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She sent it by a Moorish knight, and sealed it with her ring; He was warden of Alhambra and stood beside the King, And he had come sent by the King to Antequera's tower, To learn how Vindaraja fared within that prison bower.

To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. Where Antequera's city stands, upon the southern plain, The captive Vindaraja sits and mourns her lot in vain.

While Chico, proud Granada's King, nor night nor day can rest, For of all the Moorish ladies Vindaraja he loves best; And while naught can give her solace and naught can dry her tear, 'Tis not the task of slavery nor the cell that brings her fear; For while in Antequera her body lingers still, Her heart is in Granada upon Alhambra's hill.

Nor think should you forget me or spurn me from your arms, That life for Vindaraja could have no other charms. It was thy boast thou once did love a princess, now a slave, I boasted that to thy behest I full obedience gave!

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.

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!

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.