Moorish Literature / Comprising Romantic Ballads, Tales of the Berbers, Stories of the Kabyles, Folk-Lore, and National Traditions

by Unknown

THE LETTER OF THE KING

"Thy words have done me grievous wrong, for, lovely Mooress, couldst thou think

That he who loves thee more than life could e'er to such a treachery sink?

His life is naught without the thought that thou art happy in thy lot;

And while the red blood at his heart is beating thou art ne'er forgot!

Thou woundest me because thy heart mistrusts me as a fickle fool;

Thou dost not know when passion true has one apt pupil taken to school.

Oblivion could not, could not cloud the image on his soul impressed,

Unless dark treachery from the first had been the monarch of his breast

And if perhaps some weary hours I thought that Vindaraja's mind

Might in some happier cavalier the solace of her slavery find,

I checked the thought; I drove away the vision that with death was rife,

For e'er my trust in thee I lost, in battle I'd forego my life!

Yet even the doubt that thou hast breathed gives me no franchise to forget,

And were I willing that thy face should cease to fill my vision, yet

'Tis separation's self that binds us closer though the centuries roll,

And forges that eternal chain that binds together soul and soul!

And even were this thought no more than the wild vision of my mind,

Yet in a thousand worlds no face to change for thine this heart could find.

Thro' life, thro' death 'twere all the same, and when to heaven our glance we raise,

Full in the very heart of bliss thine eyes shall meet my ardent gaze.

For eyes that have beheld thy face, full readily the truth will own

That God exhausted, when he made thee, all the treasures of his throne!

And my trusting heart will answer while it fills my veins with fire

That to hear of, is to see thee; and to see, is to desire!

Yet unless my Vindaraja I could look upon awhile,

As some traveller in a desert I should perish for her smile;

For 'tis longing for her presence makes the spring of life to me,

And allays the secret suffering none except her eye can see.

In this thought alone my spirit finds refreshment and delight;

This is sweeter than the struggle, than the glory of the fight;

And if e'er I could forget her heaving breast and laughing eye,

Tender word, and soft caresses--Vindaraja, I should die!

If the King should bid me hasten to release thee from thy chain,

Oh, believe me, dearest lady, he would never bid in vain;

Naught he could demand were greater than the price that I would pay,

If in high Alhambra's halls I once again could see thee gay!

None can say I am remiss, and heedless of thy dismal fate;

Love comes to prompt me every hour, he will not let my zeal abate.

If occasion call, I yield myself, my soul to set thee free;

Take this offering if thou wilt, I wait thy word on bended knee.

Dost thou suffer, noble lady, by these fancies overwrought?

Ah, my soul is filled with sorrow at the agonizing thought;

For to know that Vindaraja languishes, oppressed with care,

Is enough to make death welcome, if I could but rescue her.

Yes, the world shall know that I would die not only for the bliss

Of clasping thee in love's embrace and kindling at thy tender kiss.

This, indeed, would be a prize, for which the coward death would dare--

I would die to make thee happy, tho' thy lot I might not share!

Then, though I should fail to lift the burden on my darling laid,

Though I could not prove my love by rescuing my Moorish maid,

Yet my love would have this witness, first, thy confidence sublime,

Then my death for thee, recorded on the scroll of future time!

Yes, my death, for should I perish, it were comfort but to think

Thou couldst have henceforth on earth no blacker, bitterer cup to drink!

Sorrow's shafts would be exhausted, thou couldst laugh at fortune's power.

Tho' I lost thee, yet this thought would cheer me in my parting hour.

Yet I believe that fate intends (oh, bear this forecast in thy mind!)

That all the love my passions crave will soon a full fruition find;

Fast my passion stronger grows, and if of love there measure be,

Believe it, dearest, that the whole can find its summary in me!

Deem that thou art foully wronged, whose graces have such power to bless,

If any of thy subject slaves to thee, their queen, should offer less,

And accept this pledged assurance, that oblivion cannot roll

O'er the image of thy beauty stamped on this enamored soul.

Then dismiss thy anxious musings, let them with the wind away,

As the gloomy clouds are scattered at the rising of the day.

Think that he is now thy slave, who, when he wooed thee, was thy King;

Think that not the brightest morning can to him contentment bring,

Till the light of other moments in thy melting eyes he trace,

And the gates of Paradise are opened in thy warm embrace.

Since thou knowest that death to me and thee will strike an equal blow,

It is just that, while we live, our hearts with equal hopes should glow.

Then no longer vex thy lover with complaints that he may change;

Darling, oft these bitter questions can the fondest love estrange;

No, I dream not of estrangement, for thy Chico evermore

Thinks upon his Vindaraja's image only to adore."

---

THE INFANTA SEVILLA AND PERANZUELOS

Upon Toledo's loftiest towers

Sevilla kept the height;

So wondrous fair was she that love

Was blinded at the sight.

She stood amid the battlements,

And gazed upon the scene

Where Tagus runs through woodland

And flowers and glades of green.

And she saw upon the wide highway

The figure of a knight;

He rode upon a dappled steed,

And all his arms were bright.

Seven Moors in chains he led with him,

And one arm's length aloof

Came a dog of a Moor from Morocco's shore

In arms of double proof.

His steed was swift, his countenance

In a warlike scowl was set,

And in his furious rage he cursed

The beard of Mahomet!

He shouted, as he galloped up:

"Now halt thee, Christian hound;

I see at the head of thy captive band

My sire, in fetters bound.

"And the rest are brothers of my blood,

And friends I long to free;

And if thou wilt surrender all,

I'll pay thee gold and fee."

When Peranzuelos heard him,

He wheeled his courser round.

With lance in rest, he hotly pressed

To strike him to the ground;

His sudden rage and onset came

Swift as the thunder's sound.

The Moor at the first encounter reeled

To earth, from his saddle bow;

And the Christian knight, dismounting,

Set heel on the neck of his foe.

He cleft his head from his shoulders,

And, marshalling his train,

Made haste once more on his journey

Across Toledo's plain.

---

CELIN'S FAREWELL

He sadly gazes back again upon those bastions high,

The towers and fretted battlements that soar into the sky;

And Celin, whom the King in wrath has from Granada banned

Weeps as he turns to leave for aye his own dear native land;

No hope has he his footsteps from exile to retrace;

No hope again to look upon his lady's lovely face.

Then sighing deep he went his way, and as he went he said:

"I see thee shining from afar,

As in heaven's arch some radiant star.

Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,

Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

"I see outstretched before my eyes thy green and beauteous shore,

Those meadow-lands and gardens that with flowers are dappled o'er.

The wind that lingers o'er those glades received the tribute given

By many a trembling calyx, wet with the dews of heaven.

From Genil's banks full many a bough down to the water bends,

Yon vega's green and fertile line from flood to wall extends;

There laughing ladies seek the shade that yields to them delight,

And the velvet turf is printed deep by many a mounted knight.

I see thee shining from afar,

As in heaven's arch some radiant star.

Granada, queen and town of loveliness,

Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

"Ye springs and founts that sparkling well from yonder mountain-side,

And flow with dimpling torrent o'er mead and garden wide,

If e'er the tears that from my breast to these sad eyes ascend

Should with your happy waters their floods of sadness blend,

Oh, take them to your bosom with love, for love has bidden

These drops to tell the wasting woe that in my heart is hidden.

I see thee shining from afar,

As in heaven's arch some radiant star.

Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,

Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

"Ye balmy winds of heaven, whose sound is in the rippling trees,

Whose scented breath brings back to me a thousand memories,

Ye sweep beneath the arch of heaven like to the ocean surge

That beats from Guadalquivir's bay to earth's extremest verge.

Oh, when ye to Granada come (and may great Allah send

His guardian host to guide you to that sweet journey's end!),

Carry my sighs along with you, and breathe them in the ear

Of foes who do me deadly wrong, of her who holds me dear.

Oh, tell them all the agony I bear in banishment,

That she may share my sorrow, and my foe the King relent.

I see thee shining from afar,

As in heaven's arch some radiant star.

Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,

Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress."

---

CELIN'S RETURN

Now Celin would be merry, and appoints a festal day,

When he the pang of absence from his lady would allay:

The brave Abencerrages and Gulanes straight he calls,

His bosom friends, to join him as he decks his stately halls.

And secretly he bids them come, and in secret bids them go;

For the day of merriment must come unnoticed by his foe;

For peering eyes and curious ears are watching high and low,

But he only seeks one happy day may reparation bring

For the foul and causeless punishment inflicted by the King.

