Chapter VI: Preface (5)

"In him, in him alone I trust,
To him I pray,
Who formed this wretched body from the dust.
He will redeem me in the Judgment Day.

"And Muza, one last service will I ask,
Dear friend of mine:
Here, where I died, be it thy pious task
To bury me beneath the tall green pine.

"And o'er my head a scroll indite, to tell
How, on this sod,
Fighting amid my valiant Moors, I fell.
And tell King Chico how I turned to God,

"And longed to be a Christian at the last,
And sought the light,
So that the accursed Koran could not cast
My soul to suffer in eternal night."

THE NIGHT RAID OF REDUAN

Two thousand are the Moorish knights that 'neath the banner stand
Of mighty Reduan, as he starts in ravage thro' the land.
With pillage and with fire he wastes the fields and fruitful farms,
And thro' the startled border-land is heard the call to arms;
By Jaen's towers his host advance and, like a lightning flash,
Ubeda and Andujar can see his horsemen dash,
While in Baeza every bell
Does the appalling tidings tell,
"Arm! Arm!"
Rings on the night the loud alarm.

So silently they gallop, that gallant cavalcade,
The very trumpet's muffled tone has no disturbance made.
It seems to blend with the whispering sound of breezes on their way,
The rattle of their harness and the charger's joyous neigh.
But now from hill and turret high the flaming cressets stream
And watch-fires blaze on every hill and helm and hauberk gleam.
From post to post the signal along the border flies
And the tocsin sounds its summons and the startled burghers rise,
While in Baeza every bell
Does the appalling tidings tell,
"Arm! Arm!"
Rings on the night the loud alarm.

Ah, suddenly that deadly foe has fallen upon the prey,
Yet stoutly rise the Christians and arm them for the foe,
And doughty knights their lances seize and scour their coats of mail,
The soldier with his cross-bow comes and the peasant with his flail.
And Jaen's proud hidalgos, Andujar's yeomen true,
And the lords of towered Ubeda the pagan foes pursue;
And valiantly they meet the foe nor turn their backs in flight,
And worthy do they show themselves of their fathers' deeds of might,
While in Baeza every bell
Does the appalling tidings tell,
"Arm! Arm!"
Rings on the night the loud alarm.

The gates of dawn are opened and sunlight fills the land,
The Christians issuing from the gates in martial order stand,
They close in fight, and paynim host and Christian knights of Spain,
Not half a league from the city gate, are struggling on the plain.
The din of battle rises like thunder to the sky,
From many a crag and forest the thundering echoes fly,
And there is sound of clashing arms, of sword and rattling steel,
Moorish horns, the fife and drum, as the scattering squadrons reel,
And the dying moan and the wounded shriek for the hurt that none can
heal,
While in Baeza every bell
Does the appalling tidings tell,
"Arm! Arm!"
Rings on the night the loud alarm.

SIEGE OF JAEN

Now Reduan gazes from afar on Jaen's ramparts high,
And tho' he smiles in triumph yet fear is in his eye,
And vowed has he, whose courage none charged with a default,
That he would climb the ramparts and take it by assault,
Yet round the town the towers and walls the city's streets impale,
And who of all his squadrons that bastion can scale?
He pauses until one by one his hopes have died away,
And his soul is filled with anguish and his face with deep dismay.
He marks the tall escarpment, he measures with his eye
The soaring towers above them that seem to touch the sky.
Height upon height they mount to heaven, while glittering from afar
Each cresset on the watch-towers burns like to a baleful star.
His eyes and heart are fixed upon the rich and royal town,
And from his eye the tear of grief, a manly tear, flows down.
His bosom heaves with sighs of grief and heavy discontent,
As to the royal city he makes his sad lament:
"Ah, many a champion have I lost, fair Jaen, at thy gate,
Yet lightly did I speak of thee with victory elate,
The prowess of my tongue was more than all that I could do,
And my word outstripped the lance and sword of my squadron strong and
true.
And yet I vowed with courage rash thy turrets I would bring
To ruin and thy subjects make the captives of my King.
That in one night my sword of might, before the morrow's sun,
Would do for thy great citadel what centuries have not done.
I pledged my life to that attempt, and vowed that thou shouldest fall,
Yet now I stand in impotence before thy castle tall.
For well I see, before my might shall win thee for my King,
That thou, impregnable, on me wilt rout and ruin bring,
Ah, fatal is the hasty tongue that gives such quick consent,
And he who makes the hasty vow in leisure must repent.
Ah! now too late I mourn the word that sent me on this quest,
For I see that death awaits me here whilst thou livest on at rest,
For I must enter Jaen's gates a conqueror or be sent
Far from Granada's happy hills in hopeless banishment;
But sorest is the thought that I to Lindaraja swore:
If Jaen should repulse me I'd return to her no more;
No more a happy lover would I linger at her side,
Until Granada's warrior host had humbled Jaen's pride."
Then turning to his warriors, the Moorish cavalier
Asks for their counsel and awaits their answer while with fear.
Five thousand warriors tried and true the Moors were standing near,
All armed with leathern buckler, all armed with sword and spear.
"The place," they answer, "is too strong, by walls too high 'tis bound,
Too many are the watch-towers that circle it around.
The knights and proud hidalgos who on the wall are seen,
Their hearts are bold, their arms are strong, their swords and spears are
keen.
Disaster will be certain as the rising of the day,
And victory and booty are a slippery prize," they say,
"It would be wise in this emprise the conflict to forego;
Not all the Moors Granada boasts could lay proud Jaen low."

THE DEATH OF REDUAN

He shrank not from his promise, did Reduan the brave,
The promise to Granada's King with daring high he gave;
And when the morning rose and lit the hills with ruddy glow,
He marshalled forth his warriors to strike a final blow.
With shouts they hurry to the walls, ten thousand fighting men--
Resolved to plant the crescent on the bulwarks of Jaen.
The bugle blast upon the air with clarion tone is heard,
The burghers on the city wall reply with scoffing word;
And like the noise of thunder the clattering squadrons haste,
And on his charger fleet he leads his army o'er the waste.
In front of his attendants his march the hero made,
He tarried not for retinue or clattering cavalcade,
And they who blamed the rash assault with weak and coward minds
Deserted him their leader bold or loitered far behind.
And now he stands beneath the wall and sees before him rise
The object of the great campaign, his valor's priceless prize;
He dreams one moment that he holds her subject to his arms,
He dreams that to Granada he flies from war's alarms,
Each battlement he fondly eyes, each bastion grim and tall,
And in fancy sees the crescents rise above the Christian wall.
But suddenly an archer has drawn his bow of might,
And suddenly the bolt descends in its unerring flight,
Straight to the heart of Reduan the fatal arrow flies,
The gallant hero struck to death upon the vega lies.
And as he lies, from his couch of blood, in melancholy tone,
Thus to the heavens the hero stout, though fainting, makes his moan,
And ere his lofty soul in death forth from its prison breaks,
Brave Reduan a last farewell of Lindaraja takes:
"Ah, greater were the glory had it been mine to die,
Not thus among the Christians and hear their joyful cry,
But in that happy city, reclining at thy feet,
Where thou with kind and tender hands hast wove my winding-sheet.
Ah! had it been my fate once more to gaze upon thy face,
And love and pity in those eyes with dying glance to trace,
Altho' a thousand times had death dissolved this mortal frame,
Soon as thy form before me in radiant beauty came,
A thousand times one look of thine had given me back my breath,
And called thy lover to thy side even from the gate of death.
What boots it, Lindaraja, that I, at Jaen's gate,
That unsurrendered city, have met my final fate?
What boots it, that this city proud will ne'er the Soldan own,
For thee and not for Jaen this hour I make my moan;
I weep for Lindaraja, I weep to think that she
May mourn a hostage and a slave in long captivity.
But worse than this that some proud Moor will take thee to his heart,
And all thy thoughts of Reduan new love may bid depart.
And dwelling on thy beauty he will deem it better far,
To win fair Lindaraja than all the spoils of war,
Yet would I pray if Mahomet, whose servant I have been,
Should ever from the throne of God look on this bloody scene,
And deem it right to all my vows requital fit to make,
And for my valor who attacked the town I could not take,
That he would make thy constancy as steadfast as the tower
Of Jaen's mighty fortress, that withstood the Moorish power;
Now as my life be ebbing fast, my spirit is oppressed,
And Reduan the warrior bold is sinking to his rest,
Oh, may my prayers be answered, if so kind heaven allow,
And may the King forgive me for the failure of my vow,
And, Lindaraja, may my soul, when it has taken its flight,
And for the sweet Elysian fields exchange these realms of night,
Contented in the joys and peace of that celestial seat,
Await the happy moment when we once more shall meet."

THE AGED LOVER

'Twas from a lofty balcony Arselia looked down
On golden Tagus' crystal stream that hemmed Toledo's town;
And now she watched the eddies that dimpled in the flood
And now she landward turned her eye to gaze on waste and wood,
But in all that lay around her she sought for rest in vain,
For her heart, her heart was aching, and she could not heal the pain.
'Tis of no courtly gallant the Moorish damsel dreams,
No lordly emir who commands the fort by Tagus' streams,
'Twas on the banks of Tornes stood the haughty towers of note
Where the young alcaydé loved by the maid from cities dwelt remote.
And never at Almanzor's court had he for honor sought,
Though he dwelt in high Toledo in fair Arselia's thought;
And now she dreams of love's great gift, of passion's deep delight,
When far away from her palace walls a stranger came in sight.
It was no gallant lovelorn youth she saw approaching fast,
It was the hero Reduan whose vernal years were past.
He rode upon a sorrel horse and swiftly he came nigh,
And stood where the dazzling sun beat down upon her balcony;
And with a thoughtful air upon the maiden turned his eye,
For suddenly the aged knight feels all his heart on fire,
And all the frost of his broken frame is kindling with desire.
And while he fain would hide his pain he paces up and down
Before the palace turrets that Toledo's rampart crown.
With anger glows the maiden's mind, "Now get thee gone," she cries,
"For can it be that love of me in blood like thine can rise?
I sicken at the very thought; thy locks, old man, are gray,
Thy baldness and thy trembling hand a doting age betray.
Ah, little must thou count my years of beauty and of bloom,
If thou wouldst wed them with a life thus tottering to the tomb,
Decrepitude is now thy lot, and wherefore canst thou dare
To ask that youthful charms these vile infirmities should share?"
And Moorish Reduan heard her words, and saw the meaning plain.
Advancing to the balcony he answered her again:
"The sun is king of everything, o'er all he holds his sway,
And thou art like the sun--thy charms I own and I obey;
Thy beauty warms my veins again, and in its rays, forsooth,
I feel the blithe, courageous mood of long-forgotten youth;
Sure love of mine can harm thee not, as sunlight is not lost
When its kind radiance dissolves the fetters of the frost."
Then turning round, a parchment did Reduan unfold,
And on it was a writing in characters of gold;
The meaning of the posy at once the maiden caught:
"Since I can venture, I can have; as yet, I am not naught."
He shows upon his shield a sun, circled with burning rays;
And on the rim was written a little verse which says,
"Two suns, one on my shield, and one in beauty's eyes, I trace."
Then at the cold disdain he saw upon her lovely face,
He covered with a gauzy veil the blazon of his shield,
"The sun upon my targe," he cried, "before thy light must yield."
But as the maid still pouted and eyed him with disdain,
"The mimic sun," continued he, "which here is blazoned plain,
Is overcast and hides itself from the true orb of day,
And I by beauty's radiance eclipsed must ride away."
And as he spoke the Moor struck deep the rowels in his steed,
And rode away from Tagus' side across the grassy mead.
The Moorish maiden recked not if he were far or near,
Her thoughts returned to fancies sweet of her absent cavalier.

FICKLENESS REBUKED

While in the foeman's ruddy gore
I waded to the breast,
And for mine own, my native shore
Fought braver than the best,
While the light cloak I laid aside,
And doffed the damask fold,
And donned my shirt of mail, the spoil
Of foeman brave and bold,
Thou, fickle Mooress, puttest on
Thine odorous brocade,
And hand in hand with thy false love
Wert sitting in the shade.
Thus on the scutcheon of thy sires
Thou plantest many a stain;
The pillars of thine ancient house
Will ne'er be firm again.
But, oh, may Allah vengeance take
For thine unkind deceit,
And sorely weeping mayst thou pay
The vengeance that is meet.
Thus shalt thou pay--thy lover's bliss
Thou shalt not, canst not share,
But feel the bitter mockery
Thy day-long shame must bear.
And what revenge 'twill be to note
When thou dost kiss his brow,
How thy gold tresses, soft and light,
Blend with his locks of snow;
And what revenge to hear him
To thee his loves recount,
Praising some Moorish lass, or mark
His sons thy staircase mount.
Yes, thou shalt pay the penalty,
When, from sweet Genil's side,
Thou passest to the stormy waves
Of Tagus' rushing tide;
Abencerrajes are not there,
And from thy balcony
Thou shalt not hear the horsemen
With loud hoof rushing by.
Thoughts of lost days shall haunt thee then
And lay thy spirit waste,
When thy past glories thou shalt see
All faded and effaced;
All gone, those sweet, seductive wiles--
The love note's scented scroll--
The words, and blushing vows, that brought
Damnation to thy soul.
Thus the bright moments of the past
Shall rise to memory's eye,
Like vengeance-bearing ministers
To mock thy misery.
For time is father of distress;
And he whose life is long
Experiences a thousand cares,
A thousand shapes of wrong.
Thou shalt be hated in the court,
And hated in the stall,
Hated in merry gathering,
In dance and festival.
Thou shalt be hated far and wide;
And, thinking on this hate,
Wilt lay it to the black offence
That thou didst perpetrate.
Then thou wilt make some weak defence,
And plead a father's will,
That forced thee shuddering to consent
To do the act of ill.
Enjoy then him whom thus constrained
Thou choosest for thine own;
But know, when love would have his way,
He scorns a father's frown.

THE GALLEY-SLAVE OF DRAGUT

Ah, fortune's targe and butt was he,
On whom were rained the strokes from hate
From love that had not found its goal,
From strange vicissitudes of fate.
A galley-slave of Dragut he,
Who once had pulled the laboring oar,
Now, 'mid a garden's leafy boughs,
He worked and wept in anguish sore.
"O Mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.
They took me from the galley bench;
A gardener's slave they set me here,
That I might tend the fruit and flowers
Through all the changes of the year;
Wise choice, indeed, they made of me!
For when the drought has parched the field,
The clouds that overcast my heart
Shall rain in every season yield.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.

"They took me from the galley's hold;
It was by heaven's all-pitying grace.
Yet, even in this garden glade,
Has fortune turned away her face.
Though lighter now my lot of toil,
Yet is it heavier, since no more
My tear-dimmed eyes, my heart discern,
Across the sea, my native shore.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.

"And you, ye exiles, who afar
In many a foreign land have strayed;
And from strange cities o'er the sea
A second fatherland have made--
Degenerate sons of glorious Spain!
One thing ye lacked to keep you true,
The love no stranger land could share;
The courage that could fate subdue.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return."

THE CAPTIVE'S LAMENT

Where Andalusia's plains at length end in the rocky shore,
And the billows of the Spanish sea against her boundaries roar,
A thousand ruined castles, that were once the haughty pride
Of high Cadiz, in days long past, looked down upon the tide.
And on the loftiest of them all, in melancholy mood,
A solitary captive that stormy evening stood.
For he had left the battered skiff that near the land wash lay,
And here he sought to rest his soul, and while his grief away,
While now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

Ah, yes, beneath the fierce levant, the wild white horses pranced;
With rising rage the billows against those walls advanced;
But stormier were the thoughts that filled his heart with bitter pain,
As he turned his tearful eyes once more to gaze upon the main.
"O hostile sea," these words at last burst from his heaving breast;
"I know that I return to die, but death at least is rest.
Then let me on my native shore again in freedom roam,
For here alone is shelter, for here at last is home."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

'Twas Tagus' banks to me a child my home and nurture gave;
Ungrateful land, that lets me pine unransomed as a slave.
For now to-day, a dying man, am I come back again,
And I must lay my bones on this, the farthest shore of Spain.
It is not only exile's sword that cuts me to the heart;
It is not only love for her from whom they bade me part;
Nor only that I suffer, forgot by every friend,
But, ah! it is the triple blow that brings me to my end."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

"The fire with which my bosom burns, alas! thy coolest breeze
Can never slake, nor can its rage thy coolest wave appease;
The earth can bring no solace to the ardor of my pain,
And the whole ocean waters were poured on it in vain.
For it is like the blazing sun that sinks in ocean's bed,
And yet, with ardor all unquenched, next morning rears its head.
Thus from the sea my suffering's flame has driven me once more,
And here I land, without a hope, upon this arid shore."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

"Oh, call me not, oh, call me not, thou voice of other years,
The fire that flames within my heart has dried the spring of tears.
And, while my eyes might well pour forth those bitter drops of pain,
The drought of self-consuming grief has quenched the healing rain.
Here, let me cry aloud for her, whom once I called mine own,
For well I wot that loving maid for me has made her moan.
'Tis for her sake my flight I urge across the sea and land,
And now 'twixt shore and ocean's roar I take my final stand."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

Then stooping to the earth he grasped the soil with eager hand,
He kissed it, and with water he mixed the thirsty sand.
"O thou," he said, "poor soil and stream, in the Creator's plan
Art the end and the beginning of all that makes us man!
From thee rise myriad passions, that stir the human breast,
To thee at last, when all is o'er, they sink to find their rest.
Thou, Earth, hast been my mother, and when these pangs are o'er,
Thou shalt become my prison-house whence I can pass no more."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

And now he saw the warring winds that swept across the bay
Had struck the battered shallop and carried it away.
"O piteous heaven," he cried aloud, "my hopes are like yon bark:
Scattered upon the storm they lie and never reach their mark."
And suddenly from cloudy heavens came down the darkling night
And in his melancholy mood the captive left the height.
He gained his boat, with trembling hand he seized the laboring oar
And turning to the foaming wave he left his native shore.
"Ah, well I wot on ocean's breast when loud the tempest blows
Will rest be found when solid ground denies the heart repose.
Now let the hostile sea perceive no power of hers I dread,
But rather ask her vengeance may fall upon my head."
Into the night the shallop turned, while floated far behind
The captive's lamentation like a streamer on the wind.
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

STRIKE SAIL!

A Turkish bark was on the sea, the sunny sea of Spain,
In sight of cliffs that Hercules made boundaries of the main;
And one, Celimo's captive slave, as fierce the billows grew,
Was listening as the ship-master this order gave the crew:
"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is rising fast! Strike sail!"

Fierce fell on them the opposing winds, the ship was helpless driven;
And with the ocean's flood were blent the thunder-drops of heaven.
And as the inky clouds were rent, the fiery lightning flared,
And 'mid the terror-stricken crew one voice alone was heard:
"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is rising fast! Strike sail!"

And one there sat upon the deck, in captive misery,
Whose tears ran mingling with the flood, the flood of sky and sea.
Lost in the tempest of his thoughts, he fondly breathed a prayer,
Whose mournful words were echoed by the mount of his despair:
"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is rising fast! Strike sail!"

"If I am captive and a slave, the time shall come when God
Will bring me freed, to tread once more my own, my native sod!
Then all my ancient glory shall return to me for aye.
Till then, my soul, be patient and wait that happy day!"
"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is rising fast! Strike sail!"

THE CAPTIVE'S ESCAPE

The fair Florida sat at ease, upon a summer's day,
Within a garden green and fair that by the river lay,
And gayly asked that he her spouse would tell his darling wife
The cause of his captivity, the history of his life.
"Now tell me, dearest husband, I pray thee tell me true,
Who were thy parents, and what land thy birth and nurture knew?
And wherefore did they take thee a captive from that place,
And who has given thee liberty, thy homeward path to trace?"
"Yes, I will tell thee, gentle wife, and I will tell thee true,
For tender is the light I see within thine eyes of blue.
In Ronda did my father raise his castle on the height;
And 'twas in Antequera first my mother saw the light.
Me, to this dark captivity, the dastard Moors ensnared,
Just as the peace had ended and war was not declared.
They took me off in fetters, to barter me for gold,
Velez-de-la-Gomèra was the town where I was sold.
Seven weary days, and for each day a long and weary night,
They set me on the auction-block, before the people's sight.
Yet not a Moorish gentleman and not a Moorish wife
A maravedi offered for the mournful captive's life.
At last there came a Moorish dog, in rich attire, and gave
A thousand golden pieces to have me for his slave.
He led me to his lofty house, and bade me there remain,
Mocked by his lowest underlings, and loaded with a chain.
Ah! vile the life he led me, and deep revenge I swore;
Ah! black the life he gave me, and hard the toils I bore!
By day I beat the piled-up hemp cut from the vega plain;
By night, within the darkened mill, I ground for him the grain.
And though the very corn I ground, I longed to take for meat,
He placed a bridle on my mouth that I should nothing eat!
Therefore, it pleased the God who rules the heavens, the land, the sea,
That the mistress of that mighty house looked tenderly on me.
And when the Moor a-hunting went, one happy autumn day,
She came into my prison-house and took my chains away;
She bade me sit upon her lap, I answered with delight;
Ah, many a gallant present she made to me that night!
She bathed me and she washed my wounds, and garments fresh she gave,
Far brighter than were fit to deck the body of a slave;
And love's delight we shared that night, for I grew gay and bold!
And in the morn she gave to me a hundred crowns of gold.
She oped the gates, she bade me, with smiles, once more be free;
We fled, for fear that Moorish hound would slay both her and me.
And so it pleased the God who rules the earth and heavens above,
To prove his deep compassion and the greatness of his love;
And thus my sad captivity, my days of wandering, o'er,
Florida, in thy loving arms I nestle as of yore!"

THE SPANIARD OF ORAN

Right gallant was that gentleman, the warlike knight of Spain,
Who served the King in Oran, with sword and lances twain;
But, with his heart's devotion and passion's ardent fire,
He served a gentle Afric maid of high and noble sire.
And she was fair as noble, and well could she requite
The devotion of a lover and the courage of a knight.
And when one summer evening they paid their vows again,
They heard the alarum ring to arms across the darkling plain;
For the foes' approach had roused the watch and caused the war-like
sound.
The silver moon had shed its ray upon their targes round,
The targes shot the message to the silent watch-towers by,
And watch-towers sent their tidings by flames that lit the sky;
And the fires had called the bells on high to ring their clear alarms--
That tocsin roused the lover locked in the lady's arms.
Ah, sorely felt he in his heart the spur of honor prick,
But love's appeal that held him, it pierced him to the quick.
'Twas cowardice to dally and shrink that foe to face,
But, ah, it was ingratitude to leave her in that case.
And hanging round her lover's neck, she saw that he turned pale,
And seized his sword and cast one glance upon his coat of mail;
And, with a burst of sighs and tears she bowed her beauteous head;
"Oh, rise, my lord, gird on thy arms, and join the fray," she said;
"Oh, let my tears this couch bedew; this couch of joy shall be
As dolorous as the dreary field of battle, without thee!
Arm, arm thyself and go to war! Hark, hark! the foes approach.
Thy general waits; oh, let him not thy knightliness reproach!
Oh, direly will he visit thee for cowardice to-day,
For dire the crime in any clime of soldiers who betray.
Well canst thou glide unnoticed to the camp, without thy sword;
Wilt thou not heed my tears, my sighs--begone without a word!
Thy bosom is not made of flesh, for, ah! thou canst not feel,
Thou hast no need of arms in fight, for it is hard as steel."
The Spaniard gazed upon her, his heart was full of pride;
She held him fast and even her words retained him at her side.
"Lady," he said, and kissed her, "spite of thy words unwise,
Thou art as sweet as ever in thy lover's faithful eyes.
And since to love and honor this night thou hast appealed,
I take my arms and go, for right it is to thee I yield;
I go into the battle and my body seeks the fight,
But my soul behind me lingers in thy bosom of delight;
Oh, grant me, Lord and Master, to seek the camp below,
Oh, let me take the name to-night and I will cheerful go,
Bearing the sword, the lance, and coat of mail against the foe!"

MOORISH ROMANCES

[_Metrical Translation by J. Lockhart_]

MOORISH ROMANCES

THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL

[Gazul is the name of one of the Moorish heroes who figure in the "_Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada_." The following ballad is one of very many in which the dexterity of the Moorish cavaliers in the bull-fight is described. The reader will observe that the shape, activity, and resolution of the unhappy animal destined to furnish the amusement of the spectators, are enlarged upon, just as the qualities of a modern race-horse might be among ourselves: nor is the bull without his name. The day of the Baptist is a festival among the Mussulmans, as well as among Christians.]

King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound,
He hath summonded all the Moorish lords, from the hills and plains
around;
From vega and sierra, from Betis and Xenil,
They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel.

Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and state,
And they have closed the spacious lists beside the Alhambra's gate;
In gowns of black and silver laced, within the tented ring,
Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in presence of the King.

Eight Moorish lords of valor tried, with stalwart arm and true,
The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through;
The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all with hope and
trust,
Yet ere high in heaven appears the sun they all have bit the dust.

Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour,
Make room, make room for Gazul--throw wide, throw wide the door;
Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly strike the drum,
The Alcaydé of Algava to fight the bull doth come.

And first before the King he passed, with reverence stooping low,
And next he bowed him to the Queen, and the Infantas all a-row;
Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to him did throw
A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow.

With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the sand,
Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en his stand;
And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye,
But firmly he extends his arm--his look is calm and high.

Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on,
He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rejón;
Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow
He blindly totters and gives back, across the sand to go.

"Turn, Gazul, turn," the people cry--the third comes up behind,
Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind;
The mountaineers that lead the steers, without stand whispering low,
"Now thinks this proud alcaydé to stun Harpado so?"

From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil,
From Gaudalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill;
But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear,
Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud and stately steer.

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil,
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil.
His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow;
But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe.

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near,
From out the broad and wrinkled skull, like daggers they appear;
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted tree,
Whereon the monster's shaggy mane, like billows curled, ye see.

His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night,
Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might;
Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock,
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the alcaydé's shock.

Now stops the drum--close, close they come--thrice meet, and thrice give
back;
The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black--
The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dun--
Once more advance upon his lance--once more, thou fearless one!

Once more, once more;--in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel--
In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel--
In vain, in vain, thou noble beast, I see, I see thee stagger,
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern alcaydé's dagger!

They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in,
And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din.
Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow
Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low.

THE ZEGRI'S BRIDE

[The reader cannot need to be reminded of the fatal effects which were produced by the feuds subsisting between the two great families, or rather races, of the Zegris and the Abencerrages of Granada. The following ballad is also from the "_Guerras Civiles_."]

Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is Lisaro,
To wield rejón like him is none, or javelin to throw;
From the place of his dominion, he ere the dawn doth go,
From Alcala de Henares, he rides in weed of woe.

He rides not now as he was wont, when ye have seen him speed
To the field of gay Toledo, to fling his lusty reed;
No gambeson of silk is on, nor rich embroidery
Of gold-wrought robe or turban--nor jewelled tahali.

No amethyst nor garnet is shining on his brow,
No crimson sleeve, which damsels weave at Tunis, decks him now;
The belt is black, the hilt is dim, but the sheathed blade is bright;
They have housened his barb in a murky garb, but yet her hoofs are light.

Four horsemen good, of the Zegri blood, with Lisaro go out;
No flashing spear may tell them near, but yet their shafts are stout;
In darkness and in swiftness rides every armed knight--
The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white.

Young Lisaro, as on they go, his bonnet doffeth he,
Between its folds a sprig it holds of a dark and glossy tree;
That sprig of bay, were it away, right heavy heart had he--
Fair Zayda to her Zegri gave that token privily.

And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady's boon.
"God knows," quoth he, "what fate may be--I may be slaughtered soon;
Thou still art mine, though scarce the sign of hope that bloomed whilere,
But in my grave I yet shall have my Zayda's token dear."

Young Lisaro was musing so, when onward on the path,
He well could see them riding slow; then pricked he in his wrath.
The raging sire, the kinsmen of Zayda's hateful house,
Fought well that day, yet in the fray the Zegri won his spouse.

THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA

[The following ballad has been often imitated by modern poets, both in Spain and in Germany:

"_Pon te a las rejas azules, dexa la manga que labras,
Melancholica Xarifa, veras al galan Andalla." etc_.]

"Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.
From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing,
And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing,
And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere,
And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the
air:
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

"Arise, arise, Xarifa, I see Andalla's face,
He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace.
Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquivir
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never.
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow of purple mixed with white,
I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night;
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

"What aileth thee, Xarifa, what makes thine eyes look down?
Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town?
I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth,
Andalla rides without a peer, among all Granada's youth.
Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go
Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow;

Then rise, oh, rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all
the town."

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down,
Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town;
But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove,
And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa wove;
One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise drew nigh--
That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping from her eye.
"No--no," she sighs--"bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down,
To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town."

"Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down?
Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town?
Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry!
He stops at Zara's palace gate--why sit ye still--oh, why?"
"At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover?
I will not rise, with dreary eyes, nor lay my cushion down,
To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town!"

ZARA'S EAR-RINGS

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped into the well,
And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell."
'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter,
"The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water--
To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell,
And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set,
That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget,
That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale,
But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale--
When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well,
Oh, what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell.

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they should have been,
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen,
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear,
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere--
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well--
Thus will he think--and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

"He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way;
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say;
He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed,
From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl unloosed;
He'll think, when I was sporting so beside this marble well,
My pearls fell in,--and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

"He'll say, I am a woman, and we are all the same;
He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame--
But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token.
My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless, luckless well,
For what to say to Muça, alas! I cannot tell.

"I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe--
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve;
That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well."

THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred,
At twilight at the Vega gate there is a trampling heard;
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow,
And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe.
"What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief come these
bewailing?"
"A tower is fallen, a star is set. Alas! alas for Celin!"

Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they
throw;
Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go;
In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch,
Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch;
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,
For all have heard the misery. "Alas! alas for Celin!"--

Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood,
'Twas at the solemn jousting, around the nobles stood;
The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair
Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share;
But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing,
For he was Granada's darling knight. "Alas! alas for Celin!"

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two,
With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view;
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil,
Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale;
When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing,
And all the people, far and near, cry--"Alas! alas for Celin!"

Oh! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall,
The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all;
His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale,
The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail,
And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing,
Its sound is like no earthly sound--"Alas! alas for Celin!"

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door,
One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore--
Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew
Upon their broidered garments of crimson, green, and blue--
Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing,
From door and lattice, high and low--"Alas! alas for Celin!"

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry;
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazèd eye.
Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago;
She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know.
With one deep shriek she thro' doth break, when her ears receive their
wailing--
"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die--Alas! alas for Celin!"

THE STORY OF SIDI BRAHIM OF MASSAT

[_Translated by Réne Basset and Chauncey C. Starkweather_]

THE STORY OF SIDI BRAHIM OF MASSAT