Read Ebook: Moorish Literature Comprising Romantic Ballads Tales of the Berbers Stories of the Kabyles Folk-Lore and National Traditions by Basset Ren Editor

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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 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! This only is the passion that can my bosom rend; 'Tis this alone that makes me long for death, my sufferings end. The plagues of life are naught to me; life's only joy is this-- To see thee and to hear thee and to blush beneath thy kiss! Alas! perchance this evening or to-morrow morn, may be, The lords who hold me here a slave in sad captivity, May, since they think me wanton, their treacherous measures take That I should be a Christian and my former faith forsake. But I tell them, and I weep to tell, that I will ne'er forego The creed my fathers fought for in centuries long ago! And yet I might forswear it, but that that creed divine 'Tis vain I struggle to deny, for, ah, that creed is thine!" King Chico read his lady's note and silent laid it down; Then to the window he drew nigh, and gazed upon the town; And lost in thought he pondered upon each tender line, And sudden tears and a sigh of grief were his inward sorrow's sign. And he called for ink and paper, that Vindaraja's heart Might know that he remembered her and sought to heal its smart. He would tell her that the absence which caused to her those fears Had only made her dearer still, through all those mournful years. He would tell her that his heart was sad, because she was not near-- Yes, far more sad than Moorish slave chained on the south frontier. And then he wrote the letter to the darling Moorish slave, And this is the tender message that royal Chico gave:

THE LETTER OF THE KING

"Thy words have done me grievous wrong, for, lovely Mooress, couldst thou think That he who loves thee more than life could e'er to such a treachery sink? His life is naught without the thought that thou art happy in thy lot; And while the red blood at his heart is beating thou art ne'er forgot! Thou woundest me because thy heart mistrusts me as a fickle fool; Thou dost not know when passion true has one apt pupil taken to school. Oblivion could not, could not cloud the image on his soul impressed, Unless dark treachery from the first had been the monarch of his breast And if perhaps some weary hours I thought that Vindaraja's mind Might in some happier cavalier the solace of her slavery find, I checked the thought; I drove away the vision that with death was rife, For e'er my trust in thee I lost, in battle I'd forego my life! Yet even the doubt that thou hast breathed gives me no franchise to forget, And were I willing that thy face should cease to fill my vision, yet 'Tis separation's self that binds us closer though the centuries roll, And forges that eternal chain that binds together soul and soul! And even were this thought no more than the wild vision of my mind, Yet in a thousand worlds no face to change for thine this heart could find. Thro' life, thro' death 'twere all the same, and when to heaven our glance we raise, Full in the very heart of bliss thine eyes shall meet my ardent gaze. For eyes that have beheld thy face, full readily the truth will own That God exhausted, when he made thee, all the treasures of his throne! And my trusting heart will answer while it fills my veins with fire That to hear of, is to see thee; and to see, is to desire! Yet unless my Vindaraja I could look upon awhile, As some traveller in a desert I should perish for her smile; For 'tis longing for her presence makes the spring of life to me, And allays the secret suffering none except her eye can see. In this thought alone my spirit finds refreshment and delight; This is sweeter than the struggle, than the glory of the fight; And if e'er I could forget her heaving breast and laughing eye, Tender word, and soft caresses--Vindaraja, I should die! If the King should bid me hasten to release thee from thy chain, Oh, believe me, dearest lady, he would never bid in vain; Naught he could demand were greater than the price that I would pay, If in high Alhambra's halls I once again could see thee gay! None can say I am remiss, and heedless of thy dismal fate; Love comes to prompt me every hour, he will not let my zeal abate. If occasion call, I yield myself, my soul to set thee free; Take this offering if thou wilt, I wait thy word on bended knee. Dost thou suffer, noble lady, by these fancies overwrought? Ah, my soul is filled with sorrow at the agonizing thought; For to know that Vindaraja languishes, oppressed with care, Is enough to make death welcome, if I could but rescue her. Yes, the world shall know that I would die not only for the bliss Of clasping thee in love's embrace and kindling at thy tender kiss. This, indeed, would be a prize, for which the coward death would dare-- I would die to make thee happy, tho' thy lot I might not share! Then, though I should fail to lift the burden on my darling laid, Though I could not prove my love by rescuing my Moorish maid, Yet my love would have this witness, first, thy confidence sublime, Then my death for thee, recorded on the scroll of future time! Yes, my death, for should I perish, it were comfort but to think Thou couldst have henceforth on earth no blacker, bitterer cup to drink! Sorrow's shafts would be exhausted, thou couldst laugh at fortune's power. Tho' I lost thee, yet this thought would cheer me in my parting hour. Yet I believe that fate intends That all the love my passions crave will soon a full fruition find; Fast my passion stronger grows, and if of love there measure be, Believe it, dearest, that the whole can find its summary in me! Deem that thou art foully wronged, whose graces have such power to bless, If any of thy subject slaves to thee, their queen, should offer less, And accept this pledged assurance, that oblivion cannot roll O'er the image of thy beauty stamped on this enamored soul. Then dismiss thy anxious musings, let them with the wind away, As the gloomy clouds are scattered at the rising of the day. Think that he is now thy slave, who, when he wooed thee, was thy King; Think that not the brightest morning can to him contentment bring, Till the light of other moments in thy melting eyes he trace, And the gates of Paradise are opened in thy warm embrace. Since thou knowest that death to me and thee will strike an equal blow, It is just that, while we live, our hearts with equal hopes should glow. Then no longer vex thy lover with complaints that he may change; Darling, oft these bitter questions can the fondest love estrange; No, I dream not of estrangement, for thy Chico evermore Thinks upon his Vindaraja's image only to adore."

