Volume 4 — THE MOOR'S REVENGE.[4]

Before Grenada's fated walls, Encamped in proud array, And flushed with many a victory, The Spanish army lay. Of all Grenada's fortresses But one defies their might: On Alphuara's minarets The crescent still is bright. Almanzor! King Almanzor! All vainly you resist: Your little band is fading fast Away like morning mist. A direr foe than ever yet They met on battle-plain Assaults life's inmost citadel, And heaps the ground with slain. One onset more of Spanish ranks— (And soon it will be made!) And Alphuara's towers must reel, And in the dust be laid. "And shall the haughty infidel Pollute this sacred land?" Almanzor said, as mournfully He marked his dwindling band. "Upon our glorious crescent Shall the Spaniard set his heel? And is there not one lingering hope? Can Heaven no aid reveal? Ay, by our holy Prophet, One ally still remains! And I will bind him close to me,— For better death than chains!" The victors at the banquet sat, And music lent its cheer, When suddenly a sentry's voice Announced a stranger near. From Alphuara had he come. With fierce, unwonted speed, And much would it import to Spain The news he bore to heed. "Admit him!" cry the revelers; And in the pilgrim strode, And throwing off his mantle loose, A Moorish habit showed! "Almanzor! King Almanzor!" They cried with one acclaim: "Almanzor!" said the Moslem chief— "Almanzor is my name. "To serve your prophet and your king, Oh, Spaniards! I am here; Believe, reject me, if you will— This breast has outlived fear! No longer in his creed or cause Almanzor can confide; For all the Powers above, 'tis clear, Are fighting on your side!" "Now, welcome, welcome, gallant Moor!" The Spanish chieftain said; "Grenada's last intrenchment now We speedily shall tread. Approach, embrace; our waning feast Your coming shall renew; And in this cup of foaming wine We'll drink to yours and you." Right eagerly, to grasp the hands Outstretched on every side, Almanzor rushed, and greeted each, As bridegroom might his bride; He glued his fevered lips to theirs— He kissed them on the cheek, And breathed on each as if his heart Would all its passion wreak. But suddenly his limbs relax, A flush comes o'er his face, He reels, as with a pressure faint, He gives a last embrace; And livid, purple, grows his skin, And wild his eyeballs roll, And some great torture seems to heave The life-roots of his soul. "Look, Giaours! miscreants in race. And infidels in creed! Look on this pale, distorted face, And tell me what ye read! These limbs convulsed, these fiery pangs, These eyeballs hot and blear— Ha! know ye not what they portend? The plague—the plague is here! And it has sealed you for its own! Ay! every Judas kiss I gave shall bring to you anon An agony like this! All art is vain; your poisoned blood All leechcraft will defy; Like me ye shall in anguish writhe— Like me in torture die!" Once more he stepped, their chief to reach And blast him with his breath; But sank, as if revenge itself Were striving hard with death. And through the group a horrid thrill His words and aspect woke, When, with a proud, undaunted mien, Their chief Alphonzo spoke: "And deem'st thou, treacherous renegade, Whatever may befall, These warriors true, these hearts of proof, Death ever can appall? Ay, writhe and toss, no taint of fear The sight to them can bring; Their souls are shrived, and Death himself For them has lost his sting! "Then let him come as gory War, With life-wounds deep and red, Or let him strike as fell Disease With racking pains instead— Still in these spirits he shall find A power that shall defy All woe and pain that can but make The mortal body die. So, brethren, leave this carrion here— ay, choke not with thy gall!— And through our camp a note of cheer Let every bugle call! We'll tear yon crescent from its tower Ere stars are out to-night: And let Death come—we'll heed him not!— So forward! to the fight!" A groan of rage upon his lips, Almanzor hid his head Beneath his mantle's ample fold, And soon was with the dead. But, roused by those intrepid words, To death-defying zeal, The chieftains armed as if they longed To hear the clash of steel. The trumpets sounded merrily, While, dazzlingly arrayed, On Alphuara's walls they rushed, And low the crescent laid! And of the gallant, gallant hearts, Who thus grim Death defied, 'Mid pestilence and carnage, none Of plague or battle died!