Chapter II: Preface (1)

The Moorish ballads which appear in this volume are selected from a unique department of European literature. They are found in the Spanish language, but their character is oriental; their inspiration comes from the Mahometan conquerors of northern Africa, and while they exhibit a blending of Spanish earnestness and chivalry with the wild and dashing spirit of the Arab, they present a type of literature which is quite unparalleled in the Latin and Teutonic countries of the Mediterranean basin.

Spain is especially rich in ballad literature, infinitely richer than any other civilized nation. These ballads take various forms. By Cervantes and his countrymen they are styled romances, and the romance generally consists in a poem which describes the character, sufferings, or exploits of a single individual. The language is simple; the versification, often artless though melodious, is seldom elaborated into complexity of rhyme. But the heroic Moor is set before us in the most vivid colors. The hues and material of his cloak, his housings, his caftan, and his plumes are given, and quite a vocabulary is exhausted in depicting the color, sex, and breed of his war-horse. His weapons, lance, scimitar, and corslet of steel are dwelt upon with enthusiasm. He is as brave as Mars, and as comely as Adonis. Sometimes he dashes into a bull-ring and slays wild creatures in the sight of fair ladies and envious men. He throws his lance of cane, which is filled with sand, so high that it vanishes in the clouds. He is ready to strike down, in his own house, the Christian who has taken from him and wedded the lady of his choice. He is almost always in love with some lady who is unkind and cold, and for her he wanders at times in dark array, expressing his sombre mood in the device and motto which he paints upon his shield. Some of the ballads picture love more fortunate in the most charming manner, and the dark tortures of jealousy are powerfully described in others. The devotion of the Moor to his lady is scarcely caricatured in the mocking language of Cervantes, and is not exceeded by anything to be found in the history of French chivalry. But the god of these ballads is Allah, and they sometimes reveal a trace of ferocity which seems to be derived from religious fanaticism. Nor can the reader fail to be struck by the profound pathos which many of them express so well. The dirges are supremely beautiful, their language simple and direct, but perfect in descriptive touches and in the cadence of the reiterated burden.

Beside the ballads of warlike and amorous adventures, there are sea-songs, songs of captivity, and songs of the galley slave. The Spanish Moor is seized by some African pirate and carried away to toil in the mill of his master on some foreign shore, or he is chained to the rowing-bench of the Berber galley, thence to be taken and sold when the voyage is over to some master who leaves him to weep in solitary toil in the farm or garden. Sometimes he wins the love of his mistress, who releases him and flies in his company.

All these ballads have vivid descriptions of scenery. The towers of Baeza, the walls of Granada, the green _vegas_ that spread outside every city, the valley of the Guadalquivir, and the rushing waters of the Tagus, the high cliffs of Cadiz, the Pillars of Hercules, and the blue waves of the Mediterranean make a life-like background to every incident. In the cities the ladies throng the balconies of curling iron-work or crowd the plaza where the joust or bull-fight is to be witnessed, or steal at nightfall to the edge of the _vega_ to meet a lover, and sometimes to die in his arms at the hands of bandits.

There is a dramatic power in these ballads which is one of their most remarkable features. They are sometimes mere sketches, but oftener the story is told with consummate art, with strict economy of word and phrase, and the _dénouement_ comes with a point and power which show that the Moorish minstrel was an artist of no mean skill and address.

The authors of the Moorish romances, songs, and ballads are unknown. They have probably assumed their present literary form after being part of the _répertoire_ of successive minstrels, and some of the incidents appear in more than one version. The most ancient of them are often the shortest, but they belong to the period when southern Spain under Mahometan rule was at the height of its prosperity, and Arabian learning, art, and literature made her rank among the first countries in Europe. The peninsula was conquered by the Moors in the caliphate of Walid I, 705-715 A.D., and the independent dynasty of the Ommiades was founded by Abderrhaman at Granada in 755 A.D. It was from this latter date that the Spanish Moors began to assume that special character in language, manners, and chivalric enthusiasm which is represented in the present ballads; the spirit of Christian knighthood is here seen blended with Arabian passion, impetuosity, and impulsiveness, and the Spanish language has supplanted, even among Mahometan poets, the oriental idiom. We may roughly estimate the period in which the Moorish romance flourished as comprised in the years between 1100 and 1600 A.D.

The term Moorish is somewhat indefinite, and is used in Spanish history as a synonym of Saracen or Mahometan. It cannot be called a national appellation, though originally in the Augustan age it was applied to the dwellers in Mauretania, with whom the Romans had first come in contact when the war with Hannibal was transferred from Italy and Spain to Africa. In the present day, it may be applied to all the races of northwestern Africa who have accepted Mahometanism; in which case it would include the aborigines of that region, who live not on the coast and in towns, but in the Atlas Mountain and the Sahara Desert. While these races, all Berbers under different local names, are Mussulmans in profession, they are not so highly civilized as their co-religionists who people the coast of the Mediterranean. They live a tribal life, and are blood-thirsty and predatory. They are of course mixed in race with the Arabians, but they are separate in their life and institutions, and they possess no written literature. Their oral literature is, however, abundant, though it is only within quite recent years that it has become known to America and Europe. The present collection of tales and fables is the first which has hitherto been made in the English language. The learned men who collected the tales of the Berbers and Kabyles (who are identical in ethnical origin) underwent many hardships in gathering from half-savage lips the material for their volume. They were forced to live among the wild tribesmen, join their nomad life, sit at their feasts, and watch with them round their camp-fire, while it was with difficulty they transferred to writing the syllables of a barbarous tongue. The memory of the Berber story-teller seems to be incredibly capacious and retentive, and the tales were recited over and over again without a variation. As is to be expected these tales are very varied, and many of them are of a didactic, if not ethical, cast. They are instructive as revealing the social life and character of these mountain and desert tribes.

