MOORISH BALLADS

ROMANCEROS MORISCOS

[Metrical Translation by Epiphanius Wilson, A.M.]

FATIMA'S LOVE

On the morn of John the Baptist, just at the break of day,

The Moors upon Granada's fields streamed out in bright array.

Their horses galloped o'er the sod, their lances flashed in air,

And the banners that their dames had wrought spread out their colors fair.

Their quivers bright flashed in the light with gold and silk brocade,

And the Moor who saw his love was there looked best in the parade,

And the Moor who had no lady love strove hard some love to gain.

'Mong those who from Alhambra's towers gazed on that warrior train,

There were two Moorish ladies there whom love had smitten sore;

Zarifa one, and Fatima the name the other bore.

Knit by warm friendship were their hearts till, filled with jealous pain,

Their glances met, as one fair knight came prancing o'er the plain.

Zarifa spoke to Fatima, "How has love marred thy face!

Once roses bloomed on either cheek, now lilies take their place;

And you, who once would talk of love, now still and silent stay.

Come, come unto the window and watch the pageant gay!

Abindarraez is riding by; his train is full in view;

In all Granada none can boast a choicer retinue."

"It is not love, Zarifa, that robs my cheek of rose;

No fond and anxious passion this mournful bosom knows;

My cheeks are pale and I am still and silent, it is true,--

For, ah! I miss my father's face, whom fierce Alabey slew.

And did I crave the boon of love, a thousand knights were fain

To fight for me in service true on yonder flowery plain.

And all the love I give to each to give me back again.

And for Abindarraez, whose heart and valiant might,

You praise and from the window watch, with rapturous delight----"

The lady stopped, for at their feet knelt down the well-loved knight.

THE BRAGGART REBUKED

"If thou art brave in battle's hour

As thou art bold in pleasure's rout;

If thou canst make the lances fly

As thou canst fling thy words about;

"If thou canst in the vega fight

As thou the ladies' eyes canst praise;

And show on horseback half the skill

That marks thee in the dance's maze;

"Meet with the briskness of the joust

The challenge of the deadly lance,

And in the play of scimitars

Be sprightly as in festive dance;

"If thou art ready in the field

As thou art nimble on the square;

And canst the front of battle face

As though thou flirtest with the fair;

"If thou dost don thy shining mail

As lightly as thy festive suit,

And listenest to the trumpet call

As though it were thy lady's lute;

"And if, as in the gamesome hour

Thou flingest round the rattling reed

Against the foeman's moated camp,

Thou spurrest on thy thundering steed;

"If, when the foe is face to face,

Thou boastest as thou oft hast done

When far away his ranks were ranged,

And the fierce fight had not begun;--

"Go, Zaide, to the Alhambra go,

And there defend thy soldier fame;

For every tongue is wagging there,

And all, derisive, speak thy name.

"And if thou fear to go alone,

Take others with thee to thine aid;

Thy friends are ready at thy beck,

And Zaide need not be afraid!

"It is not in the palace court,

Amid the throng of ladies bright,

That the good soldier, by his tongue,

Proves himself valorous in the fight.

"It is not there his hands can show

What in the battle he can do;

But where the shock of onset tests

The fearless heart, the iron thew.

"Betake thee to the bloody field

And let thy sword thy praises sing;

But silence is most eloquent

Amid the courtiers of the King."

Thus Tarfe wrote, the Moorish knight,

His heart so filled with furious rage

That where his fiery pen had passed

It pierced and rent the flimsy page.

He called his varlet to his side,

"Now seek the Alhambra's hall," said he,

"And privately to Zaide say

That this epistle comes from me;

"And whisper, that none else may hear,

And say that I his coming wait,

Where Genil's crystal torrent laves

The pillars of yon palace gate."

THE ADMIRAL'S FAREWELL

The royal fleet with fluttering sail is waiting in the bay;

And brave Mustapha, the Admiral, must start at break of day.

His hood and cloak of many hues he swiftly dons, and sets

Upon his brow his turban gay with pearls and amulets;

Of many tints above his head his plumes are waving wide;

Like a crescent moon his scimitar is dangling at his side;

And standing at the window, he gazes forth, and, hark!

Across the rippling waters floats the summons to embark.

Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!

Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.

Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring

A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King!

The haughty Turk his scarlet shoe upon the stirrup placed,

Right easily he vaulted to his saddle-tree in haste.

His courser was Arabian, in whose crest and pastern show

A glossy coat as soft as silk, as white as driven snow.

One mark alone was on his flank! 'twas branded deep and dark;

The letter F in Arab script, stood out the sacred mark.

By the color of his courser he wished it to be seen

That the soul of the King's Admiral was white and true and clean.

Oh, swift and full of mettle was the steed which that day bore

Mustapha, the High Admiral, down to the wave-beat shore!

The haughty Turk sails forth at morn, that Malta he may take,

But many the greater conquest his gallant men shall make;

For his heart is high and his soul is bent on death or victory,

And he pauses, as the clashing sound comes from the distant sea;

Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!

Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.

Let fife and flute, and sackbut in accord

Proclaim, Aboard! Aboard!

Thy pinnace waits thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard!

And as he hears the summons Love makes for him reply,

"O whither, cruel fortune, wilt thou bid the warrior fly?

Must I seek thee in the ocean, where the winds and billows roar?

Must I seek thee there, because in vain I sought thee on the shore?

And dost thou think the ocean, crossed by my flashing sail,

With all its myriad waters and its rivers, can avail

To quench the ardent fire of love that rages in my breast,

And soothe the fever of my soul into one hour of rest?"

And as he mused, in bitter thought, Mustapha reached in haste

A balcony; till dawn of day before that house he paced,

And all his heart's anxieties he counted o'er and o'er,

And, when the darkness of the night toward opening twilight wore,

Upon the balcony there came the cause of all his sighs,

But a smile was on her rosy lips and a light was in her eyes.

"O lovely Zaida," he began, and gazed into her face,

"If my presence at thy window is a burden to thy peace,

One pledge bestow upon me, one pledge of love, I pray,

And let me kiss thy lily hand before I sail away."

"I grieve for thy departure," the lady made reply,

"And it needs no pledge to tell thee I am faithful till I die,

But if one token thou must have, take this ere thou depart;

('Twas fashioned by these hands of mine) and keep it on thy heart!"

The Moor rose in his stirrups, he took it from her hand,

'Twas a piece of lace of gold and silk shaped for a helmet band.

There was the wheel of fortune with subtile needle drawn,

(Ah, Fortune that had left him there dejected and forlorn!)

And as he paused, he heard the sound tumultuous come again,

'Twas from the fleet, down in the bay, and well he knew the strain.

Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain;

Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.

Let fife and flute, and sackbut in accord

Proclaim, Aboard! Aboard!

Thy pinnace waits thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard!

Oh, stay my foes, nor in such haste invite me to the field!

Here let me take the triumphs that softer conquests yield!

This is the goal of my desire, the aim of my design,

That Zaida's hand in mine be placed and her heart beat close to mine!

Then spake the fair Sultana, and she dropped a tender tear,

"Nay mourn not for the present pain, for future bliss is near.

The wings of Time are swift, and they bear a brighter day;

And when once the longed-for gift is here 'twill never pass away!"

Then the Moor's heart beat high with joy; to smiles were changed his sighs,

In silent ecstasy he gazed into the lady's eyes.

He rode to meet his waiting fleet, for favoring was the wind,

But while his body went on board, he left his heart behind!

Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!

Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.

Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring

A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King.

