Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Grenada's maids,

Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades;

And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every one

That what thou didst to win my love, from love of me was done.

Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know,

They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go;

But thou giv'st me little heed-for I speak to one who knows

That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear

What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care.

Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah! thou know'st I feel

That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel.

'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain;

But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again.

I would proclaim thee as thou art-but every maiden knows

That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan,

Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran:

The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as

he was,

He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause:

Oh, lady, dry those star-like eyes-their dimness does me wrong;

If my heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image long:

Thou hast uttered cruel words-but I grieve the less for those,

Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR.

(FROM THE SPANISH.)

"TIS not with gilded sabers.
That gleam in baldricks blue,
Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,
Of gay and gaudy hue-
But, habited in mourning weeds,
Come marching from afar,
By four and four, the valiant men
Who fought with Aliatar.
All mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

The banner of the Phoenix,
The flag that loved the sky
That scarce the wind dared wanton with
It flew so proud and high--
Now leaves its place in battle-field,
And sweeps the ground in grief,
The bearer drags its glorious folds
Behind the fallen chief,

As mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

Brave Aliatar led forward

A hundred Moors to go

To where his brother held Motril
Against the leaguering foe.

On horseback went the gallant Moor,
That gallant band to lead;
And now his bier is at the gate,
From whence he pricked his steed.
While mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

The knights of the Grand Master
In crowded ambush lay;
They rush upon him where the reeds
Were thick beside the way;
They smote the valiant Aliatar,
They smote him till he died,
And broken, but not beaten, were
The brave ones by his side.
Now mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow,
How passionate her cries!

Her lover's wounds streamed not more free
Than that poor maiden's eyes.

Say, Love-for thou didst see her tears:
Oh, no! he drew more tight

The blinding fillet o'er his lids,
To spare his eyes the sight.
While mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors conie,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

Nor Zayda weeps him only,
But all that dwell between
The great Alhambra's palace walls
And springs of Albaicin.

The ladies weep the flower of knights,
The brave the bravest here
The people weep a champion,
The Alcaydes a noble peer.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA.

(FROM THE SPANISH.)

To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,

The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.

The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,

With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.

He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vein,

And toward his lady's dwelling, he rode with slackened rein;

Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,

From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard.

"Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor,

"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.

Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,

That one in love with peace, should have loved a man of blood!

Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight,

But that thy sword was dreaded in tourney and in fight.

Ah thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see

How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.

Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking

of the fife

Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.

Say not my voice is magic-thy pleasure is to hear

The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.

Well, follow thou thy choice-to the battlefield away,

To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.

Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,

And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.

Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,

On thy dappled Moorish bard, or thy fleeter "border steed.

Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,

From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.

Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,

And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong.

These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own,

Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone."

She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek,

Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.