Thus runs the embroidery of love, and in the midst appears
A phoenix, painted clear, the bird that lives eternal years.
For she from the cold ashes of life at its last wane,
Takes hope, and spreads her wings and soars through skyey tracks again.
And there a hunter draws his bow outlined with skilful thread,
And underneath a word which says, 'Nay, shoot not at the dead.'"
Thus spake the Moorish maiden, and in her eyes were tears of grief,
Tho' in her busy needle she seemed to find relief.
And the kindly countess called from far: "Zara, what aileth thee?
Where art thou? For I called, and yet thou didst not answer me."



THE JEALOUS KING

'Twas eight stout warriors matched with eight, and ten with valiant ten,
As Aliatare formed a band allied with Moslem men,
To joust, with loaded canes, that day in proud Toledo's ring,
Against proud Adelifa's host before their lord the King.
The King by proclamation had announced the knightly play,
For the cheerful trumpets sang a truce upon that very day;
And Zaide, high Belchite's King, had sworn that war should cease,
And with Tarfe of Valentia had ratified the peace.
But others spread the news, that flew like fire from tongue to tongue,
That the King was doting-mad with love, for then the King was young;
And had given to Celindaja the ordering of the day.
And there were knights beside the King she loved to see at play.
And now the lists are opened and, lo! a dazzling band,
The Saracens, on sorrel steeds leap forth upon the sand;
Their trailing cloaks are flashing like the golden orange rind,