by René Basset
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, 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
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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!