to the gale wouldst fling;
  Enough that they were thine, false girl, that they should all take wing. 
  Remember how upon that day thou gavest many a sign
  Of love and lavished’st the kiss which told me thou wert mine. 
  Remember, lovely Zaida, though memory bring thee pain,
  Thy bliss when ’neath thy window I sang my amorous strain. 
  By day, before the window, I saw my darling move,
  At night, upon the balcony, I told thee of my love. 
  If I were late or absence detained me from thy sight,
  Then jealous rage distraught thy heart, thine eyes with tears were
                bright. 
  But now that thou hast turned from me, I come thy face to greet,
  And thou biddest me begone, and pass no longer through thy street. 
  Thou biddest me look on thee no more, nor even dare to write
  The letter or the billet-doux, that caused thee once delight. 
  Yes, Zaida, all thy favors, thy love, thy vows, are shown
  To be but false and faithless, since thou art faithless grown. 
  But why? thou art a woman, to fickle falseness born;
  Thou prizest those who scorn thee—­those who love thee thou dost scorn. 
  I change not, thou art changed, whose heart once fondly breathed my name;
  But the more thy bosom turns to ice, the fiercer burns my flame;
  For all thy coldness I with love and longing would repay,
  For passion founded on good faith can never die away.

ZAIDE’S DESOLATION

  It was the hour when Titan from Aurora’s couch awoke,
  And on the world her radiant face in wonted beauty broke,
  When a Moor came by in sad array, and Zaide was his name. 
  Disguised, because his heart was sad with love’s consuming flame;
  No shield he bore, he couched no lance, he rode no warrior steed;
  No plume nor mantle he assumed, motto or blazon screed;
  Still on the flank of his mantle blank one word was written plain,
  In the Moorish of the people, “I languish through disdain.” 
  A flimsy cape his shoulders clad, for, when the garb is poor,
  Nobility is honored most because ’tis most obscure. 
  If he in poverty appeared, ’twas love that made him so;
  Till love might give the wealth he sought thus mourning would he go. 
  And still he journeys through the hills and shuns the haunts of men;
  None look upon his misery in field or lonely fen. 
  Fair Zaida ne’er forgets that he is prince of all the land,
  And ruler of the castles that at Granada stand;
  But gold or silver or brocade can ne’er supply the lack
  Of honor in a noble line whose crimes have stained it black;
  For sunlight never clears the sky when night has spread her cloak,
  But only when the glory of the morning has awoke. 
  He lives secure from jealous care, holding the priceless dower
  Which seldom falls to loving hearts or sons of wealth and power. 
  Poor is his garb, yet at his side a costly blade appears,
  ’Tis through security of mind no other arms he bears.