We find the spirit of the vendetta pervading these tales with more than Corsican bitterness and unreasoning cruelty, every man being allowed to revenge himself by taking the life or property of another. This private and personal warfare has done more than anything else to check the advance in civilization of these tribesmen. The Berbers and Kabyles are fanatical Mahometans and look upon Christians and Jews as dogs and outcasts. It is considered honorable to cheat, rob, or deceive by lies one who does not worship Allah. The tales illustrate, moreover, the degraded position of women. A wife is literally a chattel, not only to be bought, but to be sold also, and to be treated in every respect as man's inferior--a mere slave or beast of burden. Yet the tribesmen are profoundly superstitious, and hold in great dread the evil spirits who they think surround them and to whom they attribute bodily and mental ills. An idiot is one who is possessed by a wicked demon, and is to be feared accordingly.

There are found current among them a vast number of fairy tales, such as equal in wildness and horror the strangest inventions of oriental imagination. Their tales of ogres and ogresses are unsoftened by any of that playfulness and bonhomie which give such undying charm to the "Thousand and One Nights." The element of the miraculous takes many original forms in their popular tales, and they have more than their share of the folk-lore legends and traditions such as Herodotus loved to collect. It was said of old that something new was always coming out of Africa, and certainly the contribution which the Berbers and Kabyles have made to the fund of wonder-stories in the world may be looked upon as new, in more than one sense. It is new, not only because it is novel and unexpected, but because it is fresh, original and highly interesting.

The fables of these tribes are very abundant and very curious. The great hero of the animal fable in Europe has always been the fox, whose cunning, greed, and duplicity are immortalized in the finest fable the world's literature possesses. The fables of northwest Africa employ the jackal instead of Reynard, whose place the sycophant of the lion not inaptly fills.

There are a number of men among the Kabyles and other Berber tribes who make a profession of reciting poems, tales, and proverbs, and travel from one village or encampment to another in search of an audience. They know the national traditions, the heroic legends, and warlike adventures that pertain to each community, and are honored and welcomed wherever they go. It was from these men that the various narratives contained in this collection were obtained, and the translation of them has engaged the talents and labors of some of the world's foremost oriental scholars.

CONTENTS

MOORISH BALLADS

Fatima's Love The Braggart Rebuked The Admiral's Farewell Moriana and Galvan The Bereaved Father The Warden of Molina The Loves of Boabdil and Vindaraja The Infanta Sevilla and Peranguelos Celin's Farewell Celin's Return Baza Revisited Captive Zara The Jealous King The Lovers of Antequera Tarfe's Truce The Two Moorish Knights The King's Decision Almanzar and Bobalias The Moorish Infanta and Alfonzo Ramos The Bull-fight of Zulema The Renegade The Tower of Gold The Dirge for Aliatar The Ship of Zara Hamete Ali Zaide's Love Zaida's Jealousy Zaida of Toledo Zaide Rebuked Zaida's Inconstancy Zaide's Desolation Zaida's Lament Zaida's Curse The Tournament of Zaide Zaide's Complaint Guhala's Love Azarco of Granada Azarco Rebuked Adelifa's Farewell Azarco's Farewell Celinda's Courtesy Gazul's Despondency Gazul in Love Celinda's Inconstancy The Bull-fight Lovers Reconciled Call to Arms Gazul Calumniated Gazul's Despair Vengeance of Gazul Gazul and Albenzaide Gazul's Arms The Tournament Abunemeya's Lament The Despondent Lover Love and Jealousy The Captive of Toledo The Blazon of Abenamar Woman's Fickleness King Juan Abenamar's Jealousy Adelifa's Jealousy Funeral of Abenamar Ballad of Albayaldos The Night Raid of Reduan Siege of Jaen Death of Reduan The Aged Lover Fickleness Rebuked The Galley Slave of Dragut The Captive's Lament Strike Sail The Captive's Escape The Spaniard of Oran

MOORISH ROMANCES

The Bull-fight of Gazul The Zegri's Bride The Bridal of Andalla Zara's Ear-rings The Lamentation for Celin

THE STORY OF SIDI BRAHIM OF MASSAT

FIVE BERBER STORIES

Djokhrane and the Jays The Ogre and the Beautiful Woman The False Vezir The Soufi and the Targui Ahmed el Hilalieu and El Redah

POEMS OF THE MAGHREB

Ali's Answer In Honor of Lalla Sayd and Hyzyya The Aïssaoua in Paris Song of Fatima The City Girl and the Country Girl

POPULAR TALES OF THE BERBERS

The Turtle, the Frog, and the Serpent The Hedgehog, the Jackal, and the Lion The Stolen Woman The King, the Arab, and the Monster The Lion, the Jackal, and the Man Salomon and the Griffin Adventure of Sidi Mahomet The Haunted Garden The Woman and the Fairy Hamed ben Ceggad The Magic Napkin The Child and the King of the Genii The Seven Brothers Half-a-Cock Strange Meetings The King and His Family Beddou The Language of the Beasts The Apple of Youth

POPULAR TALES OF THE KABYLES

Ali and Ou Ali The Infidel Jew The Sheik's Head The Wagtail and the Jackal The Flute-player The Child The Monkey and the Fisherman The Two Friends The Robber and the Two Pilgrims The Little Child The Wren The Mule, the Jackal, and the Lion Thadhellala The Good Man and the Bad One The Crow and the Child H'ab Sliman The King and His Son Mahomet ben Soltan

MOORISH BALLADS

ROMANCEROS MORISCOS

[_Metrical Translation by Epiphanius Wilson, A.M._]

MOORISH BALLADS

FATIMA'S LOVE

On the morn of John the Baptist, just at the break of day,
The Moors upon Granada's fields streamed out in bright array.
Their horses galloped o'er the sod, their lances flashed in air,
And the banners that their dames had wrought spread out their colors
fair.
Their quivers bright flashed in the light with gold and silk brocade,
And the Moor who saw his love was there looked best in the parade,
And the Moor who had no lady love strove hard some love to gain.
'Mong those who from Alhambra's towers gazed on that warrior train,
There were two Moorish ladies there whom love had smitten sore;
Zarifa one, and Fatima the name the other bore.
Knit by warm friendship were their hearts till, filled with jealous pain,
Their glances met, as one fair knight came prancing o'er the plain.
Zarifa spoke to Fatima, "How has love marred thy face!
Once roses bloomed on either cheek, now lilies take their place;
And you, who once would talk of love, now still and silent stay.
Come, come unto the window and watch the pageant gay!
Abindarraez is riding by; his train is full in view;
In all Granada none can boast a choicer retinue."
"It is not love, Zarifa, that robs my cheek of rose;
No fond and anxious passion this mournful bosom knows;
My cheeks are pale and I am still and silent, it is true,--
For, ah! I miss my father's face, whom fierce Alabey slew.
And did I crave the boon of love, a thousand knights were fain
To fight for me in service true on yonder flowery plain.
And all the love I give to each to give me back again.
And for Abindarraez, whose heart and valiant might,
You praise and from the window watch, with rapturous delight----"
The lady stopped, for at their feet knelt down the well-loved knight.

THE BRAGGART REBUKED

"If thou art brave in battle's hour
As thou art bold in pleasure's rout;
If thou canst make the lances fly
As thou canst fling thy words about;

"If thou canst in the vega fight
As thou the ladies' eyes canst praise;
And show on horseback half the skill
That marks thee in the dance's maze;

"Meet with the briskness of the joust
The challenge of the deadly lance,
And in the play of scimitars
Be sprightly as in festive dance;

"If thou art ready in the field
As thou art nimble on the square;
And canst the front of battle face
As though thou flirtest with the fair;

"If thou dost don thy shining mail
As lightly as thy festive suit,
And listenest to the trumpet call
As though it were thy lady's lute;

"And if, as in the gamesome hour
Thou flingest round the rattling reed
Against the foeman's moated camp,
Thou spurrest on thy thundering steed;

"If, when the foe is face to face,
Thou boastest as thou oft hast done
When far away his ranks were ranged,
And the fierce fight had not begun;--

"Go, Zaide, to the Alhambra go,
And there defend thy soldier fame;
For every tongue is wagging there,
And all, derisive, speak thy name.

"And if thou fear to go alone,
Take others with thee to thine aid;
Thy friends are ready at thy beck,
And Zaide need not be afraid!

"It is not in the palace court,
Amid the throng of ladies bright,
That the good soldier, by his tongue,
Proves himself valorous in the fight.

"It is not there his hands can show
What in the battle he can do;
But where the shock of onset tests
The fearless heart, the iron thew.

"Betake thee to the bloody field
And let thy sword thy praises sing;
But silence is most eloquent
Amid the courtiers of the King."

Thus Tarfe wrote, the Moorish knight,
His heart so filled with furious rage
That where his fiery pen had passed
It pierced and rent the flimsy page.

He called his varlet to his side,
"Now seek the Alhambra's hall," said he,
"And privately to Zaide say
That this epistle comes from me;

"And whisper, that none else may hear,
And say that I his coming wait,
Where Genil's crystal torrent laves
The pillars of yon palace gate."

THE ADMIRAL'S FAREWELL

The royal fleet with fluttering sail is waiting in the bay;
And brave Mustapha, the Admiral, must start at break of day.
His hood and cloak of many hues he swiftly dons, and sets
Upon his brow his turban gay with pearls and amulets;
Of many tints above his head his plumes are waving wide;
Like a crescent moon his scimitar is dangling at his side;
And standing at the window, he gazes forth, and, hark!
Across the rippling waters floats the summons to embark.

Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!
Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.
Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring
A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King!

The haughty Turk his scarlet shoe upon the stirrup placed,
Right easily he vaulted to his saddle-tree in haste.
His courser was Arabian, in whose crest and pastern show
A glossy coat as soft as silk, as white as driven snow.
One mark alone was on his flank! 'twas branded deep and dark;
The letter F in Arab script, stood out the sacred mark.
By the color of his courser he wished it to be seen
That the soul of the King's Admiral was white and true and clean.
Oh, swift and full of mettle was the steed which that day bore
Mustapha, the High Admiral, down to the wave-beat shore!
The haughty Turk sails forth at morn, that Malta he may take,
But many the greater conquest his gallant men shall make;
For his heart is high and his soul is bent on death or victory,
And he pauses, as the clashing sound comes from the distant sea;

Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!
Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.
Let fife and flute, and sackbut in accord
Proclaim, Aboard! Aboard!
Thy pinnace waits thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard!

