“Reduan, I but lately heard
From thy mouth the sounding word,
That for me the town of Jaen
In one night thou wouldst obtain;
Reduan, if thou do the same,
Double pay thou mayest claim;
Save thy word perform’d I see,
From Granada thou shalt flee,
Banish’d to a far frontier,
Where thy lady shall not cheer.”
Reduan, at the Monarch’s side,
With unalter’d mien replied:
“Though the word I never said,
It I’ll do, or lose my head.”
Reduan crav’d one thousand men—
Five the Monarch gave him then.
From Elvira’s portal-arch
See the cavalcado march:
Many a Moor of birth was there,
Many a bay, high-blooded mare,
Many a lance in fist of might,
Many a buckler beaming bright,
Many a green marlote is spied,
Many a ren aljube beside,
Many a plume of gallant air,
Many a rich-grain’d cappellare,
Many a boot a-borzegui,
Many a silken string and tie,
Many a spur of gold there clung,
Many a silver stirrup swung.
All the men that rode that day
Were expert at battle-fray:
Midst of all that pomp and pow’r
Chyquo Monarch of the Moor.
Moorish dames and maidens high
Them from proud Alhambra eye;
And the Moorish Queen so grey
In this guise was heard to say:
“Speed thee hence my son and love!
Mahomet thy Guardian prove!
Crown’d with honor back from Jaen
May he bring thee soon again.”
From the Spanish.
Up I rose, O mother, early
On the blest Saint Juan’s morn;
By the sea I saw a damsel,
Saw a damsel all forlorn.
Lonely there she wash’d her garments
And upon a rose-tree hung;
Whilst the garments there were drying
She a plaintiff ditty sung.
“O my love, my fickle lover—
Where to find him shall I stray?”
Up and down the strand she hurried
Singing, singing this sad lay.
In her hand a comb she carried,
All of gold, to comb her hair;
“Tell me, tell me, gentle sailor—
Heaven take thee ’neath it’s care—
Hast thou seen my fickle lover,
Hast thou seen him any where?”
From the Portuguese.
A fool is he who in the lap
Basking of every smiling joy,
Will each and all with fear alloy
Of what some future day may hap.
Let him enjoy his present state;
For he but double make his woes,
Who midst the future’s shadows goes
To meet the ills of murky fate.
From the French.
Where is my eighteenth year? far back
Upon life’s variegated track;
Yet fondly oft I turn my eye,
And for my eighteenth year I sigh.
Each pleasure then I took with zest,
And hope was inmate of my breast—
Enchanting hope, consoling thing,
The plucker out of sorrow’s sting.