Romanze I

At the pleasant dawn of morning, Moorish knights in numbers sally, To maintain a solemn turney In Granada's verdant valley.

Justing they wheel their fleet horses; On his lance each warrior steady Bears a rich and beauteous penon, Wrought with art by his fair lady.

The bright sun they dazzle, shewing Jupes of silk and golden tissue: Each young hero hopes to soften His proud dame by that day's issue.

From the towers of proud Alhambra Moorish ladies view the trial; And among them two the fairest Of the court without denial.

Fatima they and Xarifa Love on both has play'd his quiver: Thee, Xarifa, O that Alla Would from jealousy deliver!

Tho friends they, for this has silence O'er them spread his sullen pinion. Fatima the heart has stolen Of Xarifa's faithless minion.

Abendarrez call the rover; Guiltless she of his defection; For of Fatima's firm passion Abenamar was th' election.

Spoke at length the wrong'd Xarifa, As with scorn her rage to cover; For she thought her friend with favour Heard the suit of her false lover.

'Love cannot be hid, my sister, 'But himself he still discloses; 'Of thy tongue where is the prattle? 'Of thy cheeks where are the roses?

'Thou art not in love, I know it! 'See the cause of thy condition; 'Thy knight, Abendarrez, tilting, 'Hopes the prize with fond ambition.

Beauteous Fatima her silence In wise answer thus has broken: 'Never yet did Love, Xarifa, 'Of my heart receive a token.

'If my speech and colour leave me 'It is not without a reason; 'Short time since my gracious father 'Died by Alabez's treason.

'And if ever Love, my sister, 'To his law could bring me over, 'Abendarrez should not win me, 'From thy charms a cruel rover.'

Thus the Moorish dames have spoken; Then in silence clos'd their prattle, To remark each gallant chieftain Who maintain'd the seeming battle.