Chapter III: Preface (2)

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In Palma there was little joy, so lovely Zara found;
She felt herself a slave, although by captive chain unbound.
In Palma's towers she wandered from all the guests apart;
For while Palma had her body, 'twas Baza held her heart.
And while her heart was fixed on one, her charms no less enthralled
The heart of this brave cavalier, Celin Andalla called.
Ah, hapless, hapless maiden, for in her deep despair
She did not know what grief her face had caused that knight to bear;
And though the Countess Palma strove with many a service kind
To show her love, to soothe the pang that wrung the maiden's mind,
Yet borne upon the tempest of the captive's bitter grief,
She never lowered the sail to give her suffering heart relief.
And, in search of consolation to another captive maid,
She told the bitter sorrow to no one else displayed.
She told it, while the tears ran fast, and yet no balm did gain,
For it made more keen her grief, I ween, to give another pain.
And she said to her companion, as she clasped her tender hand:
"I was born in high Granada, my loved, my native land;
For years within Alhambra's courts my life ran on serene;
I was a princess of the realm and handmaid to a queen.
Within her private chamber I served both night and day,
And the costliest jewels of her crown in my protection lay.
To her I was the favorite of all the maids she knew;
And, ah! my royal mistress I loved, I loved her true!
No closer tie I owned on earth than bound me to her side;
No closer tie; I loved her more than all the world beside.
But more I loved than aught on earth, the gallant Moorish knight,
Brave Celin, who is solely mine, and I his sole delight.
Yes, he was brave, and all men own the valor of his brand;
Yes, and for this I loved him more than monarchs of the land.
For me he lived, for me he fought, for me he mourned and wept,
When he saw me in this captive home like a ship to the breakers swept.
He called on heaven, and heaven was deaf to all his bitter cry,
For the victim of the strife of kings, of the bloody war, was I;
It was my father bade him first to seek our strong retreat.
Would God that he had never come to Baza's castle seat!
Would God that he had never come, an armored knight, to stand
Amid the soldiers that were ranked beneath my sire's command.
He came, he came, that valiant Moor, beneath our roof to rest.
His body served my father; his heart, my sole behest;
What perils did he face upon that castle's frowning height!
Winning my father's praise, he gained more favor in my sight.
And when the city by the bands of Christians was assailed,
My soul 'neath terrors fiercer still in lonely terror quailed.
For I have lost my sire, and I have lost my lover brave,
For here I languish all alone, a subject and a slave.
And yet the Moor, altho' he left with me his loving heart,
I fear may have forgotten that I own his better part.
And now the needle that I ply is witness to the state
Of bondage, which I feel to-day with heart disconsolate.
And here upon the web be writ, in the Arabian tongue,
The legend that shall tell the tale of how my heart is wrung.
Here read: 'If thou hast ta'en my heart when thou didst ride away,
Remember that myself, my living soul, behind thee stay.'
And on the other side these words embroidered would I place:
'The word shall never fail that once I spake before thy face.'
And on the border underneath this posy, written plain:
'The promise that I made to thee still constant shall remain.'
And last of all, this line I add, the last and yet the best:
'Thou ne'er shalt find inconstancy in this unchanging breast.'
Thus runs the embroidery of love, and in the midst appears
A phoenix, painted clear, the bird that lives eternal years.
For she from the cold ashes of life at its last wane,
Takes hope, and spreads her wings and soars through skyey tracks again.
And there a hunter draws his bow outlined with skilful thread,
And underneath a word which says, 'Nay, shoot not at the dead.'"
Thus spake the Moorish maiden, and in her eyes were tears of grief,
Tho' in her busy needle she seemed to find relief.
And the kindly countess called from far: "Zara, what aileth thee?
Where art thou? For I called, and yet thou didst not answer me."

