Ignoble origin is thine,
For lovers of a noble line
Have no such rancorous hearts as thine.
And here I pray that God will bring
His curse upon thy soul,
That thou in war, in peace, in love
May meet with failure foul,
And that Sanlucar's lady,
Whom thou wishest for a bride,
Thee from her castle entrance
May spurn thee in her pride.
A widowed wife with bleeding heart,
Hear me one moment ere we part!
Thy knightly service I distrust,
I hear thy voice with deep disgust."
Cut to the heart by words so rude,
The Moor within the palace stood;
Say what he could, 'twas but to find
His vain word wasted on the wind.
THE TOURNAMENT OF ZAIDE
By Zaide has a feast been pledged to all Granada's dames,
For in his absence there had been dire lack of festive games,
And, to fulfil the promise the noble man had made,
He called his friends to join him in dance and serenade.
There should be sport of every kind; the youths in white arrayed
Were, to the ladies all unknown, to lead the camisade.
And ere the radiance of dawn could tint the valley-side,
The merry Moor had come abroad, his friends were at his side.
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