"For in the widest prison-house is misery for me,

And the stoutest heart is broken unless the hand is free."

His followers all he bade them dress in Christian array,

With rude and rustic mantles of color bright and gay;

With silken streamers in their caps, their caps of pointed crown,

With flowing blouse, and mantle and gaberdine of brown.

But he himself wore sober robes of white and lion gray,

The emblems of the hopeless grief in which the warrior lay.

And the thoughts of Adalifa, of her words and glancing eyes,

Gave colors of befitting gloom to tint his dark disguise.

And he came with purpose to perform some great and glorious deed,

To drive away the saddening thoughts that made the bosom bleed.

"For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,

And the stoutest heart is broken unless the arm be free."

There streams into Granada's gate a stately cavalcade

Of prancing steeds caparisoned, and knights in steel arrayed;

And all their acclamations raise, when Celin comes in sight--

"The foremost in the tournament, the bravest in the fight"--

And Moorish maiden Cegri straight to the window flies,

To see the glittering pageant and to hear the joyous cries.

She calls her maidens all to mark how, from misfortune free,

The gallant Celin comes again, the ladies' knight is he!

They know the story of his fate and undeserved disgrace,

And eagerly they gaze upon the splendor of his face.

Needs not his exploit in the fields, his valorous deeds to tell--

The ladies of Granada have heard and know them well!

"For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,

And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arm be free."

The beauty of Granada crowds Elvira's gate this night;

There are straining necks and flushing cheeks when Celin comes in sight;

And whispered tales go round the groups, and hearts indignant swell,

As they think what in Granada that hero knight befell.

Now a thousand Moorish warriors to Celin's fame aspire,

And a thousand ladies gaze on him with passionate desire.

And they talk of Adalifa, to whom he made his vow,

Though neither speech nor written page unites them longer now.

"For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,

And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arms be free."

The city waits his coming, for the feast has been prepared,

By rich and poor, by high and low the revel shall be shared;

And there are warriors high in hope to win the jousting prize,

And there are ladies longing for a smile from Celin's eyes.

But when the news of gladness reached Adalifa's ear,

Her loving heart was touched with grief and filled with jealous fear;

And she wrote to Celin, bidding him to hold no revel high,

For the thought of such rejoicing brought the tear-drop to her eye;

The Moor received the letter as Granada came in sight,

And straight he turned his courser's head toward Jaen's towering height,

And exchanged for hues of mourning his robe of festal white.

"For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,

And the stoutest heart is broke unless the warrior's arm be free."

---

BAZA REVISITED

Brave Celin came, the valiant son of him the

castelain

Of the fortress of Alora and Alhama's windy plain.

He came to see great Baza, where he in former days

Had won from Zara's father that aged warrior's praise.

The Moor gazed on that fortress strong, the towers all desolate,

The castle high that touched the sky, the rampart and the gate.

The ruined hold he greeted, it seemed its native land,

For there his bliss had been complete while Zara held his hand.

And Fortune's cruel fickleness he furiously reviled,

For his heart sent madness to his brain and all his words were wild.

"O goddess who controllest on earth our human fate,

How is it I offend thee, that my life is desolate?

Ah! many were the triumphs that from Zara's hands I bore,

When in the joust or in the dance she smiled on me of yore.

And now, while equal fortune incessantly I chase,

Naught can I gather from thy hand but disaster and disgrace.

Since King Fernando brought his host fair Baza to blockade,

My lot has been a wretched lot of anguish unalloyed.

Yet was Fernando kind to me with all his kingly art,

He won my body to his arms, he could not win my heart."

While thus he spoke the mantle that he wore he cast away;

'Twas green, 'twas striped with red and white, 'twas lined with dismal gray.

"Best suits my fate, best suits the hue, in this misfortune's day;

Not green, not white nor purple, but the palmer's garb of gray.

I ask no plumes for helm or cap of nature's living green,

For hope has vanished from my life of that which might have been!

And from my target will I blot the blazon that is vain--

The lynx whose eyes are fixed upon the prey that it would gain.

For the glances that I cast around meet fortune's foul disdain;

And I will blot the legend, as an accursed screed.

'Twas writ in Christian letters plain that all the world might read:

'My good right arm can gain me more altho' its range be short,

Then all I know by eye-sight or the boundless range of thought.'

The blue tahala fluttering bright upon my armored brow

In brilliant hue assorts but ill with the lot I meet with now.

I cast away this gaudy cap, it bears the purple dye;

Not that my love is faithless, for I own her constancy;

But for the fear that there may be, within the maiden's sight,

A lover worthier of her love than this unhappy knight."

With that he took his lance in hand, and placed it in its rest,

And o'er the plain with bloody spur the mournful Celin pressed.

On his steed's neck he threw the reins, the reins hung dangling low,

That the courser might have liberty to choose where he would go;

And he said: "My steed, oh, journey well, and make thy way to find

The bliss which still eludes me, tho' 'tis ever in my mind.

Nor bit nor rein shall now restrain thy course across the lea,

For the curb and the bridle I only use from infamy to flee."

---

CAPTIVE ZARA

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.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

The phoenix that would shine in gold

On the high banner's fluttering fold,

Scarce can the breeze in gladness bring

To spread aloft its waving wing.

It seemed as if the fire of death

For the first time had quenched her breath.

For tribulation o'er the world

The mantle of despair had furled;

There was no breeze the ground to bless,

The plain lay panting in distress;

Beneath the trailing silken shroud

Alfarez carried through the crowd.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

For Aliatar, one sad morn,

Mounted his steed and blew his horn;

A hundred Moors behind him rode;

Fleeter than wind their coursers strode.

Toward Motril their course is made,

While foes the castle town blockade;

There Aliatar's brother lay,

Pent by the foes that fatal day.

Woe work the hour, the day, when he

Vaulted upon his saddle-tree!

Ne'er from that seat should he descend

To challenge foe or welcome friend,

Nor knew he that the hour was near,

His couch should be the funeral bier.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

That day the master's knights were sent,

As if on sport and jousting bent;

And Aliatar, on his way,

By cruel ambush they betray;

With sword and hauberk they surround

And smite the warrior to the ground.

And wounded deep from every vein

He bleeding lies upon the plain.

The furious foes in deadly fight

His scanty followers put to flight,

In panic-stricken fear they fly,

And leave him unavenged to die.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

Ah sadly swift the news has flown

To Zaida in the silent town;

Speechless she sat, while every thought

Fresh sorrow to her bosom brought;

Then flowed her tears in larger flood,

Than from his wounds the tide of blood.

Like dazzling pearls the tear-drops streak

The pallid beauty of her cheek.

Say, Love, and didst thou e'er behold

A maid more fair and knight more bold?

And if thou didst not see him die,

And Zaida's tears of agony,

The bandage on thine orbs draw tight--

That thou mayst never meet the sight!

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

Not only Zaida's eyes are wet,

For him her soul shall ne'er forget;

But many a heart in equal share

The sorrow of that lady bare.

Yes, all who drink the water sweet

Where Genil's stream and Darro meet,

All of bold Albaicins's line,

Who mid Alhambra's princes shine--

The ladies mourn the warrior high,

Mirror of love and courtesy;

The brave lament him, as their peer;

The princes, as their comrade dear;

The poor deplore, with hearts that bleed,

Their shelter in the time of need.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

---

THE SHIP OF ZARA

It was the Moorish maiden, the fairest of the fair,

Whose name amid the Moorish knights was worshipped everywhere.

And she was wise and modest, as her race has ever been,

And in Alhambra's palace courts she waited on the Queen,

A daughter of Hamete--of royal line was he,

And held the mighty castle of Baja's town in fee.

Now sad and mournful all the day the maiden weeping sat,

And her captive heart was thinking still of the distant caliphat,

Which in the stubborn straits of war had passed from Moslem reign,

And now was the dominion of King Ferdinand of Spain.

She thought upon the dreary siege in Baja's desert vale

When the fight was long and the food of beasts and men began to fail,

And her wretched father, forced to yield, gave up his castle hold,

For falling were the towers, falling fast his warriors bold.

And Zara, lovely Zara, did he give into the care

Of the noble Countess Palma, who loved the maiden fair.

And the countess had to Baja come when Queen Isabella came,

The lovely vega of the town to waste with sword and flame.

And the countess asked of Zara if she were skilled in aught,

The needle, or the 'broidery frame, to Christian damsels taught.

And how she made the hours go by when, on Guadalquivir's strand,

She sat in the Alhambra, a princess of the land.

And, while her eyes were full of tears, the Moorish maid replied:

"'Twas I the silver tinsel fixed on garments duly dyed;

'Twas I who with deft fingers with gold lace overlaid

The dazzling robes of flowery tint of velvet and brocade.

And sometimes would I take my lute and play for dancers there;

And sometimes trust my own weak voice in some romantic air;

But now, this moment, I retain but one, one mournful art--

To weep, to mourn the banishment that ever grieves my heart.

And since 'tis thou alone whose bread, whose roof my life didst save,

I weep the bitterest tears of all because I am a slave!

Yet wouldst thou deign, O lady dear, to make more light to me

The hours I pass beneath thy roof, in dark captivity,--

I bid thee build for me, if thou approve of the design,

An ocean bark, well fitted to cross the surging brine;

Let it be swift, let it be strong, and leave all barks behind,

When on the surges of the main it feels the favoring wind.

We'll launch it from the sloping shore, and, when the wind is high,

And the fierce billows threatening mix their foam-tops with the sky,

We'll lower the mainsail, lest the storm should carry us away,

And sweep us on the reefs that lurk in some deep Afric bay.

And on the lofty topmast shall this inscription stand,

Written in letters which they use in every Christian land:

'This ship is tossed in many a storm, it lands on many a shore,

And the wide sea, beneath the wind, it swiftly travels o'er;

'Tis like the human heart which brings no treasure and no gain,

Till, tossed by hard misfortune, it has known the sea of pain.'

And let there be upon the fringe round this inscription hung

Another legend which shall say in the Arabian tongue:

'Oh, might it be that Allah, the merciful, would send

To all my captive miseries a swift and happy end.'"

The countess said: "To build this ship methinks would please me well,

Such tasks the sorrows of thy heart might lighten or dispel;

And, Zara, when the summer comes, and winds and floods are free,

We'll build our bark, we'll hoist our sail, and start across the sea."

---

HAMETE ALI

Hamete Ali on his way toward the city goes,

His tunic is a brilliant green with stripes of crimson rose,

In sign that no despondency this daring wanderer knows.

His arm, that wears the twisted steel, reflects the sunlight sheen,

And bound to it by many a knot is hung his hood of green.

And o'er his bonnet azure-blue, two feathery plumes there fly;

The one is green as the summer and one is blue as sky.

He does not wear these hues to show that he is passion's slave,

They are emblems of the life that beats within his bosom brave.

Yet dusky is his lance's hue and dusky is his shield,

On which are serpents scattered upon a golden field.

Their venomed tongues are quivering and ears before them stand,

To show how slanderous hearts can spread their poison o'er the land.

A lettered motto in the midst which everyone may read,

Is written in Arabian script, ah! good that all should heed!

"'Tis naught but innocence of heart can save me from the blow

With which the slanderous serpents would lay their victim low."

Upon a piebald colt he rode along the valley's side,

The bravest of the valiant Moors and once Granada's pride.

In furious rage descending from bold Ubeda's steep,

He crossed the vale and mounted to Baza's castle keep.

Defiant still of Fortune's power, his thoughts at last found vent,

For Fortune had been cruel, and in words of discontent,

As if he blamed the serpent upon his shield displayed,

The torrent of his heart broke forth and in wrath the warrior said:

"O wasters of the brightest hope I knew in years long past!

O clouds by which the blazing sun of bliss is overcast!

O blight of love, O ruin of aspirations pure!

Vile worms, that gnaw and waste away the treasures most secure!

Attempt no more to banish me from my own native land,

That in my place of honor ye, envious slaves, may stand;

I, too, have friends, whose swords are keen, whose love is strong and leal.

To them I look for my defence by stratagem or steel.

And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant,

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

"Permit it not that in the generous breasts of those whose blood

Flows in my veins, who by my side as faithful champions stood,

Those cursed asps, whose effigies my shield's circumference fill,

Could plant the thoughts of villany by which they work me ill.

Just heaven forbids their words should blot the honor of my name,

For pure and faithful is my heart, howe'er my foes defame;

And Zaida, lovely Zaida, at a word that did me wrong,

Would close her ears in scornful ire and curse the slanderous tongue.

And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant,

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

"Nay, Fortune, turn no more thy wheel, I care not that it rest,

Nor bid thee draw the nail that makes it stand at man's behest

Oh, may I never say to thee, when for thy aid I call,

Let me attain the height of bliss whate'er may be my fall!

And when I roam from those I love, may never cloud arise

To dim my hope of a return and hide me from their eyes.

Yet doubtless, 'tis the absent are oftenest forgot,

Till those who loved when they were near in absence love them not.

And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant,

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

"And since 'tis my unhappy lot, through slander's cruel wiles,

I should be robbed so many years of Zaida's cheering smiles,

Yet those who say that I am false, and name Celinda's name,

Oh, may they gain no end at length but obloquy and shame!

It is not just that to these words and to these anxious fears,

These wild complaints, the god of love should close his heedless ears!

Yes, I deserve a better fate, the fate that makes more sure;

The fame of those whose slanderous tongue in banishment endure.

And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant,

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment."

He spoke, and, lo! before him he saw the city stand,

With walls and towers that frowned in might upon that fertile land.

And he saw the glittering banners of Almanzor set on high,

And swaying in the gentle breeze that filled the summer sky.

And those who stood upon the walls, soon as he came in sight,

Streamed forth from the portcullis with welcome for the knight,

For they marvelled at the prancing steed that rushed across the plain,

They marvelled at his thundering voice and words of deep disdain.

And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant,

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

And as he rode into the town and galloped to the square,

Upon the balconies he saw bright dames with faces bare;

They stood, they gazed with eyes of love and gestures of delight,

For they joyed to see among them so stout, so fair a knight.

And all of Baza's people with cries his coming greet,

And follow at his horse's tail from street to crowded street.

His heart with gratitude was filled, his bosom filled with pride,

And with doffed bonnet, lo, he bowed and once again he cried:

"And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant,

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment."

They led him to the warden's house, and there was feasting high.

Brave men and beauteous women in crowds were standing by.

The trumpets blew in merry strain, the Moorish horns resound,

And the strain of joy was echoed from every castle round.

And from his colt dismounting he laid his lance aside,

And greeted all the multitude that filled the plaza wide.

Then to the strong tower of the place he hurried from the street,

And as he went a thousand times his lips would still repeat:

"And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant,

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment."

---

ZAIDE'S LOVE

Then Zaide stood enraptured and gazed with placid eye,

For the moment when his heart's desire should be fulfilled was nigh.

Propitious was the moment, and happy was the hour,

When all that he had longed for had come into his power.

And he said: "Thrice happy is the wall, and happy is the bar,

Tho' from my fond embraces, Zaida, it keeps thee far;

For long as thou shalt live on earth, my Zaida, thou art mine;

And the heart that in my bosom beats, long as it beats, is thine.

And happy is the green, green sod on which thy feet are set,

For the pressure of thy tender foot the grass shall ne'er forget,

Shall ne'er forget the white, white heel that o'er the pathway came,

Leaving behind it, everywhere, the print of snow and flame.

But far more happy is the knight, if e'er should Allah send

To this dark separation a bright and peaceful end.

For seems to me the hours that pass, without thy presence dear,

Wear the dark robe of sorrow, that orphaned children wear.

I seek to have thee with me, for it is only to the weak

That the happiness is wanting that they do not dare to seek.

And if the doom of death is ours, it will not haste the more

Because we scorn to think of it upon this happy shore.

But ere it come, that doom of death which fills us with alarms,

May Allah grant to me the boon of resting in thine arms!

And if, in that supremest bliss, fate favors my design,

And love is crowned, the lot of life contented I resign.

O darling Zaida, blest is he, 'mid thousands, who can say

That on that bosom, in those arms he for one moment lay!

Come, darling, to thy Zaide's side, and yield to him thy love;

Thou knowest him brave and good and kind, all other knights above;

In owning him thy lover true, thou wilt a partner count

Who above all in valor's list is champion paramount.

Thy beauty's sway should be unchecked as death's prevailing might,

But, ah, how many worlds would then sink into endless night!

But come, fair Zaida, quickly come to these expectant arms,

And let me win at last the prize of victory o'er thy charms.

It is a debt thou owest me, oh, let the debt be paid."

Then Zaida rose and showed herself in beauty's robe arrayed,

And the Moor cried: "May Allah grant thy sun may ever shine,

To light with its full splendor this lonely life of mine!

And tho' my stammering tongue be dumb, and like a broken lute,

And in its loudest efforts to speak thy praise be mute,

It can at least announce to thee, loud as the thunder's peal,

The service that I owe to thee, the passion that I feel."

The Moorish lady smiled at this, and spake in tender tone;

"If all this silent tongue of thine has said be loyal shown,

If all thy vows be from thy heart, and all thy heavy sighs

From out a breast unchanging, a constant spirit rise,

I swear that I would grant thy wish and follow thy behest;

But, ah, I fear lest thy fierce love should bring to me no rest,

I fear these honeyed words that from thy lips so lightly fly

At last should prove a serpent's fang to sting me till I die."

Then swore to her the Moor: "If this the end should ever be,

May the firm earth beneath my feet yawn wide and swallow me!

And may the blessed sunlight, the symbol of my hope,

Wither these orbs and leave me in eternal night to grope!"

At this the lovers joined their hands and hearts, and, with a kiss,

Sealed all their vows of friendship and promises of bliss--

Their love was strong and solid and constant should remain,

Till death should end their bondage and break the golden chain.

---

ZAIDA'S JEALOUSY.

Kind friend of Bencerraje's line, what judgment dost thou hold

Of all that Zaida's changeful moods before thine eyes unfold?

Now by my life I swear that she to all would yield her will;

Yet by my death I swear that she to all is recreant still.

Come near, my friend, and listen while I show to you this note,

Which to the lovely lady in bitter grief I wrote;

Repeat not what I read to thee, for 'twere a deadly shame,

Since thou her face admirest, should slander smirch her name:

"O Moorish maiden, who like time, forever on the wing,

Dost smiles and tears, with changing charm, to every bosom bring,

Thy love is but a masquerade, and thou with grudging hand

Scatterest the crumbs of hope on all the crowds that round thee stand.

With thee there is no other law of love and kindliness

But what alone may give thee joy and garland of success.

With each new plume thy maidens in thy dark locks arrange,

With each new tinted garment thy thoughts, thy fancies change.

I own that thou art fairer than even the fairest flower

That at the flush of early dawn bedecks the summer's bower.

But, ah, the flowers in summer hours change even till they fade,

And thou art changeful as the rose that withers in the shade.

And though thou art the mirror of beauty's glittering train,

Thy bosom has one blemish, thy mind one deadly stain;

For upon all alike thou shed'st the radiance of thy smile,

And this the treachery by which thou dost the world beguile.

I do not plead in my complaint thy loveliness is marred,

Because thy words are cruel, because thy heart is hard;

Would God that thou wert insensible as is the ocean wild

And not to all who meet thee so affable and mild;

Ah, sweetest is the lingering fruit that latest comes in time,

Ah, sweetest is the palm-tree's nut that those who reach must climb.

Alas! 'twas only yesterday a stranger reached the town--

Thou offeredst him thy heart and bade him keep it for his own!

O Zaida, tell me, how was this? for oft I heard thee say

That thou wert mine and 'twas to me thy heart was given away.

Hast thou more hearts than one, false girl, or is it changefulness

That makes thee give that stranger guest the heart that I possess?

One heart alone is mine, and that to thee did I resign.

If thou hast many, is my love inadequate to thine?

O Zaida, how I fear for thee, my veins with anger glow;

O Zaida, turn once more to me, and let the stranger go.

As soon as he hath left thy side his pledges, thou wilt find,

Were hollow and his promises all scattered to the wind.

And if thou sayst thou canst not feel the pains that absence brings,

'Tis that thy heart has never known love's gentle whisperings.

'Tis that thy fickle mind has me relinquished here to pine,

Like some old slave forgotten in this palace court of thine.

Ah, little dost thou reck of me, of all my pleasures flown,

But in thy pride dost only think, false lady, of thine own.

And is it weakness bids me still to all thy faults be blind

And bear thy lovely image thus stamped upon my mind?

For when I love, the slight offence, though fleeting may be the smart,

Is heinous as the treacherous stroke that stabs a faithful heart.

And woman by one look unkind, one frown, can bring despair

Upon the bosom of the man whose spirit worships her.

Take, then, this counsel, 'tis the last that I shall breathe to thee,

Though on the winds I know these words of mine will wasted be:

I was the first on whom thou didst bestow the fond caress,

And gave those pledges of thy soul, that hour of happiness;

Oh, keep the faith of those young days! Thy honor and renown

Thou must not blight by love unkind, by treachery's heartless frown.

For naught in life is safe and sure if faith thou shouldst discard,

And the sunlight of the fairest soul is oft the swiftest marred.

I will not sign this letter nor set to it my name;

For I am not that happy man to whom love's message came,

Who in thy bower thy accents sweet enraptured heard that day,

When on thy heaving bosom, thy chosen love, I lay.

Yet well thou'lt know the hand that wrote this letter for thine eye,

For conscience will remind thee of thy fickle treachery.

Dissemble as thou wilt, and play with woman's skill thy part,

Thou knowest there is but one who bears for thee a broken heart."

Thus read the valiant castellan of Baza's castle tower,

Then sealed the scrip and sent it to the Moorish maiden's bower.

---

ZAIDA OF TOLEDO

Upon a gilded balcony, which decked a mansion high,

A place where ladies kept their watch on every passer-by,

While Tagus with a murmur mild his gentle waters drew

To touch the mighty buttress with waves so bright and blue,

Stands Zaida, radiant in her charms, the flower of Moorish maids,

And with her arching hand of snow her anxious eyes she shades,

Searching the long and dusty road that to Ocaña leads,

For the flash of knightly armor and the tramp of hurrying steeds.

The glow of amorous hope has lit her cheek with rosy red,

Yet wrinkles of too anxious love her beauteous brow o'er-spread;

For she looks to see if up the road there rides a warrior tall--

The haughty Bencerraje, whom she loves the best of all.

At every looming figure that blots the vega bright,

She starts and peers with changing face, and strains her eager sight;

For every burly form she sees upon the distant street

Is to her the Bencerraje whom her bosom longs to greet.

And many a distant object that rose upon her view

Filled her whole soul with rapture, as her eager eyes it drew;

But when it nearer came, she turned away, in half despair,

Her vision had deceived her, Bencerraje was not there.

"My own, my Bencerraje, if but lately you descried

That I was angry in my heart, and stubborn in my pride,

Oh, let my eyes win pardon, for they with tears were wet.

Why wilt thou not forgive me, why wilt thou not forget?

And I repented of that mood, and gave myself the blame,

And thought, perhaps it was my fault that, at the jousting game,

There was no face among the knights so filled with care as thine,

So sad and so dejected, yes, I thought the blame was mine!

And yet I was, if thou with thought impartial wilt reflect,

Not without cause incensed with thee, for all thy strange neglect.

Neglect that not from falseness or words of mine had sprung

But from the slanderous charges made by a lying tongue;

And now I ask thee pardon, if it be not too late,

Oh, take thy Zaida to thy heart, for she is desolate!

For if thou pardon her, and make her thine again, I swear

Thou never wilt repent, dear love, thou thus hast humored her!

It is the law of honor, which thou wilt never break,

That the secret of sweet hours of love thou mayst not common make.

That never shouldst thou fail in love, or into coldness fall,

Toward thy little Moorish maiden, who has given thee her all."

She spoke; and Bencerraje, upon his gallant bay,

Was calling to her from the street, where he loitered blithe and gay,

And quickly she came down to him, to give him, e'er they part,

Her rounded arms, her ivory neck, her bosom, and her heart!

---

ZAIDE REBUKED

"See, Zaide, let me tell you not to pass along my street,

Nor gossip with my maidens nor with my servants treat;

Nor ask them whom I'm waiting for, nor who a visit pays,

What balls I seek, what robe I think my beauty most displays.

'Tis quite enough that for thy sake so many face to face

Aver that I, a witless Moor, a witless lover chase.

I know that thou art a valiant man, that thou hast slaughtered more,

Among thy Christian enemies, than thou hast drops of gore.

Thou art a gallant horseman, canst dance and sing and play

Better than can the best we meet upon a summer's day.

Thy brow is white, thy cheek is red, thy lineage is renowned,

And thou amid the reckless and the gay art foremost found.

I know how great would be my loss, in losing such as thee;

I know, if I e'er won thee, how great my gain would be:

And wert thou dumb even from thy birth, and silent as the grave,

Each woman might adore thee, and call herself thy slave.

But 'twere better for us both I turn away from thee,

Thy tongue is far too voluble, thy manners far too free;

Go find some other heart than mine that will thy ways endure,

Some woman who, thy constancy and silence to secure,

Can build within thy bosom her castle high and strong,

And put a jailer at thy lips, to lock thy recreant tongue.

Yet hast thou gifts that ladies love; thy bearing bold and bright

Can break through every obstacle that bars them from delight.

And with such gifts, friend Zaide, thou spreadest thy banquet board,

And bidst them eat the dish so sweet, and never say a word!

But that which thou hast done to me, Zaide, shall cost thee dear;

And happy would thy lot have been hadst thou no change to fear.

Happy if when thy snare availed to make the prize thine own,

Thou hadst secured the golden cage before the bird was flown.

For scarce thy hurrying footsteps from Tarfe's garden came,

Ere thou boastedst of thine hour of bliss, and of my lot of shame.

They tell me that the lock of hair I gave thee on that night,

Thou drewest from thy bosom, in all the people's sight,

And gav'st it to a base-born Moor, who took the tresses curled,

And tied them in thy turban, before the laughing world.

I ask not that thou wilt return nor yet the relic keep,

But I tell thee, while thou wearest it, my shame is dire and deep:

They say that thou hast challenged him, and swearest he shall rue

For all the truths he spake of thee--would God they were not true!

Who but can laugh to hear thee blame the whispers that reveal

Thy secret, though thy secret thyself couldst not conceal.

No words of thine can clear thy guilt nor pardon win from me,

For the last time my words, my glance, have been addressed to thee."

Thus to the lofty warrior of Abencerraje's race

The lady spoke in anger, and turned away her face:

"'Tis right," she said, "the Moor whose tongue has proved to me unkind

Should in the sentence of my tongue fit retribution find."

---

ZAIDA'S INCONSTANCY

O fairest Zaida, thou whose face brings rapture to mine eyes!

O fairest Zaida, in whose smile my soul's existence lies!

Fairest of Moorish maidens, yet in revengeful mood,

Above all Moorish maidens, stained by black ingratitude.

'Tis of thy golden locks that love has many a noose entwined,

And souls of free men at thy sight full oft are stricken blind;

Yet tell me, proud one, tell me, what pleasure canst thou gain

From showing to the world a heart so fickle and so vain?

And, since my adoration thou canst not fail to know,

How is it that thy tender heart can treat thy lover so?

And art thou not content my fondest hopes to take away,

But thou must all my hope, my life, destroy, in utter ruin lay?

My faithful love, sweet enemy! how ill dost thou requite!

And givest in exchange for it but coldness and despite;

Thy promises, thy pledge of love, thou to the gale wouldst fling;

Enough that they were thine, false girl, that they should all take wing.

Remember how upon that day thou gavest many a sign

Of love and lavished'st the kiss which told me thou wert mine.

Remember, lovely Zaida, though memory bring thee pain,

Thy bliss when 'neath thy window I sang my amorous strain.

By day, before the window, I saw my darling move,

At night, upon the balcony, I told thee of my love.

If I were late or absence detained me from thy sight,

Then jealous rage distraught thy heart, thine eyes with tears were bright.

But now that thou hast turned from me, I come thy face to greet,

And thou biddest me begone, and pass no longer through thy street.

Thou biddest me look on thee no more, nor even dare to write

The letter or the

billet-doux,

that caused thee once delight.

Yes, Zaida, all thy favors, thy love, thy vows, are shown

To be but false and faithless, since thou art faithless grown.

But why? thou art a woman, to fickle falseness born;

Thou prizest those who scorn thee--those who love thee thou dost scorn.

I change not, thou art changed, whose heart once fondly breathed my name;

But the more thy bosom turns to ice, the fiercer burns my flame;

For all thy coldness I with love and longing would repay,

For passion founded on good faith can never die away.

---

ZAIDE'S DESOLATION

It was the hour when Titan from Aurora's couch awoke,

And on the world her radiant face in wonted beauty broke,

When a Moor came by in sad array, and Zaide was his name.

Disguised, because his heart was sad with love's consuming flame;

No shield he bore, he couched no lance, he rode no warrior steed;

No plume nor mantle he assumed, motto or blazon screed;

Still on the flank of his mantle blank one word was written plain,

In the Moorish of the people, "I languish through disdain."

A flimsy cape his shoulders clad, for, when the garb is poor,

Nobility is honored most because 'tis most obscure.

If he in poverty appeared, 'twas love that made him so;

Till love might give the wealth he sought thus mourning would he go.

And still he journeys through the hills and shuns the haunts of men;

None look upon his misery in field or lonely fen.

Fair Zaida ne'er forgets that he is prince of all the land,

And ruler of the castles that at Granada stand;

But gold or silver or brocade can ne'er supply the lack

Of honor in a noble line whose crimes have stained it black;

For sunlight never clears the sky when night has spread her cloak,

But only when the glory of the morning has awoke.

He lives secure from jealous care, holding the priceless dower

Which seldom falls to loving hearts or sons of wealth and power.

Poor is his garb, yet at his side a costly blade appears,

'Tis through security of mind no other arms he bears.

'Tis love that from Granada's home has sent him thus to rove,

And for the lovely Zaida he languishes with love--

The loveliest face that by God's grace the sun e'er shone above.

From court and mart he lives apart, such is the King's desire;

Yet the King's friend Alfaqui is the fair maiden's sire.

Friend of the King, the throne's support, a monarch's son is he,

And he has sworn that never Moor his daughter's spouse shall be.

He has no ease till the monarch sees his daughter's loveliness.

But she has clasped brave Zaide's hand, and smiled to his caress,

And said that to be his alone is her sole happiness.

And after many journeys wide, wearied of banishment,

He sees the lofty tower in which his Moorish maid is pent.

---

ZAIDA'S LAMENT

Now the hoarse trumpets of the morn were driving sleep away;

They sounded as the fleeting night gave truce unto the day.

The hubbub of the busy crowd ceased at that dulcet sound,

In which one moment high and low peace and refreshment found.

The hoot of the nocturnal owl alone the silence broke,

While from the distance could be heard the din of waking folk;

And, in the midst of silence, came the sound as Zaida wept,

For all night long in fear of death she waked while others slept.

And as she sighed, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;

"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?"

For evil tongues, who thought to win her favor with a lie,

Had told her that the bold Gazul ordained that she should die;

And so she donned a Moor's attire, and put her own away,

And on the stroke of midnight from Xerez took her way.

And as she sighed, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;

"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?"

She rode a nimble palfrey and scarce could great Gazul

Excel the ardent spirit with which her heart was full.

Yet at every step her palfrey took, she turned her head for fear,

To see if following on her track some enemy were near.

And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;

"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?"

To shun suspicion's eye, at last she left the king's highway,

And took the journey toward Seville that thro' a bypath lay;

With loosened rein her gallant steed right swiftly did she ride,

Yet to her fear he did appear like a rock on the rough wayside.

And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;

"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?"

So secretly would she proceed, her very breath she held,

Tho' with a rising storm of sighs her snowy bosom swelled.

And here and there she made a halt, and bent her head to hear

If footsteps sounded; then, assured, renewed her swift career.

And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;

"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?"

Her fancy in the silent air could whispering voices hear;

"I'll make of thee a sacrifice, to Albenzaide dear;"

This fancy took her breath away, lifeless she sank at length,

And grasped the saddle-bow; for fear had sapped her spirit's strength.

And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;

"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?"

She came in sight of proud Seville; but the darkness bade her wait

Till dawn; when she alighted before a kinsman's gate.

Swift flew the days, and when at last the joyful truth she learned,

That she had been deceived; in joy to Xerez she returned.

And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;

"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?"

---

ZAIDA'S CURSE

And Zaida Cegri, desolate,

Whom by the cruel cast of fate,

Within one hour, the brandished blade

From wife had mourning widow made,

On Albenzaide's corse was bowed,

Shedding hot tears, with weeping loud.

Bright as the gold of Araby

Shone out her locks unbound;

And while, as if to staunch the blood,

Her hand lay on the wound,

She fixed her glances on Gazul,

Still by his foes attacked.

"'Twas cruel rage, not jealous love,

That urged this wicked act."

(Thus she began with trembling voice.)

"And I to God will pray

That for thy treacherous violence

Thy dastard life shall pay.

And midway, on thy journey down

To fair Sidonia's castled town,

Mayst thou alone, with no retreat,

The valiant Garci-Perez meet;

And mayst thou, startled at the sight,

Lose all the vigor of thy might;

Thy reins with palsied fingers yield;

And find no shelter in thy shield.

There sudden death or captive shame

Blot all thy valor but the name.

Thy warrior garb thou turnest

To the livery of the slave;

Thy coat of steel is no cuirass,

No harness of the brave;

When to Sidonia thou art come,

To meet thy amorous mate,

May foul suspicion turn her heart

From love to deadly hate.

Begone! no more the course pursue

Of faithless love and vows untrue.

To remain true to such as thee

Were naught but blackest perjury.

I fear not, hound, thy sword of might;

Turn, traitor, turn and leave my sight,

For thou wert born to change thy mind,

And fling all fealty to the wind.

Ignoble origin is thine,

For lovers of a noble line

Have no such rancorous hearts as thine.

And here I pray that God will bring

His curse upon thy soul,

That thou in war, in peace, in love

May meet with failure foul,

And that Sanlucar's lady,

Whom thou wishest for a bride,

Thee from her castle entrance

May spurn thee in her pride.

A widowed wife with bleeding heart,

Hear me one moment ere we part!

Thy knightly service I distrust,

I hear thy voice with deep disgust."

Cut to the heart by words so rude,

The Moor within the palace stood;

Say what he could, 'twas but to find

His vain word wasted on the wind.

---

THE TOURNAMENT OF ZAIDE

By Zaide has a feast been pledged to all Granada's dames,

For in his absence there had been dire lack of festive games,

And, to fulfil the promise the noble man had made,

He called his friends to join him in dance and serenade.

There should be sport of every kind; the youths in white arrayed

Were, to the ladies all unknown, to lead the camisade.

And ere the radiance of dawn could tint the valley-side,

The merry Moor had come abroad, his friends were at his side.

He gathered round a company, they formed a joyous train;

There were fifty gentlemen, the noblest names in Spain.

Before the dawn they sallied forth the ladies to surprise

And all that snowy gowns conceal to see with open eyes.

They bound their brows with garlands of flowerets sweet and bright,

In one hand each a cane-stalk bore, in one a taper white,

And the clarions began to blow, and trump and Moorish horn,

And whoop and shout and loud huzzas adown the street were borne.

From right to left the clamor spread along the esplanade.

And envious Abaicin a thousand echoes made.

The startled horses galloped by, amid the people's yells;

The town to its foundation shook with the jingle of their bells.

Amid the crowd some run, some shout, "Stop, stop!" the elders say;

Then all take order and advance to Alcazaba's way;

Others from Vavataubin to Alpujarra fare,

Down the street of the Gomelas or to Vivarrambla Square.

Now the whole town is on its feet, from wall to towering wall

They surge with shouts or flock around the tower and castle tall.

The ladies who are tenderest and given most to sleep

Awaken at the hubbub and from their windows peep.

And there are seen dishevelled locks clasped by the lily hand;

And snowy throat and bosom bare, revealed in public, stand;

And in their drowsy disarray, and in their anxious fear,

Each Moorish lady is surprised with many a sudden tear;

And many a heart was filled that night with feverish unrest,

As one tall maid looked through the pane with white and heaving breast.

And many a Moorish girl was seen by revellers that night

Or running in confusion or halting from affright;

But no one saw fair Zaida, except by memory's sight;

And Zaide in the darkness, with Muza as his guide,

Hurried about the city; what a crowd was at their side!

What racket, and what riot, what shout and prank and play!

It would have had no end unless the sun had brought the day,

And now the leading revellers mustered their ranks once more;

To close the frolic with one word; "Go home; the game is o'er."

---

ZAIDE'S COMPLAINT

Brave Zaide paces up and down impatiently the street

Where his lady from the balcony is wont her knight to greet,

And he anxiously awaits the hour when she her face will show

Before the open lattice and speak to him below.

The Moor is filled with desperate rage, for he sees the hour is fled

When day by day the dazzling ray of sunlight gilds that head,

And he stops to brood in desperate mood, for her alone he yearns

Can aught soothe the fire of fierce desire with which his bosom burns.

At last he sees her moving with all her wonted grace,

He sees her and he hastens to their old trysting-place;

For as the moon when night is dark and clouds of tempest fly

Rises behind the dim-lit wood and lights the midnight sky,

Or like the sun when tempests with inky clouds prevail,

He merges for one moment and shows his visage pale;

So Zaida on her balcony in gleaming beauty stood,

And the knight for a moment gazed at her and checked his angry mood.

Zaide beneath the balcony with trembling heart drew near;

He halted and with upward glance spoke to his lady dear:

"Fair Moorish maiden, may thy life, by Allah guarded still,

Bring thee the full fruition of that that thou dost will;

And if the servants of thy house, the pages of my hall,

Have lied about thine honor, perdition seize them all;

For they come to me and murmur low and whisper in my ear

That thou wishest to disown me, thy faithful cavalier;

And they say that thou art pledged to one a Moor of wealth and pride,

Who will take thee to his father's house and claim thee as his bride,

For he has come to woo thee from the wide lands of his sire;

And they say that his scimitar is keen and his heart a flame of fire.

And if, fair Zaida, this is true, I kneel before thy feet

Imploring thou wilt tell me true, and fling away deceit;

For all the town is talking, still talking of our love,

And the tongues of slander, to thy blame, to my derision move."

The lady blushed, she bowed her head, then to the Moor replied:

"Dear heart of mine, of all my friends the most undoubted friend,

The time has come our friendship should have an early end;

If all, indeed, these tidings know, as you yourself declare,

Pray tell me who of all the town first laid this secret bare.

For if the life that now I lead continue, I shall die.

'Tis cheered by love, but tortured by hopeless agony.

God only knows why I the sport of cruel fate should be.

God only knows the man who says that I am false to thee.

Thou knowest well that Zaida has loved thee long and true,

Tho' her ancient lineage, Moorish knight, is more than is thy due,

And thou knowest well the loud expostulations of my sire.

Thou knowest how my mother curses me with curses dire

Because I wait for thee by day, for thee by night I wait.

Tho' far thou comest in the eve, yet dost thou tarry late.

They say to hush the common talk 'tis time that I be wed,

And to his home by some fond Moor in bridal veil be led.

Ah! many are the lovely dames, tall and of beauteous face,

Who are burning in Granada to take my envied place.

They look at thee with loving eyes and from the window call;

And, Zaide, thou deservest well the brightest of them all,

For thou thyself thine amorous eyes have turned and yet will turn

Upon the Moorish maidens who for thy embraces burn."

Then with dejected visage the Moor this answer made,

While a thousand thoughts of sorrow his valorous breast invade:

"Ah, little did I think," he said, "and little did I know

That thou, my lovely Zaida, would ever treat me so;

And little did I think thou wouldst have done this cruel deed

And by thy changeful heart would thus have made my heart to bleed.

And this for one unworthy, a man who could not claim

That thou should sacrifice to him thy love, thy life, thy name.

And art thou she who long ago, when evening veiled the sky,

Didst say to me with tender smile from the lofty balcony,

'Zaide, I am thine own, thine own, thine own I still shall be,

And thou the darling of my soul art life itself to me'?"

---

GUHALA'S LOVE

The bravest youth that e'er drew rein

Upon Granada's flowery plain,

A courteous knight, of gentle heart,

Accomplished in the jouster's art;

Well skilled to guide the flying steed,

And noted for each warlike deed;

And while his heart like steel was set

When foeman in the battle met,

'Twas wax before his lady's eyes

And melted at her amorous sighs;

And he was like a diamond bright

Amid the sword-thrusts of the fight,

And in the zambra's festive hour

Was gracious as the summer's flower.

In speech he showed the generous mind,

Where wit and wisdom were combined;

And, while his words no envy woke,

He weighed each sentence that he spoke.

And yet his mantle was of blue,

And tinged with sorrow's violet hue;

For fair Guhala, Moorish maid,

Her spell upon his heart had laid;

And thus his cape of saffron bare

The color emblem of despair;

On turban and on tassel lie

The tints that yield an August sky;

For anxious love was in his mind;

And anxious love is ever blind.

With scarce a word did he forsake

The lady pining for his sake;

For, when the festal robe he wore,

Her soul the pall of sorrow wore.

And now he journeyed on his way

To Jaen, for the jousting day,

And to Guhala, left alone,

All relic of delight was gone.

Tho' the proud maid of matchless face

A thousand hearts would fain embrace,

She loved but one, and swiftly ran

And spake her mind to Arbolan.

"O Arbolan, my Moor, my own,

Surely thy love is feeble grown!

The least excuse can bid thee part,

And tear with pain this anxious heart.

Oh, that it once were granted me

To mount my steed and follow thee;

How wouldst thou marvel then to see

That courage of true love in me,

Whose pulse so feebly throbs in thee."

Thus to see Arbolan depart

So fills with grief Guhala's heart.

The Moorish maid, while on he sped,

Lies sickening on her mournful bed.

Her Moorish damsels strive to know

The secret of this sudden blow;

They ask the cause that lays her low;

They seek the sad disease to heal,

Whose cause her feigning words conceal.

And less, indeed, the doubling folds

The Moor within his turban holds,

Than are the wiles Guhala's mind

In search of secrecy can find.

To Zara only, whom she knows,

Sole friend amid a ring of foes,

The sister of her lover leal,

She will the secret cause reveal.

And seeking an occasion meet

To tell with truth and tongue discreet,

While from her eyes the tear-drops start,

She opens thus her bleeding heart:

"O Zara, Zara, to the end,

Thou wilt remain my faithful friend.

How cruel is the lot I bear,

Thy brother's peril makes me fear!

'Tis for his absence that I mourn.

I sicken, waiting his return!"

Such were the words Guhala said.

The love-lorn and afflicted maid

Nor further power and utterance found,

But, fainting, sank upon the ground;

For strength of love had never art

To fill with life a pining heart.

---

AZARCO OF GRANADA

Azarco left his heart behind

When he from Seville passed,

And winsome Celindaja

As hostage held it fast.

The heart which followed with the Moor

Was lent him by the maid,

And at their tearful parting,

"Now guard it well," she said.

"O light of my distracted eyes,

When thou hast reached the fight,

In coat of double-proof arrayed,

As fits a gallant knight,

Let loyal love and constancy

Be thy best suit of mail,

In lonely hours of absence,

When faith is like to fail.

The Moorish girls whom thou shalt meet

Are dazzling in their grace,

Of peerless wit and generous heart,

And beautiful of face.

These in the dance may lure thy heart

To think of me no more,

But none will e'er adore thee

As I, thy slave, adore.

For to live lonely without thee

Untouched by jealous fear,

Is more than my poor heart can brook,

Thou art to me so dear.

If e'er in festal halls thou meet

Some peril to my peace,

Azarco, turn thy look away,

And check thine eyes' caprice.

For 'tis by wandering eyes the foes

Of constancy increase.

May Allah and the prophet

Make thy pathway safe and clear;

And may one thought be thine abroad

And Celindaja's here."

---

AZARCO REBUKED

"Draw rein, draw rein one moment,

And calm thy hurrying steed,

Who bounds beneath the furious spur

That makes his flank to bleed.

Here would I, by my grief distraught,

Upon the very spot,

Remind thee of the happy hours

Thou, faithless, hast forgot.

When thou, upon thy prancing barb,

Adown this street would pace,

And only at my window pause

To gaze into my face.

At thought of all thy cruelty

A stricken slave I pine;

My heart is burning since it touched

That frozen breast of thine.

How many pledges didst thou give,

To win me for thine own!

Our oaths were mutual; I am true,

Whilst thou art recreant grown.

My eyes, they thrilled thee yesterday,

To-day thou hast no fears;

For love is not alike two days

Within a thousand years.

I thought thy name a pledge to me

Of fondest hope; no less

That thou wouldst take as pledges true

My kiss and soft caress.

What were thy glowing words but lures

Thy victim's eyes to blind?

Now safe from treachery's hour I bear

No rancor in my mind.

But better had I known the truth,

When I desired to know,

And listened to thy pleading words,

And read thy written vow.

Nay, give me no excuses vain,

For none of them I ask,

Plead truth to her thou cozenest now--

They'll serve thee in the task.

And if my counsel thou wilt take,

Forget these eyes, this heart,

Forget my grief at thy neglect--

Forget me--and depart."

Thus to the Moor, Azarco,

The lovely Zaida cried,

And closed her lattice, overwhelmed

With sorrow's rising tide.

He spurred his barb and rode away,

Scattering the dust behind,

And cursed the star that made his heart

Inconstant as the wind.

---

ADELIFA'S FAREWELL

Fair Adelifa tore her hair,

Her cheeks were furrowed o'er with care,

When brave Azarco she descried

Ascending the tall galley's side.

She flung the dust upon her head,

She wrung her lily hands and shed

Hot tears, and cursed the bitter day

That bore her heart's delight away.

"Thou, who my glory's captain art,

And general of my bleeding heart,

Guardian of every thought I know,

And sharer of my lot of woe;

Light that illumes my happy face,

The bliss of my soul's dwelling-place;

Why must thou disappear from me,

Thou glass wherein myself I see?

Azarco, bid me understand

What is it thou dost command--

Must I remain and wait for thee?

Ah, tedious will that waiting be.

To war thou farest, but I fear

Another war awaits thee here.

Thou thinkest in some rural nest

Thou'lt set me to be safe at rest.

Ah, if my absence cause thee pain,

My love attend thee on yon plain.

Thy valiant arms' unaided might

Shall win thee victory in the fight.

My faith, Azarco, is thy shield;

It will protect thee in the field.

Thou shalt return with victory,

For victory embarks with thee.

But thou wilt say, Azarco dear,

That women's lightness is to fear.

As with armed soldiers, so you find,

Each woman has a different mind.

And none shall ever, without thee,

Me in the dance or revel see;

Nor to the concert will I roam,

But stay in solitude at home.

The Moorish girls shall never say

I dress in robes of holiday;

'Twere vain to make the body fine

Whose soul is on the sea with thine."

With this Celinda came in sight,

Bahata's sister tall and bright;

This to an end her farewell brought,

But not her dark and anxious thought.

---

AZARCO'S FAREWELL

"Now saddle me the silver gray,

The steed of noble race,

And give to me the shield of Fez,

And my strong corslet lace;

Give me a double-headed lance,

With points of temper fine;

And, with the casque of stubborn steel,

That purple cap of mine.

Its plumes unite the saffron's tint

With heron's crest of snow,

And one long spray of fluttering gray.

Then give it e'er I go,

And I'll put on the hood of blue

That Celin's daughter fair,

My Adelifa, best-beloved,

Once gave to me to wear.

And the square boss of metal bring,

That circling boughs entwine

With laurels, in whose leaves of gold

The clustered emeralds shine.

Adonis, hastening to the hunt,

His heavenly mistress shuns,

The mountain boars before him flee,

And, 'Die,' the motto runs."

'Twas thus the Moor Azarco spoke,

Just as the war begun,

To stout Almoralife

Of Baza, Zelma's son.

Almoralife, brave and wise,

Full many a minstrel sings,

A knight who in Granada

Was counted with its kings.

And when they bring the boss of gold

He heaves a thousand sighs

O'er brave Adonis and his doom,

Who by the wild boar dies.

"O Adelifa, soul of mine,

Rejoice, and murmur not,

Up to the end be merry,

When worms shall be thy lot.

My day of life must needs be short,

Thy firmness must be long;

Although thou art a woman,

Unlike thy sex, be strong.

Be not like Venus, tho' in form

Thou art indeed her peer,

For she forgot in absence,

And did to death her dear.

And when alone, upon my face

And likeness fix thine eyes,

And none admit to do me wrong,

And thy soft heart surprise.

'Twixt sadness and repining

Love runs his changing way,

The gay he oft makes sorrowful,

The sorrowful makes gay.

Then, mark, love, in my portrait mark,

The wide eyes' mute appeal,

For this enchanted painting

Can speak and breathe and feel.

Think how those eyes shed many a tear,

When for thy face they yearn;

And let those tears thy patience win

To tarry my return."

At this Galvano came to say

That ship and favoring gale

Awaited him, and all his host

Were eager to set sail.

The Moor went forth to victory,

He was not pleasure's slave;

His gallant heart was ever prompt

To keep the pledge he gave.

---

CELINDA'S COURTESY

Azarco on his balcony

With humble Cegri stood.

