Fit curtain for his amorous mood,
The gallant Moor the high hills scaled
And on Alhambra's terrace stood.

Arrived, he saw a Moorish maid
Stand at a window opened wide;
He gave her many a precious gem;
He gave her many a gift beside.

He spoke and said: "My lady fair,
Though I have never wronged him, still
Darraja stands upon the watch,
By fair or foul, to do me ill.

"Those eyes of thine, which hold more hearts
Than are the stars that heaven displays;
That slay more Moors with shafts of love
Than with his sword the master slays;

"When will they soften at my smile?
And when wilt thou, my love, relent?
Let Tarfe go, whose words are big,
While his sword-arm is impotent!

"Thou seest I am not such as he;
His haughty words, so seldom true,
Are filled with boasting; what he boasts
This sturdy arm of mine can do.

"My arm, my lance, ah! well 'tis known