And as he hears the summons Love makes for him reply,
"O whither, cruel fortune, wilt thou bid the warrior fly?
Must I seek thee in the ocean, where the winds and billows roar?
Must I seek thee there, because in vain I sought thee on the shore?
And dost thou think the ocean, crossed by my flashing sail,
With all its myriad waters and its rivers, can avail
To quench the ardent fire of love that rages in my breast,
And soothe the fever of my soul into one hour of rest?"
And as he mused, in bitter thought, Mustapha reached in haste
A balcony; till dawn of day before that house he paced,
And all his heart's anxieties he counted o'er and o'er,
And, when the darkness of the night toward opening twilight wore,
Upon the balcony there came the cause of all his sighs,
But a smile was on her rosy lips and a light was in her eyes.
"O lovely Zaida," he began, and gazed into her face,
"If my presence at thy window is a burden to thy peace,
One pledge bestow upon me, one pledge of love, I pray,
And let me kiss thy lily hand before I sail away."
"I grieve for thy departure," the lady made reply,
"And it needs no pledge to tell thee I am faithful till I die,
But if one token thou must have, take this ere thou depart;
('Twas fashioned by these hands of mine) and keep it on thy heart!"
The Moor rose in his stirrups, he took it from her hand,
'Twas a piece of lace of gold and silk shaped for a helmet band.
There was the wheel of fortune with subtile needle drawn,
(Ah, Fortune that had left him there dejected and forlorn!)
And as he paused, he heard the sound tumultuous come again,
'Twas from the fleet, down in the bay, and well he knew the strain.

Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain;
Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.
Let fife and flute, and sackbut in accord
Proclaim, Aboard! Aboard!
Thy pinnace waits thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard!

Oh, stay my foes, nor in such haste invite me to the field!
Here let me take the triumphs that softer conquests yield!
This is the goal of my desire, the aim of my design,
That Zaida's hand in mine be placed and her heart beat close to mine!
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.
Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring
A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King.

MORIANA AND GALVAN

Twas Princess Moriana,
Upon a castle's height,
That played with Moorish Galvan
At cards for her delight;
And oft he lost the stakes he set,
Full many a coin I wis;
When Moriana lost, she gave
Her hand for him to kiss.
And after hours of pleasure
Moor Galvan sank to sleep;
And soon the lady saw a knight
Descend the mountain steep;
His voice was raised in sorrow,
His eyes with tears were wet,
For lovely Moriana
His heart could ne'er forget.
For her, upon St. John's Day,
While she was gathering flowers,
The Moors had made a captive,
Beneath her father's towers.
And Moriana raised her eyes
And saw her lover ride,
And on her cheeks her Moorish lord
The sparkling tears descried.
With anger raged his spirit,
And thus to her he cried:
"What ails thee, gentle lady?
Why flows with tears thine eye?
If Moors of mine have done thee wrong,
I swear that they shall die;
If any of thy maidens
Have caused thee this distress,
The whip across their shoulders
Shall avenge their wickedness.
Or, if the Christian countrymen
Have sorrow for thee made,
I will, with conquering armies,
Their provinces invade.
The warlike weapons that I don
Are festal robes to me;
To me the din of battle
Is sweet tranquillity;
The direst toils the warrior bears
With steadfast joy I meet;
To me the watch that nightlong lasts
Is like a slumber sweet."
"No Moors of thine within these halls
Have caused to me this pain;
No maidens waiting in my bower
Have showed to me disdain;
Nor have my Christian kinsmen
To mourn my spirit made,
Provoking thee in vengeance
Their province to invade.
Vain the deep cause of my distress
From Galvan's eye to hide--
'Tis that I see down yonder mount
A knight in armor ride.
'Tis such a sight that does my tears
From very heart-springs move;
For yonder knight is all to me,
My husband and my love."
Straight the Moor's cheek with anger flushed,
Till red eclipsed the brown,
And his clenched fist he lifted
As if to strike her down.
He gnashed his teeth with passion,
The fangs with blood were red,
He called his slaves and bade them
Strike off the lady's head.
He bade them bind and take her
First to the mountain's height,
That she the doom might suffer
Within her husband's sight;
But all the lady answered,
When she was brought to death,
Were words of faith and loyalty
Borne on her parting breath:
"Behold, I die a Christian,
And here repeat my vows
Of faithfulness to yonder knight,
My loved and lawful spouse."

THE BEREAVED FATHER

"Rise up, rise up, thou hoary head,
What madness causes thy delay?
Thou killest swine on Thursday morn,
And eatest flesh on fasting day.

"'Tis now seven years since first I trod
The valley and the wandering wood;
My feet were bare, my flesh was torn,
And all my pathway stained in blood.

"Ah, mournfully I seek in vain
The Emperor's daughter, who had gone
A prisoner made by caitiff Moors,
Upon the morning of St. John.

"She gathered flowers upon the plain,
She plucked the roses from the spray,
And in the orchard of her sire
They found and bore the maid away."

These words has Moriana heard,
Close nestled in the Moor's embrace;
The tears that welled from out her eyes
Have wet her captor's swarthy face.

THE WARDEN OF MOLINA

The warden of Molina, ah! furious was his speed,
As he dashed his glittering rowels in the flank of his good steed,
And his reins left dangling from the bit, along the white highway,
For his mind was set to speed his horse, to speed and not to stay.
He rode upon a grizzled roan, and with the wind he raced,
And the breezes rustled round him like a tempest in the waste.
In the Plaza of Molina at last he made his stand,
And in a voice of thunder he uttered his command:

To arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
And let the thundering kettle-drum
Give challenge to the foe.