THE INFANTA SEVILLA AND PERANZUELOS

Upon Toledo's loftiest towers Sevilla kept the height; So wondrous fair was she that love Was blinded at the sight.

She stood amid the battlements, And gazed upon the scene Where Tagus runs through woodland And flowers and glades of green.

And she saw upon the wide highway The figure of a knight; He rode upon a dappled steed, And all his arms were bright.

Seven Moors in chains he led with him, And one arm's length aloof Came a dog of a Moor from Morocco's shore In arms of double proof.

His steed was swift, his countenance In a warlike scowl was set, And in his furious rage he cursed The beard of Mahomet!

He shouted, as he galloped up: "Now halt thee, Christian hound; I see at the head of thy captive band My sire, in fetters bound.

"And the rest are brothers of my blood, And friends I long to free; And if thou wilt surrender all, I'll pay thee gold and fee."

When Peranzuelos heard him, He wheeled his courser round. With lance in rest, he hotly pressed To strike him to the ground; His sudden rage and onset came Swift as the thunder's sound.

The Moor at the first encounter reeled To earth, from his saddle bow; And the Christian knight, dismounting, Set heel on the neck of his foe.

He cleft his head from his shoulders, And, marshalling his train, Made haste once more on his journey Across Toledo's plain.

CELIN'S FAREWELL

He sadly gazes back again upon those bastions high, The towers and fretted battlements that soar into the sky; And Celin, whom the King in wrath has from Granada banned Weeps as he turns to leave for aye his own dear native land; No hope has he his footsteps from exile to retrace; No hope again to look upon his lady's lovely face. Then sighing deep he went his way, and as he went he said: "I see thee shining from afar, As in heaven's arch some radiant star. Granada, queen and crown of loveliness, Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

"Ye springs and founts that sparkling well from yonder mountain-side, And flow with dimpling torrent o'er mead and garden wide, If e'er the tears that from my breast to these sad eyes ascend Should with your happy waters their floods of sadness blend, Oh, take them to your bosom with love, for love has bidden These drops to tell the wasting woe that in my heart is hidden. I see thee shining from afar, As in heaven's arch some radiant star. Granada, queen and crown of loveliness, Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

"Ye balmy winds of heaven, whose sound is in the rippling trees, Whose scented breath brings back to me a thousand memories, Ye sweep beneath the arch of heaven like to the ocean surge That beats from Guadalquivir's bay to earth's extremest verge. Oh, when ye to Granada come , Carry my sighs along with you, and breathe them in the ear Of foes who do me deadly wrong, of her who holds me dear. Oh, tell them all the agony I bear in banishment, That she may share my sorrow, and my foe the King relent. I see thee shining from afar, As in heaven's arch some radiant star. Granada, queen and crown of loveliness, Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress."

