"Thy words have done me grievous wrong, for, lovely Mooress, couldst thou
think
That he who loves thee more than life could e'er to such a treachery
sink?
His life is naught without the thought that thou art happy in thy lot;
And while the red blood at his heart is beating thou art ne'er forgot!
Thou woundest me because thy heart mistrusts me as a fickle fool;
Thou dost not know when passion true has one apt pupil taken to school.
Oblivion could not, could not cloud the image on his soul impressed,
Unless dark treachery from the first had been the monarch of his breast
And if perhaps some weary hours I thought that Vindaraja's mind
Might in some happier cavalier the solace of her slavery find,
I checked the thought; I drove away the vision that with death was rife,
For e'er my trust in thee I lost, in battle I'd forego my life!
Yet even the doubt that thou hast breathed gives me no franchise to
forget,
And were I willing that thy face should cease to fill my vision, yet
'Tis separation's self that binds us closer though the centuries roll,
And forges that eternal chain that binds together soul and soul!
And even were this thought no more than the wild vision of my mind,
Yet in a thousand worlds no face to change for thine this heart could
find.
Thro' life, thro' death 'twere all the same, and when to heaven our
glance we raise,
Full in the very heart of bliss thine eyes shall meet my ardent gaze.
For eyes that have beheld thy face, full readily the truth will own
That God exhausted, when he made thee, all the treasures of his throne!
And my trusting heart will answer while it fills my veins with fire
That to hear of, is to see thee; and to see, is to desire!
Yet unless my Vindaraja I could look upon awhile,
As some traveller in a desert I should perish for her smile;
For 'tis longing for her presence makes the spring of life to me,
And allays the secret suffering none except her eye can see.
In this thought alone my spirit finds refreshment and delight;
This is sweeter than the struggle, than the glory of the fight;
And if e'er I could forget her heaving breast and laughing eye,
Tender word, and soft caresses--Vindaraja, I should die!
If the King should bid me hasten to release thee from thy chain,
Oh, believe me, dearest lady, he would never bid in vain;
Naught he could demand were greater than the price that I would pay,
If in high Alhambra's halls I once again could see thee gay!
None can say I am remiss, and heedless of thy dismal fate;
Love comes to prompt me every hour, he will not let my zeal abate.
If occasion call, I yield myself, my soul to set thee free;
Take this offering if thou wilt, I wait thy word on bended knee.
Dost thou suffer, noble lady, by these fancies overwrought?
Ah, my soul is filled with sorrow at the agonizing thought;
For to know that Vindaraja languishes, oppressed with care,
Is enough to make death welcome, if I could but rescue her.
Yes, the world shall know that I would die not only for the bliss
Of clasping thee in love's embrace and kindling at thy tender kiss.
This, indeed, would be a prize, for which the coward death would dare--
I would die to make thee happy, tho' thy lot I might not share!
Then, though I should fail to lift the burden on my darling laid,
Though I could not prove my love by rescuing my Moorish maid,
Yet my love would have this witness, first, thy confidence sublime,
Then my death for thee, recorded on the scroll of future time!
Yes, my death, for should I perish, it were comfort but to think
Thou couldst have henceforth on earth no blacker, bitterer cup to drink!
Sorrow's shafts would be exhausted, thou couldst laugh at fortune's
power.
Tho' I lost thee, yet this thought would cheer me in my parting hour.
Yet I believe that fate intends (oh, bear this forecast in thy mind!)
That all the love my passions crave will soon a full fruition find;
Fast my passion stronger grows, and if of love there measure be,
Believe it, dearest, that the whole can find its summary in me!
Deem that thou art foully wronged, whose graces have such power to bless,
If any of thy subject slaves to thee, their queen, should offer less,
And accept this pledged assurance, that oblivion cannot roll
O'er the image of thy beauty stamped on this enamored soul.
Then dismiss thy anxious musings, let them with the wind away,
As the gloomy clouds are scattered at the rising of the day.
Think that he is now thy slave, who, when he wooed thee, was thy King;
Think that not the brightest morning can to him contentment bring,
Till the light of other moments in thy melting eyes he trace,
And the gates of Paradise are opened in thy warm embrace.
Since thou knowest that death to me and thee will strike an equal blow,
It is just that, while we live, our hearts with equal hopes should glow.
Then no longer vex thy lover with complaints that he may change;
Darling, oft these bitter questions can the fondest love estrange;
No, I dream not of estrangement, for thy Chico evermore
Thinks upon his Vindaraja's image only to adore."