The page was moistened by the tears that flowed in plenteous tide,
But by the breath of sighs and sobs the softened page was dried.
Fresh wounds he felt at sight of it, and when the cause he sought,
His spirit to Granada flew upon the wings of thought.
He thought of Albaicin, the palace of the dame,
With its gayly gilded capitals and its walls of ancient fame.
And the garden that behind it lay in which the palm was seen
Swaying beneath the load of fruit its coronet of green.
"O mistress of my soul," he said, "who callest me thine own,
How easily all bars to bliss thy love might trample down!
But time, that shall my constancy, thy fickleness will show,
The world shall then my steadfast heart, thy tongue of treachery know.
Woe worth the day when, for thy sake, I fair Granada sought,
These anxious doubts may cloud my brow, they cannot guard thy thought.
My foes increase, thy cruelty makes absence bitterer still,
But naught can shake my constancy, and none can do me ill."
On this from Alpujarra the tocsin sounded high.
He rushed as one whose life is staked to save the maid or die.
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