MORIANA AND GALVAN

Twas Princess Moriana,

Upon a castle's height,

That played with Moorish Galvan

At cards for her delight;

And oft he lost the stakes he set,

Full many a coin I wis;

When Moriana lost, she gave

Her hand for him to kiss.

And after hours of pleasure

Moor Galvan sank to sleep;

And soon the lady saw a knight

Descend the mountain steep;

His voice was raised in sorrow,

His eyes with tears were wet,

For lovely Moriana

His heart could ne'er forget.

For her, upon St. John's Day,

While she was gathering flowers,

The Moors had made a captive,

Beneath her father's towers.

And Moriana raised her eyes

And saw her lover ride,

And on her cheeks her Moorish lord

The sparkling tears descried.

With anger raged his spirit,

And thus to her he cried:

"What ails thee, gentle lady?

Why flows with tears thine eye?

If Moors of mine have done thee wrong,

I swear that they shall die;

If any of thy maidens

Have caused thee this distress,

The whip across their shoulders

Shall avenge their wickedness.

Or, if the Christian countrymen

Have sorrow for thee made,

I will, with conquering armies,

Their provinces invade.

The warlike weapons that I don

Are festal robes to me;

To me the din of battle

Is sweet tranquillity;

The direst toils the warrior bears

With steadfast joy I meet;

To me the watch that nightlong lasts

Is like a slumber sweet."

"No Moors of thine within these halls

Have caused to me this pain;

No maidens waiting in my bower

Have showed to me disdain;

Nor have my Christian kinsmen

To mourn my spirit made,

Provoking thee in vengeance

Their province to invade.

Vain the deep cause of my distress

From Galvan's eye to hide--

'Tis that I see down yonder mount

A knight in armor ride.

'Tis such a sight that does my tears

From very heart-springs move;

For yonder knight is all to me,

My husband and my love."

Straight the Moor's cheek with anger flushed,

Till red eclipsed the brown,

And his clenched fist he lifted

As if to strike her down.

He gnashed his teeth with passion,

The fangs with blood were red,

He called his slaves and bade them

Strike off the lady's head.

He bade them bind and take her

First to the mountain's height,

That she the doom might suffer

Within her husband's sight;

But all the lady answered,

When she was brought to death,

Were words of faith and loyalty

Borne on her parting breath:

"Behold, I die a Christian,

And here repeat my vows

Of faithfulness to yonder knight,

My loved and lawful spouse."

THE BEREAVED FATHER

"Rise up, rise up, thou hoary head,

What madness causes thy delay?

Thou killest swine on Thursday morn,

And eatest flesh on fasting day.

"'Tis now seven years since first I trod

The valley and the wandering wood;

My feet were bare, my flesh was torn,

And all my pathway stained in blood.

"Ah, mournfully I seek in vain

The Emperor's daughter, who had gone

A prisoner made by caitiff Moors,

Upon the morning of St. John.

"She gathered flowers upon the plain,

She plucked the roses from the spray,

And in the orchard of her sire

They found and bore the maid away."

These words has Moriana heard,

Close nestled in the Moor's embrace;

The tears that welled from out her eyes

Have wet her captor's swarthy face.

THE WARDEN OF MOLINA

The warden of Molina, ah! furious was his speed,

As he dashed his glittering rowels in the flank of his good steed,

And his reins left dangling from the bit, along the white highway,

For his mind was set to speed his horse, to speed and not to stay.

He rode upon a grizzled roan, and with the wind he raced,

And the breezes rustled round him like a tempest in the waste.

In the Plaza of Molina at last he made his stand,

And in a voice of thunder he uttered his command:

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;

And let the thundering kettle-drum

Give challenge to the foe.

"Now leave your feasts and banquetings and gird you in your steel!

And leave the couches of delight, where slumber's charm you feel;

Your country calls for succor, all must the word obey,

For the freedom of your fathers is in your hands to-day.

Ah, sore may be the struggle, and vast may be the cost;

But yet no tie of love must keep you now, or all is lost.

In breasts where honor dwells there is no room in times like these

To dally at a lady's side, kneel at a lady's knees.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;

And let the thundering kettle-drum

Give challenge to the foe.

"Yes, in the hour of peril away with pleasure's thrall!

Let honor take the lance and steed to meet our country's call.

For those who craven in the fight refuse to meet the foe

Shall sink beneath the feet of all struck by a bitterer blow;

In moments when fair honor's crown is offered to the brave

And dangers yawn around our State, deep as the deadly grave,

'Tis right strong arms and sturdy hearts should take the sword of might,

And eagerly for Fatherland descend into the fight.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;

And let the thundering kettle-drum

Give challenge to the foe.

"Then lay aside the silken robes, the glittering brocade;

Be all in vest of leather and twisted steel arrayed;

On each left arm be hung the shield, safe guardian of the breast,

And take the crooked scimitar and put the lance in rest,

And face the fortune of the day, for it is vain to fly,

And the coward and the braggart now alone are doomed to die.

And let each manly bosom show, in the impending fray,

A valor such as Mars himself in fury might display.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;

And let the thundering kettle-drum

Give challenge to the foe.

He spoke, and at his valiant words, that rang through all the square,

The veriest cowards of the town resolved to do and dare;

And stirred by honor's eager fire forth from the gate they stream,

And plumes are waving in the air, and spears and falchions gleam;

And turbaned heads and faces fierce, and smiles in anger quenched,

And sweating steeds and flashing spurs and hands in fury clenched,

Follow the fluttering banners that toward the vega swarm,

And many a voice re-echoes the words of wild alarm.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;

And let the thundering kettle-drum

Give challenge to the foe.

And, like the timid lambs that crowd with bleatings in the fold,

When they advancing to their throats the furious wolf behold,

The lovely Moorish maidens, with wet but flashing eyes,

Are crowded in a public square and fill the air with cries;

And tho', like tender women, 'tis vain for them to arm,

Yet loudly they re-echo the words of the alarm.

To heaven they cry for succor, and, while to heaven they pray,

They call the knights they love so well to arm them for the fray.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;

And let the thundering kettle-drum

Give challenge to the foe.

The foremost Moorish nobles, Molina's chosen band,

Rush forward from the city the invaders to withstand.

There marshalled in a squadron with shining arms they speed,

Like knights and noble gentlemen, to meet their country's need.

Twelve thousand Christians crowd the plain, twelve thousand warriors tried,

They fire the homes, they reap the corn, upon the vega wide;

And the warriors of Molina their furious lances ply,

And in their own Arabian tongue they raise the rallying cry.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;

And let the thundering kettle-drum

Give challenge to the foe.

THE LOVES OF BOABDIL AND VINDARAJA

Where Antequera's city stands, upon the southern plain,

The captive Vindaraja sits and mourns her lot in vain.

While Chico, proud Granada's King, nor night nor day can rest,

For of all the Moorish ladies Vindaraja he loves best;

And while naught can give her solace and naught can dry her tear,

'Tis not the task of slavery nor the cell that brings her fear;

For while in Antequera her body lingers still,

Her heart is in Granada upon Alhambra's hill.

There, while the Moorish monarch longs to have her at his side,

More keen is Vindaraja's wish to be a monarch's bride.

Ah! long delays the moment that shall bring her liberty,

A thousand thousand years in every second seem to fly!

For she thinks of royal Chico, and her face with tears is wet,

For she knows that absence oft will make the fondest heart forget.

And the lover who is truest may yet suspicion feel,

For the loved one in some distant land whose heart is firm as steel.

