Moorish Literature
Page 18
Thou plantest many a stain;
The pillars of thine ancient house
Will ne'er be firm again.
But, oh, may Allah vengeance take
For thine unkind deceit,
And sorely weeping mayst thou pay
The vengeance that is meet.
Thus shalt thou pay--thy lover's bliss
Thou shalt not, canst not share,
But feel the bitter mockery
Thy day-long shame must bear.
And what revenge 'twill be to note
When thou dost kiss his brow,
How thy gold tresses, soft and light,
Blend with his locks of snow;
And what revenge to hear him
To thee his loves recount,
Praising some Moorish lass, or mark
His sons thy staircase mount.
Yes, thou shalt pay the penalty,
When, from sweet Genil's side,
Thou passest to the stormy waves
Of Tagus' rushing tide;
Abencerrajes are not there,
And from thy balcony
Thou shalt not hear the horsemen
With loud hoof rushing by.
Thoughts of lost days shall haunt thee then
And lay thy spirit waste,
When thy past glories thou shalt see
All faded and effaced;
All gone, those sweet, seductive wiles--
The love note's scented scroll--
The words, and blushing vows, that brought
Damnation to thy soul.
Thus the bright moments of the past
Shall rise to memory's eye,
Like vengeance-bearing ministers
To mock thy misery.
For time is father of distress;
And he whose life is long
Experiences a thousand cares,
A thousand shapes of wrong.
Thou shalt be hated in the court,
And hated in the stall,
Hated in merry gathering,
In dance and festival.
Thou shalt be hated far and wide;
And, thinking on this hate,
Wilt lay it to the black offence
That thou didst perpetrate.
Then thou wilt make some weak defence,
And plead a father's will,
That forced thee shuddering to consent
To do the act of ill.
Enjoy then him whom thus constrained
Thou choosest for thine own;
But know, when love would have his way,
He scorns a father's frown.
THE GALLEY-SLAVE OF DRAGUT
Ah, fortune's targe and butt was he,
On whom were rained the strokes from hate
From love that had not found its goal,
From strange vicissitudes of fate.
A galley-slave of Dragut he,
Who once had pulled the laboring oar,
Now, 'mid a garden's leafy boughs,
He worked and wept in anguish sore.
"O Mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.
They took me from the galley bench;
A gardener's slave they set me here,
That I might tend the fruit and flowers
Through all the changes of the year;
Wise choice, indeed, they made of me!
For when the drought has parched the field,
The clouds that overcast my heart
Shall rain in every season yield.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.
"They took me from the galley's hold;
It was by heaven's all-pitying grace.
Yet, even in this garden glade,
Has fortune turned away her face.
Though lighter now my lot of toil,
Yet is it heavier, since no more
My tear-dimmed eyes, my heart discern,
Across the sea, my native shore.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.
"And you, ye exiles, who afar
In many a foreign land have strayed;
And from strange cities o'er the sea
A second fatherland have made--
Degenerate sons of glorious Spain!
One thing ye lacked to keep you true,
The love no stranger land could share;
The courage that could fate subdue.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return."
THE CAPTIVE'S LAMENT
Where Andalusia's plains at length end in the rocky shore,
And the billows of the Spanish sea against her boundaries roar,
A thousand ruined castles, that were once the haughty pride
Of high Cadiz, in days long past, looked down upon the tide.
And on the loftiest of them all, in melancholy mood,
A solitary captive that stormy evening stood.
For he had left the battered skiff that near the land wash lay,
And here he sought to rest his soul, and while his grief away,
While now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
Ah, yes, beneath the fierce levant, the wild white horses pranced;
With rising rage the billows against those walls advanced;
But stormier were the thoughts that filled his heart with bitter pain,
As he turned his tearful eyes once more to gaze upon the main.
"O hostile sea," these words at last burst from his heaving breast;
"I know that I return to die, but death at least is rest.
Then let me on my native shore again in freedom roam,
For here alone is shelter, for here at last is home."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
'Twas Tagus' banks to me a child my home and nurture gave;
Ungrateful land, that lets me pine unransomed as a slave.
For now to-day, a dying man, am I come back again,
And I must lay my bones on this, the farthest shore of Spain.
It is not only exile's sword that cuts me to the heart;
It is not only love for her from whom they bade me part;
Nor only that I suffer, forgot by every friend,
But, ah! it is the triple blow that brings me to my end."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
"The fire with which my bosom burns, alas! thy coolest breeze
Can never slake, nor can its rage thy coolest wave appease;
The earth can bring no solace to the ardor of my pain,
And the whole ocean waters were poured on it in vain.
For it is like the blazing sun that sinks in ocean's bed,
And yet, with ardor all unquenched, next morning rears its head.
Thus from the sea my suffering's flame has driven me once more,
And here I land, without a hope, upon this arid shore."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
"Oh, call me not, oh, call me not, thou voice of other years,
The fire that flames within my heart has dried the spring of tears.
And, while my eyes might well pour forth those bitter drops of pain,
&
nbsp; The drought of self-consuming grief has quenched the healing rain.
Here, let me cry aloud for her, whom once I called mine own,
For well I wot that loving maid for me has made her moan.
'Tis for her sake my flight I urge across the sea and land,
And now 'twixt shore and ocean's roar I take my final stand."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
Then stooping to the earth he grasped the soil with eager hand,
He kissed it, and with water he mixed the thirsty sand.
"O thou," he said, "poor soil and stream, in the Creator's plan
Art the end and the beginning of all that makes us man!
From thee rise myriad passions, that stir the human breast,
To thee at last, when all is o'er, they sink to find their rest.
Thou, Earth, hast been my mother, and when these pangs are o'er,
Thou shalt become my prison-house whence I can pass no more."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
And now he saw the warring winds that swept across the bay
Had struck the battered shallop and carried it away.
"O piteous heaven," he cried aloud, "my hopes are like yon bark:
Scattered upon the storm they lie and never reach their mark."
And suddenly from cloudy heavens came down the darkling night
And in his melancholy mood the captive left the height.
He gained his boat, with trembling hand he seized the laboring oar
And turning to the foaming wave he left his native shore.
"Ah, well I wot on ocean's breast when loud the tempest blows
Will rest be found when solid ground denies the heart repose.
Now let the hostile sea perceive no power of hers I dread,
But rather ask her vengeance may fall upon my head."
Into the night the shallop turned, while floated far behind
The captive's lamentation like a streamer on the wind.
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
STRIKE SAIL!
A Turkish bark was on the sea, the sunny sea of Spain,
In sight of cliffs that Hercules made boundaries of the main;
And one, Celimo's captive slave, as fierce the billows grew,
Was listening as the ship-master this order gave the crew:
"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is rising fast! Strike sail!"
Fierce fell on them the opposing winds, the ship was helpless driven;
And with the ocean's flood were blent the thunder-drops of heaven.
And as the inky clouds were rent, the fiery lightning flared,
And 'mid the terror-stricken crew one voice alone was heard:
"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is rising fast! Strike sail!"
And one there sat upon the deck, in captive misery,
Whose tears ran mingling with the flood, the flood of sky and sea.
Lost in the tempest of his thoughts, he fondly breathed a prayer,
Whose mournful words were echoed by the mount of his despair:
"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is rising fast! Strike sail!"
"If I am captive and a slave, the time shall come when God
Will bring me freed, to tread once more my own, my native sod!
Then all my ancient glory shall return to me for aye.
Till then, my soul, be patient and wait that happy day!"
"Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is rising fast! Strike sail!"
THE CAPTIVE'S ESCAPE
The fair Florida sat at ease, upon a summer's day,
Within a garden green and fair that by the river lay,
And gayly asked that he her spouse would tell his darling wife
The cause of his captivity, the history of his life.
"Now tell me, dearest husband, I pray thee tell me true,
Who were thy parents, and what land thy birth and nurture knew?
And wherefore did they take thee a captive from that place,
And who has given thee liberty, thy homeward path to trace?"
"Yes, I will tell thee, gentle wife, and I will tell thee true,
For tender is the light I see within thine eyes of blue.
In Ronda did my father raise his castle on the height;
And 'twas in Antequera first my mother saw the light.
Me, to this dark captivity, the dastard Moors ensnared,
Just as the peace had ended and war was not declared.
