Arrived, he saw a Moorish maid
    Stand at a window opened wide;
  He gave her many a precious gem;
    He gave her many a gift beside.

  He spoke and said:  “My lady fair,
    Though I have never wronged him, still
  Darraja stands upon the watch,
    By fair or foul, to do me ill.

  “Those eyes of thine, which hold more hearts
    Than are the stars that heaven displays;
  That slay more Moors with shafts of love
    Than with his sword the master slays;

  “When will they soften at my smile? 
    And when wilt thou, my love, relent? 
  Let Tarfe go, whose words are big,
    While his sword-arm is impotent!

  “Thou seest I am not such as he;
    His haughty words, so seldom true,
  Are filled with boasting; what he boasts
    This sturdy arm of mine can do.

  “My arm, my lance, ah! well ’tis known
    How oft in battle’s darkest hour
  They saved Granada’s city proud
    From yielding to the Christian’s power.”

  Thus amorous Almarada spoke
    When Tarfe came and caught the word;
  And as his ear the message seized,
    His right hand seized upon his sword.

  Yet did he deem some Christian troop
    Was in the darkness hovering by;
  And at the thought, with terror struck,
    He turned in eager haste to fly!

  Darraja roused him at the din;
    And with loud voice to Tarfe spoke;
  He knew him from his cloak of blue,
    For he had given the Moor that cloak!

THE TWO MOORISH KNIGHTS

  Upon two mares both strong and fleet,
    White as the cygnet’s snowy wing,
  Beneath Granada’s arching gate
    Passed Tarfe and Belchite’s King.

  Like beauty marks the dames they serve;
    Like colors at their spear-heads wave;
  While Tarfe kneels at Celia’s feet,
    The King is Dorelice’s slave.

  With belts of green and azure blue
    The gallant knights are girded fair;
  Their cloaks with golden orange glow,
    And verdant are the vests they wear.

  And gold and silver, side by side,
    Are glittering on their garment’s hem;
  And, mingled with the metals, shine
    The lights of many a costly gem.

  Their veils are woven iron-gray,
    The melancholy tint of woe—­
  And o’er their heads the dusky plumes
    Their grief and desolation show.

  And each upon his target bears
    Emblazoned badges, telling true
  Their passion and their torturing pangs,
    In many a dark and dismal hue.

  The King’s device shines on his shield—­
    A seated lady, passing fair;
  A monarch, with a downcast eye,
    Before the dame is kneeling there.

  His crown is lying at her feet
    That she may spurn it in disdain;
  A heart in flames above is set;
    And this the story of his pain.