Oh, that it once were granted me
To mount my steed and follow thee;
How wouldst thou marvel then to see
That courage of true love in me,
Whose pulse so feebly throbs in thee."
Thus to see Arbolan depart
So fills with grief Guhala's heart.
The Moorish maid, while on he sped,
Lies sickening on her mournful bed.
Her Moorish damsels strive to know
The secret of this sudden blow;
They ask the cause that lays her low;
They seek the sad disease to heal,
Whose cause her feigning words conceal.
And less, indeed, the doubling folds
The Moor within his turban holds,
Than are the wiles Guhala's mind
In search of secrecy can find.
To Zara only, whom she knows,
Sole friend amid a ring of foes,
The sister of her lover leal,
She will the secret cause reveal.
And seeking an occasion meet
To tell with truth and tongue discreet,
While from her eyes the tear-drops start,
She opens thus her bleeding heart:
"O Zara, Zara, to the end,
Thou wilt remain my faithful friend.
How cruel is the lot I bear,
Thy brother's peril makes me fear!
'Tis for his absence that I mourn.
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