They took me off in fetters, to barter me for gold,
Velez-de-la-Gomèra was the town where I was sold.
Seven weary days, and for each day a long and weary night,
They set me on the auction-block, before the people's sight.
Yet not a Moorish gentleman and not a Moorish wife
A maravedi offered for the mournful captive's life.
At last there came a Moorish dog, in rich attire, and gave
A thousand golden pieces to have me for his slave.
He led me to his lofty house, and bade me there remain,
Mocked by his lowest underlings, and loaded with a chain.
Ah! vile the life he led me, and deep revenge I swore;
Ah! black the life he gave me, and hard the toils I bore!
By day I beat the piled-up hemp cut from the vega plain;
By night, within the darkened mill, I ground for him the grain.
And though the very corn I ground, I longed to take for meat,
He placed a bridle on my mouth that I should nothing eat!
Therefore, it pleased the God who rules the heavens, the land, the sea,
That the mistress of that mighty house looked tenderly on me.
And when the Moor a-hunting went, one happy autumn day,
She came into my prison-house and took my chains away;
She bade me sit upon her lap, I answered with delight;
Ah, many a gallant present she made to me that night!
She bathed me and she washed my wounds, and garments fresh she gave,
Far brighter than were fit to deck the body of a slave;
And love's delight we shared that night, for I grew gay and bold!
And in the morn she gave to me a hundred crowns of gold.
She oped the gates, she bade me, with smiles, once more be free;
We fled, for fear that Moorish hound would slay both her and me.
And so it pleased the God who rules the earth and heavens above,
To prove his deep compassion and the greatness of his love;
And thus my sad captivity, my days of wandering, o'er,
Florida, in thy loving arms I nestle as of yore!"
THE SPANIARD OF ORAN
Right gallant was that gentleman, the warlike knight of Spain,
Who served the King in Oran, with sword and lances twain;
But, with his heart's devotion and passion's ardent fire,
He served a gentle Afric maid of high and noble sire.
And she was fair as noble, and well could she requite
The devotion of a lover and the courage of a knight.
And when one summer evening they paid their vows again,
They heard the alarum ring to arms across the darkling plain;
For the foes' approach had roused the watch and caused the war-like sound.
The silver moon had shed its ray upon their targes round,
The targes shot the message to the silent watch-towers by,
And watch-towers sent their tidings by flames that lit the sky;
And the fires had called the bells on high to ring their clear
alarms--
That tocsin roused the lover locked in the lady's arms.
Ah, sorely felt he in his heart the spur of honor prick,
But love's appeal that held him, it pierced him to the quick.
'Twas cowardice to dally and shrink that foe to face,
But, ah, it was ingratitude to leave her in that case.
And hanging round her lover's neck, she saw that he turned pale,
And seized his sword and cast one glance upon his coat of mail;
And, with a burst of sighs and tears she bowed her beauteous head;
"Oh, rise, my lord, gird on thy arms, and join the fray," she said;
"Oh, let my tears this couch bedew; this couch of joy shall be
As dolorous as the dreary field of battle, without thee!
Arm, arm thyself and go to war! Hark, hark! the foes approach.
Thy general waits; oh, let him not thy knightliness reproach!
Oh, direly will he visit thee for cowardice to-day,
For dire the crime in any clime of soldiers who betray.
Well canst thou glide unnoticed to the camp, without thy sword;
Wilt thou not heed my tears, my sighs--begone without a word!
Thy bosom is not made of flesh, for, ah! thou canst not feel,
Thou hast no need of arms in fight, for it is hard as steel."
The Spaniard gazed upon her, his heart was full of pride;
She held him fast and even her words retained him at her side.
"Lady," he said, and kissed her, "spite of thy words unwise,
Thou art as sweet as ever in thy lover's faithful eyes.
And since to love and honor this night thou hast appealed,
I take my arms and go, for right it is to thee I yield;
I go into the battle and my body seeks the fight,
But my soul behind me lingers in thy bosom of delight;
Oh, grant me, Lord and Master, to seek the camp below,
Oh, let me take the name to-night and I will cheerful go,
Bearing the sword, the lance, and coat of mail against the foe!"
MOORISH ROMANCES
THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL