Chapter V: Preface (4)

Soon as in rage Celinda had closed her lattice fast
And scorned the Moor ungrateful for his service in the past,
Her passion with reflection turns and in repentance ends;
She longs to see the Moor again and make to him amends;
For in the dance of woman's love through every mood they range
And those whose hearts are truest are given most to change.
And when she saw the gallant knight before the people all
Shiver his lance to splinters against her palace wall,
And when she saw his cloak of green was changed to mourning gray,
She straightway took her mantle with silver buttons gay,
She took her hood of purple pleached with the gold brocade,
Whose fringes and whose borders were all in pearls arrayed,
She brought a cap with sapphires and emeralds bespread;
The green was badge of hope, the blue of jealous rancor dead.
With waving plumes of green and white she decked a snowy hood,
And armed with double heads of steel a lance of orange-wood--
For colors of the outer man denote the inner mood.
A border too of brilliant green around a target set,
The motto this, "Tis folly a true lover to forget."
And first she learned where bold Gazul was entertained that day,
And they told her how his coming had put off the tilters' play,
And at her pleasure-house she bade him meet her face to face;
And they told him how Celinda longed for his loved embrace,
And thrice he asked the messenger if all were not a jest,
For oft 'tis dangerous to believe the news we love the best,
For lovers' hopes are often thorns of rancor and unrest.
They told him that the words were true; and without further speech
The glory of his lady's eyes he sallied forth to reach.
He met her in a garden where sweet marjoram combined
With azure violets a scent that ravished every wind.
The musk and jasmine mingled in leaf and branch and flower,
Building about the lovers a cool and scented bower.
The white leaf matched her lily skin, the red his bounding heart.
For she was beauty's spotless queen, he valor's counterpart.
For when the Moor approached her he scarcely raised his eye,
Dazed by the expectation that she had raised so high.
Celinda with a trembling blush came forth and grasped his hand;
They talked of love like travellers lost in a foreign land.
Then said the Moor, "Why give me now love's sweetest paths to trace,
Who in thy absence only live on memories of thy face?
If thou should speak of Xerez," he said with kindling eye,
"Now take my lance, like Zaida's spouse this moment let me die,
And may I some day find thee in a rival's arms at rest,
And he by all thy arts of love be tenderly caressed;
Unless the Moor whose slander made me odious in thy eyes
In caitiff fraud and treachery abuse thine ear with lies."
The lady smiled, her heart was light, she felt a rapture new;
And like each flower that filled their bower the love between them grew,
For little takes it to revive the love that is but true;
And aided by his lady's hand he hastes her gems to don,
And on his courser's back he flings a rich caparison,
A head-stall framed of purple web and studded o'er with gold;
And purple plumes and ribbons and gems of price untold;
He clasped the lady to his heart, he whispered words of cheer,
And then took horse to Gelva to join the tilting there.

CALL TO ARMS

What time the sun in ocean sank, with myriad colors fair,
And jewels of a thousand hues tinted the clouds of air,
Brave Gazul at Acala, with all his host, drew rein--
They were four hundred noblemen, the stoutest hearts in Spain--
And scarcely had he reached the town when the command was given:
"Now let your shots, your cross-bows, sound to the vault of heaven!
Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions blend their strain;
Zulema, Tunis' King, now lands upon the coast of Spain,
And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello and his train."
And though at night he entered no torch or lamp he hath,
For glorious Celinda is the sun upon his path;
And as he enters in the town at once the word is given:
"Now let your shots, your cross-bows, sound to the vault of heaven!
Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions blend their strain;
Zulema, Tunis' King, now lands upon the coast of Spain,
And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello and his train."
Gazul dismounted from his steed and hastened to his bride;
She sat there mournful and alone and at his sight she sighed;
He flung his arms about the girl; she shrank from his embrace,
And while he looked in wonder, she hid her blushing face;
He said, "And can it be that thou should'st shrink from my embrace?"
Before she answered with one voice the air around was riven--
"Now let your shots, your cross-bows, sound to the vault of heaven!
Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions blend their strain;
Zulema, Tunis' King, now lands upon the coast of Spain,
And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello and his train."
"Ah, traitor," she replied to him, "four months wert thou away,
And I in vain expected some tidings day by day."
And humbly did the Moor reply, "Do I deserve the blame?
Who drops the lance to take the pen, he does a deed of shame."
They sank into each other's arms just as the word was given:
"Now let your shots, your cross-bows, sound to the vault of heaven!
Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions blend their strain;
Zulema, Tunis' King, now lands upon the coast of Spain,
And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello and his train."

GAZUL CALUMNIATED

Gazul, despairing, issues
From high Villalba's gate,
Cursing the evil fortune
That left him desolate.
Unmoved he in Granada saw
What feuds between the foes
The great Abencerrajes
And the Andallas rose.
He envied not the Moors who stood
In favor with the King!
He did not crave the honors
That rank and office bring.
He only cared that Zaida,
Her soft heart led astray
By lying words of slander,
Had flung his love away.
And thinking on her beauteous face,
Her bearing proud and high,
The bosom of the valiant Moor
Heaved with a mournful sigh.
"And who has brought me this disdain,
And who my hope betrayed,
And thee, the beauteous Zaida,
False to thy purpose made?
And who has caused my spoils of war,
The palm and laurel leaf,
To wither on my forehead, bowed
Beneath the load of grief?'
'Tis that some hearts of treachery black
With lies have crossed thy way,
And changed thee to a lioness,
By hunters brought to bay.
O tongues of malediction!
O slanderers of my fame!
Thieves of my knightly honor!
Ye lay up naught but shame.
Ye are but citadels of fraud,
And castles of deceit;
When ye your sentence pass, ye tread
The law beneath your feet.
May Allah on your cruel plots
Send down the wrath divine,
That ye my sufferings may feel,
In the same plight as mine.
And may ye learn, ye pitiless,
How heavy is the rod
That brings on human cruelty
The chastisement of God.
Ye who profess in word and deed
The path of truth to hold
Are viler than the nightly wolves
That waste the quiet fold."
So forth he rode, that Moorish knight,
Consumed by passion's flame,
Scorned and repulsed by Zaida,
The lovely Moorish dame.
Then spake he to the dancing waves
Of Tagus' holy tide,
"Oh, that thou hadst a tongue, to speak
My story far and wide!
That all might learn, who gaze on thee
At evening, night, or morn,
Westward to happy Portugal,
The sufferings I have borne."

GAZUL'S DESPAIR

Upon Sanlucar's spacious square
The brave Gazul was seen,
Bedecked in brilliant array
Of purple, white, and green.
The Moor was starting for the joust,
Which many a warrior brings
To Gelva, there to celebrate
The truce between the kings.
A fair Moor maiden he adored,
A daughter of the brave,
Who struggled at Granada's siege;
Granada was their grave.
And eager to accost the maid,
He wandered round the square;
With piercing eyes he peered upon
The walls that held the fair.
And for an hour, which seemed like years,
He watched impatient there;
But when he saw the lady mount
Her balcony, he thought,
That the long hour of waiting
That vision rendered short.
Dismounting from his patient steed,
In presence of his flame,
He fell upon his knees and kissed
The pavement in her name.
With trembling voice he spoke to her,
"I cannot, cannot meet,
In any joust where you are near,
Disaster and defeat.
Of yore I lived without a heart,
Kinsmen, or pedigree;
But all of these are mine, if thou
Hast any thought of me.
Give me some badge, if not that thou
Mayst recognize thy knight,
At least to deck him, give him strength,
And succor in the fight."
Celinda heard in jealous doubt;
For some, with envious art,
Had told her that fair Zaida still
Ruled o'er the warrior's heart.
She answered him in stormy rage:
"If in the joust thou dost engage
With such success as I desire,
And all thy broken oaths require,
Thou wilt not reach Sanlucar's square
So proud as when thou last wert there.
But there shalt meet, disconsolate,
Eyes bright with love and dark with hate.
God grant that in the deadly joust
The enemies that thou hast roused,
May hurl at thee the unparried dart
And pierce thee, liar, to the heart.
Thy corpse within thy mantle bound
May horses trail along the ground.
Thou comest thy revenge to seek,
But small the vengeance thou shalt wreak.
Thy friends shall no assistance yield;
Thy foes shall tread thee in the field;
For thou the woman-slayer, then,
Shall meet thy final fate from men.
Those damsels whom thou hast deceived
Shall feel no pang of grief;
Their aid was malediction,
Thy death is their relief.
The Moor was true in heart and soul,
He thought she spake in jest.
He stood up in his stirrups,
Her hand he would have pressed.
"Lady," he said, "remember well
That Moor of purpose fierce and fell
On whom my vengeance I did wreak
Hast felt the curse that now you speak.
And as for Zaida, I repent
That love of mine on her was spent.
Disdain of her and love of thee
Now rule my soul in company.
The flame in which for her I burned
To frost her cruelty has turned.
Three cursed years, to win her smile,
In knightly deeds I wrought,
And nothing but her treachery
My faithful service brought,
She flung me off without a qualm,
Because my lot was poor,
And gave, because the wretch was rich,
Her favor to a Moor."
Celinda as these words she heard
Impatiently the lattice barred,
And to the lover's ardent sight
It seemed that heaven was quenched in night.
A page came riding up the street,
Bringing the knight his jennets fleet,
With plumes and harness all bedight
And saddled well with housings bright;
The lance which he on entering bore
Brandished the knight with spirit sore,
And dashed it to the wall,
And head and butt, at that proud door,
In myriad fragments fall.
He bade them change from green to gray;
The plumes and harness borne that day
By all the coursers of his train.
In rage disconsolate,
He rode from Gelva, nor drew rein
Up to Sanlucar's gate.

VENGEANCE OF GAZUL

Not Rodamont the African,
The ruler of Argel,
And King of Zarza's southern coast,
Was filled with rage so fell,
When for his darling Doralice
He fought with Mandricard,
As filled the heart of bold Gazul
When, past Sidonia's guard,
He sallied forth in arms arrayed,
With courage high prepared
To do a deed that mortal man
Never before had dared.
It was for this he bade them bring
His barb and coat of mail;
A sword and dusky scabbard
'Neath his left shoulder trail;
In Fez a Christian captive
Had forged it, laboring
At arms of subtile temper
As bondsman of the King.
More precious 'twas to bold Gazul
Than all his realms could bring.
A tawny tinted _alquizel_
Beneath his arms he wore;
And, to conceal his thoughts of blood,
No towering spear he bore.
He started forth for Jerez,
And hastening on his course,
Trampled the vega far and wide
With hoof-prints of his horse.
And soon he crossed the splashing ford
Of Guadelate's tide,
Hard by the ancient haven
Upon the valley-side.
They gave the ford a famous name
The waters still retain,
Santa Maria was it called,
Since Christians conquered Spain.
The river crossed, he spurred his steed,
Lest he might reach the gate
Of Jarez at an hour unfit,
Too early or too late.
For Zaida, his own Zaida,
Had scorned her lover leal,
Wedding a rich and potent Moor
A native of Seville;
The nephew of a castellan,
A Moorish prince of power,
Who in Seville was seneschal
Of castle and of tower.
By this accursed bridal
Life's treasure he had lost;
The Moor had gained the treasure,
And now must pay the cost.
The second hour of night had rung
When, on his gallant steed,
He passed thro' Jerez' gate resolved
Upon a desperate deed.
And lo! to Zaida's dwelling
With peaceful mien he came,
Pondering his bloody vengeance
Upon that house of shame.
For he will pass the portal,
And strike the bridegroom low;
But first must cross the wide, wide court,
Ere he can reach his foe.
And he must pass the crowd of men,
Who in the courtyard stand,
Lighting the palace of the Moor,
With torches in their hand.
And Zaida in the midst comes forth,
Her lover at her side;
He has come, amid his groomsmen,
To take her for his bride.
And bold Gazul feels his heart bound
With fury at the sight;
A lion's rage is in his soul,
His brow is black as night.
But now he checks his anger,
And gently on his steed
Draws near, with smile of greeting,
That none may balk the deed.
And when he reached the bridal,
Where all had taken their stand,
Upon his mighty sword-hilt
He sudden laid his hand;
And in a voice that all could hear
"Base craven Moor," said he,
"The sweet, the lovely Zaida
Shall ne'er be bride to thee.
And count me not a traitor, I
Defy thee face to face,
Lay hand upon thy scimitar
If thou hast heart of grace."
And with these words he dealt one stroke,
A cruel stroke and true,
It reached the Moor, it struck his heart
And pierced it through and through.
Down fell the wretch, that single stroke
Had laid him with the dead--
"Now let him die for all his deeds,"
The assembled people said.
Gazul made bravely his defence,
And none could check his flight;
He dashed his rowels in his steed,
And vanished in the night.

GAZUL AND ALBENZAIDE

"Tho' thou the lance can hurl as well
As one a reed might cast,
Talk not of courage for thy crimes
Thy house's honor blast.
Seek not the revel or the dance,
Loved by each Moorish dame.
The name of valor is not thine,
Thou hast a coward's name;
And lay aside thy mantle fair
Thy veil and gaberdine,
And boast no more of gold and gems--
Thou hast disgraced thy line.
And see thine arms, for honor fit,
Are cheap and fashioned plain;
Yet such that he whose name is lost
May win it back again.
And Albenzaide keep thy tastes
Proportioned to thy state;
For oft from unrestrained desires
Spring hopes infatuate.
Flee from thy thoughts, for they have wings,
Whose light ambition lifts
Thy soul to empty altitudes,
Where purpose veers and drifts.
Fling not thyself into the sea,
From which the breezes blow
Now with abrupt disdain, and now
With flattering whispers low.
For liberty once forfeited
Is hard to be regained,
And hardest, when the forfeit falls
On heart and hand unstained."
Thus spake Gazul, the Moorish lord
Of fame and honor bright;
Yet, as a craven beggar,
Fair Zaida scorned the knight.

GAZUL'S ARMS

"Now scour for me my coat of mail,
Without delay, my page,
For, so grief's fire consumes me,
Thy haste will be an age;
And take from out my bonnet
The verdant plumes of pride,
Which once Azarco gave me,
When he took to him his bride.
And in their place put feathers black,
And write this motto there:
'Heavy as lead is now his heart,
Oppressed with a leaden care,'
And take away the diamonds,
And in their place insert
Black gems, that shall to all proclaim
The deed that does me hurt,
For if thou take away those gems
It will announce to all
The black and dismal lot that does
Unfortuned me befall.
And give to me the buskins plain,
Decked by no jewels' glow,
For he to whom the world is false
Had best in mourning go.
And give to me my lance of war,
Whose point is doubly steeled,
And, by the blood of Christians,
Was tempered in the field.
For well I wish my goodly blade
Once more may burnished glow;
And if I can to cleave in twain
The body of my foe.
And hang upon my baldric,
The best of my ten swords.
Black as the midnight is the sheath,
And with the rest accords.
Bring me the horse the Christian slave
Gave to me for his sire,
At Jaen; and no ransom
But that did I require.
And even though he be not shod,
Make haste to bring him here;
Though treachery from men I dread,
From beasts I have no fear.
The straps with rich enamel decked
I bid you lay aside;
And bind the rowels to my heel
With thongs of dusky hide."
Thus spake aloud the brave Gazul,
One gloomy Tuesday night;
Gloomy the eve, as he prepared
For victory in the fight.
For on that day the news had come
That his fair Moorish maid
Had wedded with his bitterest foe,
The hated Albenzaide.
The Moor was rich and powerful,
But not of lineage high,
His wealth outweighed with one light maid
Three years of constancy.
Touched to the heart, on hearing this,
He stood in arms arrayed,
Nor strange that he, disarmed by love,
'Gainst love should draw his blade.
And Venus, on the horizon,
Had shown her earliest ray
When he Sidonia left, and straight
To Jerez took his way.

THE TOURNAMENT

His temples glittered with the spoils and garlands of his love,
When stout Gazul to Gelvas came, the jouster's skill to prove.
He rode a fiery dappled gray, like wind he scoured the plain;
Yet all her power and mettle could a slender bit restrain;
The livery of his pages was purple, green, and red--
Tints gay as was the vernal joy within his bosom shed.
And all had lances tawny gray, and all on jennets rode,
Plumes twixt their ears; adown their flanks the costly housings flowed.
Himself upon his gallant steed carries the circling shield,
And a new device is blazoned upon its ample field.
The phoenix there is figured, on flaming nest it dies,
And from its dust and ashes again it seems to rise.
And on the margin of the shield this motto is expressed:
"Tis hard to hide the flames of love once kindled in the breast."
And now the ladies take their seats; each jouster mounts his steed;
From footmen and from horsemen flies fast the loaded reed.
And there appears fair Zaida, whom in a luckless day
The Moor had loved, but since, that love in loathing passed away.
Her treachery had grieved his heart, and she who did the wrong
Mourned with repentant heart amid that gay and happy throng.
And with her was Zafira, to whom her husband brings
More bliss and happiness than reign amid Granada's kings.
And when she looked at brave Gazul his deeds her grief renew;
The more she sees, the more her heart is ravished at the view.
And now she blushes with desire, now grows with envy pale;
Her heart is like the changing beam that quivers in the scale.
Alminda sees the lovely dame with sudden anguish start,
And speaks with hope she may reveal the secret of her heart.
And troubled Zaida makes reply, "A sudden thought of ill
Has flashed across my mind and caused the anguish that I feel."
"'Twere better," said Alminda, "to check thy fancy's flight,
For thought can rob the happiest hours of all their deep delight."
Then said the maid of Xerez, "To me thou showest plain
Thou hast not felt black envy's tooth nor known what is disdain.
To know it, would thy spirit move to pity my despair,
Who writhe and die from agony, in which thou hast no share."
Zafira seized the lady's hand, and silence fell around,
As mixed in loud confusion brushed the jousters to the ground.
In came the Berber tribesmen, in varied cloaks arrayed;
They ranged themselves in companies against the palisade.
The sound of barbarous trumpets rang, the startled horses reared,
And snort and neigh and tramp of hoofs on every side was heard,
Then troop meets troop, and valiant hearts the mimic fight pursue;
They hurl their javelins o'er the sand and pierce the bucklers through.
Long time the battling hosts contend, until that festive day,
The shout, the clash, the applauding cry, in silence die away.
They fain had prayed that time himself would stop Apollo's car.
They hate to see the sunset gloom, the rise of evening's star.
And even when the sun is set, he who a foe discerns,
With no less vigor to his targe the loaded javelin turns,
The onset joined, each lance discharged, the judge's voice is heard;
He bids the heralds sound a truce, and the wide lists are cleared.

ABENUMEYA'S LAMENT

The young Abenumeya, Granada's royal heir,
Was brave in battle with his foe and gallant with the fair.
By lovely Felisarda his heart had been ensnared,
The daughter of brave Ferri; the captain of the guard.
He through the vega of Genii bestrode his sorrel steed,
Alone, on melancholy thoughts his anxious soul to feed,
The tints that clothed the landscape round were gloomy as the scene
Of his past life, wherein his lot had naught but suffering been.
His mantle hue was of iron gray bestrewn with purple flowers,
Which bloomed amid distress and pain, like hope of happier hours.
And on his cloak were columns worked, (his cloak was saffron hued,)
To show that dark suspicion's fears had tried his fortitude;
His shield was blazoned with the moon, a purple streak above,
To show that fears of fickleness are ever born with love.
He bore an azure pennant 'neath the iron of his spear,
To show that lovers oft go wrong deceived by jealous fear.
The hood he wore was wrought of gold and silk of crimson clear;
His bonnet crest was a heron plume with an emerald stone beneath;
And under all a motto ran, "Too long a hope is death."
He started forth in such array, but armed from head to heel
With tempered blade and dagger and coat of twisted steel.
And hangling low at his saddle-bow was the helmet for his head;
And as he journeyed on his way the warrior sighed and said:
"O Felisarda, dearest maid, him in thy memory keep
Who in his soul has writ thy name in letters dark and deep.
Think that for thee in coat of mail he ever rides afield,
In his right hand the spear must stand, his left must grasp the shield.
And he must skirmish in the plain and broil of battle brave,
And wounded be, for weapons ne'er from jealousy can save."
And as he spoke the lonely Moor from out his mantle's fold
With many a sigh, that scorched the air, a lettered page unrolled.
He tried in vain to read it but his eyes with tears were blind,
And mantling clouds of sorrow hid the letters from his mind.
The page was moistened by the tears that flowed in plenteous tide,
But by the breath of sighs and sobs the softened page was dried.
Fresh wounds he felt at sight of it, and when the cause he sought,
His spirit to Granada flew upon the wings of thought.
He thought of Albaicin, the palace of the dame,
With its gayly gilded capitals and its walls of ancient fame.
And the garden that behind it lay in which the palm was seen
Swaying beneath the load of fruit its coronet of green.
"O mistress of my soul," he said, "who callest me thine own,
How easily all bars to bliss thy love might trample down!
But time, that shall my constancy, thy fickleness will show,
The world shall then my steadfast heart, thy tongue of treachery know.
Woe worth the day when, for thy sake, I fair Granada sought,
These anxious doubts may cloud my brow, they cannot guard thy thought.
My foes increase, thy cruelty makes absence bitterer still,
But naught can shake my constancy, and none can do me ill."
On this from Alpujarra the tocsin sounded high.
He rushed as one whose life is staked to save the maid or die.

THE DESPONDENT LOVER

He leaned upon his sabre's hilt,
He trod upon his shield,
Upon the ground he threw the lance
That forced his foes to yield.
His bridle hung at saddle-bow,
And, with the reins close bound,
His mare the garden entered free
To feed and wander round.
Upon a flowering almond-tree
He fixed an ardent gaze;
Its leaves were withered with the wind
That flowers in ruin lays.
Thus in Toledo's garden park,
Did Abenamar wait,
Who for fair Galliana
Watched at the palace gate.
The birds that clustered on the towers
Spread out their wings to fly,
And from afar his lady's veil
He saw go floating by.
And at this vision of delight,
Which healed his spirit's pain,
The exiled Moor took courage,
And hope returned again.
"O Galliana, best beloved,
Whom art thou waiting now?
And what has treacherous rendered
My fortune and thy vow?
Thou swearedst I should be thine own,
Yet 'twas but yesterday
We met, and with no greeting
Thou wentest on thy way.
Then, in my silence of distress,
I wandered pondering--
If this is what to-day has brought,
What will to-morrow bring?
Happy the Moor from passion free,
In peace or turmoil born,
Who without pang of hate or love,
Can slumber till the morn.
O almond-tree, thou provest
That the expected hours
Of bliss may often turn to bane,
As fade thy dazzling flowers.
A mournful image art thou
Of all that lays me low,
And on my shield I'll bear thee
As blazon of my woe.
For thou dost bloom in many a flower,
Till blasted by the wind,
And 'tis of thee this word is true--
'The season was not kind.'"
He spoke and on his courser's head
He slipped the bridle rein,
And while he curbed his gentle steed
He could not curb his pain,
And to Ocana took his course,
O'er Tagus' verdant plain.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY

"Unless thou wishest in one hour
Thine April hope shouldst blighted be,
Oh, tell me, Tarfe, tell me true,
How I may Zaida chance to see.
I mean the foreigner, the wife
New wedded, her with golden hair,
And for each lock a charm besides
She counts--for she is passing fair.
Her, whom the Moorish nobles all
To heaven in their laudation raise,
Till the fine ladies of the land
Are left to languish in dispraise.
The mosque I visit every day,
And wait to see her come in sight;
I wait to see her, where the rout
And revel lengthen out the night.
However, cost me what it may,
I cannot meet the lovely dame.
Ah, now my eyes are veiled in tears,
Sure witness of my jealous flame.
And tell me, Tarfe, that my rage
Has cause enough, for since I've been
Granada's guest (and would to God
Granada I had never seen!)
My lord forsakes me every night,
Nor till the morning comes again;
He shuns as painful my caress,
My very presence brings him pain;
Little indeed he recks of me,
If only he may elsewhere reign.
For if we in the garden meet,
Or if we in the chamber be,
His actions his estrangement prove,
He has not even words for me.
And if I say to him, 'My life!'
He answers me, 'My dearest dear,'
Yet with a coldness that congeals
My very heart with sudden fear.
And all the while I strive to make
His soul reveal a traitorous thought,
He turns his back on me, as if
To him my trembling fear was naught.
And when about his neck I cling,
He drops his eyes and bows his face,
As if, from thought of other arms
He longed to slip from my embrace.
His bosom heaves with discontent,
Deep as from hell the sigh is wrenched;
My heart with dark suspicion beats,
And all my happiness is quenched.
And if I ask of him the cause,
He says the cause in me is found;
That I am vain, the rover I,
And to another's bosom bound.
As if, since I have known his love,
I at the window show my face,
Or take another's hand in mine,
Or seek the bull-ring, joust, or race;
Or if my footsteps have been found
To wander a suspected place,
The prophet's curse upon me fall,
Unless to keep the nuptial pact
And serve the pleasure of my lord.
I kept the Koran's law exact!
But wherefore should I waste the time
These tedious questions to recall?
Thou knowest the chase on which he hies,
And yet in silence hidest all.
Nay, swear not--I will naught believe;
Thine oaths are but a fowler's net,
And woe betide the dame who falls
Into the snare that thou hast set.
For men are traitors one and all;
And all their promises betray;
Like letters on the water writ,
They vanish, when love's fires decay.
For to fulfil thy promise fair,
What hours thou hast the whole day long,
What chances on the open road,
Or in the house when bolts are strong.
O God! but what a thought is this?
I strangle, in the sudden thrall
Of this sharp pang of agony,
Oh, hold me, Tarfe, lest I fall."
Thus Adelifa weeping cried
At thought of Abenamar's quest:
In Moorish Tarfe's arms she fell,
And panting lay upon his breast.

THE CAPTIVE OF TOLEDO

Upon the loftiest mountain height
That rises in its pride,
And sees its summits mirrored
In Tagus' crystal tide,
The banished Abenamar,
Bound by a captive chain,
Looks on the high-road to Madrid
That seams the dusty plain.
He measures, with his pining eyes,
The stretching hills that stand
Between his place of banishment
And his sweet native land.
His sighs and tears of sorrow
No longer bear restraint,
And thus in words of anguish
He utters his complaint:
"Oh, dismal is the exile
That wrings the heart with woes
And locks the lips in silence,
Amid unfeeling foes.

O road of high adventure,
That leadest many a band
To yon ungrateful country where
My native turrets stand,
The country that my valor
Did oft with glory crown,
The land that lets me languish here,
Who won for her renown.
Thou who hast succored many a knight,
Hast thou no help for me,
Who languish on Toledo's height
In captive misery?
'Tis on thy world-wide chivalry
I base my word of blame,
'Tis that I love thee most of all,
Thy coldness brings me shame.
Oh, dismal is the exile,
That wrings my heart with woes,
And locks my lips in silence
Among unfeeling foes.

The warden of fierce Reduan
With cruelty more deep
That that of a hidalgo,
Has locked this prison keep;
And on this frontier set me,
To pine without repose,
To watch, from dawn to sunset,
Over his Christian foes.
Here like a watch-tower am I set
For Santiago's lord,
And for a royal mistress
Who breaks her plighted word.
And when I cry with anguish
And seek in song relief,
With threats my life is threatened,
Till silence cloak my grief.
Oh, dismal is the exile,
That wrings my heart with woes,
And locks my lips in silence
Among unfeeling foes.

And when I stand in silence,
Me dumb my jailers deem,
And if I speak, in gentle words,
They say that I blaspheme.
Thus grievously perverting
The sense of all I say,
Upon my lips the raging crowd
The gag of silence lay.
Thus heaping wrong on wrong my foes
Their prisoner impeach,
Until the outrage of my heart
Deprives my tongue of speech.
And while my word the passion
Of my sad heart betrays,
My foes are all unconscious
Of what my silence says.
Now God confound the evil judge
Who caused my misery,
And had no heart of pity
To soften his decree.
Oh, dismal is the exile,
That wrings my heart with woes,
And locks my lips in silence
Among unfeeling foes.

THE BLAZON OF ABENAMAR

By gloomy fortune overcast,
Vassal of one he held in scorn,
Complaining of the wintry world,
And by his lady left forlorn,
The wretched Abenamar mourned,
Because his country was unkind,
Had brought him to a lot of woe,
And to a foreign home resigned.
A stranger Moor had won the throne,
And in Granada sat in state.
Many the darlings of his soul
He claimed with love insatiate,
He, foul in face, of craven heart,
Had won the mistress of the knight;
Her blooming years of beauteous youth
Were Abenamar's own by right.
But royal favor had decreed
A foreign tyrant there should reign,
For many a galley owned him lord
And master, in the seas of Spain.
Oh, haply 'twas that Zaida's self,
Ungrateful like her changing sex,
Had chosen this emir, thus in scorn
Her Abenamar's soul to vex.
This was the thought that turned to tears
The eyes of the desponding knight,
As on his sufferings past he thought,
His labors and his present plight;
His hopes, to disappointment turned;
His wealth, now held in alien hands,
His agony o'er love betrayed,
Lost honor, confiscated lands.
And as his loyalty had met
Such ill requital from the King,
He called his page and bade him straight
A limner deft before him bring.
For he would have him paint at large,
In color, many a new device
And write his sufferings on his shield.
No single blazon would suffice.
And first a green field parched and seared;
A coal, in myriad blazes burned,
And like his ardent hopes of yore,
At length to dust and ashes turned.
And then a miser, rich in gold,
Who locks away some jewel bright,
For fear the thief a gem may steal,
Which yet can yield him no delight.
A fair Adonis done to death
Beneath the wild boar's cruel tusk.
A wintry dawn on pallid skies,
A summer's day that turns to dusk.
A lovely garden green and fair
Ravaged and slashed by strokes of steel;
Or wasted in its trim parterres
And trampled by the common heel.
So spake the brave heart-broken Moor;
Until his tears and struggling sighs
Turned to fierce rage; the painting then
He waited for with eager eyes.
He asks that one would fetch a steed,
Of his good mare no more he recks,
For womankind have done him wrong,
And she is woman in her sex.
The plumes of yellow, blue, and white
From off his bonnet brim he tears,
He will no longer carry them;
They are the colors Zaida wears.
He recks no more of woman's love,
His city now he bids farewell,
And swears he will no more return
Nor in Granada seek to dwell.

WOMAN'S FICKLENESS

A stout and valorous gentleman,
Granada knew his worth,
And rich with many a spoil of love,
Went Abenamar forth.
Upon his bonnet, richly dyed,
He bore a lettered scroll,
It ran, "'Tis only love that makes
The solace of my soul."
His bonnet and his brow were hid
Beneath a hood of green,
And plumes of violet and white
Above his head were seen.
And 'twixt the tassel and the crown
An emerald circlet shone.
The legend of the jewel said,
"Thou art my hope alone."
He rode upon a dappled steed
With housings richly dight,
And at his left side clanking hung
A scimitar of might.
And his right arm was sleeved in cloth
Of tawny lion's hue,
And at his lance-head, lifted high,
A Turkish pennon flew.
And when he reached Daraja's camp
He saw Daraja stand
Beside his own perfidious love,
And clasp her by the hand.
He made to her the wonted sign,
Then lingered for a while,
For jealous anguish filled his heart
To see her tender smile.
He spurred his courser to the blood;
One clattering bound he took,
The Moorish maiden turned to him.
Ah, love was in her look!
Ah, well he saw his hopeless fate,
And in his jealous mood
The heart that nothing feared in fight
Was whelmed in sorrow's flood.
"O false and faithless one," he said,
"What is it that I view?
Thus the foreboding of my soul
I see at last come true;
Shame that a janizary vile,
Of Christian creed and race,
A butt of bright Alhambra's feasts,
Has taken now my place.
Where is the love thou didst avow,
The pledge, the kiss, the tear,
And all the tender promises
Thou whisperedst in my ear?
Thou, frailer than the withered reed,
More changeful than the wind,
More thankless than the hardest heart
In all of womankind;
I marvel not at what I see,
Nor yet for vengeance call;
For thou art woman to the core,
And in that name is all."
The gallant Moor his courser checked,
His cheek with anger burned,
Men saw, that all his gallant mien
To gloom and rage was turned.

KING JUAN

"Abenamar, Abenamar," said the monarch to the knight,
"A Moor art thou of the Moors, I trow, and the ladies' fond delight,
And on the day when first you lay upon your mother's breast,
On land and sea was a prodigy, to the Christians brought unrest;
The sea was still as a ruined mill and the winds were hushed to rest.
And the broad, broad moon sank down at noon, red in the stormy west.
If thus thou wert born thou well mayst scorn to ope those lips of thine,
That out should fly a treacherous lie, to meet a word of mine."
"I have not lied," the Moor replied, and he bowed his haughty head
Before the King whose wrath might fling his life among the dead.
"I would not deign with falsehood's stain my lineage to betray;
Tho' for the truth my life, in sooth, should be the price I pay.
I am son and squire of a Moorish sire, who with the Christians strove,
And the captive dame of Christian name was his fair wedded love;
And I a child from that mother mild, who taught me at her knee
Was ever told to be true and bold with a tongue that was frank and free,
That the liar's art and the caitiff heart would lead to the house of
doom;
And still I must hear my mother dear, for she speaks to me from the tomb.
Then give me my task, O King, and ask what question thou mayst choose;
I will give to you the word that is true, for why should I refuse?"
"I give you grace for your open face, and the courteous words you use.
What castles are those on the hill where grows the palm-tree and the
pine?
They are so high that they touch the sky, and with gold their pinnacles
shine."
"In the sunset's fire there glisten, sire, Alhambra's tinted tiles;
And somewhat lower Alijire's tower upon the vega smiles,
And many a band of subtile hand has wrought its pillared aisles.
The Moor whose thought and genius wrought those works for many moons
Received each day a princely pay--five hundred gold doubloons--
Each day he left his labor deft, his guerdon was denied;
Nor less he lost than his labor cost when he his hand applied.
And yonder I see the Generalifé with its orchard green and wide;
There are growing there the apple and pear that are Granada's pride.
There shadows fall from the soaring wall of high Bermeja's tower;
It has flourished long as a castle strong, the seat of the Soldan's
power."
The King had bent and his ear had lent to the words the warrior spoke,
And at last he said, as he raised his head before the crowd of folk:
"I would take thee now with a faithful vow, Granada for my bride,
King Juan's Queen would hold, I ween, a throne and crown of pride;
That very hour I would give thee dower that well would suit thy will;
Cordova's town should be thine own, and the mosque of proud Seville.
Nay, ask not, King, for I wear the ring of a faithful wife and true;
Some graceful maid or a widow arrayed in her weeds is the wife for you,
And close I cling to the Moorish King who holds me to his breast,
For well I ween it can be seen that of all he loves me best."

ABENAMAR'S JEALOUSY

Alhambra's bell had not yet pealed
Its morning note o'er tower and field;
Barmeja's bastions glittered bright,
O'ersilvered with the morning light;
When rising from a pallet blest
With no refreshing dews of rest,
For slumber had relinquished there
His place to solitary care,
Brave Abenamar pondered deep
How lovers must surrender sleep.
And when he saw the morning rise,
While sleep still sealed Daraja's eyes,
Amid his tears, to soothe his pain,
He sang this melancholy strain:
"The morn is up,
The heavens alight,
My jealous soul
Still owns the sway of night.
Thro' all the night I wept forlorn,
Awaiting anxiously the morn;
And tho' no sunlight strikes on me,
My bosom burns with jealousy.
The twinkling starlets disappear;
Their radiance made my sorrow clear;
The sun has vanished from my sight,
Turned into water is his light;
What boots it that the glorious sun
From India his course has run,
To bring to Spain the gleam of day,
If from my sight he hides away?
The morn is up,
The heavens are bright,
My jealous soul
Still owns the sway of night."

ADELIFA'S JEALOUSY

Fair Adelifa sees in wrath, kindled by jealous flames,
Her Abenamar gazed upon by the kind Moorish dames.
And if they chance to speak to him, or take him by the hand,
She swoons to see her own beloved with other ladies stand.
When with companions of his own, the bravest of his race,
He meets the bull within the ring, and braves him to his face,
Or if he mount his horse of war, and sallying from his tent
Engages with his comrades in tilt or tournament,
She sits apart from all the rest, and when he wins the prize
She smiles in answer to his smile and devours him with her eyes.
And in the joyous festival and in Alhambra's halls,
She follows as he treads the dance at merry Moorish balls.
And when the tide of battle is rising o'er the land,
And he leaves his home, obedient to his honored King's command,
With tears and lamentation she sees the warrior go
With arms heroic to subdue the proud presumptuous foe.
Though 'tis to save his country's towers he mounts his fiery steed
She has no cheerful word for him, no blessing and godspeed;

And were there some light pretext to keep him at her side,
In chains of love she'd bind him there, whate'er the land betide.
Or, if 'twere fair that dames should dare the terrors of the fight,
She'd mount her jennet in his train and follow with delight.
For soon as o'er the mountain ridge his bright plume disappears,
She feels that in her heart the jealous smart that fills her eyes with
tears.
Yet when he stands beside her and smiles beneath her gaze,
Her cheek is pale with passion pure, though few the words she says.
Her thoughts are ever with him, and they fly the mountain o'er
When in the shaggy forest he hunts the bristly boar.
In vain she seeks the festal scene 'mid dance and merry song,
Her heart for Abenamar has left that giddy throng.
For jealous passion after all is no ignoble fire,
It is the child of glowing love, the shadow of desire.
Ah! he who loves with ardent breast and constant spirit must
Feel in his inmost bosom lodged the arrows of distrust.
And as the faithful lover by his loved one's empty seat
Knows that the wind of love may change e'er once again they meet,
So to this sad foreboding do fancied griefs appear
As he who has most cause to love has too most cause for fear.
And once, when placid evening was mellowing into night,
The lovely Adelifa sat with her darling knight;
And then the pent-up feeling from out her spirit's deeps
Rose with a storm of heavy sighs and trembled on her lips:
"My valiant knight, who art, indeed, the whole wide world to me,
Clear mirror of victorious arms and rose of chivalry,
Thou terror of thy valorous foe, to whom all champions yield,
The rampart and the castle of fair Granada's field,
In thee the armies of the land their bright example see,
And all their hopes of victory are founded upon thee;
And I, poor loving woman, have hope in thee no less,
For thou to me art life itself, a life of happiness.
Yet, in this anxious trembling heart strange pangs of fear arise,
Ah, wonder not if oft you see from out these faithful eyes
The tears in torrents o'er my cheek, e'en in thy presence flow.
Half prompted by my love for thee and half by fears of woe,
These eyes are like alembics, and when with tears they fill
It is the flame of passion that does that dew distil.
And what the source from which they flow, but the sorrow and the care
That gather in my heart like mist, and forever linger there.
And when the flame is fiercest and love is at its height,
The waters rise to these fond eyes, and rob me of my sight,
For love is but a lasting pain and ever goes with grief,
And only at the spring of tears the heart can drink relief.
Thus fire and love and fear combined bring to my heart distress,
With jealous rage and dark distrust alarm and fitfulness.
These rage within my bosom; they torment me till I'd weep.
By day and night without delight a lonely watch I keep.
By Allah, I beseech thee, if thou art true to me,
That when the Moorish ladies turn round and gaze on thee,
Thou wilt not glance again at them nor meet their smiling eye,
Or else, my Abenamar, I shall lay me down and die.
For thou art gallant, fair, and good; oh, soothe my heart's alarms,
And be as tender in thy love as thou art brave in arms.
And as they yield to thee the prize for valor in the field
Oh, show that thou wilt pity to thy loving lady yield."
Then Abenamar, with a smile, a kiss of passion gave.
"If it be needful," he replied, "to give the pledge you crave
To tell thee, Adelifa, that thou art my soul's delight
And lay my inmost bosom bare before thy anxious sight,
The bosom on whose mirror shines thy face in lines of light,
Here let me ope the secret cell that thou thyself may see,
The altar and the blazing lamp that always burn for thee.
And if perchance thou art not thus released from torturing care,
Oh, see the faith, the blameless love that wait upon thee there.
And if thou dost imagine I am a perjured knight,
I pray that Allah on my head may call down bane and blight,
And when into the battle with the Christian I go
I pray that I may perish by the lances of the foe;
And when I don my armor for the toils of the campaign,
That I may never wear the palm of victory again,
But as a captive, on a shore far from Granada, pine,
While the freedom that I long to have may never more be mine.
Yes, may my foes torment me in that sad hour of need;
My very friends, for their own ends, prove worthless as a reed.
My kin deny, my fortune fly, and, on my dying day,
My very hopes of Paradise in darkness pass away.
Or if I live in freedom to see my love once more,
May I meet the fate which most I hate, and at my palace door
Find that some caitiff lover has won thee for his own,
And turn to die, of mad despair, distracted and alone.
Wherefore, my life, my darling wife, let all thy pain be cured;
Thy trust in my fidelity be from this hour assured.
No more those pearly tears of thine fall useless in the dust
No more the jealous fear distract thy bosom with mistrust.
Believe me by the oath I swear my heart I here resign,
And all I have of love and care are, Adelifa, thine.
Believe that Abenamar would his own life betray
If he had courage thus to throw life's choicest gem away."
Then Adelifa smiled on him and at the words he said,
Upon his heaving bosom her blushing cheek she laid.
And from that hour each jealous thought far from her mind she thrust
And confidence returned again in place of dark distrust.

FUNERAL OF ABENAMAR

The Moors of haughty Gelves have changed their gay attire.
The caftan and the braided cloak, the brooch of twisted wire,
The gaudy robes, the mantles of texture rich and rare,
The fluttering veils and tunic bright the Moors no longer wear.
And wearied is their valorous strength, their sinewy arms hang down;
No longer in their lady's sight they struggle for the crown.
Whether their loves are absent or glowing in their eyes,
They think no more of jealous feud nor smile nor favor prize;
For love himself seems dead to-day amid that gallant train
And the dirge beside the bier is heard and each one joins the strain,
And silently they stand in line arrayed in mourning black
For the dismal pall of Portugal is hung on every back.
And their faces turned toward the bier where Abenamar lies,
The men his kinsmen silent stand, amid the ladies' cries
And thousand thousands ask and look upon the Moorish knight,
By his coat of steel they weeping kneel, then turn them from the sight.
And some proclaim his deeds of fame, his spirit high and brave,
And the courage of adventure that had brought him to the grave.
Some say that his heroic soul pined with a jealous smart,
That disappointment and neglect had broke that mighty heart;
That all his ancient hopes gave way beneath the cloud of grief,
Until his green and youthful years were withered like a leaf;
And he is wept by those he loved, by every faithful friend,
And those who slandered him in life speak evil to the end.
They found within his chamber where his arms of battle hung
A parting message written all in the Moorish tongue:
"Dear friends of mine, if ever in Gelves I should die,
I would not that in foreign soil my buried ashes lie.
But carry me, and dig my grave upon mine own estate,
And raise no monument to me my life to celebrate,
For banishment is not more dire where evil men abound,
Than where home smiles upon you, but the good are never found."

BALLAD OF ALBAYALDOS

Three mortal wounds, three currents red,
The Christian spear
Has oped in head and thigh and head--
Brave Albayaldos feels that death is near.

The master's hand had dealt the blow,
And long had been
And hard the fight; now in his heart's blood low
He wallows, and the pain, the pain is keen.

He raised to heaven his streaming face
And low he said:
"Sweet Jesus, grant me by thy grace,
Unharmed to make this passage to the dead.

"Oh, let me now my sins recount,
And grant at last
Into thy presence I may mount,
And thou, dear mother, think not of my past.

"Let not the fiend with fears affright
My trembling soul;
Though bitter, bitter is the night
Whose darkling clouds this moment round me roll.

"Had I but listened to your plea,
I ne'er had met
Disaster; though this life be lost to me,
Let not your ban upon my soul be set.