“In frost is born this flame of love”—­
    Such legend circles the device—­
  “And the fierce fire in which I burn
    Is nourished by the breath of ice.”

  Upon her brow the lady wears
    A crown; her dexter hand sustains
  A royal sceptre, gilded bright,
    To show that o’er all hearts she reigns.

  An orb in her left hand she bears,
    For all the world her power must feel;
  There Fortune prostrate lies; the dame
    Halts with her foot the whirling wheel.

  But Tarfe’s shield is blank and bare,
    Lest Adelifa should be moved
  With jealous rage, to learn that he
    Her Moorish rival, Celia, loved.

  He merely blazons on his targe
    A peaceful olive-branch, and eyes
  That sparkle in a beauteous face,
    Like starlets in the autumn skies.

  And on the branch of olive shines
    This legend:  “If thy burning ray
  Consume me with the fire of love,
    See that I wither not away.”

  They spurred their horses as they saw
    The ladies their approach surveyed;
  And when they reached their journey’s end
    The King to Dorelice said: 

  “The goddesses who reign above
    With envy of thy beauty tell;
  When heaven and glory are thy gifts,
    Why should I feel the pangs of hell?

  “Oh, tell me what is thy desire? 
    And does heaven’s light more pleasure bring
  Than to own monarchs as thy slaves,
    And be the heiress to a king?

  “I ask from thee no favor sweet;
    Nor love nor honor at thy hand;
  But only that thou choose me out
    The servant of thy least command.

  “The choicest nobles of the realm
    The glory of this office crave;
  The lowliest soldier, with delight,
    Would die to prove himself thy slave.

  “Each life, each heart is at thy feet;
    Thou with a thousand hearts mayst live;
  And if thou wouldst not grant my prayer,
    Oh, take the warning that I give.

  “For there are ladies in the court
    To my desires would fain consent,
  And lovely Bendarrafa once
    These jealous words but lately sent: 

  “’Those letters and those written lines,
    Why dost thou not their sense divine? 
  Are they not printed on thy heart
    As thy loved image is on mine?

  “’Why art thou absent still so long? 
    It cannot be that thou art dead?’”
  Then ceased the King and silent stood,
    While Tarfe to his Celia said: 

  “Celestial Celia be thy name;
    Celestial calm is on thy brow;
  Yet all the radiance of thy face
    Thy cruelty eclipses now.

  “A witch like Circe dost thou seem;
    For Circe could o’ercloud the sky;
  Oh, let the sun appear once more,
    And bid the clouds of darkness fly!

  “Ah, would to God that on the feast,
    The Baptist’s consecrated day,
  I might my arms about thee fling
    And lead thee from thy home away.