Moorish Literature Part 13

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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 n.o.bles of the land the conqueror embrace; He sees the blush of pa.s.sion 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 t.i.tle 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 st.u.r.dy 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 fas.h.i.+oned on Morocco's sh.o.r.e, 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 hoa.r.s.ely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

The phoenix that would s.h.i.+ne 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 hoa.r.s.ely 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 hoa.r.s.ely 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 hoa.r.s.ely 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 hoa.r.s.ely 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 s.h.i.+ne-- 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 hoa.r.s.ely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

THE s.h.i.+P OF ZARA

It was the Moorish maiden, the fairest of the fair, Whose name amid the Moorish knights was wors.h.i.+pped everywhere.