garden glade;
  Amid the flowers, those happy hours fled to the evening shade. 
  With fingers deft Celinda wove a wreath, in which were set
  The rose’s rudy petals and the scented mignonette. 
  She plaited him a baldric, with violets circled round,
  For violets are for lovers, and with this his waist she bound. 
  And then the flowery garland she tied upon his head,
  “Thy face is delicate and fair as Ganymede’s,” she said;
  “And if great Jove beheld thee now, he’d send his eagle down,
  To take thee to the palace halls that high Olympus crown.” 
  The brave Gazul his lady took and kissed her with a smile;
  “She could not be so fair,” said he, “the girl, who by her guile
  Brought ruin on the Trojan realm, and set its towers afire,
  As thou art, lady of my heart and queen of my desire.” 
  “If I, indeed, seem fair to thee, then let the bridal rite
  Me and the husband of my heart for evermore unite.” 
  “Ah, mine will be the gain,” he said, and kissed her with delight.

CELINDA’S INCONSTANCY

  Gazul, like some brave bull that stands at bay to meet his fate,
  Has fled from fair Celinda’s frown and reached Sanlucar’s gate. 
  The Moor bestrides a sorrel mare, her housings are of gray,
  The desperate Moor is clad in weeds that shall his grief display. 
  The white and green that once he wore to sable folds give room,
  Love’s purple tints are now replaced by those of grief and gloom. 
  His Moorish cloak is white and blue, the blue was strewn with stars,
  But now a covering like a cloud the starry radiance mars. 
  And from his head with stripes of black his silken streamers flow,
  His bonnet blue he dyes anew in tints of grief and woe. 
  Alone are seen the tints of green upon his sword-belt spread,
  For by that blade the blood of foes in vengeance shall be shed. 
  The color of the mantle which on his arm he bore
  Is like the dark arena’s dust when it is drenched in gore. 
  Black as the buskins that he wears, and black his stirrup’s steel,
  And red with rust of many a year the rowels at his heel. 
  He bears not lance or headed spear, for that which once he bore
  Was shivered into splinters beside Celinda’s door. 
  He bears a rounded target, whose quarterings display
  The full moon darting through the clouds her ineffectual ray. 
  For though her orb be full the clouds eclipse her silver light;
  The motto:  “Fair but cruel, black-hearted though so bright.” 
  And as Celinda stripped the wings which on adventure brave
  Sustained his flight—­no more shall plume above his helmet wave. 
  ’Twas noon one Wednesday when Gazul to Gelva’s portal came,
  And straight he sought the market-place to join the jousting game;
  The ruler of the city looked at him with surprise,
  And never lady knew the knight, so dark