She thought upon the dreary siege in Baja's desert vale
When the fight was long and the food of beasts and men began to fail,
And her wretched father, forced to yield, gave up his castle hold,
For falling were the towers, falling fast his warriors bold.
And Zara, lovely Zara, did he give into the care
Of the noble Countess Palma, who loved the maiden fair.
And the countess had to Baja come when Queen Isabella came,
The lovely vega of the town to waste with sword and flame.
And the countess asked of Zara if she were skilled in aught,
The needle, or the 'broidery frame, to Christian damsels taught.
And how she made the hours go by when, on Guadalquivir's strand,
She sat in the Alhambra, a princess of the land.
And, while her eyes were full of tears, the Moorish maid replied:
"'Twas I the silver tinsel fixed on garments duly dyed;
'Twas I who with deft fingers with gold lace overlaid
The dazzling robes of flowery tint of velvet and brocade.
And sometimes would I take my lute and play for dancers there;
And sometimes trust my own weak voice in some romantic air;
But now, this moment, I retain but one, one mournful art--
To weep, to mourn the banishment that ever grieves my heart.
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