Classic Poem

So may time preserve the April
 Of thy Hope—my faithful Maida—
If thou tellest to me truly
 Where I may behold this Z aida.
She I mean, the beauteous stranger,
 With her braided golden tresses;
She whose beauty all are speaking,
 But whose grace no word expresses;
She, for whom the truant lover
 Breaks his vows, and perjured gazes;
She whom all the Moorish nobles
 Celebrate with glorious praises.
To the Mosque I go to seek her,
 Seek her in the festal Zambra,
Through the shady Alameda,
 Through the golden-roofed Alhambra
Something ever dims my eye-sight,
 Some enchantment doth enfold her,
So that day or night I never
 Have been able to behold her.
Ah! my Maida, with full reason
 Does the heart within me wither:
Since I came unto Granada—
 Would that I had ne'er come hither!—
Since I came unto Granada—
 Woe is me! unhappy lady!—
Soon as dusky night descendeth,
 From me goeth my Alcaide;
And although he comes not homeward
 Till the sun the blue zone blesses,
Well I know that he is weary
 Of my greetings and caresses;
That he's weary to be with me,
 Every silent look attesteth;
'Tis no wonder that he's weary,
 When elsewhere so long he resteth.
When he's with me in the garden,
 Or when he reposes nigh me,
Not alone are deeds then wanting,
 But even words he doth deny me!
If I say—“My Life!”—he answers
 Not as when he first did woo me!
But he says—“My dear!”—so coldly,
 That like ice it freezes through me!
All my fondness he repelleth,
 Either with impatient gesture,
Or he heeds it not, from being
 Wrapped in thought, as in a vesture.
When I clasp his neck in fondness,
 He his head and eyes inclineth,
And withdraws him from the circle
 Of the arms which he untwineth.
All the time such sighs upheaving,
 From the deep hell of his anguish,
That both kindle my suspicions,
 And the flame with which I languish
If the cause of this I ask him,
 “Thou art it,” he answers merely—
Falsely answers, as Heaven knoweth
 That I still do love him dearly.
I offend him! I who ever
 Feel Love's season fresh and vernal:
May he, for this false assertion,
 Burn in flames of love eternal!
I —who never at my window
 Have been seen my beauty showing,
Never sought the thrilling bull-fight,
 Nor the games where canes were throwing;
Never where guitars were playing,
 By the sighing crowd infested;
Never placed my conscious footsteps
 Where suspicion's breath had rested:
Ever in my house remaining.
 This Mohammed knows, that even
Had I not to please my husband,
 I had still the law of Heaven!
But why waste more time in telling
 Grief like mine?—Or why reveal it?
Since the cause of all this sorrow
 You do know, and yet conceal it!
Do not swear!—I'll not believe you!
 Women build on slight foundation,
When they rest Joy's golden fabric
 On man's strongest protestation
Men have ever been base traitors,
 Falsehood is Love's first-born daughter;
Promises, when love expireth,
 Vanish as if writ in water.
From the promise to fulfilment,
 Ah! how long the way and weary!
Wretched inns beside the highway,
 Darksome, desolate, and dreary!
Ah! my God, when I remember
 All the burning vows he swore me!
But, support me, gentle Maida,
 For a faintness cometh o'er me!
In her arms she lieth fainting;
 Vainly Maida seeks to calm her.
Thus spoke Adalifa, weeping,
 Jealous of her Abenámar.