Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
To the north her fancies wander,
There he dwells, her Spanish knight;
’Tis a dreadful thing to ponder,
Whether true love heard aright.
Did he say those gentle things
Over which fond memories linger,
And with which she cannot part?
Still his ring is on her finger,
Still his name is in her heart—
All around his image brings.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Can the fond heart be forsaken
By the one who sought that heart?
Can there be who will awaken
All of life's diviner part,
For some vanity's cold reign.
Heavy is the lot of woman—
Heavy is her loving lot—
If it thus must share in common
Love with those who know it not—
With the careless and the vain.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Faithless Christian!—ere the blossom,
Hanging on the myrtle bough,
Float on the clear fountain's bosom,
She who listened to thy vow—
She will watch for thee no more!
'Tis a tale of frequent sorrow
Love seems fated to renew;
It will be again to-morrow
Just as bitter and as true,
As it aye has been of yore.
Woe to thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's wave;
But the shade of rest is round thee—
And it is the grave!