THE JEALOUS KING

'Twas eight stout warriors matched with eight, and ten with valiant ten,
As Aliatare formed a band allied with Moslem men,
To joust, with loaded canes, that day in proud Toledo's ring,
Against proud Adelifa's host before their lord the King.
The King by proclamation had announced the knightly play,
For the cheerful trumpets sang a truce upon that very day;
And Zaide, high Belchite's King, had sworn that war should cease,
And with Tarfe of Valentia had ratified the peace.
But others spread the news, that flew like fire from tongue to tongue,
That the King was doting-mad with love, for then the King was young;
And had given to Celindaja the ordering of the day.
And there were knights beside the King she loved to see at play.
And now the lists are opened and, lo! a dazzling band,
The Saracens, on sorrel steeds leap forth upon the sand;
Their trailing cloaks are flashing like the golden orange rind,
The hoods of green from their shoulders hang and flutter in the wind.
They carry targets blazoned bright with scimitars arow,
But each deadly blade is deftly made into a Cupid's bow.
A shining legend can be seen in letters ranged above;
And "Fire and Blood" the motto runs. It speaks of war and love.
In double file a company of warriors succeed;
The bold Aliatares come mounted on Arab steeds.
The livery that they wear is dyed in tint of crimson red;
And flower and leaf in white relief its surface overspread.
The globe of heaven, which many a star and constellation strow,
Borne upon Atlas' shoulders, is the blazon that they show.
And a Moor of Aliatar this motto does express,
Written upon a streamer, "I Endure through Weariness."
The Adelifas follow; a mighty race are they.
Their armor is more costly, their mantles are more gay.
Of bright carnation is the web, enriched with saffron streaks,
And for favors there are fluttering veils upon their helmet peaks.
A globe they blazon on their shields, but it is bruised and broke
By a savage with a bludgeon, who deals it many a stroke;
And a rod, and underneath it this motto tells the tale,
All written in Arabian scrip. It says, "The Strong Prevail."
The eight Azarques following these into the plaza spring,
With air of haughty arrogance they gallop round the ring.
Of blue and purple and pale gold are the mantles that they wear,
And for plumes they carry amulets that dangle high in air.
On their left arm are their targets, painted a dazzling green.
The orb of heaven is outlined there on which two hands are seen,
The motto, "Green is paramount," is lettered full in view;
Its arrogance explains to all those targets' vivid hue.
Then foams the King in rage to see his doting love was fleered,
And his heart is filled with bitter thought as that proud shield
appeared.
And he called the warden of his keep, Celin his henchman tried,
And he pointed to Azarque, and, flushed with anger, cried--
"The sun upon that haughty shield myself will bid it set;
It works some mischief upon me, like an evil amulet."
Azarque drew his ready lance, his strong arm hurled it high,
The light shaft soared amid the clouds, and vanished in the sky.
And those whose vision followed it grew dizzy at the sight,
They knew not whither it had flown, nor where it would alight.
The ladies of the burgesses at many a window press
To see the javelin from his hand rise with such readiness,
And those who on the platform were seated with the King
Bent back to see how well the cane that gallant Moor could fling.
And as Azarque forward rides, as in retreat he flies,
"Now, Allah guard thee, gallant knight," with shouts the people cries.
"My curse upon him; he shall die," the jealous King replies.
But Celindaja paid no heed to all that cavalcade;
Her lips were parched, her throat was dry, her heart was sore dismayed.
She asked that they would bring her fruit, but yet she strove in vain
With juice of any earthly tree to slake her fevered pain.
"Now let the sport be ended," the angry King decreed.
The joust was late, and every judge in weariness agreed.
And as they closed the empty lists, they heard the King's command,
"Now seize, now seize Azarque, a traitor to this land."
The double lines of cavaliers who led the jousting train
Threw down upon the open square the spear of idle cane;
Then swiftly seized the lance of steel and couching it for fight,
According to the royal wish rode down upon the knight.
For arms and plea must ever bootless prove
To curb the passions of a king in love.

The other band came forth to save Azarque from his foes,
But the stout Moor waves his hand to them ere they in battle close.
Then calmly cries: "Tho' love, it seems, has no respect for law,
'Tis right that ye keep peace to-day and from the lists withdraw!
Nay, gentlemen, your lances lower before it be too late;
And let our foes their lances raise, in sign of passion's hate;
Thus without blood accorded be a victory and defeat.
'Tis only bloodshed makes the one more bitter or more sweet,
For arms or reason unavailing prove
To curb the passions of a king in love."

