Splendid rose the star of evening, and the gray dusk was
a-fading.
O'er it with a hand of mildness, now the Night her veil was
drawing:
Abensaïd, valiant soldier, from Medina's ancient gateway,
To the meadows, rich with blossoms, walked in darkest mood of
musing--
Where the Guadalete's wild waves foaming wander through the
flat lands,
Where, within the harbor's safety, loves to wait the weary seaman.
Neither hero's mood nor birth-pride eased his spirit of its suffering
For his youth's betrothed, Zobeïde; she it was who caused him
anguish.
Faithless had she him forsaken, she sometime his best-beloved,
Left him, though already parted by strange fate, from realm and
heirship.
Oh, that destiny he girds not--strength it gave him, hero-courage,
Added to his lofty spirit, touches of nobler feeling--
'Tis that she, ill-starred one, leaves him! takes the hand so
wrinkled
Of that old man, Seville's conqueror!
Into the night, along the river, Abensaïd now forth rushes:
Loudly to the rocky limits, Echo bears his lamentations.
"Faithless maid, more faithless art thou than the sullen water!
Harder thou than even the hardened bosom of yon rigid rockwall!
Ah, bethinkest thou, Zobeïde, still upon our solemn love-oath?
How thy heart, this hour so faithless, once belonged to me, me only?
Canst thou yield thy heart, thy beauty, to that old man, dead to
love-thoughts?
Wilt thou try to love the tyrant lacking love despite his treasure?
Dost thou deem the sands of desert higher than are virtue--
honor?
Allah grant, then, that he hate thee! That thou lovest yet
another!
That thou soon thyself surrender to the scorned one's bitter feeling.
Rest may night itself deny thee, and may day to thee be terror!
Be thy face before thy husband as a thing of nameless loathing!
May his eye avoid thee ever, flee the splendor of thy beauty!
May he ne'er, in gladsome gathering, stretch his hand to thee for
partner!
Never gird himself with girdle which for him thy hand embroidered!
Let his heart, thy love forsaking, in another love be fettered;
The love-tokens of another may his scutcheon flame in battle,
While behind thy grated windows year by year, away thou
mournest!
To thy rival may he offer prisoners that his hand has taken!
May the trophies of his victory on his knees to _her_ be proffered!
May he hate thee! and thy heart's faith to him be but thing
accursed!
These things, aye and more still! be thy cure for all my sting
and sorrow!"
Silent now goes Abensaïd, unto Xeres, in the midnight;
Dazzling shone the palace, lighted, festal for the loathsome marriage,
Richly-robed Moors were standing 'neath the shimmer of the
tapers,
On the jubilant procession of the marriage-part proceeded.
In the path stands Abensaïd, frowning, as the bridegroom nears
him;
Strikes the lance into his bosom, with the rage of sharpest
vengeance.
'Gainst the heaven rings a loud cry, those at hand their swords
are baring--
But he rushes through the weapons, and in safety gains his own
hearth.
Translation through the German, in the metre of the original, by E.
Irenæus Stevenson.