"Now leave your feasts and banquetings and gird you in your steel!
And leave the couches of delight, where slumber's charm you feel;
Your country calls for succor, all must the word obey,
For the freedom of your fathers is in your hands to-day.
Ah, sore may be the struggle, and vast may be the cost;
But yet no tie of love must keep you now, or all is lost.
In breasts where honor dwells there is no room in times like these
To dally at a lady's side, kneel at a lady's knees.

To arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
And let the thundering kettle-drum
Give challenge to the foe.

"Yes, in the hour of peril away with pleasure's thrall!
Let honor take the lance and steed to meet our country's call.
For those who craven in the fight refuse to meet the foe
Shall sink beneath the feet of all struck by a bitterer blow;
In moments when fair honor's crown is offered to the brave
And dangers yawn around our State, deep as the deadly grave,
'Tis right strong arms and sturdy hearts should take the sword of might,
And eagerly for Fatherland descend into the fight.
To arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
And let the thundering kettle-drum
Give challenge to the foe.

"Then lay aside the silken robes, the glittering brocade;
Be all in vest of leather and twisted steel arrayed;
On each left arm be hung the shield, safe guardian of the breast,
And take the crooked scimitar and put the lance in rest,
And face the fortune of the day, for it is vain to fly,
And the coward and the braggart now alone are doomed to die.
And let each manly bosom show, in the impending fray,
A valor such as Mars himself in fury might display.
To arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
And let the thundering kettle-drum
Give challenge to the foe.

He spoke, and at his valiant words, that rang through all the square,
The veriest cowards of the town resolved to do and dare;
And stirred by honor's eager fire forth from the gate they stream,
And plumes are waving in the air, and spears and falchions gleam;
And turbaned heads and faces fierce, and smiles in anger quenched,
And sweating steeds and flashing spurs and hands in fury clenched,
Follow the fluttering banners that toward the vega swarm,
And many a voice re-echoes the words of wild alarm.
To arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
And let the thundering kettle-drum
Give challenge to the foe.

And, like the timid lambs that crowd with bleatings in the fold,
When they advancing to their throats the furious wolf behold,
The lovely Moorish maidens, with wet but flashing eyes,
Are crowded in a public square and fill the air with cries;
And tho', like tender women, 'tis vain for them to arm,
Yet loudly they re-echo the words of the alarm.
To heaven they cry for succor, and, while to heaven they pray,
They call the knights they love so well to arm them for the fray.
To arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
And let the thundering kettle-drum
Give challenge to the foe.

The foremost Moorish nobles, Molina's chosen band,
Rush forward from the city the invaders to withstand.
There marshalled in a squadron with shining arms they speed,
Like knights and noble gentlemen, to meet their country's need.
Twelve thousand Christians crowd the plain, twelve thousand warriors
tried,
They fire the homes, they reap the corn, upon the vega wide;
And the warriors of Molina their furious lances ply,
And in their own Arabian tongue they raise the rallying cry.
To arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
And let the thundering kettle-drum
Give challenge to the foe.

THE LOVES OF BOABDIL AND VINDARAJA

Where Antequera's city stands, upon the southern plain,
The captive Vindaraja sits and mourns her lot in vain.
While Chico, proud Granada's King, nor night nor day can rest,
For of all the Moorish ladies Vindaraja he loves best;
And while naught can give her solace and naught can dry her tear,
'Tis not the task of slavery nor the cell that brings her fear;
For while in Antequera her body lingers still,
Her heart is in Granada upon Alhambra's hill.
There, while the Moorish monarch longs to have her at his side,
More keen is Vindaraja's wish to be a monarch's bride.
Ah! long delays the moment that shall bring her liberty,
A thousand thousand years in every second seem to fly!
For she thinks of royal Chico, and her face with tears is wet,
For she knows that absence oft will make the fondest heart forget.
And the lover who is truest may yet suspicion feel,
For the loved one in some distant land whose heart is firm as steel.
And now to solve her anxious doubts, she takes the pen one day
And writes to royal Chico, in Granada far away.
Ah! long the letter that she wrote to tell him of her state,
In lonely prison cell confined, a captive desolate!
She sent it by a Moorish knight, and sealed it with her ring;
He was warden of Alhambra and stood beside the King,
And he had come sent by the King to Antequera's tower,
To learn how Vindaraja fared within that prison bower.
The Moor was faithful to his charge, a warrior stout and leal,
And Chico took the note of love and trembling broke the seal;
And when the open page he saw and read what it contained,
These were the words in which the maid of her hard lot complained:

