MOORISH BALLADS (continued 3)

Though 'tis to save his country's towers he mounts his fiery steed

She has no cheerful word for him, no blessing and godspeed;

And were there some light pretext to keep him at her side,

In chains of love she'd bind him there, whate'er the land betide.

Or, if 'twere fair that dames should dare the terrors of the fight,

She'd mount her jennet in his train and follow with delight.

For soon as o'er the mountain ridge his bright plume disappears,

She feels that in her heart the jealous smart that fills her eyes with tears.

Yet when he stands beside her and smiles beneath her gaze,

Her cheek is pale with passion pure, though few the words she says.

Her thoughts are ever with him, and they fly the mountain o'er

When in the shaggy forest he hunts the bristly boar.

In vain she seeks the festal scene 'mid dance and merry song,

Her heart for Abenamar has left that giddy throng.

For jealous passion after all is no ignoble fire,

It is the child of glowing love, the shadow of desire.

Ah! he who loves with ardent breast and constant spirit must

Feel in his inmost bosom lodged the arrows of distrust.

And as the faithful lover by his loved one's empty seat

Knows that the wind of love may change e'er once again they meet,

So to this sad foreboding do fancied griefs appear

As he who has most cause to love has too most cause for fear.

And once, when placid evening was mellowing into night,

The lovely Adelifa sat with her darling knight;

And then the pent-up feeling from out her spirit's deeps

Rose with a storm of heavy sighs and trembled on her lips:

"My valiant knight, who art, indeed, the whole wide world to me,

Clear mirror of victorious arms and rose of chivalry,

Thou terror of thy valorous foe, to whom all champions yield,

The rampart and the castle of fair Granada's field,

In thee the armies of the land their bright example see,

And all their hopes of victory are founded upon thee;

And I, poor loving woman, have hope in thee no less,

For thou to me art life itself, a life of happiness.

Yet, in this anxious trembling heart strange pangs of fear arise,

Ah, wonder not if oft you see from out these faithful eyes

The tears in torrents o'er my cheek, e'en in thy presence flow.

Half prompted by my love for thee and half by fears of woe,

These eyes are like alembics, and when with tears they fill

It is the flame of passion that does that dew distil.

And what the source from which they flow, but the sorrow and the care

That gather in my heart like mist, and forever linger there.

And when the flame is fiercest and love is at its height,

The waters rise to these fond eyes, and rob me of my sight,

For love is but a lasting pain and ever goes with grief,

And only at the spring of tears the heart can drink relief.

Thus fire and love and fear combined bring to my heart distress,

With jealous rage and dark distrust alarm and fitfulness.

These rage within my bosom; they torment me till I'd weep.

By day and night without delight a lonely watch I keep.

By Allah, I beseech thee, if thou art true to me,

That when the Moorish ladies turn round and gaze on thee,

Thou wilt not glance again at them nor meet their smiling eye,

Or else, my Abenamar, I shall lay me down and die.

For thou art gallant, fair, and good; oh, soothe my heart's alarms,

And be as tender in thy love as thou art brave in arms.

And as they yield to thee the prize for valor in the field

Oh, show that thou wilt pity to thy loving lady yield."

Then Abenamar, with a smile, a kiss of passion gave.

"If it be needful," he replied, "to give the pledge you crave

To tell thee, Adelifa, that thou art my soul's delight

And lay my inmost bosom bare before thy anxious sight,

The bosom on whose mirror shines thy face in lines of light,

Here let me ope the secret cell that thou thyself may see,

The altar and the blazing lamp that always burn for thee.

And if perchance thou art not thus released from torturing care,

Oh, see the faith, the blameless love that wait upon thee there.

And if thou dost imagine I am a perjured knight,

I pray that Allah on my head may call down bane and blight,

And when into the battle with the Christian I go

I pray that I may perish by the lances of the foe;

And when I don my armor for the toils of the campaign,

That I may never wear the palm of victory again,

But as a captive, on a shore far from Granada, pine,

While the freedom that I long to have may never more be mine.

Yes, may my foes torment me in that sad hour of need;

My very friends, for their own ends, prove worthless as a reed.

My kin deny, my fortune fly, and, on my dying day,

My very hopes of Paradise in darkness pass away.

Or if I live in freedom to see my love once more,

May I meet the fate which most I hate, and at my palace door

Find that some caitiff lover has won thee for his own,

And turn to die, of mad despair, distracted and alone.

Wherefore, my life, my darling wife, let all thy pain be cured;

Thy trust in my fidelity be from this hour assured.

No more those pearly tears of thine fall useless in the dust

No more the jealous fear distract thy bosom with mistrust.

Believe me by the oath I swear my heart I here resign,

And all I have of love and care are, Adelifa, thine.

Believe that Abenamar would his own life betray

If he had courage thus to throw life's choicest gem away."

Then Adelifa smiled on him and at the words he said,

Upon his heaving bosom her blushing cheek she laid.

And from that hour each jealous thought far from her mind she thrust

And confidence returned again in place of dark distrust.

FUNERAL OF ABENAMAR

The Moors of haughty Gelves have changed their gay attire.

The caftan and the braided cloak, the brooch of twisted wire,

The gaudy robes, the mantles of texture rich and rare,

The fluttering veils and tunic bright the Moors no longer wear.

And wearied is their valorous strength, their sinewy arms hang down;

No longer in their lady's sight they struggle for the crown.

Whether their loves are absent or glowing in their eyes,

They think no more of jealous feud nor smile nor favor prize;

For love himself seems dead to-day amid that gallant train

And the dirge beside the bier is heard and each one joins the strain,

And silently they stand in line arrayed in mourning black

For the dismal pall of Portugal is hung on every back.

And their faces turned toward the bier where Abenamar lies,

The men his kinsmen silent stand, amid the ladies' cries

And thousand thousands ask and look upon the Moorish knight,

By his coat of steel they weeping kneel, then turn them from the sight.

And some proclaim his deeds of fame, his spirit high and brave,

And the courage of adventure that had brought him to the grave.

Some say that his heroic soul pined with a jealous smart,

That disappointment and neglect had broke that mighty heart;

That all his ancient hopes gave way beneath the cloud of grief,

Until his green and youthful years were withered like a leaf;

And he is wept by those he loved, by every faithful friend,

And those who slandered him in life speak evil to the end.

They found within his chamber where his arms of battle hung

A parting message written all in the Moorish tongue:

"Dear friends of mine, if ever in Gelves I should die,

I would not that in foreign soil my buried ashes lie.

But carry me, and dig my grave upon mine own estate,

And raise no monument to me my life to celebrate,

For banishment is not more dire where evil men abound,

Than where home smiles upon you, but the good are never found."

BALLAD OF ALBAYALDOS

Three mortal wounds, three currents red,

The Christian spear

Has oped in head and thigh and head--

Brave Albayaldos feels that death is near.

The master's hand had dealt the blow,

And long had been

And hard the fight; now in his heart's blood low

He wallows, and the pain, the pain is keen.

He raised to heaven his streaming face

And low he said:

"Sweet Jesus, grant me by thy grace,

Unharmed to make this passage to the dead.

"Oh, let me now my sins recount,

And grant at last

Into thy presence I may mount,

And thou, dear mother, think not of my past.

"Let not the fiend with fears affright

My trembling soul;

Though bitter, bitter is the night

Whose darkling clouds this moment round me roll.

"Had I but listened to your plea,

I ne'er had met

Disaster; though this life be lost to me,

Let not your ban upon my soul be set.

"In him, in him alone I trust,

To him I pray,

Who formed this wretched body from the dust.

He will redeem me in the Judgment Day.

"And Muza, one last service will I ask,

Dear friend of mine:

Here, where I died, be it thy pious task

To bury me beneath the tall green pine.

"And o'er my head a scroll indite, to tell

How, on this sod,

Fighting amid my valiant Moors, I fell.

And tell King Chico how I turned to God,

"And longed to be a Christian at the last,

And sought the light,

So that the accursed Koran could not cast

My soul to suffer in eternal night."

THE NIGHT RAID OF REDUAN

Two thousand are the Moorish knights that 'neath the banner stand

Of mighty Reduan, as he starts in ravage thro' the land.

With pillage and with fire he wastes the fields and fruitful farms,

And thro' the startled border-land is heard the call to arms;

By Jaen's towers his host advance and, like a lightning flash,

Ubeda and Andujar can see his horsemen dash,

While in Baeza every bell

Does the appalling tidings tell,

"Arm! Arm!"

Rings on the night the loud alarm.

So silently they gallop, that gallant cavalcade,

The very trumpet's muffled tone has no disturbance made.

It seems to blend with the whispering sound of breezes on their way,

The rattle of their harness and the charger's joyous neigh.

But now from hill and turret high the flaming cressets stream

And watch-fires blaze on every hill and helm and hauberk gleam.

From post to post the signal along the border flies

And the tocsin sounds its summons and the startled burghers rise,

While in Baeza every bell

Does the appalling tidings tell,

"Arm! Arm!"

Rings on the night the loud alarm.

Ah, suddenly that deadly foe has fallen upon the prey,

Yet stoutly rise the Christians and arm them for the foe,

And doughty knights their lances seize and scour their coats of mail,

The soldier with his cross-bow comes and the peasant with his flail.

And Jaen's proud hidalgos, Andujar's yeomen true,

And the lords of towered Ubeda the pagan foes pursue;

And valiantly they meet the foe nor turn their backs in flight,

And worthy do they show themselves of their fathers' deeds of might,

While in Baeza every bell

Does the appalling tidings tell,

"Arm! Arm!"

Rings on the night the loud alarm.

The gates of dawn are opened and sunlight fills the land,

The Christians issuing from the gates in martial order stand,

They close in fight, and paynim host and Christian knights of Spain,

Not half a league from the city gate, are struggling on the plain.

The din of battle rises like thunder to the sky,

From many a crag and forest the thundering echoes fly,

And there is sound of clashing arms, of sword and rattling steel,

Moorish horns, the fife and drum, as the scattering squadrons reel,

And the dying moan and the wounded shriek for the hurt that none can

heal,

While in Baeza every bell

Does the appalling tidings tell,

"Arm! Arm!"

Rings on the night the loud alarm.

SIEGE OF JAEN

Now Reduan gazes from afar on Jaen's ramparts high,

And tho' he smiles in triumph yet fear is in his eye,

And vowed has he, whose courage none charged with a default,

That he would climb the ramparts and take it by assault,

Yet round the town the towers and walls the city's streets impale,

And who of all his squadrons that bastion can scale?

He pauses until one by one his hopes have died away,

And his soul is filled with anguish and his face with deep dismay.

He marks the tall escarpment, he measures with his eye

The soaring towers above them that seem to touch the sky.

Height upon height they mount to heaven, while glittering from afar

Each cresset on the watch-towers burns like to a baleful star.

His eyes and heart are fixed upon the rich and royal town,

And from his eye the tear of grief, a manly tear, flows down.

His bosom heaves with sighs of grief and heavy discontent,

As to the royal city he makes his sad lament:

"Ah, many a champion have I lost, fair Jaen, at thy gate,

Yet lightly did I speak of thee with victory elate,

The prowess of my tongue was more than all that I could do,

And my word outstripped the lance and sword of my squadron strong and true.

And yet I vowed with courage rash thy turrets I would bring

To ruin and thy subjects make the captives of my King.

That in one night my sword of might, before the morrow's sun,

Would do for thy great citadel what centuries have not done.

I pledged my life to that attempt, and vowed that thou shouldest fall,

Yet now I stand in impotence before thy castle tall.

For well I see, before my might shall win thee for my King,

That thou, impregnable, on me wilt rout and ruin bring,

Ah, fatal is the hasty tongue that gives such quick consent,

And he who makes the hasty vow in leisure must repent.

Ah! now too late I mourn the word that sent me on this quest,

For I see that death awaits me here whilst thou livest on at rest,

For I must enter Jaen's gates a conqueror or be sent

Far from Granada's happy hills in hopeless banishment;

But sorest is the thought that I to Lindaraja swore:

If Jaen should repulse me I'd return to her no more;

No more a happy lover would I linger at her side,

Until Granada's warrior host had humbled Jaen's pride."

Then turning to his warriors, the Moorish cavalier

Asks for their counsel and awaits their answer while with fear.

Five thousand warriors tried and true the Moors were standing near,

All armed with leathern buckler, all armed with sword and spear.

"The place," they answer, "is too strong, by walls too high 'tis bound,

Too many are the watch-towers that circle it around.

The knights and proud hidalgos who on the wall are seen,

Their hearts are bold, their arms are strong, their swords and spears are keen.

Disaster will be certain as the rising of the day,

And victory and booty are a slippery prize," they say,

"It would be wise in this emprise the conflict to forego;

Not all the Moors Granada boasts could lay proud Jaen low."

THE DEATH OF REDUAN

He shrank not from his promise, did Reduan the brave,

The promise to Granada's King with daring high he gave;

And when the morning rose and lit the hills with ruddy glow,

He marshalled forth his warriors to strike a final blow.

With shouts they hurry to the walls, ten thousand fighting men--

Resolved to plant the crescent on the bulwarks of Jaen.

The bugle blast upon the air with clarion tone is heard,

The burghers on the city wall reply with scoffing word;

And like the noise of thunder the clattering squadrons haste,

And on his charger fleet he leads his army o'er the waste.

In front of his attendants his march the hero made,

He tarried not for retinue or clattering cavalcade,

And they who blamed the rash assault with weak and coward minds

Deserted him their leader bold or loitered far behind.

And now he stands beneath the wall and sees before him rise

The object of the great campaign, his valor's priceless prize;

He dreams one moment that he holds her subject to his arms,

He dreams that to Granada he flies from war's alarms,

Each battlement he fondly eyes, each bastion grim and tall,

And in fancy sees the crescents rise above the Christian wall.

But suddenly an archer has drawn his bow of might,

And suddenly the bolt descends in its unerring flight,

Straight to the heart of Reduan the fatal arrow flies,

The gallant hero struck to death upon the vega lies.

And as he lies, from his couch of blood, in melancholy tone,

Thus to the heavens the hero stout, though fainting, makes his moan,

And ere his lofty soul in death forth from its prison breaks,

Brave Reduan a last farewell of Lindaraja takes:

"Ah, greater were the glory had it been mine to die,

Not thus among the Christians and hear their joyful cry,

But in that happy city, reclining at thy feet,

Where thou with kind and tender hands hast wove my winding-sheet.

Ah! had it been my fate once more to gaze upon thy face,

And love and pity in those eyes with dying glance to trace,

Altho' a thousand times had death dissolved this mortal frame,

Soon as thy form before me in radiant beauty came,

A thousand times one look of thine had given me back my breath,

And called thy lover to thy side even from the gate of death.

What boots it, Lindaraja, that I, at Jaen's gate,

That unsurrendered city, have met my final fate?

What boots it, that this city proud will ne'er the Soldan own,

For thee and not for Jaen this hour I make my moan;

I weep for Lindaraja, I weep to think that she

May mourn a hostage and a slave in long captivity.

But worse than this that some proud Moor will take thee to his heart,

And all thy thoughts of Reduan new love may bid depart.

And dwelling on thy beauty he will deem it better far,

To win fair Lindaraja than all the spoils of war,

Yet would I pray if Mahomet, whose servant I have been,

Should ever from the throne of God look on this bloody scene,

And deem it right to all my vows requital fit to make,

And for my valor who attacked the town I could not take,

That he would make thy constancy as steadfast as the tower

Of Jaen's mighty fortress, that withstood the Moorish power;

Now as my life be ebbing fast, my spirit is oppressed,

And Reduan the warrior bold is sinking to his rest,

Oh, may my prayers be answered, if so kind heaven allow,

And may the King forgive me for the failure of my vow,

And, Lindaraja, may my soul, when it has taken its flight,

And for the sweet Elysian fields exchange these realms of night,

Contented in the joys and peace of that celestial seat,

Await the happy moment when we once more shall meet."

THE AGED LOVER

'Twas from a lofty balcony Arselia looked down

On golden Tagus' crystal stream that hemmed Toledo's town;

And now she watched the eddies that dimpled in the flood

And now she landward turned her eye to gaze on waste and wood,

But in all that lay around her she sought for rest in vain,

For her heart, her heart was aching, and she could not heal the pain.

'Tis of no courtly gallant the Moorish damsel dreams,

No lordly emir who commands the fort by Tagus' streams,

'Twas on the banks of Tornes stood the haughty towers of note

Where the young alcayde loved by the maid from cities dwelt remote.

And never at Almanzor's court had he for honor sought,

Though he dwelt in high Toledo in fair Arselia's thought;

And now she dreams of love's great gift, of passion's deep delight,

When far away from her palace walls a stranger came in sight.

It was no gallant lovelorn youth she saw approaching fast,

It was the hero Reduan whose vernal years were past.

He rode upon a sorrel horse and swiftly he came nigh,

And stood where the dazzling sun beat down upon her balcony;

And with a thoughtful air upon the maiden turned his eye,

For suddenly the aged knight feels all his heart on fire,

And all the frost of his broken frame is kindling with desire.

And while he fain would hide his pain he paces up and down

Before the palace turrets that Toledo's rampart crown.

With anger glows the maiden's mind, "Now get thee gone," she cries,

"For can it be that love of me in blood like thine can rise?

I sicken at the very thought; thy locks, old man, are gray,

Thy baldness and thy trembling hand a doting age betray.

Ah, little must thou count my years of beauty and of bloom,

If thou wouldst wed them with a life thus tottering to the tomb,

Decrepitude is now thy lot, and wherefore canst thou dare

To ask that youthful charms these vile infirmities should share?"

And Moorish Reduan heard her words, and saw the meaning plain.

Advancing to the balcony he answered her again:

"The sun is king of everything, o'er all he holds his sway,

And thou art like the sun--thy charms I own and I obey;

Thy beauty warms my veins again, and in its rays, forsooth,

I feel the blithe, courageous mood of long-forgotten youth;

Sure love of mine can harm thee not, as sunlight is not lost

When its kind radiance dissolves the fetters of the frost."

Then turning round, a parchment did Reduan unfold,

And on it was a writing in characters of gold;

The meaning of the posy at once the maiden caught:

"Since I can venture, I can have; as yet, I am not naught."

He shows upon his shield a sun, circled with burning rays;

And on the rim was written a little verse which says,

"Two suns, one on my shield, and one in beauty's eyes, I trace."

Then at the cold disdain he saw upon her lovely face,

He covered with a gauzy veil the blazon of his shield,

"The sun upon my targe," he cried, "before thy light must yield."

But as the maid still pouted and eyed him with disdain,

"The mimic sun," continued he, "which here is blazoned plain,

Is overcast and hides itself from the true orb of day,

And I by beauty's radiance eclipsed must ride away."

And as he spoke the Moor struck deep the rowels in his steed,

And rode away from Tagus' side across the grassy mead.

The Moorish maiden recked not if he were far or near,

Her thoughts returned to fancies sweet of her absent cavalier.

FICKLENESS REBUKED

While in the foeman's ruddy gore

I waded to the breast,

And for mine own, my native shore

Fought braver than the best,

While the light cloak I laid aside,

And doffed the damask fold,

And donned my shirt of mail, the spoil

Of foeman brave and bold,

Thou, fickle Mooress, puttest on

Thine odorous brocade,

And hand in hand with thy false love

Wert sitting in the shade.

Thus on the scutcheon of thy sires

Thou plantest many a stain;

The pillars of thine ancient house

Will ne'er be firm again.

But, oh, may Allah vengeance take

For thine unkind deceit,

And sorely weeping mayst thou pay

The vengeance that is meet.

Thus shalt thou pay--thy lover's bliss

Thou shalt not, canst not share,

But feel the bitter mockery

Thy day-long shame must bear.

And what revenge 'twill be to note

When thou dost kiss his brow,

How thy gold tresses, soft and light,

Blend with his locks of snow;

And what revenge to hear him

To thee his loves recount,

Praising some Moorish lass, or mark

His sons thy staircase mount.

Yes, thou shalt pay the penalty,

When, from sweet Genil's side,

Thou passest to the stormy waves

Of Tagus' rushing tide;

Abencerrajes are not there,

And from thy balcony

Thou shalt not hear the horsemen

With loud hoof rushing by.

Thoughts of lost days shall haunt thee then

And lay thy spirit waste,

When thy past glories thou shalt see

All faded and effaced;

All gone, those sweet, seductive wiles--

The love note's scented scroll--

The words, and blushing vows, that brought

Damnation to thy soul.

Thus the bright moments of the past

Shall rise to memory's eye,

Like vengeance-bearing ministers

To mock thy misery.

For time is father of distress;

And he whose life is long

Experiences a thousand cares,

A thousand shapes of wrong.

Thou shalt be hated in the court,

And hated in the stall,

Hated in merry gathering,

In dance and festival.

Thou shalt be hated far and wide;

And, thinking on this hate,

Wilt lay it to the black offence

That thou didst perpetrate.

Then thou wilt make some weak defence,

And plead a father's will,

That forced thee shuddering to consent

To do the act of ill.

Enjoy then him whom thus constrained

Thou choosest for thine own;

But know, when love would have his way,

He scorns a father's frown.

THE GALLEY-SLAVE OF DRAGUT

Ah, fortune's targe and butt was he,

On whom were rained the strokes from hate

From love that had not found its goal,

From strange vicissitudes of fate.

A galley-slave of Dragut he,

Who once had pulled the laboring oar,

Now, 'mid a garden's leafy boughs,

He worked and wept in anguish sore.

"O Mother Spain! for thy blest shore

Mine eyes impatient yearn;

For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,

And she longs for my return.

They took me from the galley bench;

A gardener's slave they set me here,

That I might tend the fruit and flowers

Through all the changes of the year;

Wise choice, indeed, they made of me!

For when the drought has parched the field,

The clouds that overcast my heart

Shall rain in every season yield.

O mother Spain! for thy blest shore

Mine eyes impatient yearn;

For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,

And she longs for my return.

"They took me from the galley's hold;

It was by heaven's all-pitying grace.

Yet, even in this garden glade,

Has fortune turned away her face.

Though lighter now my lot of toil,

Yet is it heavier, since no more

My tear-dimmed eyes, my heart discern,

Across the sea, my native shore.

O mother Spain! for thy blest shore

Mine eyes impatient yearn;

For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,

And she longs for my return.

"And you, ye exiles, who afar

In many a foreign land have strayed;

And from strange cities o'er the sea

A second fatherland have made--

Degenerate sons of glorious Spain!

One thing ye lacked to keep you true,

The love no stranger land could share;

The courage that could fate subdue.

O mother Spain! for thy blest shore

Mine eyes impatient yearn;

For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,

And she longs for my return."

THE CAPTIVE'S LAMENT

Where Andalusia's plains at length end in the rocky shore,

And the billows of the Spanish sea against her boundaries roar,

A thousand ruined castles, that were once the haughty pride

Of high Cadiz, in days long past, looked down upon the tide.

And on the loftiest of them all, in melancholy mood,

A solitary captive that stormy evening stood.

For he had left the battered skiff that near the land wash lay,

And here he sought to rest his soul, and while his grief away,

While now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,

And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

Ah, yes, beneath the fierce levant, the wild white horses pranced;

With rising rage the billows against those walls advanced;

But stormier were the thoughts that filled his heart with bitter pain,

As he turned his tearful eyes once more to gaze upon the main.

"O hostile sea," these words at last burst from his heaving breast;

"I know that I return to die, but death at least is rest.

Then let me on my native shore again in freedom roam,

For here alone is shelter, for here at last is home."

And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,

And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

'Twas Tagus' banks to me a child my home and nurture gave;

Ungrateful land, that lets me pine unransomed as a slave.

For now to-day, a dying man, am I come back again,

And I must lay my bones on this, the farthest shore of Spain.

It is not only exile's sword that cuts me to the heart;

It is not only love for her from whom they bade me part;

Nor only that I suffer, forgot by every friend,

But, ah! it is the triple blow that brings me to my end."

And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,

And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

"The fire with which my bosom burns, alas! thy coolest breeze

Can never slake, nor can its rage thy coolest wave appease;

The earth can bring no solace to the ardor of my pain,

And the whole ocean waters were poured on it in vain.

For it is like the blazing sun that sinks in ocean's bed,

And yet, with ardor all unquenched, next morning rears its head.

Thus from the sea my suffering's flame has driven me once more,

And here I land, without a hope, upon this arid shore."

And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,

And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

"Oh, call me not, oh, call me not, thou voice of other years,

The fire that flames within my heart has dried the spring of tears.

And, while my eyes might well pour forth those bitter drops of pain,

The drought of self-consuming grief has quenched the healing rain.

Here, let me cry aloud for her, whom once I called mine own,

For well I wot that loving maid for me has made her moan.

'Tis for her sake my flight I urge across the sea and land,

And now 'twixt shore and ocean's roar I take my final stand."

And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,

And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

Then stooping to the earth he grasped the soil with eager hand,

He kissed it, and with water he mixed the thirsty sand.

"O thou," he said, "poor soil and stream, in the Creator's plan

Art the end and the beginning of all that makes us man!

From thee rise myriad passions, that stir the human breast,

To thee at last, when all is o'er, they sink to find their rest.

Thou, Earth, hast been my mother, and when these pangs are o'er,

Thou shalt become my prison-house whence I can pass no more."

And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,

And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

And now he saw the warring winds that swept across the bay

Had struck the battered shallop and carried it away.

"O piteous heaven," he cried aloud, "my hopes are like yon bark:

Scattered upon the storm they lie and never reach their mark."

And suddenly from cloudy heavens came down the darkling night

And in his melancholy mood the captive left the height.

He gained his boat, with trembling hand he seized the laboring oar

And turning to the foaming wave he left his native shore.

"Ah, well I wot on ocean's breast when loud the tempest blows

Will rest be found when solid ground denies the heart repose.

Now let the hostile sea perceive no power of hers I dread,

But rather ask her vengeance may fall upon my head."

Into the night the shallop turned, while floated far behind

The captive's lamentation like a streamer on the wind.

And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,

And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

STRIKE SAIL!

A Turkish bark was on the sea, the sunny sea of Spain,

In sight of cliffs that Hercules made boundaries of the main;

And one, Celimo's captive slave, as fierce the billows grew,

Was listening as the ship-master this order gave the crew:

"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale

Is rising fast! Strike sail!"

Fierce fell on them the opposing winds, the ship was helpless driven;

And with the ocean's flood were blent the thunder-drops of heaven.

And as the inky clouds were rent, the fiery lightning flared,

And 'mid the terror-stricken crew one voice alone was heard:

"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale

Is rising fast! Strike sail!"

And one there sat upon the deck, in captive misery,

Whose tears ran mingling with the flood, the flood of sky and sea.

Lost in the tempest of his thoughts, he fondly breathed a prayer,

Whose mournful words were echoed by the mount of his despair:

"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale

Is rising fast! Strike sail!"

"If I am captive and a slave, the time shall come when God

Will bring me freed, to tread once more my own, my native sod!

Then all my ancient glory shall return to me for aye.

Till then, my soul, be patient and wait that happy day!"

"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale

Is rising fast! Strike sail!"

THE CAPTIVE'S ESCAPE

The fair Florida sat at ease, upon a summer's day,

Within a garden green and fair that by the river lay,

And gayly asked that he her spouse would tell his darling wife

The cause of his captivity, the history of his life.

"Now tell me, dearest husband, I pray thee tell me true,

Who were thy parents, and what land thy birth and nurture knew?

And wherefore did they take thee a captive from that place,

And who has given thee liberty, thy homeward path to trace?"

"Yes, I will tell thee, gentle wife, and I will tell thee true,

For tender is the light I see within thine eyes of blue.

In Ronda did my father raise his castle on the height;

And 'twas in Antequera first my mother saw the light.

Me, to this dark captivity, the dastard Moors ensnared,

Just as the peace had ended and war was not declared.

They took me off in fetters, to barter me for gold,

Velez-de-la-Gomèra was the town where I was sold.

Seven weary days, and for each day a long and weary night,

They set me on the auction-block, before the people's sight.

Yet not a Moorish gentleman and not a Moorish wife

A maravedi offered for the mournful captive's life.

At last there came a Moorish dog, in rich attire, and gave

A thousand golden pieces to have me for his slave.

He led me to his lofty house, and bade me there remain,

Mocked by his lowest underlings, and loaded with a chain.

Ah! vile the life he led me, and deep revenge I swore;

Ah! black the life he gave me, and hard the toils I bore!

By day I beat the piled-up hemp cut from the vega plain;

By night, within the darkened mill, I ground for him the grain.

And though the very corn I ground, I longed to take for meat,

He placed a bridle on my mouth that I should nothing eat!

Therefore, it pleased the God who rules the heavens, the land, the sea,

That the mistress of that mighty house looked tenderly on me.

And when the Moor a-hunting went, one happy autumn day,

She came into my prison-house and took my chains away;

She bade me sit upon her lap, I answered with delight;

Ah, many a gallant present she made to me that night!

She bathed me and she washed my wounds, and garments fresh she gave,

Far brighter than were fit to deck the body of a slave;

And love's delight we shared that night, for I grew gay and bold!

And in the morn she gave to me a hundred crowns of gold.

She oped the gates, she bade me, with smiles, once more be free;

We fled, for fear that Moorish hound would slay both her and me.

And so it pleased the God who rules the earth and heavens above,

To prove his deep compassion and the greatness of his love;

And thus my sad captivity, my days of wandering, o'er,

Florida, in thy loving arms I nestle as of yore!"

THE SPANIARD OF ORAN

Right gallant was that gentleman, the warlike knight of Spain,

Who served the King in Oran, with sword and lances twain;

But, with his heart's devotion and passion's ardent fire,

He served a gentle Afric maid of high and noble sire.

And she was fair as noble, and well could she requite

The devotion of a lover and the courage of a knight.

And when one summer evening they paid their vows again,

They heard the alarum ring to arms across the darkling plain;

For the foes' approach had roused the watch and caused the war-like sound.

The silver moon had shed its ray upon their targes round,

The targes shot the message to the silent watch-towers by,

And watch-towers sent their tidings by flames that lit the sky;

And the fires had called the bells on high to ring their clear alarms--

That tocsin roused the lover locked in the lady's arms.

Ah, sorely felt he in his heart the spur of honor prick,

But love's appeal that held him, it pierced him to the quick.

'Twas cowardice to dally and shrink that foe to face,

But, ah, it was ingratitude to leave her in that case.

And hanging round her lover's neck, she saw that he turned pale,

And seized his sword and cast one glance upon his coat of mail;

And, with a burst of sighs and tears she bowed her beauteous head;

"Oh, rise, my lord, gird on thy arms, and join the fray," she said;

"Oh, let my tears this couch bedew; this couch of joy shall be

As dolorous as the dreary field of battle, without thee!

Arm, arm thyself and go to war! Hark, hark! the foes approach.

Thy general waits; oh, let him not thy knightliness reproach!

Oh, direly will he visit thee for cowardice to-day,

For dire the crime in any clime of soldiers who betray.

Well canst thou glide unnoticed to the camp, without thy sword;

Wilt thou not heed my tears, my sighs--begone without a word!

Thy bosom is not made of flesh, for, ah! thou canst not feel,

Thou hast no need of arms in fight, for it is hard as steel."

The Spaniard gazed upon her, his heart was full of pride;

She held him fast and even her words retained him at her side.

"Lady," he said, and kissed her, "spite of thy words unwise,

Thou art as sweet as ever in thy lover's faithful eyes.

And since to love and honor this night thou hast appealed,

I take my arms and go, for right it is to thee I yield;

I go into the battle and my body seeks the fight,

But my soul behind me lingers in thy bosom of delight;

Oh, grant me, Lord and Master, to seek the camp below,

Oh, let me take the name to-night and I will cheerful go,

Bearing the sword, the lance, and coat of mail against the foe!"