And now to solve her anxious doubts, she takes the pen one day

And writes to royal Chico, in Granada far away.

Ah! long the letter that she wrote to tell him of her state,

In lonely prison cell confined, a captive desolate!

She sent it by a Moorish knight, and sealed it with her ring;

He was warden of Alhambra and stood beside the King,

And he had come sent by the King to Antequera's tower,

To learn how Vindaraja fared within that prison bower.

The Moor was faithful to his charge, a warrior stout and leal,

And Chico took the note of love and trembling broke the seal;

And when the open page he saw and read what it contained,

These were the words in which the maid of her hard lot complained:

THE LETTER OF VINDARAJA

"Ah, hapless is the love-lorn maid like me in captive plight,

For freedom once was mine, and I was happy day and night.

Yes, happy, for I knew that thou hadst given me thy love,

Precious the gift to lonely hearts all other gifts above.

Well mightest thou forget me, though 'twere treachery to say

The flame that filled thy royal heart as yet had passed away.

Still, though too oft do lovers' hearts in absent hours repine.

I know if there are faithful vows, then faithful will be thine!

'Tis hard, indeed, for lovers to crush the doubting thought

Which to the brooding bosom some lonely hour has brought.

There is no safety for the love, when languish out of sight

The form, the smile, the flashing eyes that once were love's delight;

Nor can I, I confess it, feel certain of thy vow!

How many Moorish ladies are gathered round thee now!

How many fairer, brighter forms are clustered at thy throne,

Whose power might change to very wax the heart of steel or stone!

And if, indeed, there be a cause why I should blame thy heart,

'Tis the delay that thou hast shown in taking here my part.

Why are not armies sent to break these prison bars, and bring

Back to her home the Moorish maid, the favorite of the King?

A maid whose eyes are changed to springs whence flow the flood of tears,

For she thinks of thee and weeps for thee through all these absent years.

Believe me, if 'twere thou, who lay a captive in his chain,

My life of joy, to rescue thee, my heart of blood I'd drain!

O King and master, if, indeed, I am thy loved one still,

As in those days when I was first upon Alhambra's hill,

Send rescue for thy darling, or fear her love may fade,

For love that needs the sunlight must wither in the shade.

And yet I cannot doubt thee; if e'er suspicion's breath

Should chill my heart, that moment would be Vindaraja's death.

Nor think should you forget me or spurn me from your arms,

That life for Vindaraja could have no other charms.

It was thy boast thou once did love a princess, now a slave,

I boasted that to thy behest I full obedience gave!

And from this prison should I come, in freedom once again,

To sit and hear thy words of love on Andalusia's plain,

The brightest thought would be to me that thou, the King, has seen

'Twas right to free a wretched slave that she might be thy Queen.

Hard is the lot of bondage here, and heavy is my chain,

And from my prison bars I gaze with lamentation vain;

But these are slight and idle things--my one, my sole distress

Is that I cannot see thy face and welcome thy caress!

This only is the passion that can my bosom rend;

'Tis this alone that makes me long for death, my sufferings end.

The plagues of life are naught to me; life's only joy is this--

To see thee and to hear thee and to blush beneath thy kiss!

Alas! perchance this evening or to-morrow morn, may be,

The lords who hold me here a slave in sad captivity,

May, since they think me wanton, their treacherous measures take

That I should be a Christian and my former faith forsake.

But I tell them, and I weep to tell, that I will ne'er forego

The creed my fathers fought for in centuries long ago!

And yet I might forswear it, but that that creed divine

'Tis vain I struggle to deny, for, ah, that creed is thine!"

King Chico read his lady's note and silent laid it down;

Then to the window he drew nigh, and gazed upon the town;

And lost in thought he pondered upon each tender line,

And sudden tears and a sigh of grief were his inward sorrow's sign.

And he called for ink and paper, that Vindaraja's heart

Might know that he remembered her and sought to heal its smart.

He would tell her that the absence which caused to her those fears

Had only made her dearer still, through all those mournful years.

He would tell her that his heart was sad, because she was not near--

Yes, far more sad than Moorish slave chained on the south frontier.

And then he wrote the letter to the darling Moorish slave,

And this is the tender message that royal Chico gave:

THE LETTER OF THE KING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet unless my Vindaraja I could look upon awhile,

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

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

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

In this thought alone my spirit finds refreshment and delight;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For to know that Vindaraja languishes, oppressed with care,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And accept this pledged assurance, that oblivion cannot roll

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE INFANTA SEVILLA AND PERANZUELOS

Upon Toledo's loftiest towers

Sevilla kept the height;

So wondrous fair was she that love

Was blinded at the sight.

She stood amid the battlements,

And gazed upon the scene

Where Tagus runs through woodland

And flowers and glades of green.

And she saw upon the wide highway

The figure of a knight;

He rode upon a dappled steed,

And all his arms were bright.

Seven Moors in chains he led with him,

And one arm's length aloof

Came a dog of a Moor from Morocco's shore

In arms of double proof.

His steed was swift, his countenance

In a warlike scowl was set,

And in his furious rage he cursed

The beard of Mahomet!

He shouted, as he galloped up:

"Now halt thee, Christian hound;

I see at the head of thy captive band

My sire, in fetters bound.

"And the rest are brothers of my blood,

And friends I long to free;

And if thou wilt surrender all,

I'll pay thee gold and fee."

When Peranzuelos heard him,

He wheeled his courser round.

With lance in rest, he hotly pressed

To strike him to the ground;

His sudden rage and onset came

Swift as the thunder's sound.

The Moor at the first encounter reeled

To earth, from his saddle bow;

And the Christian knight, dismounting,

Set heel on the neck of his foe.

He cleft his head from his shoulders,

And, marshalling his train,

Made haste once more on his journey

Across Toledo's plain.

CELIN'S FAREWELL

He sadly gazes back again upon those bastions high,

The towers and fretted battlements that soar into the sky;

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

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

No hope has he his footsteps from exile to retrace;

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

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

"I see thee shining from afar,

As in heaven's arch some radiant star.

Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,

Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I see thee shining from afar,

As in heaven's arch some radiant star.

Granada, queen and town of loveliness,

Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

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

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

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

Should with your happy waters their floods of sadness blend,

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

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

I see thee shining from afar,

As in heaven's arch some radiant star.

Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,

Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

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

Whose scented breath brings back to me a thousand memories,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I see thee shining from afar,

As in heaven's arch some radiant star.

Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,

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

CELIN'S RETURN

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

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

The brave Abencerrages and Gulanes straight he calls,

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

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

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

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

But he only seeks one happy day may reparation bring

For the foul and causeless punishment inflicted by the King.

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

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

His followers all he bade them dress in Christian array,

With rude and rustic mantles of color bright and gay;

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

With flowing blouse, and mantle and gaberdine of brown.

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

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

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

Gave colors of befitting gloom to tint his dark disguise.

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

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

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

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

There streams into Granada's gate a stately cavalcade

Of prancing steeds caparisoned, and knights in steel arrayed;

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

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

And Moorish maiden Cegri straight to the window flies,

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

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

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

They know the story of his fate and undeserved disgrace,

And eagerly they gaze upon the splendor of his face.

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

The ladies of Granada have heard and know them well!

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

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

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

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

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

As they think what in Granada that hero knight befell.

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

And a thousand ladies gaze on him with passionate desire.

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

Though neither speech nor written page unites them longer now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Moor received the letter as Granada came in sight,

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

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

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

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

BAZA REVISITED

Brave Celin came, the valiant son of him the

castelain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Fortune's cruel fickleness he furiously reviled,

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

"O goddess who controllest on earth our human fate,

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

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

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

And now, while equal fortune incessantly I chase,

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

Since King Fernando brought his host fair Baza to blockade,

My lot has been a wretched lot of anguish unalloyed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blue tahala fluttering bright upon my armored brow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CAPTIVE ZARA

In Palma there was little joy, so lovely Zara found;

She felt herself a slave, although by captive chain unbound.

In Palma's towers she wandered from all the guests apart;

For while Palma had her body, 'twas Baza held her heart.

And while her heart was fixed on one, her charms no less enthralled

The heart of this brave cavalier, Celin Andalla called.

Ah, hapless, hapless maiden, for in her deep despair

She did not know what grief her face had caused that knight to bear;

And though the Countess Palma strove with many a service kind

To show her love, to soothe the pang that wrung the maiden's mind,

Yet borne upon the tempest of the captive's bitter grief,

She never lowered the sail to give her suffering heart relief.

And, in search of consolation to another captive maid,

She told the bitter sorrow to no one else displayed.

She told it, while the tears ran fast, and yet no balm did gain,

For it made more keen her grief, I ween, to give another pain.

And she said to her companion, as she clasped her tender hand:

"I was born in high Granada, my loved, my native land;

For years within Alhambra's courts my life ran on serene;

I was a princess of the realm and handmaid to a queen.

Within her private chamber I served both night and day,

And the costliest jewels of her crown in my protection lay.

To her I was the favorite of all the maids she knew;

And, ah! my royal mistress I loved, I loved her true!

No closer tie I owned on earth than bound me to her side;

No closer tie; I loved her more than all the world beside.

But more I loved than aught on earth, the gallant Moorish knight,

Brave Celin, who is solely mine, and I his sole delight.

Yes, he was brave, and all men own the valor of his brand;

Yes, and for this I loved him more than monarchs of the land.

For me he lived, for me he fought, for me he mourned and wept,

When he saw me in this captive home like a ship to the breakers swept.

He called on heaven, and heaven was deaf to all his bitter cry,

For the victim of the strife of kings, of the bloody war, was I;

It was my father bade him first to seek our strong retreat.

Would God that he had never come to Baza's castle seat!

Would God that he had never come, an armored knight, to stand

Amid the soldiers that were ranked beneath my sire's command.

He came, he came, that valiant Moor, beneath our roof to rest.

His body served my father; his heart, my sole behest;

What perils did he face upon that castle's frowning height!

Winning my father's praise, he gained more favor in my sight.

And when the city by the bands of Christians was assailed,

My soul 'neath terrors fiercer still in lonely terror quailed.

For I have lost my sire, and I have lost my lover brave,

For here I languish all alone, a subject and a slave.

And yet the Moor, altho' he left with me his loving heart,

I fear may have forgotten that I own his better part.

And now the needle that I ply is witness to the state

Of bondage, which I feel to-day with heart disconsolate.

And here upon the web be writ, in the Arabian tongue,

The legend that shall tell the tale of how my heart is wrung.

Here read: 'If thou hast ta'en my heart when thou didst ride away,

Remember that myself, my living soul, behind thee stay.'

And on the other side these words embroidered would I place:

'The word shall never fail that once I spake before thy face.'

And on the border underneath this posy, written plain:

'The promise that I made to thee still constant shall remain.'

And last of all, this line I add, the last and yet the best:

'Thou ne'er shalt find inconstancy in this unchanging breast.'

Thus runs the embroidery of love, and in the midst appears

A phoenix, painted clear, the bird that lives eternal years.

For she from the cold ashes of life at its last wane,

Takes hope, and spreads her wings and soars through skyey tracks again.

And there a hunter draws his bow outlined with skilful thread,

And underneath a word which says, 'Nay, shoot not at the dead.'

Thus spake the Moorish maiden, and in her eyes were tears of grief,

Tho' in her busy needle she seemed to find relief.

And the kindly countess called from far: "Zara, what aileth thee?

Where art thou? For I called, and yet thou didst not answer me."

THE JEALOUS KING

'Twas eight stout warriors matched with eight, and ten with valiant ten,

As Aliatare formed a band allied with Moslem men,

To joust, with loaded canes, that day in proud Toledo's ring,

Against proud Adelifa's host before their lord the King.

The King by proclamation had announced the knightly play,

For the cheerful trumpets sang a truce upon that very day;

And Zaide, high Belchite's King, had sworn that war should cease,

And with Tarfe of Valentia had ratified the peace.

But others spread the news, that flew like fire from tongue to tongue,

That the King was doting-mad with love, for then the King was young;

And had given to Celindaja the ordering of the day.

And there were knights beside the King she loved to see at play.

And now the lists are opened and, lo! a dazzling band,

The Saracens, on sorrel steeds leap forth upon the sand;

Their trailing cloaks are flashing like the golden orange rind,

The hoods of green from their shoulders hang and flutter in the wind.

They carry targets blazoned bright with scimitars arow,

But each deadly blade is deftly made into a Cupid's bow.

A shining legend can be seen in letters ranged above;

And "Fire and Blood" the motto runs. It speaks of war and love.

In double file a company of warriors succeed;

The bold Aliatares come mounted on Arab steeds.

The livery that they wear is dyed in tint of crimson red;

And flower and leaf in white relief its surface overspread.

The globe of heaven, which many a star and constellation strow,

Borne upon Atlas' shoulders, is the blazon that they show.

And a Moor of Aliatar this motto does express,

Written upon a streamer, "I Endure through Weariness."

The Adelifas follow; a mighty race are they.

Their armor is more costly, their mantles are more gay.

Of bright carnation is the web, enriched with saffron streaks,

And for favors there are fluttering veils upon their helmet peaks.

A globe they blazon on their shields, but it is bruised and broke

By a savage with a bludgeon, who deals it many a stroke;

And a rod, and underneath it this motto tells the tale,

All written in Arabian scrip. It says, "The Strong Prevail."

The eight Azarques following these into the plaza spring,

With air of haughty arrogance they gallop round the ring.

Of blue and purple and pale gold are the mantles that they wear,

And for plumes they carry amulets that dangle high in air.

On their left arm are their targets, painted a dazzling green.

The orb of heaven is outlined there on which two hands are seen,

The motto, "Green is paramount," is lettered full in view;

Its arrogance explains to all those targets' vivid hue.

Then foams the King in rage to see his doting love was fleered,

And his heart is filled with bitter thought as that proud shield appeared.

And he called the warden of his keep, Celin his henchman tried,

And he pointed to Azarque, and, flushed with anger, cried--

"The sun upon that haughty shield myself will bid it set;

It works some mischief upon me, like an evil amulet."

Azarque drew his ready lance, his strong arm hurled it high,

The light shaft soared amid the clouds, and vanished in the sky.

And those whose vision followed it grew dizzy at the sight,

They knew not whither it had flown, nor where it would alight.

The ladies of the burgesses at many a window press

To see the javelin from his hand rise with such readiness,

And those who on the platform were seated with the King

Bent back to see how well the cane that gallant Moor could fling.

And as Azarque forward rides, as in retreat he flies,

"Now, Allah guard thee, gallant knight," with shouts the people cries.

"My curse upon him; he shall die," the jealous King replies.

But Celindaja paid no heed to all that cavalcade;

Her lips were parched, her throat was dry, her heart was sore dismayed.

She asked that they would bring her fruit, but yet she strove in vain

With juice of any earthly tree to slake her fevered pain.

"Now let the sport be ended," the angry King decreed.

The joust was late, and every judge in weariness agreed.

And as they closed the empty lists, they heard the King's command,

"Now seize, now seize Azarque, a traitor to this land."

The double lines of cavaliers who led the jousting train

Threw down upon the open square the spear of idle cane;

Then swiftly seized the lance of steel and couching it for fight,

According to the royal wish rode down upon the knight.

For arms and plea must ever bootless prove

To curb the passions of a king in love.

The other band came forth to save Azarque from his foes,

But the stout Moor waves his hand to them ere they in battle close.

Then calmly cries: "Tho' love, it seems, has no respect for law,

'Tis right that ye keep peace to-day and from the lists withdraw!

Nay, gentlemen, your lances lower before it be too late;

And let our foes their lances raise, in sign of passion's hate;

Thus without blood accorded be a victory and defeat.

'Tis only bloodshed makes the one more bitter or more sweet,

For arms or reason unavailing prove

To curb the passions of a king in love."

At last they seize the struggling Moor, the chains are on his hands;

And the populace, with anger filled, arrange themselves in bands.

They place a guard at every point, in haste to set him free,

But where the brave commander who shall lead to victory?

And where the leader who shall shout and stir their hearts to fight?

These are but empty braggarts, but prowlers of the night,

Cut-throats and needy idlers--and so the tumult ends--

Azarque lies in prison, forsaken by his friends.

For, ah, both arms and reason powerless prove

To turn the purpose of a king in love.

Alone does Celindaja the coward crowd implore,

"Oh, save him, save him, generous friends, give back to me my Moor."

She stands upon the balcony and from that lofty place

Would fling herself upon the stones to save him from disgrace.

Her mother round the weeping girl has flung her withered arm.

"O fool," she whispers in her ear, "in Mary's name be calm!"

Thou madly rushest to thy death by this distracted show.

Surely thou knowest well this truth, if anyone can know,

How arms and reason powerless prove

To turn the purpose of a king in love.

Then came a message of the King, in which the monarch said

That a house wherein his kindred dwelt must be a prison made.

Then Celindaja, white with rage: "Go to the King and say

I choose to be my prison-house for many and many a day,

The memory of Azarque, in which henceforth I live:

But the treachery of a monarch my heart will not forgive.

For the will of one weak woman shall never powerless prove

To turn the foolish purpose of a king who is in love.

"Alas for thee, Toledo! in former times they said

That they called thee for vengeance upon a traitor's head.

But now 'tis not on traitors, but on loyal men and true

That they call to thee for vengeance, which to caitiff hearts are due.

And Tagus gently murmurs in his billows fresh and free

And hastens from Toledo to reach the mighty sea."

E'er she said more, they seized the dame, and led her to the gate,

Where the warden of the castle in solemn judgment sate.

THE LOVERS OF ANTEQUERA

The brave Hamete reined his steed and from the crupper bent,

To greet fair Tartagona, who saw him with content,

The daughter of Zulema, who had many a foe repelled

From the castle on the hill, which he in Archidora held;

For six-and-thirty years he kept the Christian host at bay,

A watchful warden, fearless of the stoutest foes' array.

And now adown the well-known path, a secret path and sure,

Led by the noble lady, hurried the gallant Moor.

The sentinels beneath the wall were careless, or they slept;

They heeded not Hamete as down the slope he crept.

And when he reached the level plain, full twenty feet away,

He hobbled fast his courser, lest he should farther stray.

Then to the Moorish lady he turned, as if to speak,

Around her waist he flung his arms and kissed her on the cheek.

"O goddess of my heart," he said, "by actions I will prove,

If thou wilt name some high emprise, how faithful is my love!

And in Granada I am great, and have much honored been,

Both by the King Fernando and Isabel his Queen.

My name is high, my lineage long, yet none of all my line

Have reached the pitch of glory which men allow is mine.

Narvarez is a knight of name, in love and arms adept,

In Antequera's castle he well the marches kept.

Jarifa was a captive maid, he loved Jarifa well,

And oft the maiden visited within her prison cell.

And, if the thing with honor and virtuous heart may be,

What he did with Jarifa, that would I do with thee."

A star was shining overhead upon the breast of night,

The warrior turned his course, and led the lady by its light.

They reached the foot of one tall rock, and stood within the shade,

Where thousand thousand ivy leaves a bower of beauty made.

They heard the genet browsing and stamping as he fed,

And smiling Love his pinions over the lovers spread.

But ere they reached the pleasant bower, they saw before them stand,

Armed to the teeth, with frowning face, a strange and savage band.

Yes, seventy men with sword in hand surrounded dame and knight,

The robbers of the mountain, and they trembled at the sight!

With one accord these freebooters upon Hamete fell,

Like hounds that on the stag at bay rush at the hunter's call,

Burned the Moor's heart at once with wrath, at once with passion's flame,

To save the life and, more than life, the honor of his dame.

Straight to his feet he sprung and straight he drew his mighty sword,

And plunged into the robber crowd and uttered not a word.

No jousting game was e'er so brisk as that which then he waged;

On arm and thigh with deadly blow the slashing weapon raged;

Though certain was his death, yet still, with failing heart, he prayed

That till his lady could escape, that death might be delayed.

But, in the dark, a deadly stone, flung with no warning sound,

Was buried in his forehead and stretched him on the ground.

The breath his heaving bosom left and, from his nerveless hand,

The sword fell clattering to the ground, before that bloody band.

And when the damsel saw herself within those caitiffs' power,

And saw the city mantled in the darkness of the hour,

No grief that ever woman felt was equal to her pain,

And no despair like that of hers shall e'er be known again.

Those villains did not see those locks, that shone like threads of gold;

Only the summer sunlight their wondrous beauty told.

They did not mark the glittering chain of gold and jewels fine,

That in the daylight would appear her ivory throat to twine.

But straight she took the scimitar, that once her lover wore,

It lay amid the dewy grass, drenched to the hilt in gore.

And, falling on the bloody point, she pierced her bosom through,

And Tartagona breathed her last, mourned by that robber crew.

And there she lay, clasping in death her lover's lifeless face,

Her valor's paragon, and she the glass of woman's grace.

And since that hour the tale is told, while many a tear-drop falls,

Of the lovers of the vega by Antequera's walls.

And they praise the noble lady and they curse the robber band,

And they name her the Lucretia of fair Andalusia's land.

And if the hearer of the tale should doubt that it be true,

Let him pass along the mountain road, till Ronda comes in view,

There must he halt and searching he may the story trace

In letters that are deeply cut on the rocky mountain's face.

TARFE'S TRUCE

"Oho, ye Catholic cavaliers

Who eye Granada day and night,

On whose left shoulder is the cross,

The crimson cross, your blazon bright.

"If e'er your youthful hearts have felt

The flame of love that brings delight,

As angry Mars, in coat of steel,

Feels the fierce ardor of the fight;

"If 'tis your will, within our walls,

To join the joust, with loaded reed,

As ye were wont, beneath these towers

The bloody lance of war to speed;

"If bloodless tumult in the square

May serve instead of battle's fray,

And, donning now the silken cloak,

Ye put the coat of steel away;

"Six troops of Saracens are here;

Six Christian troops, with targe and steed

Be ready, when the day is fixed,

To join the jousting of the reed.

"For 'tis not right that furious war,

Which sets the city's roofs in flames,

Should kindle with a fruitless fire

The tender bosom of our dames.

"In spite of all we suffer here

Our ladies are with you arrayed,

They pity you in this fierce war,

This labor of the long blockade.

"Amid the hardships of the siege

Let pleasure yield a respite brief;

(For war must ever have its truce)

And give our hardships some relief.

"What solace to the war-worn frame,

To every soul what blest release,

To fling aside the targe and mail,

And don one hour the plumes of peace!

"And he who shall the victor be

Among the jousters of the game,

I pledge my knightly word to him,

In token of his valorous fame,

"On his right arm myself to bind

The favor of my lady bright;

'Twas given me by her own white hand,

The hand as fair as it is white."

'Twas thus that Tarfe, valiant Moor,

His proclamation wrote at large;

He, King Darraja's favored squire,

Has nailed the cartel to his targe.

'Twas on the day the truce was made,

By Calatrava's master bold,

To change the quarters of his camp,

And with his foes a conference hold.

Six Moorish striplings Tarfe sent

In bold Abencerraje's train--

His kindred both in race and house--

To meet the leaguers on the plain.

In every tent was welcome warm;

And when their challenge they display,

The master granted their request

To join the joust on Easter day.

In courteous words that cartel bold

He answered; and a cavalcade

Of Christians, with the Moorish guards,

Their journey to Granada made.

The guise of war at once was dropped;

The armory closed its iron door;

And all put on the damask robes

That at high festival they wore.

The Moorish youths and maidens crowd,

With joyful face, the city square;

These mount their steeds, those sit and braid

Bright favors for their knights to wear.

Those stern antagonists in war,

Like friends, within the town are met;

And peacefully they grasp the hand,

And for one day the past forget.

And gallant Almarada comes

(Not Tarfe's self more brave, I ween),

Lord of a lovely Moorish dame,

Who rules her lover like a queen.

A hundred thousand favors she

In public or in private gives,

To show her lover that her life

Is Almarada's while she lives!

And once upon a cloudy night,

Fit curtain for his amorous mood,

The gallant Moor the high hills scaled

And on Alhambra's terrace stood.

Arrived, he saw a Moorish maid

Stand at a window opened wide;

He gave her many a precious gem;

He gave her many a gift beside.

He spoke and said: "My lady fair,

Though I have never wronged him, still

Darraja stands upon the watch,

By fair or foul, to do me ill.

"Those eyes of thine, which hold more hearts

Than are the stars that heaven displays;

That slay more Moors with shafts of love

Than with his sword the master slays;

"When will they soften at my smile?

And when wilt thou, my love, relent?

Let Tarfe go, whose words are big,

While his sword-arm is impotent!

"Thou seest I am not such as he;

His haughty words, so seldom true,

Are filled with boasting; what he boasts

This sturdy arm of mine can do.

"My arm, my lance, ah! well 'tis known

How oft in battle's darkest hour

They saved Granada's city proud

From yielding to the Christian's power."

Thus amorous Almarada spoke

When Tarfe came and caught the word;

And as his ear the message seized,

His right hand seized upon his sword.

Yet did he deem some Christian troop

Was in the darkness hovering by;

And at the thought, with terror struck,

He turned in eager haste to fly!

Darraja roused him at the din;

And with loud voice to Tarfe spoke;

He knew him from his cloak of blue,

For he had given the Moor that cloak!

THE TWO MOORISH KNIGHTS

Upon two mares both strong and fleet,

White as the cygnet's snowy wing,

Beneath Granada's arching gate

Passed Tarfe and Belchite's King.

Like beauty marks the dames they serve;

Like colors at their spear-heads wave;

While Tarfe kneels at Celia's feet,

The King is Dorelice's slave.

With belts of green and azure blue

The gallant knights are girded fair;

Their cloaks with golden orange glow,

And verdant are the vests they wear.

And gold and silver, side by side,

Are glittering on their garment's hem;

And, mingled with the metals, shine

The lights of many a costly gem.

Their veils are woven iron-gray,

The melancholy tint of woe--

And o'er their heads the dusky plumes

Their grief and desolation show.

And each upon his target bears

Emblazoned badges, telling true

Their passion and their torturing pangs,

In many a dark and dismal hue.

The King's device shines on his shield--

A seated lady, passing fair;

A monarch, with a downcast eye,

Before the dame is kneeling there.

His crown is lying at her feet

That she may spurn it in disdain;

A heart in flames above is set;

And this the story of his pain.

"In frost is born this flame of love"--

Such legend circles the device--

"And the fierce fire in which I burn

Is nourished by the breath of ice."

Upon her brow the lady wears

A crown; her dexter hand sustains

A royal sceptre, gilded bright,

To show that o'er all hearts she reigns.

An orb in her left hand she bears,

For all the world her power must feel;

There Fortune prostrate lies; the dame

Halts with her foot the whirling wheel.

But Tarfe's shield is blank and bare,

Lest Adelifa should be moved

With jealous rage, to learn that he

Her Moorish rival, Celia, loved.

He merely blazons on his targe

A peaceful olive-branch, and eyes

That sparkle in a beauteous face,

Like starlets in the autumn skies.

And on the branch of olive shines

This legend: "If thy burning ray

Consume me with the fire of love,

See that I wither not away."

They spurred their horses as they saw

The ladies their approach surveyed;

And when they reached their journey's end

The King to Dorelice said:

"The goddesses who reign above

With envy of thy beauty tell;

When heaven and glory are thy gifts,

Why should I feel the pangs of hell?

"Oh, tell me what is thy desire?

And does heaven's light more pleasure bring

Than to own monarchs as thy slaves,

And be the heiress to a king?

"I ask from thee no favor sweet;

Nor love nor honor at thy hand;

But only that thou choose me out

The servant of thy least command.

"The choicest nobles of the realm

The glory of this office crave;

The lowliest soldier, with delight,

Would die to prove himself thy slave.

"Each life, each heart is at thy feet;

Thou with a thousand hearts mayst live;

And if thou wouldst not grant my prayer,

Oh, take the warning that I give.

"For there are ladies in the court

To my desires would fain consent,

And lovely Bendarrafa once

These jealous words but lately sent:

"'Those letters and those written lines,

Why dost thou not their sense divine?

Are they not printed on thy heart

As thy loved image is on mine?

"'Why art thou absent still so long?

It cannot be that thou art dead?'"

Then ceased the King and silent stood,

While Tarfe to his Celia said:

"Celestial Celia be thy name;

Celestial calm is on thy brow;

Yet all the radiance of thy face

Thy cruelty eclipses now.

"A witch like Circe dost thou seem;

For Circe could o'ercloud the sky;

Oh, let the sun appear once more,

And bid the clouds of darkness fly!

"Ah, would to God that on the feast,

The Baptist's consecrated day,

I might my arms about thee fling

And lead thee from thy home away.

"Yet say not that 'tis in thy power

To yield or all my hopes to kill;

For thou shalt learn that all the world,

In leaguer, cannot bend my will.

"And France can tell how many a time

I fought upon the tented field,

And forced upon their bended knee

Her loftiest paladins to yield.

"I vanquished many a valiant knight

Who on his shield the lilies bore;

And on Vandalia's plain subdued

Of Red Cross warriors many a score.

"The noblest I had brought to yield

Upon Granada's gory plain,

Did I not shrink with such vile blood

The honor of my sword to stain."

At this the trumpets called to arms;

Without one farewell word each knight

Turned from the lady of his heart

And spurred his steed in headlong flight.

THE KING'S DECISION

Amid a thousand sapient Moors

From Andalusia came,

Was an ancient Moor, who ruled the land,

Rey Bucar was his name.

And many a year this sage had dwelt

With the lady he loved best;

And at last he summoned the Cortes,

As his leman made request.

The day was set on which his lords

And commoners should meet,

And they talked to the King of his wide realm's need,

As the King sat in his seat.

And many the laws they passed that day;

And among them a law that said

That the lover who took a maid for his love

The maid of his choice must wed;

And he who broke this ordinance

Should pay for it with his head.

And all agreed that the law was good;

Save a cousin of the King,

Who came and stood before him,

With complaint and questioning;

"This law, which now your Highness

Has on your lieges laid,

I like it not, though many hearts

It has exultant made.

"Me only does it grieve, and bring

Disaster on my life;

For the lady that I love the best,

Is already wedded wife;

"Wedded she is, wedded amiss;

Ill husband has she got.

And oft does pity fill my heart

For her distressful lot.

"And this one thing I tell thee, King,

To none else has it been told:

If I think her love is silver,

She thinks my love is gold."

Then spake Rey Bucar in reply,

This sentence uttered he:

"If thy love be wedded wife, the law

Hath no penalty for thee."

ALMANZOR AND BOBALIAS

The King Almanzor slept one night,

And, oh! his sleep was blest;

Not all the seven Moorish kings

Could dare to break his rest.

The infante Bobalias

Bethought of him and cried:

"Now rouse thee, rouse thee, uncle dear!

And hasten to my side.

"And bid them fetch the ladders

Owned by my sire the King;

And the seven mules that carry them

Into my presence bring.

"And give to me the seven stout Moors

Who shall their harness set,

For the love, the love of the countess

I never can forget."

"Ill-mannered art thou, nephew,

And never wilt amend;

The sweetest sleep I ever slept,

Thou bringest to an end."

Now they have brought the ladders

Owned by his sire the King.

And, to bear the load along the road,

Seven sturdy mules they bring;

And seven stout Moors, by whom the mules

In housings are arrayed.

And to the walls of the countess

Their journey have they made.

There, at the foot of yonder tower,

They halt their cavalcade.

In the arms of the count Alminique

The countess lay at rest;

The infante has ta'en her by the hand,

And caught her to his breast.

THE MOORISH INFANTA AND ALFONZO RAMOS

Beneath the shade of an olive-tree

Stood the infanta fair;

A golden comb was in her hands,

And well she decked her hair.

To heaven she raised her eyes, and saw,

That early morning-tide,

A clump of spears and an armored band

From Guadalquivir ride.

Alfonzo Ramos with them came,

The admiral of Castile.

"Now welcome, Alfonzo Ramos!

Now welcome, steed and steel,

What tidings do you bring of my fleet,

What tidings of woe or weal?"

"I'll tell thee tidings, lady,

If my life thou wilt assure."

"Tell on, Alfonzo Ramos,

Thy life shall be secure."

"Seville, Seville has fallen,

To the arms of the Berber Moor."

"But for my word thy head this day

To the vultures had been tost!"

"If head of mine were forfeited,

Tis thine must pay the cost."

THE BULL-FIGHT OF ZULEMA

He was a valorous gentleman, a gay and gallant knight,

Like stars on heaven's fifth circle was the splendor of his might.

In peace, accomplished in the arts of great Apollo's choir,

In war, the brilliant swordsman that Mars might well admire.

His great exploits were written on history's brightest page,

And rightly was he reckoned as the mirror of his age;

Great deeds he did with point of lance and won bright honor's crown,

Before the year when each red cheek was clothed in manly down.

And such he was through all the world by minstrel harps extolled,

Both for the vigor of his arm and for his bearing bold.

His very foes, whom he had made surrender in the fight,

While trembling at his valor, asked blessings on the knight.

And Fame herself, whose pace is swift, whose voice like fire can run,

Grew weary with reciting the deeds that he had done.

To tell aright his jeopardies, escapes, and rescues wrought,

A swifter-flying pinion and a louder tongue she sought!

Such was Zulema, such was he, the warrior of renown,

The son of that Zulema who ruled Toledo's town.

Ah! bright the fame the father left, for it shall never die--

The glory of his greater son shall keep its memory.

Now once it happened that he reached a city's towering gate;

'Twas Avila, and there that day the games they celebrate.

The mighty square, when he arrived, was changed into a bower;

And every knight wore fluttering plumes and every dame a flower.

The scene was strange, because the Moor, in southern cities reared,

Had never seen how gay Castile on festal days appeared.

He marked the Adelifas in the King's pavilion stand,

And he asked, and his prayer was granted, to join the champion band.

Yet when they gave consent they feared that great Zulema's might

Would surely quite excel in joust the best Castilian knight.

But a thousand times they asked that heaven would give to him success,

And a thousand times they wondered at his glorious Moorish dress.

Full many a lady's beck and smile were on the warrior bent,

And they looked on his manly beauty and they sighed with deep content.

But now Zulema by the hand the wardens take and greet,

And 'mid the highest noblemen they yield the knight a seat.

His seat was placed in honor 'mid ladies gay and bright,

Mid warriors of Castile, the first in courage and in might.

Then suddenly, more swift than wind, more wild than comet's glare,

Jerama's bull, far famed was he, rushed on the crowded square.

Ah! brave was he in flashing eyes, and fierce was he in heart,

His brow was like a storm-cloud, each horn a giant's dart,

His wide-spread nostrils snorted fire, his neck was short and deep,

His skin was black as the thunder-cloud that crowns the mountain's steep.

Before his coming fled the crowd, until the sunny square

Was emptied of the multitude, and every stone was bare.

Those only who on horseback sat remained to face the foe.

Now trembling with alarm they stand, and now with hope they glow.

Good sport they looked to have with him, and lay him in the dust,

But the Andalusian hero evaded every thrust.

And sometimes, with a gallant charge he threw them from their seat,

He gored them with his savage horn, and trod them with his feet!

Ah! great the shame of the vanquished knights; they dared not raise their eyes

To the ladies who looked down and smiled from banks and balconies.

For those soft eyes were fixed no more upon each vanquished knight,

But on the monster proud and strong who conquered them in fight.

The dames upon the royal seat to Zulema turned their eyes,

And one, the loveliest of them all, who wore a strange disguise,

Yet through her veil such rays she shot that she seemed like the sun on high

When he rises, quenching all the stars that filled the midnight sky.

She made a sign to him and spoke directly from her heart,

Whose tongue is in a woman's eye. Ah! well it plays its part!

She bade him to redeem the day and avenge each gallant knight

Who had fallen in the dust before the foe in stubborn fight.

And the Moor with gracious mien assents, and from his seat descends;

But first with glance and waving scarf a tender message sends

To the lovely Moorish damsel who had called him to the fray,

And had filled his heart with sudden love upon the festal day.

And as he leapt into the sand it was as if he flew,

For love lent wings at his lady's nod, some glorious deed to do.

And when the bull beheld approach, upon the bloody sand,

His bold and tall antagonist, a dagger in his hand,

He roared like thunder, with his hoofs he pawed the dusty ground,

The plaza shook, the castle tower re-echoed to the sound!

Long subject to the hand of man, and in subjection born,

He thought to subject human foe to hoof and mighty horn.

Zulema started toward the beast, loud cries would hold him back,

But well he knew that victory would follow his attack.

The bull was on him with a bound, and, glaring face to face,

They stood one moment, while a hush fell on the crowded place.

With bold right hand Zulema drew his keen and mighty blade;

Blow after blow 'mid blood and dust upon his foe he laid;

The startled beast retired before such onslaught of his foe,

And the people shouted loud applause and the King himself bowed low.

