Moorish Literature Part 24

What boots it, Lindaraja, that I, at Jaen's gate, That unsurrendered city, have met my final fate?

What boots it, that this city proud will ne'er the Soldan own, For thee and not for Jaen this hour I make my moan; I weep for Lindaraja, I weep to think that she May mourn a hostage and a slave in long captivity.

But worse than this that some proud Moor will take thee to his heart, And all thy thoughts of Reduan new love may bid depart.

And dwelling on thy beauty he will deem it better far, To win fair Lindaraja than all the spoils of war, Yet would I pray if Mahomet, whose servant I have been, Should ever from the throne of G.o.d look on this b.l.o.o.d.y scene, And deem it right to all my vows requital fit to make, And for my valor who attacked the town I could not take, That he would make thy constancy as steadfast as the tower Of Jaen's mighty fortress, that withstood the Moorish power; Now as my life be ebbing fast, my spirit is oppressed, And Reduan the warrior bold is sinking to his rest, Oh, may my prayers be answered, if so kind heaven allow, And may the King forgive me for the failure of my vow, And, Lindaraja, may my soul, when it has taken its flight, And for the sweet Elysian fields exchange these realms of night, Contented in the joys and peace of that celestial seat, Await the happy moment when we once more shall meet."

THE AGED LOVER

'Twas from a lofty balcony a.r.s.elia looked down On golden Tagus' crystal stream that hemmed Toledo's town; And now she watched the eddies that dimpled in the flood And now she landward turned her eye to gaze on waste and wood, But in all that lay around her she sought for rest in vain, For her heart, her heart was aching, and she could not heal the pain.

'Tis of no courtly gallant the Moorish damsel dreams, No lordly emir who commands the fort by Tagus' streams, 'Twas on the banks of Tornes stood the haughty towers of note Where the young alcayde loved by the maid from cities dwelt remote.

And never at Almanzor's court had he for honor sought, Though he dwelt in high Toledo in fair a.r.s.elia's thought; And now she dreams of love's great gift, of pa.s.sion's deep delight, When far away from her palace walls a stranger came in sight.

It was no gallant lovelorn youth she saw approaching fast, It was the hero Reduan whose vernal years were past.

He rode upon a sorrel horse and swiftly he came nigh, And stood where the dazzling sun beat down upon her balcony; And with a thoughtful air upon the maiden turned his eye, For suddenly the aged knight feels all his heart on fire, And all the frost of his broken frame is kindling with desire.

And while he fain would hide his pain he paces up and down Before the palace turrets that Toledo's rampart crown.

With anger glows the maiden's mind, "Now get thee gone," she cries, "For can it be that love of me in blood like thine can rise?

I sicken at the very thought; thy locks, old man, are gray, Thy baldness and thy trembling hand a doting age betray.

Ah, little must thou count my years of beauty and of bloom, If thou wouldst wed them with a life thus tottering to the tomb, Decrepitude is now thy lot, and wherefore canst thou dare To ask that youthful charms these vile infirmities should share?"

And Moorish Reduan heard her words, and saw the meaning plain.

Advancing to the balcony he answered her again: "The sun is king of everything, o'er all he holds his sway, And thou art like the sun--thy charms I own and I obey; Thy beauty warms my veins again, and in its rays, forsooth, I feel the blithe, courageous mood of long-forgotten youth; Sure love of mine can harm thee not, as sunlight is not lost When its kind radiance dissolves the fetters of the frost."

Then turning round, a parchment did Reduan unfold, And on it was a writing in characters of gold; The meaning of the posy at once the maiden caught: "Since I can venture, I can have; as yet, I am not naught."

He shows upon his s.h.i.+eld a sun, circled with burning rays; And on the rim was written a little verse which says, "Two suns, one on my s.h.i.+eld, and one in beauty's eyes, I trace."

Then at the cold disdain he saw upon her lovely face, He covered with a gauzy veil the blazon of his s.h.i.+eld, "The sun upon my targe," he cried, "before thy light must yield."

But as the maid still pouted and eyed him with disdain, "The mimic sun," continued he, "which here is blazoned plain, Is overcast and hides itself from the true orb of day, And I by beauty's radiance eclipsed must ride away."

And as he spoke the Moor struck deep the rowels in his steed, And rode away from Tagus' side across the gra.s.sy mead.

The Moorish maiden recked not if he were far or near, Her thoughts returned to fancies sweet of her absent cavalier.

FICKLENESS REBUKED

While in the foeman's ruddy gore I waded to the breast, And for mine own, my native sh.o.r.e Fought braver than the best, While the light cloak I laid aside, And doffed the damask fold, And donned my s.h.i.+rt of mail, the spoil Of foeman brave and bold, Thou, fickle Mooress, puttest on Thine odorous brocade, And hand in hand with thy false love Wert sitting in the shade.

Thus on the scutcheon of thy sires 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 la.s.s, or mark His sons thy staircase mount.

Yes, thou shalt pay the penalty, When, from sweet Genil's side, Thou pa.s.sest to the stormy waves Of Tagus' rus.h.i.+ng tide; Abencerrajes are not there, And from thy balcony Thou shalt not hear the hors.e.m.e.n With loud hoof rus.h.i.+ng 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 blus.h.i.+ng vows, that brought d.a.m.nation 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 b.u.t.t 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e.

O mother Spain! for thy blest sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e."

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, 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 sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.sions, 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 pa.s.s no more."

And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow, And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.