CELIN'S RETURN

Now Celin would be merry, and appoints a festal day, When he the pang of absence from his lady would allay: The brave Abencerrages and Gulanes straight he calls, His bosom friends, to join him as he decks his stately halls. And secretly he bids them come, and in secret bids them go; For the day of merriment must come unnoticed by his foe; For peering eyes and curious ears are watching high and low, But he only seeks one happy day may reparation bring For the foul and causeless punishment inflicted by the King. "For in the widest prison-house is misery for me, And the stoutest heart is broken unless the hand is free."

His followers all he bade them dress in Christian array, With rude and rustic mantles of color bright and gay; With silken streamers in their caps, their caps of pointed crown, With flowing blouse, and mantle and gaberdine of brown. But he himself wore sober robes of white and lion gray, The emblems of the hopeless grief in which the warrior lay. And the thoughts of Adalifa, of her words and glancing eyes, Gave colors of befitting gloom to tint his dark disguise. And he came with purpose to perform some great and glorious deed, To drive away the saddening thoughts that made the bosom bleed. "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart is broken unless the arm be free."

There streams into Granada's gate a stately cavalcade Of prancing steeds caparisoned, and knights in steel arrayed; And all their acclamations raise, when Celin comes in sight-- "The foremost in the tournament, the bravest in the fight"-- And Moorish maiden Cegri straight to the window flies, To see the glittering pageant and to hear the joyous cries. She calls her maidens all to mark how, from misfortune free, The gallant Celin comes again, the ladies' knight is he! They know the story of his fate and undeserved disgrace, And eagerly they gaze upon the splendor of his face. Needs not his exploit in the fields, his valorous deeds to tell-- The ladies of Granada have heard and know them well! "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arm be free."

The beauty of Granada crowds Elvira's gate this night; There are straining necks and flushing cheeks when Celin comes in sight; And whispered tales go round the groups, and hearts indignant swell, As they think what in Granada that hero knight befell. Now a thousand Moorish warriors to Celin's fame aspire, And a thousand ladies gaze on him with passionate desire. And they talk of Adalifa, to whom he made his vow, Though neither speech nor written page unites them longer now. "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arms be free."

