Moorish Literature
Page 9
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 st
rokes 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,
&
nbsp; 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,