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 had relinquished there
  His place to solitary care,
  Brave Abenamar pondered deep
  How lovers must surrender sleep. 
  And when he saw the morning rise,
  While sleep still sealed Daraja’s eyes,
  Amid his tears, to soothe his pain,
  He sang this melancholy strain: 
    “The morn is up,
      The heavens alight,
    My jealous soul
      Still owns the sway of night. 
  Thro’ all the night I wept forlorn,
  Awaiting anxiously the morn;
  And tho’ no sunlight strikes on me,
  My bosom burns with jealousy. 
  The twinkling starlets disappear;
  Their radiance made my sorrow clear;
  The sun has vanished from my sight,
  Turned into water is his light;
  What boots it that the glorious sun
  From India his course has run,
  To bring to Spain the gleam of day,
  If from my sight he hides away? 
    The morn is up,
      The heavens are bright,
    My jealous soul
      Still owns the sway of night.”

ADELIFA’S JEALOUSY

  Fair Adelifa sees in wrath, kindled by jealous flames,
  Her Abenamar gazed upon by the kind Moorish dames. 
  And if they chance to speak to him, or take him by the hand,
  She swoons to see her own beloved with other ladies stand. 
  When with companions of his own, the bravest of his race,
  He meets the bull within the ring, and braves him to his face,
  Or if he mount his horse of war, and sallying from his tent
  Engages with his comrades in tilt or tournament,
  She sits apart from all the rest, and when he wins the prize
  She smiles in answer to his smile and devours him with her eyes. 
  And in the joyous festival and in Alhambra’s halls,
  She follows as he treads the dance at merry Moorish balls. 
  And when the tide of battle is rising o’er the land,
  And he leaves his home, obedient to his honored King’s command,
  With tears and lamentation she sees the warrior go
  With arms heroic to subdue the proud presumptuous foe. 
  Though ’tis to save his country’s towers he mounts his fiery steed
  She has no cheerful word for him, no blessing and godspeed;