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In speech he showed the generous mind,
Where wit and wisdom were combined;
And, while his words no envy woke,
He weighed each sentence that he spoke.
And yet his mantle was of blue,
And tinged with sorrow's violet hue;
For fair Guhala, Moorish maid,
Her spell upon his heart had laid;
And thus his cape of saffron bare
The color emblem of despair;
On turban and on tassel lie
The tints that yield an August sky;
For anxious love was in his mind;
And anxious love is ever blind.
With scarce a word did he forsake
The lady pining for his sake;
For, when the festal robe he wore,
Her soul the pall of sorrow wore.
And now he journeyed on his way
To Jaen, for the jousting day,
And to Guhala, left alone,
All relic of delight was gone.
Tho' the proud maid of matchless face
A thousand hearts would fain embrace,
She loved but one, and swiftly ran
And spake her mind to Arbolan.
"O Arbolan, my Moor, my own,
Surely thy love is feeble grown!
The least excuse can bid thee part,
And tear with pain this anxious heart.


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