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Updated: May 12, 2025
The straps with rich enamel decked I bid you lay aside; And bind the rowels to my heel With thongs of dusky hide." Thus spake aloud the brave Gazul, One gloomy Tuesday night; Gloomy the eve, as he prepared For victory in the fight. For on that day the news had come That his fair Moorish maid Had wedded with his bitterest foe, The hated Albenzaide.
Her fancy in the silent air could whispering voices hear; "I'll make of thee a sacrifice, to Albenzaide dear;" This fancy took her breath away, lifeless she sank at length, And grasped the saddle-bow; for fear had sapped her spirit's strength. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?"
And Albenzaide keep thy tastes Proportioned to thy state; For oft from unrestrained desires Spring hopes infatuate. Flee from thy thoughts, for they have wings, Whose light ambition lifts Thy soul to empty altitudes, Where purpose veers and drifts. Fling not thyself into the sea, From which the breezes blow Now with abrupt disdain, and now With flattering whispers low.
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