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Updated: May 28, 2025
'Twas not because against his King He played a treacherous part; But only that Guhala's charms Had won the captive's heart. "Guhala, Guhala, My longing heart must cry; This mournful vow I utter now To see thee or to die." No longer free those sturdy limbs! Revenge had bid them bind The iron chain on hands and feet; They could not chain his mind! How dolorous was the warrior's lot!
"O Arbolan, my Moor, my own, Surely thy love is feeble grown! The least excuse can bid thee part, And tear with pain this anxious heart. Oh, that it once were granted me To mount my steed and follow thee; How wouldst thou marvel then to see That courage of true love in me, Whose pulse so feebly throbs in thee." Thus to see Arbolan depart So fills with grief Guhala's heart.
The Moorish maid, while on he sped, Lies sickening on her mournful bed. Her Moorish damsels strive to know The secret of this sudden blow; They ask the cause that lays her low; They seek the sad disease to heal, Whose cause her feigning words conceal. And less, indeed, the doubling folds The Moor within his turban holds, Than are the wiles Guhala's mind In search of secrecy can find.
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