At last they seize the struggling Moor, the chains are on his hands;
And the populace, with anger filled, arrange themselves in bands.
They place a guard at every point, in haste to set him free,
But where the brave commander who shall lead to victory?
And where the leader who shall shout and stir their hearts to fight?
These are but empty braggarts, but prowlers of the night,
Cut-throats and needy idlers--and so the tumult ends--
Azarque lies in prison, forsaken by his friends.
For, ah, both arms and reason powerless prove
To turn the purpose of a king in love.

Alone does Celindaja the coward crowd implore,
"Oh, save him, save him, generous friends, give back to me my Moor."
She stands upon the balcony and from that lofty place
Would fling herself upon the stones to save him from disgrace.
Her mother round the weeping girl has flung her withered arm.
"O fool," she whispers in her ear, "in Mary's name be calm!"
Thou madly rushest to thy death by this distracted show.
Surely thou knowest well this truth, if anyone can know,
How arms and reason powerless prove
To turn the purpose of a king in love.

Then came a message of the King, in which the monarch said
That a house wherein his kindred dwelt must be a prison made.
Then Celindaja, white with rage: "Go to the King and say
I choose to be my prison-house for many and many a day,
The memory of Azarque, in which henceforth I live:
But the treachery of a monarch my heart will not forgive.
For the will of one weak woman shall never powerless prove
To turn the foolish purpose of a king who is in love.

"Alas for thee, Toledo! in former times they said
That they called thee for vengeance upon a traitor's head.
But now 'tis not on traitors, but on loyal men and true
That they call to thee for vengeance, which to caitiff hearts are due.
And Tagus gently murmurs in his billows fresh and free
And hastens from Toledo to reach the mighty sea."
E'er she said more, they seized the dame, and led her to the gate,
Where the warden of the castle in solemn judgment sate.

THE LOVERS OF ANTEQUERA

The brave Hamete reined his steed and from the crupper bent,
To greet fair Tartagona, who saw him with content,
The daughter of Zulema, who had many a foe repelled
From the castle on the hill, which he in Archidora held;
For six-and-thirty years he kept the Christian host at bay,
A watchful warden, fearless of the stoutest foes' array.
And now adown the well-known path, a secret path and sure,
Led by the noble lady, hurried the gallant Moor.
The sentinels beneath the wall were careless, or they slept;
They heeded not Hamete as down the slope he crept.
And when he reached the level plain, full twenty feet away,
He hobbled fast his courser, lest he should farther stray.
Then to the Moorish lady he turned, as if to speak,
Around her waist he flung his arms and kissed her on the cheek.
"O goddess of my heart," he said, "by actions I will prove,
If thou wilt name some high emprise, how faithful is my love!
And in Granada I am great, and have much honored been,
Both by the King Fernando and Isabel his Queen.
My name is high, my lineage long, yet none of all my line
Have reached the pitch of glory which men allow is mine.
Narvarez is a knight of name, in love and arms adept,
In Antequera's castle he well the marches kept.
Jarifa was a captive maid, he loved Jarifa well,
And oft the maiden visited within her prison cell.
And, if the thing with honor and virtuous heart may be,
What he did with Jarifa, that would I do with thee."
A star was shining overhead upon the breast of night,
The warrior turned his course, and led the lady by its light.
They reached the foot of one tall rock, and stood within the shade,
Where thousand thousand ivy leaves a bower of beauty made.
They heard the genet browsing and stamping as he fed,
And smiling Love his pinions over the lovers spread.
But ere they reached the pleasant bower, they saw before them stand,
Armed to the teeth, with frowning face, a strange and savage band.
Yes, seventy men with sword in hand surrounded dame and knight,
The robbers of the mountain, and they trembled at the sight!
With one accord these freebooters upon Hamete fell,
Like hounds that on the stag at bay rush at the hunter's call,
Burned the Moor's heart at once with wrath, at once with passion's flame,
To save the life and, more than life, the honor of his dame.
Straight to his feet he sprung and straight he drew his mighty sword,
And plunged into the robber crowd and uttered not a word.
No jousting game was e'er so brisk as that which then he waged;
On arm and thigh with deadly blow the slashing weapon raged;
Though certain was his death, yet still, with failing heart, he prayed
That till his lady could escape, that death might be delayed.
But, in the dark, a deadly stone, flung with no warning sound,
Was buried in his forehead and stretched him on the ground.
The breath his heaving bosom left and, from his nerveless hand,
The sword fell clattering to the ground, before that bloody band.
And when the damsel saw herself within those caitiffs' power,
And saw the city mantled in the darkness of the hour,
No grief that ever woman felt was equal to her pain,
And no despair like that of hers shall e'er be known again.
Those villains did not see those locks, that shone like threads of gold;
Only the summer sunlight their wondrous beauty told.
They did not mark the glittering chain of gold and jewels fine,
That in the daylight would appear her ivory throat to twine.
But straight she took the scimitar, that once her lover wore,
It lay amid the dewy grass, drenched to the hilt in gore.
And, falling on the bloody point, she pierced her bosom through,
And Tartagona breathed her last, mourned by that robber crew.
And there she lay, clasping in death her lover's lifeless face,
Her valor's paragon, and she the glass of woman's grace.
And since that hour the tale is told, while many a tear-drop falls,
Of the lovers of the vega by Antequera's walls.
And they praise the noble lady and they curse the robber band,
And they name her the Lucretia of fair Andalusia's land.
And if the hearer of the tale should doubt that it be true,
Let him pass along the mountain road, till Ronda comes in view,
There must he halt and searching he may the story trace
In letters that are deeply cut on the rocky mountain's face.

TARFE'S TRUCE

"Oho, ye Catholic cavaliers
Who eye Granada day and night,
On whose left shoulder is the cross,
The crimson cross, your blazon bright.

"If e'er your youthful hearts have felt
The flame of love that brings delight,
As angry Mars, in coat of steel,
Feels the fierce ardor of the fight;

"If 'tis your will, within our walls,
To join the joust, with loaded reed,
As ye were wont, beneath these towers
The bloody lance of war to speed;

"If bloodless tumult in the square
May serve instead of battle's fray,
And, donning now the silken cloak,
Ye put the coat of steel away;

"Six troops of Saracens are here;
Six Christian troops, with targe and steed
Be ready, when the day is fixed,
To join the jousting of the reed.

"For 'tis not right that furious war,
Which sets the city's roofs in flames,
Should kindle with a fruitless fire
The tender bosom of our dames.

"In spite of all we suffer here
Our ladies are with you arrayed,
They pity you in this fierce war,
This labor of the long blockade.

"Amid the hardships of the siege
Let pleasure yield a respite brief;
(For war must ever have its truce)
And give our hardships some relief.

"What solace to the war-worn frame,
To every soul what blest release,
To fling aside the targe and mail,
And don one hour the plumes of peace!

"And he who shall the victor be
Among the jousters of the game,
I pledge my knightly word to him,
In token of his valorous fame,

"On his right arm myself to bind
The favor of my lady bright;
'Twas given me by her own white hand,
The hand as fair as it is white."

'Twas thus that Tarfe, valiant Moor,
His proclamation wrote at large;
He, King Darraja's favored squire,
Has nailed the cartel to his targe.

'Twas on the day the truce was made,
By Calatrava's master bold,
To change the quarters of his camp,
And with his foes a conference hold.

Six Moorish striplings Tarfe sent
In bold Abencerraje's train--
His kindred both in race and house--
To meet the leaguers on the plain.

In every tent was welcome warm;
And when their challenge they display,
The master granted their request
To join the joust on Easter day.

In courteous words that cartel bold
He answered; and a cavalcade
Of Christians, with the Moorish guards,
Their journey to Granada made.

The guise of war at once was dropped;
The armory closed its iron door;
And all put on the damask robes
That at high festival they wore.

The Moorish youths and maidens crowd,
With joyful face, the city square;
These mount their steeds, those sit and braid
Bright favors for their knights to wear.

Those stern antagonists in war,
Like friends, within the town are met;
And peacefully they grasp the hand,
And for one day the past forget.

And gallant Almarada comes
(Not Tarfe's self more brave, I ween),
Lord of a lovely Moorish dame,
Who rules her lover like a queen.

A hundred thousand favors she
In public or in private gives,
To show her lover that her life
Is Almarada's while she lives!

And once upon a cloudy night,
Fit curtain for his amorous mood,
The gallant Moor the high hills scaled
And on Alhambra's terrace stood.

Arrived, he saw a Moorish maid
Stand at a window opened wide;
He gave her many a precious gem;
He gave her many a gift beside.

