Nay, swear not--I will naught believe;
Thine oaths are but a fowler's net,
And woe betide the dame who falls
Into the snare that thou hast set.
For men are traitors one and all;
And all their promises betray;
Like letters on the water writ,
They vanish, when love's fires decay.
For to fulfil thy promise fair,
What hours thou hast the whole day long,
What chances on the open road,
Or in the house when bolts are strong.
O God! but what a thought is this?
I strangle, in the sudden thrall
Of this sharp pang of agony,
Oh, hold me, Tarfe, lest I fall."
Thus Adelifa weeping cried
At thought of Abenamar's quest:
In Moorish Tarfe's arms she fell,
And panting lay upon his breast.
THE CAPTIVE OF TOLEDO
Upon the loftiest mountain height
That rises in its pride,
And sees its summits mirrored
In Tagus' crystal tide,
The banished Abenamar,
Bound by a captive chain,
Looks on the high-road to Madrid
That seams the dusty plain.
He measures, with his pining eyes,
The stretching hills that stand
Between his place of banishment
And his sweet native land.
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