’Tis love that from Granada’s home has sent him thus to rove,
  And for the lovely Zaida he languishes with love—­
  The loveliest face that by God’s grace the sun e’er shone above. 
  From court and mart he lives apart, such is the King’s desire;
  Yet the King’s friend Alfaqui is the fair maiden’s sire. 
  Friend of the King, the throne’s support, a monarch’s son is he,
  And he has sworn that never Moor his daughter’s spouse shall be. 
  He has no ease till the monarch sees his daughter’s loveliness. 
  But she has clasped brave Zaide’s hand, and smiled to his caress,
  And said that to be his alone is her sole happiness. 
  And after many journeys wide, wearied of banishment,
  He sees the lofty tower in which his Moorish maid is pent.

ZAIDA’S LAMENT

  Now the hoarse trumpets of the morn were driving sleep away;
  They sounded as the fleeting night gave truce unto the day. 
  The hubbub of the busy crowd ceased at that dulcet sound,
  In which one moment high and low peace and refreshment found. 
  The hoot of the nocturnal owl alone the silence broke,
  While from the distance could be heard the din of waking folk;
  And, in the midst of silence, came the sound as Zaida wept,
  For all night long in fear of death she waked while others slept. 
  And as she sighed, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
  “And who would wish to die,” she said, “though death be free from pain?”
  For evil tongues, who thought to win her favor with a lie,
  Had told her that the bold Gazul ordained that she should die;
  And so she donned a Moor’s attire, and put her own away,
  And on the stroke of midnight from Xerez took her way. 
        And as she sighed, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
        “And who would wish to die,” she said, “though death be free from
                pain?”

  She rode a nimble palfrey and scarce could great Gazul
  Excel the ardent spirit with which her heart was full. 
  Yet at every step her palfrey took, she turned her head for fear,
  To see if following on her track some enemy were near. 
        And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
        “And who would wish to die,” she said, “though death be free from
                pain?”

  To shun suspicion’s eye, at last she left the king’s highway,
  And took the journey toward Seville that thro’ a bypath lay;
  With loosened rein her gallant steed right swiftly did she ride,
  Yet to her fear he did appear like a rock on the rough wayside. 
        And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
        “And who would wish to die,” she said, “though death be free from
                pain?”