BAZA REVISITED

CAPTIVE ZARA

In Palma there was little joy, so lovely Zara found; She felt herself a slave, although by captive chain unbound. In Palma's towers she wandered from all the guests apart; For while Palma had her body, 'twas Baza held her heart. And while her heart was fixed on one, her charms no less enthralled The heart of this brave cavalier, Celin Andalla called. Ah, hapless, hapless maiden, for in her deep despair She did not know what grief her face had caused that knight to bear; And though the Countess Palma strove with many a service kind To show her love, to soothe the pang that wrung the maiden's mind, Yet borne upon the tempest of the captive's bitter grief, She never lowered the sail to give her suffering heart relief. And, in search of consolation to another captive maid, She told the bitter sorrow to no one else displayed. She told it, while the tears ran fast, and yet no balm did gain, For it made more keen her grief, I ween, to give another pain. And she said to her companion, as she clasped her tender hand: "I was born in high Granada, my loved, my native land; For years within Alhambra's courts my life ran on serene; I was a princess of the realm and handmaid to a queen. Within her private chamber I served both night and day, And the costliest jewels of her crown in my protection lay. To her I was the favorite of all the maids she knew; And, ah! my royal mistress I loved, I loved her true! No closer tie I owned on earth than bound me to her side; No closer tie; I loved her more than all the world beside. But more I loved than aught on earth, the gallant Moorish knight, Brave Celin, who is solely mine, and I his sole delight. Yes, he was brave, and all men own the valor of his brand; Yes, and for this I loved him more than monarchs of the land. For me he lived, for me he fought, for me he mourned and wept, When he saw me in this captive home like a ship to the breakers swept. He called on heaven, and heaven was deaf to all his bitter cry, For the victim of the strife of kings, of the bloody war, was I; It was my father bade him first to seek our strong retreat. Would God that he had never come to Baza's castle seat! Would God that he had never come, an armored knight, to stand Amid the soldiers that were ranked beneath my sire's command. He came, he came, that valiant Moor, beneath our roof to rest. His body served my father; his heart, my sole behest; What perils did he face upon that castle's frowning height! Winning my father's praise, he gained more favor in my sight. And when the city by the bands of Christians was assailed, My soul 'neath terrors fiercer still in lonely terror quailed. For I have lost my sire, and I have lost my lover brave, For here I languish all alone, a subject and a slave. And yet the Moor, altho' he left with me his loving heart, I fear may have forgotten that I own his better part. And now the needle that I ply is witness to the state Of bondage, which I feel to-day with heart disconsolate. And here upon the web be writ, in the Arabian tongue, The legend that shall tell the tale of how my heart is wrung. Here read: 'If thou hast ta'en my heart when thou didst ride away, Remember that myself, my living soul, behind thee stay.' And on the other side these words embroidered would I place: 'The word shall never fail that once I spake before thy face.' And on the border underneath this posy, written plain: 'The promise that I made to thee still constant shall remain.' And last of all, this line I add, the last and yet the best: 'Thou ne'er shalt find inconstancy in this unchanging breast.' Thus runs the embroidery of love, and in the midst appears A phoenix, painted clear, the bird that lives eternal years. For she from the cold ashes of life at its last wane, Takes hope, and spreads her wings and soars through skyey tracks again. And there a hunter draws his bow outlined with skilful thread, And underneath a word which says, 'Nay, shoot not at the dead.'" Thus spake the Moorish maiden, and in her eyes were tears of grief, Tho' in her busy needle she seemed to find relief. And the kindly countess called from far: "Zara, what aileth thee? Where art thou? For I called, and yet thou didst not answer me."

THE JEALOUS KING

The other band came forth to save Azarque from his foes, But the stout Moor waves his hand to them ere they in battle close. Then calmly cries: "Tho' love, it seems, has no respect for law, 'Tis right that ye keep peace to-day and from the lists withdraw! Nay, gentlemen, your lances lower before it be too late; And let our foes their lances raise, in sign of passion's hate; Thus without blood accorded be a victory and defeat. 'Tis only bloodshed makes the one more bitter or more sweet, For arms or reason unavailing prove To curb the passions of a king in love."

At last they seize the struggling Moor, the chains are on his hands; And the populace, with anger filled, arrange themselves in bands. They place a guard at every point, in haste to set him free, But where the brave commander who shall lead to victory? And where the leader who shall shout and stir their hearts to fight? These are but empty braggarts, but prowlers of the night, Cut-throats and needy idlers--and so the tumult ends-- Azarque lies in prison, forsaken by his friends. For, ah, both arms and reason powerless prove To turn the purpose of a king in love.

Alone does Celindaja the coward crowd implore, "Oh, save him, save him, generous friends, give back to me my Moor." She stands upon the balcony and from that lofty place Would fling herself upon the stones to save him from disgrace. Her mother round the weeping girl has flung her withered arm. "O fool," she whispers in her ear, "in Mary's name be calm!" Thou madly rushest to thy death by this distracted show. Surely thou knowest well this truth, if anyone can know, How arms and reason powerless prove To turn the purpose of a king in love.

Then came a message of the King, in which the monarch said That a house wherein his kindred dwelt must be a prison made. Then Celindaja, white with rage: "Go to the King and say I choose to be my prison-house for many and many a day, The memory of Azarque, in which henceforth I live: But the treachery of a monarch my heart will not forgive. For the will of one weak woman shall never powerless prove To turn the foolish purpose of a king who is in love.

"Alas for thee, Toledo! in former times they said That they called thee for vengeance upon a traitor's head. But now 'tis not on traitors, but on loyal men and true That they call to thee for vengeance, which to caitiff hearts are due. And Tagus gently murmurs in his billows fresh and free And hastens from Toledo to reach the mighty sea." E'er she said more, they seized the dame, and led her to the gate, Where the warden of the castle in solemn judgment sate.