The bull with tossing head roared forth a challenge to the knight,

As Zulema turned, and with a bound rushed to the desperate fight.

Ah! cruel were the strokes that rained upon that foaming flank!

Into the sand that life-blood like a shower of autumn sank.

He roars, he snorts, he spurns the ground, the bloody dust flies high,

Now here, now there, in angry pain they see the monster fly.

He turns to see what new-found foe has crossed his path to-day;

But when Zulema faces him he stops to turn away.

For the third time the fight begins; the bull with many a roar

Turns to his foe, while from his lips run mingled foam and gore.

The Moor enraged to see the beast again before him stand,

Deals him the deep, the fatal wound, with an unerring hand.

That wound, at last, has oped the gate through which may enter death,

And staggering to the dust the beast snorts forth his latest breath.

As the bull falls, the crowded square rings with a loud acclaim,

And envy burns in many a knight, and love in many a dame.

The highest nobles of the land the conqueror embrace;

He sees the blush of passion burn on many a damsel's face.

And Fame has blown her trumpet and flies from town to town,

And Apollo takes his pen and writes the hero's title down.

THE RENEGADE

Through the mountains of Moncayo,

Lo! all in arms arrayed,

Rides pagan Bobalias,

Bobalias the renegade.

Seven times he was a Moor, seven times

To Christ he trembling turned;

At the eighth, the devil cozened him

And the Christian cross he spurned,

And took back the faith of Mahomet,

In childhood he had learned.

He was the mightiest of the Moors,

And letters from afar

Had told him how Sevila

Was marshalling for war.

He arms his ships and galleys,

His infantry and horse,

And straight to Guadalquivir's flood

His pennons take their course.

The flags that on Tablada's plain

Above his camp unfold,

Flutter above three hundred tents

Of silk brocade and gold.

In the middle, the pavilion

Of the pagan they prepare;

On the summit a ruby stone is set,

A jewel rich and rare.

It gleams at morn, and when the night

Mantles the world at length,

It pours a ray like the light of day,

When the sun is at its strength.

THE TOWER OF GOLD

Brave Arbolan a prisoner lay

Within the Tower of Gold;

By order of the King there stood

Four guards to keep the hold.

'Twas not because against his King

He played a treacherous part;

But only that Guhala's charms

Had won the captive's heart.

"Guhala, Guhala,

My longing heart must cry;

This mournful vow I utter now--

To see thee or to die."

No longer free those sturdy limbs!

Revenge had bid them bind

The iron chain on hands and feet;

They could not chain his mind!

How dolorous was the warrior's lot!

All hope at last had fled;

And, standing at the window,

With sighing voice he said:

"Guhala, Guhala,

My longing heart must cry;

This mournful vow I utter now--

To see thee or to die."

He turned his eyes to where the banks

Of Guadalquivir lay;

"Inhuman King!" in grief he cried,

"Thy mandates I obey;

Thou bidst them load my limbs with steel;

Thy cruel sentinel

Keeps watch beside my prison door;

Yet who my crime can tell?

"Guhala, Guhala,

My longing heart must cry;

This mournful vow I utter now--

To see thee or to die."

THE DIRGE FOR ALIATAR

No azure-hued tahalia now

Flutters about each warrior's brow;

No crooked scimitars display

Their gilded scabbards to the day.

The Afric turbans, that of yore

Were fashioned on Morocco's shore,

To-day their tufted crown is bare;

There are no fluttering feathers there.

In mourning garments all are clad,

Fit harness for the occasion sad;

But, four by four the mighty throng

In slow procession streams along.

Ah! Aliatar! well he knew

The soldiers of his army true,

The soldiers whose afflicted strain

Gives utterance to their bosom's pain.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

The phoenix that would shine in gold

On the high banner's fluttering fold,

Scarce can the breeze in gladness bring

To spread aloft its waving wing.

It seemed as if the fire of death

For the first time had quenched her breath.

For tribulation o'er the world

The mantle of despair had furled;

There was no breeze the ground to bless,

The plain lay panting in distress;

Beneath the trailing silken shroud

Alfarez carried through the crowd.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

For Aliatar, one sad morn,

Mounted his steed and blew his horn;

A hundred Moors behind him rode;

Fleeter than wind their coursers strode.

Toward Motril their course is made,

While foes the castle town blockade;

There Aliatar's brother lay,

Pent by the foes that fatal day.

Woe work the hour, the day, when he

Vaulted upon his saddle-tree!

Ne'er from that seat should he descend

To challenge foe or welcome friend,

Nor knew he that the hour was near,

His couch should be the funeral bier.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

That day the master's knights were sent,

As if on sport and jousting bent;

And Aliatar, on his way,

By cruel ambush they betray;

With sword and hauberk they surround

And smite the warrior to the ground.

And wounded deep from every vein

He bleeding lies upon the plain.

The furious foes in deadly fight

His scanty followers put to flight,

In panic-stricken fear they fly,

And leave him unavenged to die.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

Ah sadly swift the news has flown

To Zaida in the silent town;

Speechless she sat, while every thought

Fresh sorrow to her bosom brought;

Then flowed her tears in larger flood,

Than from his wounds the tide of blood.

Like dazzling pearls the tear-drops streak

The pallid beauty of her cheek.

Say, Love, and didst thou e'er behold

A maid more fair and knight more bold?

And if thou didst not see him die,

And Zaida's tears of agony,

The bandage on thine orbs draw tight--

That thou mayst never meet the sight!

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

Not only Zaida's eyes are wet,

For him her soul shall ne'er forget;

But many a heart in equal share

The sorrow of that lady bare.

Yes, all who drink the water sweet

Where Genil's stream and Darro meet,

All of bold Albaicins's line,

Who mid Alhambra's princes shine--

The ladies mourn the warrior high,

Mirror of love and courtesy;

The brave lament him, as their peer;

The princes, as their comrade dear;

The poor deplore, with hearts that bleed,

Their shelter in the time of need.

Sadly we march along the crowded street,

While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

THE SHIP OF ZARA

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

Whose name amid the Moorish knights was worshipped everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now was the dominion of King Ferdinand of Spain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Twas I who with deft fingers with gold lace overlaid

The dazzling robes of flowery tint of velvet and brocade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And on the lofty topmast shall this inscription stand,

Written in letters which they use in every Christian land:

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

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

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

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

And let there be upon the fringe round this inscription hung

Another legend which shall say in the Arabian tongue:

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

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

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

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

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

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

HAMETE ALI

Hamete Ali on his way toward the city goes,

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

In sign that no despondency this daring wanderer knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On which are serpents scattered upon a golden field.

Their venomed tongues are quivering and ears before them stand,

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

A lettered motto in the midst which everyone may read,

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

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

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

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

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

In furious rage descending from bold Ubeda's steep,

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

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

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

As if he blamed the serpent upon his shield displayed,

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

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

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

O blight of love, O ruin of aspirations pure!

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet doubtless, 'tis the absent are oftenest forgot,

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

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

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fame of those whose slanderous tongue in banishment endure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Streamed forth from the portcullis with welcome for the knight,

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

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

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

By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

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

Upon the balconies he saw bright dames with faces bare;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brave men and beauteous women in crowds were standing by.

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

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

And from his colt dismounting he laid his lance aside,

And greeted all the multitude that filled the plaza wide.

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

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

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

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

ZAIDE'S LOVE

Then Zaide stood enraptured and gazed with placid eye,

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

Propitious was the moment, and happy was the hour,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To this dark separation a bright and peaceful end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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