He spoke and said: "My lady fair,
Though I have never wronged him, still
Darraja stands upon the watch,
By fair or foul, to do me ill.

"Those eyes of thine, which hold more hearts
Than are the stars that heaven displays;
That slay more Moors with shafts of love
Than with his sword the master slays;

"When will they soften at my smile?
And when wilt thou, my love, relent?
Let Tarfe go, whose words are big,
While his sword-arm is impotent!

"Thou seest I am not such as he;
His haughty words, so seldom true,
Are filled with boasting; what he boasts
This sturdy arm of mine can do.

"My arm, my lance, ah! well 'tis known
How oft in battle's darkest hour
They saved Granada's city proud
From yielding to the Christian's power."

Thus amorous Almarada spoke
When Tarfe came and caught the word;
And as his ear the message seized,
His right hand seized upon his sword.

Yet did he deem some Christian troop
Was in the darkness hovering by;
And at the thought, with terror struck,
He turned in eager haste to fly!

Darraja roused him at the din;
And with loud voice to Tarfe spoke;
He knew him from his cloak of blue,
For he had given the Moor that cloak!

THE TWO MOORISH KNIGHTS

Upon two mares both strong and fleet,
White as the cygnet's snowy wing,
Beneath Granada's arching gate
Passed Tarfe and Belchite's King.

Like beauty marks the dames they serve;
Like colors at their spear-heads wave;
While Tarfe kneels at Celia's feet,
The King is Dorelice's slave.

With belts of green and azure blue
The gallant knights are girded fair;
Their cloaks with golden orange glow,
And verdant are the vests they wear.

And gold and silver, side by side,
Are glittering on their garment's hem;
And, mingled with the metals, shine
The lights of many a costly gem.

Their veils are woven iron-gray,
The melancholy tint of woe--
And o'er their heads the dusky plumes
Their grief and desolation show.

And each upon his target bears
Emblazoned badges, telling true
Their passion and their torturing pangs,
In many a dark and dismal hue.

The King's device shines on his shield--
A seated lady, passing fair;
A monarch, with a downcast eye,
Before the dame is kneeling there.

His crown is lying at her feet
That she may spurn it in disdain;
A heart in flames above is set;
And this the story of his pain.

"In frost is born this flame of love"--
Such legend circles the device--
"And the fierce fire in which I burn
Is nourished by the breath of ice."

Upon her brow the lady wears
A crown; her dexter hand sustains
A royal sceptre, gilded bright,
To show that o'er all hearts she reigns.

An orb in her left hand she bears,
For all the world her power must feel;
There Fortune prostrate lies; the dame
Halts with her foot the whirling wheel.

But Tarfe's shield is blank and bare,
Lest Adelifa should be moved
With jealous rage, to learn that he
Her Moorish rival, Celia, loved.

He merely blazons on his targe
A peaceful olive-branch, and eyes
That sparkle in a beauteous face,
Like starlets in the autumn skies.

And on the branch of olive shines
This legend: "If thy burning ray
Consume me with the fire of love,
See that I wither not away."

They spurred their horses as they saw
The ladies their approach surveyed;
And when they reached their journey's end
The King to Dorelice said:

"The goddesses who reign above
With envy of thy beauty tell;
When heaven and glory are thy gifts,
Why should I feel the pangs of hell?

"Oh, tell me what is thy desire?
And does heaven's light more pleasure bring
Than to own monarchs as thy slaves,
And be the heiress to a king?

"I ask from thee no favor sweet;
Nor love nor honor at thy hand;
But only that thou choose me out
The servant of thy least command.

"The choicest nobles of the realm
The glory of this office crave;
The lowliest soldier, with delight,
Would die to prove himself thy slave.

"Each life, each heart is at thy feet;
Thou with a thousand hearts mayst live;
And if thou wouldst not grant my prayer,
Oh, take the warning that I give.

"For there are ladies in the court
To my desires would fain consent,
And lovely Bendarrafa once
These jealous words but lately sent:

"'Those letters and those written lines,
Why dost thou not their sense divine?
Are they not printed on thy heart
As thy loved image is on mine?

"'Why art thou absent still so long?
It cannot be that thou art dead?'"
Then ceased the King and silent stood,
While Tarfe to his Celia said:

"Celestial Celia be thy name;
Celestial calm is on thy brow;
Yet all the radiance of thy face
Thy cruelty eclipses now.

"A witch like Circe dost thou seem;
For Circe could o'ercloud the sky;
Oh, let the sun appear once more,
And bid the clouds of darkness fly!

"Ah, would to God that on the feast,
The Baptist's consecrated day,
I might my arms about thee fling
And lead thee from thy home away.

"Yet say not that 'tis in thy power
To yield or all my hopes to kill;
For thou shalt learn that all the world,
In leaguer, cannot bend my will.

"And France can tell how many a time
I fought upon the tented field,
And forced upon their bended knee
Her loftiest paladins to yield.

"I vanquished many a valiant knight
Who on his shield the lilies bore;
And on Vandalia's plain subdued
Of Red Cross warriors many a score.

"The noblest I had brought to yield
Upon Granada's gory plain,
Did I not shrink with such vile blood
The honor of my sword to stain."

At this the trumpets called to arms;
Without one farewell word each knight
Turned from the lady of his heart
And spurred his steed in headlong flight.

THE KING'S DECISION

Amid a thousand sapient Moors
From Andalusia came,
Was an ancient Moor, who ruled the land,
Rey Bucar was his name.

And many a year this sage had dwelt
With the lady he loved best;
And at last he summoned the Cortes,
As his leman made request.

The day was set on which his lords
And commoners should meet,
And they talked to the King of his wide realm's need,
As the King sat in his seat.

And many the laws they passed that day;
And among them a law that said
That the lover who took a maid for his love
The maid of his choice must wed;
And he who broke this ordinance
Should pay for it with his head.

And all agreed that the law was good;
Save a cousin of the King,
Who came and stood before him,
With complaint and questioning;

"This law, which now your Highness
Has on your lieges laid,
I like it not, though many hearts
It has exultant made.

"Me only does it grieve, and bring
Disaster on my life;
For the lady that I love the best,
Is already wedded wife;

"Wedded she is, wedded amiss;
Ill husband has she got.
And oft does pity fill my heart
For her distressful lot.

"And this one thing I tell thee, King,
To none else has it been told:
If I think her love is silver,
She thinks my love is gold."

Then spake Rey Bucar in reply,
This sentence uttered he:
"If thy love be wedded wife, the law
Hath no penalty for thee."

ALMANZOR AND BOBALIAS

The King Almanzor slept one night,
And, oh! his sleep was blest;
Not all the seven Moorish kings
Could dare to break his rest.

The infante Bobalias
Bethought of him and cried:
"Now rouse thee, rouse thee, uncle dear!
And hasten to my side.

"And bid them fetch the ladders
Owned by my sire the King;
And the seven mules that carry them
Into my presence bring.

"And give to me the seven stout Moors
Who shall their harness set,
For the love, the love of the countess
I never can forget."

"Ill-mannered art thou, nephew,
And never wilt amend;
The sweetest sleep I ever slept,
Thou bringest to an end."

Now they have brought the ladders
Owned by his sire the King.
And, to bear the load along the road,
Seven sturdy mules they bring;

And seven stout Moors, by whom the mules
In housings are arrayed.
And to the walls of the countess
Their journey have they made.
There, at the foot of yonder tower,
They halt their cavalcade.

In the arms of the count Alminique
The countess lay at rest;
The infante has ta'en her by the hand,
And caught her to his breast.

THE MOORISH INFANTA AND ALFONZO RAMOS

Beneath the shade of an olive-tree
Stood the infanta fair;
A golden comb was in her hands,
And well she decked her hair.

To heaven she raised her eyes, and saw,
That early morning-tide,
A clump of spears and an armored band
From Guadalquivir ride.

Alfonzo Ramos with them came,
The admiral of Castile.
"Now welcome, Alfonzo Ramos!
Now welcome, steed and steel,
What tidings do you bring of my fleet,
What tidings of woe or weal?"

"I'll tell thee tidings, lady,
If my life thou wilt assure."
"Tell on, Alfonzo Ramos,
Thy life shall be secure."

"Seville, Seville has fallen,
To the arms of the Berber Moor."