THE LOVERS OF ANTEQUERA

The brave Hamete reined his steed and from the crupper bent, To greet fair Tartagona, who saw him with content, The daughter of Zulema, who had many a foe repelled From the castle on the hill, which he in Archidora held; For six-and-thirty years he kept the Christian host at bay, A watchful warden, fearless of the stoutest foes' array. And now adown the well-known path, a secret path and sure, Led by the noble lady, hurried the gallant Moor. The sentinels beneath the wall were careless, or they slept; They heeded not Hamete as down the slope he crept. And when he reached the level plain, full twenty feet away, He hobbled fast his courser, lest he should farther stray. Then to the Moorish lady he turned, as if to speak, Around her waist he flung his arms and kissed her on the cheek. "O goddess of my heart," he said, "by actions I will prove, If thou wilt name some high emprise, how faithful is my love! And in Granada I am great, and have much honored been, Both by the King Fernando and Isabel his Queen. My name is high, my lineage long, yet none of all my line Have reached the pitch of glory which men allow is mine. Narvarez is a knight of name, in love and arms adept, In Antequera's castle he well the marches kept. Jarifa was a captive maid, he loved Jarifa well, And oft the maiden visited within her prison cell. And, if the thing with honor and virtuous heart may be, What he did with Jarifa, that would I do with thee." A star was shining overhead upon the breast of night, The warrior turned his course, and led the lady by its light. They reached the foot of one tall rock, and stood within the shade, Where thousand thousand ivy leaves a bower of beauty made. They heard the genet browsing and stamping as he fed, And smiling Love his pinions over the lovers spread. But ere they reached the pleasant bower, they saw before them stand, Armed to the teeth, with frowning face, a strange and savage band. Yes, seventy men with sword in hand surrounded dame and knight, The robbers of the mountain, and they trembled at the sight! With one accord these freebooters upon Hamete fell, Like hounds that on the stag at bay rush at the hunter's call, Burned the Moor's heart at once with wrath, at once with passion's flame, To save the life and, more than life, the honor of his dame. Straight to his feet he sprung and straight he drew his mighty sword, And plunged into the robber crowd and uttered not a word. No jousting game was e'er so brisk as that which then he waged; On arm and thigh with deadly blow the slashing weapon raged; Though certain was his death, yet still, with failing heart, he prayed That till his lady could escape, that death might be delayed. But, in the dark, a deadly stone, flung with no warning sound, Was buried in his forehead and stretched him on the ground. The breath his heaving bosom left and, from his nerveless hand, The sword fell clattering to the ground, before that bloody band. And when the damsel saw herself within those caitiffs' power, And saw the city mantled in the darkness of the hour, No grief that ever woman felt was equal to her pain, And no despair like that of hers shall e'er be known again. Those villains did not see those locks, that shone like threads of gold; Only the summer sunlight their wondrous beauty told. They did not mark the glittering chain of gold and jewels fine, That in the daylight would appear her ivory throat to twine. But straight she took the scimitar, that once her lover wore, It lay amid the dewy grass, drenched to the hilt in gore. And, falling on the bloody point, she pierced her bosom through, And Tartagona breathed her last, mourned by that robber crew. And there she lay, clasping in death her lover's lifeless face, Her valor's paragon, and she the glass of woman's grace. And since that hour the tale is told, while many a tear-drop falls, Of the lovers of the vega by Antequera's walls. And they praise the noble lady and they curse the robber band, And they name her the Lucretia of fair Andalusia's land. And if the hearer of the tale should doubt that it be true, Let him pass along the mountain road, till Ronda comes in view, There must he halt and searching he may the story trace In letters that are deeply cut on the rocky mountain's face.

TARFE'S TRUCE

"Oho, ye Catholic cavaliers Who eye Granada day and night, On whose left shoulder is the cross, The crimson cross, your blazon bright.

"If e'er your youthful hearts have felt The flame of love that brings delight, As angry Mars, in coat of steel, Feels the fierce ardor of the fight;

"If 'tis your will, within our walls, To join the joust, with loaded reed, As ye were wont, beneath these towers The bloody lance of war to speed;

"If bloodless tumult in the square May serve instead of battle's fray, And, donning now the silken cloak, Ye put the coat of steel away;

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