer;
  The princes, as their comrade dear;
  The poor deplore, with hearts that bleed,
  Their shelter in the time of need.

  Sadly we march along the crowded street,
  While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

THE SHIP OF ZARA

  It was the Moorish maiden, the fairest of the fair,
  Whose name amid the Moorish knights was worshipped everywhere. 
  And she was wise and modest, as her race has ever been,
  And in Alhambra’s palace courts she waited on the Queen,
  A daughter of Hamete—­of royal line was he,
  And held the mighty castle of Baja’s town in fee. 
  Now sad and mournful all the day the maiden weeping sat,
  And her captive heart was thinking still of the distant caliphat,
  Which in the stubborn straits of war had passed from Moslem reign,
  And now was the dominion of King Ferdinand of Spain. 
  She thought upon the dreary siege in Baja’s desert vale
  When the fight was long and the food of beasts and men began to fail,
  And her wretched father, forced to yield, gave up his castle hold,
  For falling were the towers, falling fast his warriors bold. 
  And Zara, lovely Zara, did he give into the care
  Of the noble Countess Palma, who loved the maiden fair. 
  And the countess had to Baja come when Queen Isabella came,
  The lovely vega of the town to waste with sword and flame. 
  And the countess asked of Zara if she were skilled in aught,
  The needle, or the ’broidery frame, to Christian damsels taught. 
  And how she made the hours go by when, on Guadalquivir’s strand,
  She sat in the Alhambra, a princess of the land. 
  And, while her eyes were full of tears, the Moorish maid replied: 
  “’Twas I the silver tinsel fixed on garments duly dyed;
  ’Twas I who with deft fingers with gold lace overlaid
  The dazzling robes of flowery tint of velvet and brocade. 
  And sometimes would I take my lute and play for dancers there;
  And sometimes trust my own weak voice in some romantic air;
  But now, this moment, I retain but one, one mournful art—­
  To weep, to mourn the banishment that ever grieves my heart. 
  And since ’tis thou alone whose bread, whose roof my life didst save,
  I weep the bitterest tears of all because I am a slave! 
  Yet wouldst thou deign, O lady dear, to make more light to me
  The hours I pass beneath thy roof, in dark captivity,—­
  I bid thee build for me, if thou approve