"But for my word thy head this day
To the vultures had been tost!"
"If head of mine were forfeited,
Tis thine must pay the cost."

THE BULL-FIGHT OF ZULEMA

He was a valorous gentleman, a gay and gallant knight,
Like stars on heaven's fifth circle was the splendor of his might.
In peace, accomplished in the arts of great Apollo's choir,
In war, the brilliant swordsman that Mars might well admire.
His great exploits were written on history's brightest page,
And rightly was he reckoned as the mirror of his age;
Great deeds he did with point of lance and won bright honor's crown,
Before the year when each red cheek was clothed in manly down.
And such he was through all the world by minstrel harps extolled,
Both for the vigor of his arm and for his bearing bold.
His very foes, whom he had made surrender in the fight,
While trembling at his valor, asked blessings on the knight.
And Fame herself, whose pace is swift, whose voice like fire can run,
Grew weary with reciting the deeds that he had done.
To tell aright his jeopardies, escapes, and rescues wrought,
A swifter-flying pinion and a louder tongue she sought!
Such was Zulema, such was he, the warrior of renown,
The son of that Zulema who ruled Toledo's town.
Ah! bright the fame the father left, for it shall never die--
The glory of his greater son shall keep its memory.
Now once it happened that he reached a city's towering gate;
'Twas Avila, and there that day the games they celebrate.
The mighty square, when he arrived, was changed into a bower;
And every knight wore fluttering plumes and every dame a flower.
The scene was strange, because the Moor, in southern cities reared,
Had never seen how gay Castile on festal days appeared.
He marked the Adelifas in the King's pavilion stand,
And he asked, and his prayer was granted, to join the champion band.
Yet when they gave consent they feared that great Zulema's might
Would surely quite excel in joust the best Castilian knight.
But a thousand times they asked that heaven would give to him success,
And a thousand times they wondered at his glorious Moorish dress.
Full many a lady's beck and smile were on the warrior bent,
And they looked on his manly beauty and they sighed with deep content.
But now Zulema by the hand the wardens take and greet,
And 'mid the highest noblemen they yield the knight a seat.
His seat was placed in honor 'mid ladies gay and bright,
Mid warriors of Castile, the first in courage and in might.
Then suddenly, more swift than wind, more wild than comet's glare,
Jerama's bull, far famed was he, rushed on the crowded square.
Ah! brave was he in flashing eyes, and fierce was he in heart,
His brow was like a storm-cloud, each horn a giant's dart,
His wide-spread nostrils snorted fire, his neck was short and deep,
His skin was black as the thunder-cloud that crowns the mountain's steep.
Before his coming fled the crowd, until the sunny square
Was emptied of the multitude, and every stone was bare.
Those only who on horseback sat remained to face the foe.
Now trembling with alarm they stand, and now with hope they glow.
Good sport they looked to have with him, and lay him in the dust,
But the Andalusian hero evaded every thrust.
And sometimes, with a gallant charge he threw them from their seat,
He gored them with his savage horn, and trod them with his feet!
Ah! great the shame of the vanquished knights; they dared not raise their
eyes
To the ladies who looked down and smiled from banks and balconies.
For those soft eyes were fixed no more upon each vanquished knight,
But on the monster proud and strong who conquered them in fight.
The dames upon the royal seat to Zulema turned their eyes,
And one, the loveliest of them all, who wore a strange disguise,
Yet through her veil such rays she shot that she seemed like the sun on
high
When he rises, quenching all the stars that filled the midnight sky.
She made a sign to him and spoke directly from her heart,
Whose tongue is in a woman's eye. Ah! well it plays its part!
She bade him to redeem the day and avenge each gallant knight
Who had fallen in the dust before the foe in stubborn fight.
And the Moor with gracious mien assents, and from his seat descends;
But first with glance and waving scarf a tender message sends
To the lovely Moorish damsel who had called him to the fray,
And had filled his heart with sudden love upon the festal day.
And as he leapt into the sand it was as if he flew,
For love lent wings at his lady's nod, some glorious deed to do.
And when the bull beheld approach, upon the bloody sand,
His bold and tall antagonist, a dagger in his hand,
He roared like thunder, with his hoofs he pawed the dusty ground,
The plaza shook, the castle tower re-echoed to the sound!
Long subject to the hand of man, and in subjection born,
He thought to subject human foe to hoof and mighty horn.
Zulema started toward the beast, loud cries would hold him back,
But well he knew that victory would follow his attack.
The bull was on him with a bound, and, glaring face to face,
They stood one moment, while a hush fell on the crowded place.
With bold right hand Zulema drew his keen and mighty blade;
Blow after blow 'mid blood and dust upon his foe he laid;
The startled beast retired before such onslaught of his foe,
And the people shouted loud applause and the King himself bowed low.
The bull with tossing head roared forth a challenge to the knight,
As Zulema turned, and with a bound rushed to the desperate fight.
Ah! cruel were the strokes that rained upon that foaming flank!
Into the sand that life-blood like a shower of autumn sank.
He roars, he snorts, he spurns the ground, the bloody dust flies high,
Now here, now there, in angry pain they see the monster fly.
He turns to see what new-found foe has crossed his path to-day;
But when Zulema faces him he stops to turn away.
For the third time the fight begins; the bull with many a roar
Turns to his foe, while from his lips run mingled foam and gore.
The Moor enraged to see the beast again before him stand,
Deals him the deep, the fatal wound, with an unerring hand.
That wound, at last, has oped the gate through which may enter death,
And staggering to the dust the beast snorts forth his latest breath.
As the bull falls, the crowded square rings with a loud acclaim,
And envy burns in many a knight, and love in many a dame.
The highest nobles of the land the conqueror embrace;
He sees the blush of passion burn on many a damsel's face.
And Fame has blown her trumpet and flies from town to town,
And Apollo takes his pen and writes the hero's title down.