THE LETTER OF VINDARAJA

"Ah, hapless is the love-lorn maid like me in captive plight,
For freedom once was mine, and I was happy day and night.
Yes, happy, for I knew that thou hadst given me thy love,
Precious the gift to lonely hearts all other gifts above.
Well mightest thou forget me, though 'twere treachery to say
The flame that filled thy royal heart as yet had passed away.
Still, though too oft do lovers' hearts in absent hours repine.
I know if there are faithful vows, then faithful will be thine!
'Tis hard, indeed, for lovers to crush the doubting thought
Which to the brooding bosom some lonely hour has brought.
There is no safety for the love, when languish out of sight
The form, the smile, the flashing eyes that once were love's delight;
Nor can I, I confess it, feel certain of thy vow!
How many Moorish ladies are gathered round thee now!
How many fairer, brighter forms are clustered at thy throne,
Whose power might change to very wax the heart of steel or stone!
And if, indeed, there be a cause why I should blame thy heart,
'Tis the delay that thou hast shown in taking here my part.
Why are not armies sent to break these prison bars, and bring
Back to her home the Moorish maid, the favorite of the King?
A maid whose eyes are changed to springs whence flow the flood of tears,
For she thinks of thee and weeps for thee through all these absent years.
Believe me, if 'twere thou, who lay a captive in his chain,
My life of joy, to rescue thee, my heart of blood I'd drain!
O King and master, if, indeed, I am thy loved one still,
As in those days when I was first upon Alhambra's hill,
Send rescue for thy darling, or fear her love may fade,
For love that needs the sunlight must wither in the shade.
And yet I cannot doubt thee; if e'er suspicion's breath
Should chill my heart, that moment would be Vindaraja's death.
Nor think should you forget me or spurn me from your arms,
That life for Vindaraja could have no other charms.
It was thy boast thou once did love a princess, now a slave,
I boasted that to thy behest I full obedience gave!
And from this prison should I come, in freedom once again,
To sit and hear thy words of love on Andalusia's plain,
The brightest thought would be to me that thou, the King, has seen
'Twas right to free a wretched slave that she might be thy Queen.
Hard is the lot of bondage here, and heavy is my chain,
And from my prison bars I gaze with lamentation vain;
But these are slight and idle things--my one, my sole distress
Is that I cannot see thy face and welcome thy caress!
This only is the passion that can my bosom rend;
'Tis this alone that makes me long for death, my sufferings end.
The plagues of life are naught to me; life's only joy is this--
To see thee and to hear thee and to blush beneath thy kiss!
Alas! perchance this evening or to-morrow morn, may be,
The lords who hold me here a slave in sad captivity,
May, since they think me wanton, their treacherous measures take
That I should be a Christian and my former faith forsake.
But I tell them, and I weep to tell, that I will ne'er forego
The creed my fathers fought for in centuries long ago!
And yet I might forswear it, but that that creed divine
'Tis vain I struggle to deny, for, ah, that creed is thine!"
King Chico read his lady's note and silent laid it down;
Then to the window he drew nigh, and gazed upon the town;
And lost in thought he pondered upon each tender line,
And sudden tears and a sigh of grief were his inward sorrow's sign.
And he called for ink and paper, that Vindaraja's heart
Might know that he remembered her and sought to heal its smart.
He would tell her that the absence which caused to her those fears
Had only made her dearer still, through all those mournful years.
He would tell her that his heart was sad, because she was not near--
Yes, far more sad than Moorish slave chained on the south frontier.
And then he wrote the letter to the darling Moorish slave,
And this is the tender message that royal Chico gave:

THE LETTER OF THE KING

"Thy words have done me grievous wrong, for, lovely Mooress, couldst thou
think
That he who loves thee more than life could e'er to such a treachery
sink?
His life is naught without the thought that thou art happy in thy lot;
And while the red blood at his heart is beating thou art ne'er forgot!
Thou woundest me because thy heart mistrusts me as a fickle fool;
Thou dost not know when passion true has one apt pupil taken to school.
Oblivion could not, could not cloud the image on his soul impressed,
Unless dark treachery from the first had been the monarch of his breast
And if perhaps some weary hours I thought that Vindaraja's mind
Might in some happier cavalier the solace of her slavery find,
I checked the thought; I drove away the vision that with death was rife,
For e'er my trust in thee I lost, in battle I'd forego my life!
Yet even the doubt that thou hast breathed gives me no franchise to
forget,
And were I willing that thy face should cease to fill my vision, yet
'Tis separation's self that binds us closer though the centuries roll,
And forges that eternal chain that binds together soul and soul!
And even were this thought no more than the wild vision of my mind,
Yet in a thousand worlds no face to change for thine this heart could
find.
Thro' life, thro' death 'twere all the same, and when to heaven our
glance we raise,
Full in the very heart of bliss thine eyes shall meet my ardent gaze.
For eyes that have beheld thy face, full readily the truth will own
That God exhausted, when he made thee, all the treasures of his throne!
And my trusting heart will answer while it fills my veins with fire
That to hear of, is to see thee; and to see, is to desire!
Yet unless my Vindaraja I could look upon awhile,
As some traveller in a desert I should perish for her smile;
For 'tis longing for her presence makes the spring of life to me,
And allays the secret suffering none except her eye can see.
In this thought alone my spirit finds refreshment and delight;
This is sweeter than the struggle, than the glory of the fight;
And if e'er I could forget her heaving breast and laughing eye,
Tender word, and soft caresses--Vindaraja, I should die!
If the King should bid me hasten to release thee from thy chain,
Oh, believe me, dearest lady, he would never bid in vain;
Naught he could demand were greater than the price that I would pay,
If in high Alhambra's halls I once again could see thee gay!
None can say I am remiss, and heedless of thy dismal fate;
Love comes to prompt me every hour, he will not let my zeal abate.
If occasion call, I yield myself, my soul to set thee free;
Take this offering if thou wilt, I wait thy word on bended knee.
Dost thou suffer, noble lady, by these fancies overwrought?
Ah, my soul is filled with sorrow at the agonizing thought;
For to know that Vindaraja languishes, oppressed with care,
Is enough to make death welcome, if I could but rescue her.
Yes, the world shall know that I would die not only for the bliss
Of clasping thee in love's embrace and kindling at thy tender kiss.
This, indeed, would be a prize, for which the coward death would dare--
I would die to make thee happy, tho' thy lot I might not share!
Then, though I should fail to lift the burden on my darling laid,
Though I could not prove my love by rescuing my Moorish maid,
Yet my love would have this witness, first, thy confidence sublime,
Then my death for thee, recorded on the scroll of future time!
Yes, my death, for should I perish, it were comfort but to think
Thou couldst have henceforth on earth no blacker, bitterer cup to drink!
Sorrow's shafts would be exhausted, thou couldst laugh at fortune's
power.
Tho' I lost thee, yet this thought would cheer me in my parting hour.
Yet I believe that fate intends (oh, bear this forecast in thy mind!)
That all the love my passions crave will soon a full fruition find;
Fast my passion stronger grows, and if of love there measure be,
Believe it, dearest, that the whole can find its summary in me!
Deem that thou art foully wronged, whose graces have such power to bless,
If any of thy subject slaves to thee, their queen, should offer less,
And accept this pledged assurance, that oblivion cannot roll
O'er the image of thy beauty stamped on this enamored soul.
Then dismiss thy anxious musings, let them with the wind away,
As the gloomy clouds are scattered at the rising of the day.
Think that he is now thy slave, who, when he wooed thee, was thy King;
Think that not the brightest morning can to him contentment bring,
Till the light of other moments in thy melting eyes he trace,
And the gates of Paradise are opened in thy warm embrace.
Since thou knowest that death to me and thee will strike an equal blow,
It is just that, while we live, our hearts with equal hopes should glow.
Then no longer vex thy lover with complaints that he may change;
Darling, oft these bitter questions can the fondest love estrange;
No, I dream not of estrangement, for thy Chico evermore
Thinks upon his Vindaraja's image only to adore."

THE INFANTA SEVILLA AND PERANZUELOS

Upon Toledo's loftiest towers
Sevilla kept the height;
So wondrous fair was she that love
Was blinded at the sight.

She stood amid the battlements,
And gazed upon the scene
Where Tagus runs through woodland
And flowers and glades of green.

And she saw upon the wide highway
The figure of a knight;
He rode upon a dappled steed,
And all his arms were bright.

Seven Moors in chains he led with him,
And one arm's length aloof
Came a dog of a Moor from Morocco's shore
In arms of double proof.

His steed was swift, his countenance
In a warlike scowl was set,
And in his furious rage he cursed
The beard of Mahomet!

He shouted, as he galloped up:
"Now halt thee, Christian hound;
I see at the head of thy captive band
My sire, in fetters bound.

"And the rest are brothers of my blood,
And friends I long to free;
And if thou wilt surrender all,
I'll pay thee gold and fee."

When Peranzuelos heard him,
He wheeled his courser round.
With lance in rest, he hotly pressed
To strike him to the ground;
His sudden rage and onset came
Swift as the thunder's sound.

The Moor at the first encounter reeled
To earth, from his saddle bow;
And the Christian knight, dismounting,
Set heel on the neck of his foe.

He cleft his head from his shoulders,
And, marshalling his train,
Made haste once more on his journey
Across Toledo's plain.

CELIN'S FAREWELL

He sadly gazes back again upon those bastions high,
The towers and fretted battlements that soar into the sky;
And Celin, whom the King in wrath has from Granada banned
Weeps as he turns to leave for aye his own dear native land;
No hope has he his footsteps from exile to retrace;
No hope again to look upon his lady's lovely face.
Then sighing deep he went his way, and as he went he said:
"I see thee shining from afar,
As in heaven's arch some radiant star.
Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,
Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

"I see outstretched before my eyes thy green and beauteous shore,
Those meadow-lands and gardens that with flowers are dappled o'er.
The wind that lingers o'er those glades received the tribute given
By many a trembling calyx, wet with the dews of heaven.
From Genil's banks full many a bough down to the water bends,
Yon vega's green and fertile line from flood to wall extends;
There laughing ladies seek the shade that yields to them delight,
And the velvet turf is printed deep by many a mounted knight.
I see thee shining from afar,
As in heaven's arch some radiant star.
Granada, queen and town of loveliness,
Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

"Ye springs and founts that sparkling well from yonder mountain-side,
And flow with dimpling torrent o'er mead and garden wide,
If e'er the tears that from my breast to these sad eyes ascend
Should with your happy waters their floods of sadness blend,
Oh, take them to your bosom with love, for love has bidden
These drops to tell the wasting woe that in my heart is hidden.
I see thee shining from afar,
As in heaven's arch some radiant star.
Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,
Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

"Ye balmy winds of heaven, whose sound is in the rippling trees,
Whose scented breath brings back to me a thousand memories,
Ye sweep beneath the arch of heaven like to the ocean surge
That beats from Guadalquivir's bay to earth's extremest verge.
Oh, when ye to Granada come (and may great Allah send
His guardian host to guide you to that sweet journey's end!),
Carry my sighs along with you, and breathe them in the ear
Of foes who do me deadly wrong, of her who holds me dear.
Oh, tell them all the agony I bear in banishment,
That she may share my sorrow, and my foe the King relent.
I see thee shining from afar,
As in heaven's arch some radiant star.
Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,
Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress."

