MOORISH BALLADS (continued 2)

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.