THE RENEGADE

Through the mountains of Moncayo,
Lo! all in arms arrayed,
Rides pagan Bobalias,
Bobalias the renegade.

Seven times he was a Moor, seven times
To Christ he trembling turned;
At the eighth, the devil cozened him
And the Christian cross he spurned,
And took back the faith of Mahomet,
In childhood he had learned.

He was the mightiest of the Moors,
And letters from afar
Had told him how Sevila
Was marshalling for war.

He arms his ships and galleys,
His infantry and horse,
And straight to Guadalquivir's flood
His pennons take their course.

The flags that on Tablada's plain
Above his camp unfold,
Flutter above three hundred tents
Of silk brocade and gold.

In the middle, the pavilion
Of the pagan they prepare;
On the summit a ruby stone is set,
A jewel rich and rare.

It gleams at morn, and when the night
Mantles the world at length,
It pours a ray like the light of day,
When the sun is at its strength.

THE TOWER OF GOLD

Brave Arbolan a prisoner lay
Within the Tower of Gold;
By order of the King there stood
Four guards to keep the hold.
'Twas not because against his King
He played a treacherous part;
But only that Guhala's charms
Had won the captive's heart.

"Guhala, Guhala,
My longing heart must cry;
This mournful vow I utter now--
To see thee or to die."

No longer free those sturdy limbs!
Revenge had bid them bind
The iron chain on hands and feet;
They could not chain his mind!
How dolorous was the warrior's lot!
All hope at last had fled;
And, standing at the window,
With sighing voice he said:

"Guhala, Guhala,
My longing heart must cry;
This mournful vow I utter now--
To see thee or to die."

He turned his eyes to where the banks
Of Guadalquivir lay;
"Inhuman King!" in grief he cried,
"Thy mandates I obey;
Thou bidst them load my limbs with steel;
Thy cruel sentinel
Keeps watch beside my prison door;
Yet who my crime can tell?

"Guhala, Guhala,
My longing heart must cry;
This mournful vow I utter now--
To see thee or to die."

THE DIRGE FOR ALIATAR

No azure-hued tahalia now
Flutters about each warrior's brow;
No crooked scimitars display
Their gilded scabbards to the day.
The Afric turbans, that of yore
Were fashioned on Morocco's shore,
To-day their tufted crown is bare;
There are no fluttering feathers there.
In mourning garments all are clad,
Fit harness for the occasion sad;
But, four by four the mighty throng
In slow procession streams along.
Ah! Aliatar! well he knew
The soldiers of his army true,
The soldiers whose afflicted strain
Gives utterance to their bosom's pain.