Then spake the fair Sultana, and she dropped a tender tear,
"Nay mourn not for the present pain, for future bliss is near.
The wings of Time are swift, and they bear a brighter day;
And when once the longed-for gift is here 'twill never pass away!"
Then the Moor's heart beat high with joy; to smiles were changed his sighs,
In silent ecstasy he gazed into the lady's eyes.
He rode to meet his waiting fleet, for favoring was the wind,
But while his body went on board, he left his heart behind!
Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!
Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.