CELIN'S RETURN

Now Celin would be merry, and appoints a festal day,
When he the pang of absence from his lady would allay:
The brave Abencerrages and Gulanes straight he calls,
His bosom friends, to join him as he decks his stately halls.
And secretly he bids them come, and in secret bids them go;
For the day of merriment must come unnoticed by his foe;
For peering eyes and curious ears are watching high and low,
But he only seeks one happy day may reparation bring
For the foul and causeless punishment inflicted by the King.
"For in the widest prison-house is misery for me,
And the stoutest heart is broken unless the hand is free."

His followers all he bade them dress in Christian array,
With rude and rustic mantles of color bright and gay;
With silken streamers in their caps, their caps of pointed crown,
With flowing blouse, and mantle and gaberdine of brown.
But he himself wore sober robes of white and lion gray,
The emblems of the hopeless grief in which the warrior lay.
And the thoughts of Adalifa, of her words and glancing eyes,
Gave colors of befitting gloom to tint his dark disguise.
And he came with purpose to perform some great and glorious deed,
To drive away the saddening thoughts that made the bosom bleed.
"For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,
And the stoutest heart is broken unless the arm be free."

There streams into Granada's gate a stately cavalcade
Of prancing steeds caparisoned, and knights in steel arrayed;
And all their acclamations raise, when Celin comes in sight--
"The foremost in the tournament, the bravest in the fight"--
And Moorish maiden Cegri straight to the window flies,
To see the glittering pageant and to hear the joyous cries.
She calls her maidens all to mark how, from misfortune free,
The gallant Celin comes again, the ladies' knight is he!
They know the story of his fate and undeserved disgrace,
And eagerly they gaze upon the splendor of his face.
Needs not his exploit in the fields, his valorous deeds to tell--
The ladies of Granada have heard and know them well!
"For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,
And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arm be free."

The beauty of Granada crowds Elvira's gate this night;
There are straining necks and flushing cheeks when Celin comes in sight;
And whispered tales go round the groups, and hearts indignant swell,
As they think what in Granada that hero knight befell.
Now a thousand Moorish warriors to Celin's fame aspire,
And a thousand ladies gaze on him with passionate desire.
And they talk of Adalifa, to whom he made his vow,
Though neither speech nor written page unites them longer now.
"For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,
And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arms be free."

The city waits his coming, for the feast has been prepared,
By rich and poor, by high and low the revel shall be shared;
And there are warriors high in hope to win the jousting prize,
And there are ladies longing for a smile from Celin's eyes.
But when the news of gladness reached Adalifa's ear,
Her loving heart was touched with grief and filled with jealous fear;
And she wrote to Celin, bidding him to hold no revel high,
For the thought of such rejoicing brought the tear-drop to her eye;
The Moor received the letter as Granada came in sight,
And straight he turned his courser's head toward Jaen's towering height,
And exchanged for hues of mourning his robe of festal white.
"For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,
And the stoutest heart is broke unless the warrior's arm be free."

BAZA REVISITED

Brave Celin came, the valiant son of him the _castelain_
Of the fortress of Alora and Alhama's windy plain.
He came to see great Baza, where he in former days
Had won from Zara's father that aged warrior's praise.
The Moor gazed on that fortress strong, the towers all desolate,
The castle high that touched the sky, the rampart and the gate.
The ruined hold he greeted, it seemed its native land,
For there his bliss had been complete while Zara held his hand.
And Fortune's cruel fickleness he furiously reviled,
For his heart sent madness to his brain and all his words were wild.
"O goddess who controllest on earth our human fate,
How is it I offend thee, that my life is desolate?
Ah! many were the triumphs that from Zara's hands I bore,
When in the joust or in the dance she smiled on me of yore.
And now, while equal fortune incessantly I chase,
Naught can I gather from thy hand but disaster and disgrace.
Since King Fernando brought his host fair Baza to blockade,
My lot has been a wretched lot of anguish unalloyed.
Yet was Fernando kind to me with all his kingly art,
He won my body to his arms, he could not win my heart."
While thus he spoke the mantle that he wore he cast away;
'Twas green, 'twas striped with red and white, 'twas lined with dismal
gray.
"Best suits my fate, best suits the hue, in this misfortune's day;
Not green, not white nor purple, but the palmer's garb of gray.
I ask no plumes for helm or cap of nature's living green,
For hope has vanished from my life of that which might have been!
And from my target will I blot the blazon that is vain--
The lynx whose eyes are fixed upon the prey that it would gain.
For the glances that I cast around meet fortune's foul disdain;
And I will blot the legend, as an accursed screed.
'Twas writ in Christian letters plain that all the world might read:
'My good right arm can gain me more altho' its range be short,
Then all I know by eye-sight or the boundless range of thought.'
The blue tahala fluttering bright upon my armored brow
In brilliant hue assorts but ill with the lot I meet with now.
I cast away this gaudy cap, it bears the purple dye;
Not that my love is faithless, for I own her constancy;
But for the fear that there may be, within the maiden's sight,
A lover worthier of her love than this unhappy knight."
With that he took his lance in hand, and placed it in its rest,
And o'er the plain with bloody spur the mournful Celin pressed.
On his steed's neck he threw the reins, the reins hung dangling low,
That the courser might have liberty to choose where he would go;
And he said: "My steed, oh, journey well, and make thy way to find
The bliss which still eludes me, tho' 'tis ever in my mind.
Nor bit nor rein shall now restrain thy course across the lea,
For the curb and the bridle I only use from infamy to flee."

CAPTIVE ZARA