And to Guhala, left alone,
All relic of delight was gone.
Tho' the proud maid of matchless face
A thousand hearts would fain embrace,
She loved but one, and swiftly ran
And spake her mind to Arbolan.
"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.