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THE ALCALDE'S DAUGHTER |
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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
187
THE ALCALDE'S DAUGHTER
The times they had kissed and parted
That night were over a score;
Each time that the cavalier started,
Each time she would swear him o'er:—
That night were over a score;
Each time that the cavalier started,
Each time she would swear him o'er:—
“Thou art going to Barcelona!—
To make Naxera thy bride!
Seduce the Lady Iona!—
And thy lips have lied! have lied!
To make Naxera thy bride!
Seduce the Lady Iona!—
And thy lips have lied! have lied!
“I love thee! I love thee, thou knowest!
And thou shalt not give away
The love to my life thou owest;
And my heart commands thee stay!
And thou shalt not give away
The love to my life thou owest;
And my heart commands thee stay!
“I say thou hast lied and liest!—
For—where is there war in the State?—
Thou goest, by Heaven the highest!
To choose thee a fairer mate.
For—where is there war in the State?—
Thou goest, by Heaven the highest!
To choose thee a fairer mate.
188
“Wilt thou go to Barcelona
When thy queen in Toledo is?—
To wait on the haughty Iona,
When thou hast these lips to kiss?”
When thy queen in Toledo is?—
To wait on the haughty Iona,
When thou hast these lips to kiss?”
And they stood in the balcony over
The old Toledo square;
And, weeping, she took for her lover
A red rose out of her hair.
The old Toledo square;
And, weeping, she took for her lover
A red rose out of her hair.
And they kissed farewell; and, higher,
The moon made amber the air;—
And she drew, for the traitor and liar,
A stiletto out of her hair. . . .
The moon made amber the air;—
And she drew, for the traitor and liar,
A stiletto out of her hair. . . .
When the night-watch lounged through the quiet
With the stir of halberds and swords,
Not a bravo was there to defy it,
Not a gallant to brave with words.
With the stir of halberds and swords,
Not a bravo was there to defy it,
Not a gallant to brave with words.
One man, at the corner's turning,
Quite dead, in a moonlight band—
In his heart a dagger burning,
And a red rose crushed in his hand.
Quite dead, in a moonlight band—
In his heart a dagger burning,
And a red rose crushed in his hand.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |