Not only Zaida's eyes are wet,
For him her soul shall ne'er forget;
But many a heart in equal share
The sorrow of that lady bare.
Yes, all who drink the water sweet
Where Genil's stream and Darro meet,
All of bold Albaicins's line,
Who mid Alhambra's princes shine--
The ladies mourn the warrior high,
Mirror of love and courtesy;
The brave lament him, as their peer;
The princes, as their comrade dear;
The poor deplore, with hearts that bleed,
Their shelter in the time of need.
Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.
THE SHIP OF ZARA
It was the Moorish maiden, the fairest of the fair,
Whose name amid the Moorish knights was worshipped everywhere.
And she was wise and modest, as her race has ever been,
And in Alhambra's palace courts she waited on the Queen,
A daughter of Hamete--of royal line was he,
And held the mighty castle of Baja's town in fee.
Now sad and mournful all the day the maiden weeping sat,
And her captive heart was thinking still of the distant caliphat,
Which in the stubborn straits of war had passed from Moslem reign,
And now was the dominion of King Ferdinand of Spain.
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