He talked, and Cegri listened

In a sad and listless mood;

For of his own exploits he read,

Writ in an open scroll,

But envious Cegri heard the tale

With rage and bitter dole.

And thro' Elvira's gate, where spreads

A prospect wide and free,

He marked how Phoebus shot his rays

Upon the Spanish sea;

And bending to the land his eye

To notice how the scene

Of summer had its color changed

To black from radiant green,

He saw that, thro' the gate there passed

A light that was not day's,

Whose splendor, like a dazzling cloud,

Eclipsed the solar rays.

That presence changed the tint of earth,

Drew off the dusky veil,

And turned to living verdure

The leafage of the dale.

"Till now," Azarco said, "the scene

Has filled my heart with pain;

'Tis freshened by Celinda's face,

Or passion turns my brain.

Ah, well may men her beauty praise,

For its transcendent might

Elates the human spirit,

And fills it with delight."

And as he saw her coming in,

The Moor his bonnet doffed,

And bowed to do her honor,

And spoke in accents soft.

Celinda court'sied to the ground,

Such favor was not slight,

Her kindly greeting gratified

The fond hopes of the knight.

And glad and gloomy, each in turn,

For such a quick success,

He checked a thousand words of love,

That might his joy express.

And following her with eager eyes--

"I owe thee much," said he,

"Who dost reward with such a boon

My merest courtesy.

That favor, tho' unmerited,

Sweet lady, shall remain

Counted among those choicest gifts

Our reckoning cannot gain.

Its memory shall suffice to chase

The grinding pangs of care;

And softening turn the ills of life

To glory's guerdon rare."

On this Celinda took her leave,

And vanished from his view,

And, thinking proudly of her smile,

Azarco straight withdrew.

---

GAZUL'S DESPONDENCY

Scarce half a league from Gelva the knight dismounted stood,

Leaning upon his upright spear, and bitter was his mood.

He thought upon Celinda's curse, and Zaida's fickle mind,

"Ah, Fortune, thou to me," he cried, "hast ever proved unkind."

And from his valiant bosom burst a storm of angry sighs,

And acts and words of anguish before his memory rise.

"Celinda's loss I count as naught, nor fear her wicked will;

I were a fool, thus cursed by her, to love the lady still."

In rage from out the sod he drew his spear-head, as he spoke,

And in three pieces shivered it against a knotted oak.

He tore away the housings that 'neath his saddle hang,

He rent his lady's favor as with a lion's fang--

The silken ribbon, bright with gold, which in his crest he bore,

By loved Celinda knotted there, now loved by him no more.

He drew, as rage to madness turned, her portrait from his

breast;

He spat on it, and to that face derisive jeers addressed.

"Why should I dress in robes of joy, whose heart is wounded

sore,

By curses, that requite so ill the duteous love I bore?

Stripped as I am of every hope, 'tis better I go bare,

For the black mantle of my soul is but tormenting care;

I vengeance take on yonder oak, pierced by my lance's steel--

I dote, for, ah! the trees I wound, cannot, like women, feel."

He took the bridle off his steed, "Roam as thou wilt," said he.

"As I gave Zaida her release, I give release to thee."

The swift horse galloped out of sight; in melancholy mood,

The knight, unhorsed and helmetless, his lonely path pursued.

---

GAZUL IN LOVE

Not greater share did Mars acquire of trophies and renown,

Than great Gazul took with him from Gelva's castled town;

And when he to Sanlucar came his lady welcomed him,

His cup of happiness at last was beaded to the brim.

Alone the joyful lovers stood within a garden glade;

Amid the flowers, those happy hours fled to the evening shade.

With fingers deft Celinda wove a wreath, in which were set

The rose's rudy petals and the scented mignonette.

She plaited him a baldric, with violets circled round,

For violets are for lovers, and with this his waist she bound.

And then the flowery garland she tied upon his head,

"Thy face is delicate and fair as Ganymede's," she said;

"And if great Jove beheld thee now, he'd send his eagle down,

To take thee to the palace halls that high Olympus crown."

The brave Gazul his lady took and kissed her with a smile;

"She could not be so fair," said he, "the girl, who by her guile

Brought ruin on the Trojan realm, and set its towers afire,

As thou art, lady of my heart and queen of my desire."

"If I, indeed, seem fair to thee, then let the bridal rite

Me and the husband of my heart for evermore unite."

"Ah, mine will be the gain," he said, and kissed her with delight.

---

CELINDA'S INCONSTANCY

Gazul, like some brave bull that stands at bay to meet his fate,

Has fled from fair Celinda's frown and reached Sanlucar's gate.

The Moor bestrides a sorrel mare, her housings are of gray,

The desperate Moor is clad in weeds that shall his grief display.

The white and green that once he wore to sable folds give room,

Love's purple tints are now replaced by those of grief and gloom.

His Moorish cloak is white and blue, the blue was strewn with stars,

But now a covering like a cloud the starry radiance mars.

And from his head with stripes of black his silken streamers flow,

His bonnet blue he dyes anew in tints of grief and woe.

Alone are seen the tints of green upon his sword-belt spread,

For by that blade the blood of foes in vengeance shall be shed.

The color of the mantle which on his arm he bore

Is like the dark arena's dust when it is drenched in gore.

Black as the buskins that he wears, and black his stirrup's steel,

And red with rust of many a year the rowels at his heel.

He bears not lance or headed spear, for that which once he bore

Was shivered into splinters beside Celinda's door.

He bears a rounded target, whose quarterings display

The full moon darting through the clouds her ineffectual ray.

For though her orb be full the clouds eclipse her silver light;

The motto: "Fair but cruel, black-hearted though so bright."

And as Celinda stripped the wings which on adventure brave

Sustained his flight--no more shall plume above his helmet wave.

'Twas noon one Wednesday when Gazul to Gelva's portal came,

And straight he sought the market-place to join the jousting game;

The ruler of the city looked at him with surprise,

And never lady knew the knight, so dark was his disguise.

As they had been as soft as wax, he pierced the targets through

With javelins of the hollow cane that in the vega grew;

Not one could stand before the Moor; the tilters turned and fled,

For by his exploits was revealed the warrior's name of dread.

The lists were in confusion, but calm was on his brow,

As, lifting up his eyes to heaven, he breathed a desperate vow;

"Would God the malediction of Celinda had come true!

And the spears of my assailant had pierced my bosom through!

And that the dames who pitied me had cursed me where I stand!

And bravely falling I became a hero of the land!

That never succor came to me, for that were rapture high

To her the angry lioness who prays that I may die!"

He spoke, he spurred his courser fleet, and started for the plain,

And swore within Celinda's sight he'd ne'er return again.

---

THE BULL-FIGHT

The zambra was but ended, and now Granada's King

Abdeli called his court to sit on Vivarrambla's ring;

Of noble line the bride and groom whose nuptials bade prepare,

The struggle between valiant knights and bulls within the square.

And, when on the arena the mighty bull was freed,

Straight to the deadly conflict one warrior spurred his steed;

His mantle was of emerald of texture damascene,

And hope was in his folded hood as in his mantle green;

Six squires went with him to the ring beside their lord to stand;

Their livery was brilliant green, so did their lord command.

Hope was the augury of his love; hope's livery he wore;

Yet at his side each squire of his a trenchant rapier bore.

Each rapier true was black in hue and sheathed in silver ore;

At once the people knew the knight from his audacious mien--

Gazul the brave was recognized as soon as he was seen!

With graceful dignity he took his station on the sand,

And like a second Mars he seized his rapier in his hand;

With courage strong he eyed the bull, who pawed the ground till high

The dust of the arena was mingled with the sky.

All at the sight were terrified, and now with deadly speed,

His horns as keen as points of steel, he rushes at the steed.

The brave Gazul was on the watch, to ward the threatened blow,

And save his steed, and with one stroke to lay the assailant low.

The valiant bull, with lowered head advancing to the strife,

Felt from skilled hand the tempered brand pierce to his very life.

Deep wounded to the gory ground, where he had stoutly stood,

The horned warrior sank at last, bathed in his own heart's blood.

Still, on his ruddy couch he lay, his courage quenched at last

At this exploit the plaudits of the assembly filled the blast;

They hailed the knight whose bravery and skill had done the deed,

And slain the hero of the ring, and saved his goodly steed,

And done such pleasure to the King, and to Celinda fair,

To the Queen of Spain and all her train who sat assembled there.

---

LOVERS RECONCILED

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.

"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 alcayde 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]

---

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!"

---