McGuffey's Sixth Eclectic Reader Part 50

Day dawned upon Granada, and the beams of the winter sun, smiling away the clouds of the past night, played cheerily on the murmuring waves of the Xenil and the Darro. Alone, upon a balcony commanding a view of the beautiful landscape, stood Boabdil, the last of the Moorish kings. He had sought to bring to his aid all the lessons of the philosophy he had cultivated.

"What are we," thought the musing prince, "that we should fill the world with ourselves--we kings? Earth resounds with the crash of my falling throne; on the ear of races unborn the echo will live prolonged. But what have I lost? Nothing that was necessary to my happiness, my repose: nothing save the source of all my wretchedness, the Marah of my life!

Shall I less enjoy heaven and earth, or thought or action, or man's more material luxuries of food or sleep--the common and the cheap desires of all? Arouse thee, then, O heart within me! Many and deep emotions of sorrow or of joy are yet left to break the monotony of existence. . . .

But it is time to depart." So saying, he descended to the court, flung himself on his barb, and, with a small and saddened train, pa.s.sed through the gate which we yet survey, by a blackened and crumbling tower, overgrown with vines and ivy; thence, amidst gardens now appertaining to the convent of the victor faith, he took his mournful and unwitnessed way.

When he came to the middle of the hill that rises above those gardens, the steel of the Spanish armor gleamed upon him, as the detachment sent to occupy the palace marched over the summit in steady order and profound silence. At the head of this vanguard, rode, upon a snow-white palfrey, the Bishop of Avila, followed by a long train of barefooted monks. They halted as Boabdil approached, and the grave bishop saluted him with the air of one who addresses an infidel and inferior. With the quick sense of dignity common to the great, and yet more to the fallen, Boabdil felt, but resented not, the pride of the ecclesiastic. "Go, Christian," said he, mildly, "the gates of the Alhambra are open, and Allah has bestowed the palace and the city upon your king; may his virtues atone the faults of Boabdil!" So saying, and waiting no answer, he rode on without looking to the right or the left. The Spaniards also pursued their way.

The sun had fairly risen above the mountains, when Boabdil and his train beheld, from the eminence on which they were, the whole armament of Spain; and at the same moment, louder than the tramp of horse or the clash of arms, was heard distinctly the solemn chant of Te Deum, which preceded the blaze of the unfurled and lofty standards. Boabdil, himself still silent, heard the groans and exclamations of his train; he turned to cheer or chide them, and then saw, from his own watchtower, with the sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling surface, the silver cross of Spain. His Alhambra was already in the hands of the foe; while beside that badge of the holy war waved the gay and flaunting flag of St. Iago, the canonized Mars of the chivalry of Spain. At that sight the King's voice died within him; he gave the rein to his barb, impatient to close the fatal ceremonial, and did not slacken his speed till almost within bowshot of the first ranks of the army.

Never had Christian war a.s.sumed a more splendid and imposing aspect. Far as the eye could reach, extended the glittering and gorgeous lines of that goodly power, bristling with sunlit spears and blazoned banners; while beside, murmured, and glowed, and danced, the silver and laughing Xenil, careless what lord should possess, for his little day, the banks that bloomed by its everlasting course. By a small mosque halted the flower of the army. Surrounded by the archpriests of that mighty hierarchy, the peers and princes of a court that rivaled the Rolands of Charlemagne, was seen the kingly form of Ferdinand himself, with Isabel at his right hand, and the highborn dames of Spain, relieving, with their gay colors and sparkling gems, the sterner splendor of the crested helmet and polished mail. Within sight of the royal group, Boabdil halted, composed his aspect so as best to conceal his soul, and, a little in advance of his scanty train, but never in mien and majesty more a king, the son of Abdallah met his haughty conqueror.

At the sight of his princely countenance and golden hair, his comely and commanding beauty, made more touching by youth, a thrill of compa.s.sionate admiration ran through that a.s.sembly of the brave and fair. Ferdinand and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late rival,--their new subject; and, as Boabdil would have dismounted, the Spanish king placed his hand upon his shoulder. "Brother and prince," said he, "forget thy sorrows; and may our friendship hereafter console thee for reverses, against which thou hast contended as a hero and a king--resisting man, but resigned at length to G.o.d."

Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter but unintentional mockery of compliment, He bowed his head, and remained a moment silent; then motioning to his train, four of his officers approached, and, kneeling beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver buckler, the keys of the city. "O king!" then said Boabdil, "accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain! The empire of the Moslem is no more. Thine are the city and the people of Granada; yielding to thy prowess, they yet confide in thy mercy." "They do well," said the king; "our promises shall not be broken. But since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers, not to us, but to gentler hands, shall the keys of Granada be surrendered."

Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil, but the emotion and excitement were too much for her compa.s.sionate heart, heroine and queen though she was; and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresistibly, and her voice died in murmurs. A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and there was a momentary pause of embarra.s.sment, which the Moor was the first to break.

"Fair queen," said he, with mournful and pathetic dignity, "thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues; this is thy last, nor least glorious conquest. But I detain ye; let not my aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell." "Farewell, my brother,"

replied Ferdinand, "and may fair fortune go with you! Forget the past!"

Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound and silent reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving the army below as he ascended the path that led to his new princ.i.p.ality beyond the Alpuxarras. As the trees s.n.a.t.c.hed the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its march; and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslems.

Boabdil spurred on at full speed, till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful wife, Amine--sent on before--awaited him. Joining these, he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path. They ascended that eminence which is the pa.s.s into the Alpuxarras. From its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, and the towers of Granada broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted mechanically and abruptly; every eye was turned to the beloved scene. The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender memories of home, of childhood, of fatherland, swelled every heart, and gushed from every eye.

Suddenly the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel, and rolled along the sunlit valley and crystal river. A universal wail burst from the exiles; it smote,--it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king, in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical philosophy. The tears gushed from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands. The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles; and that place where the king wept is still called The Last Sigh of the Moor.

NOTES.--Granada was the capital of an ancient Moorish kingdom of the same name, in the southeastern part of Spain. The Darro River flows through it, emptying into the Xenil (or Jenil) just outside the city walls. King Ferdinand of Spain drove out the Moors, and captured the city in 1492.

Marah. See Exodus xv. 23.

Avila is an episcopal city in Spain, capital of a province of the same name.

The Te Deum is an ancient Christian hymn, composed by St. Ambrose; it is so called from the first Latin words, "Te Deum laudamus," We praise thee, O G.o.d.

Mars, in mythology, the G.o.d of war.

The Alhambra is the ancient palace of the Moorish kings, at Granada.

Allah is the Mohammedan name for the Supreme Being.

Roland was a nephew of Charlemagne, or Charles the Great, emperor of the West and king of France. He was one of the most famous knights of the chivalric romances.

The Alpuxarras is a mountainous region in the old province of Granada, where the Moors were allowed to remain some time after their subjugation by Ferdinand.

XCIV. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY. (339)

To be, or not to be; that is the question:-- Whether 't is n.o.bler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die,--to sleep,-- No more: and by a sleep to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die,--to sleep:-- To sleep! perchance to dream:--ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death,-- The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveler returns,--puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.

Shakespeare.--Hamlet, Act iii, Scene i.

XCV. GINEVRA. (340)

Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855, was the son of a London banker, and, in company with his father, followed the banking business for some years. He began to write at an early age, and published his "Pleasures of Memory," perhaps his most famous work, in 1792. The next year his father died, leaving him an ample fortune. He now retired from business and established himself in an elegant house in St. James's Place. This house was a place of resort for literary men during fifty years. In 1822 he published his longest poem, "Italy," after which he wrote but little. He wrote with care, spending, as he said, nine years on the "Pleasures of Memory," and sixteen on "Italy." "His writings are remarkable for elegance of diction, purity of taste, and beauty of sentiment." It is said that he was very agreeable in conversation and manners, and benevolent in his disposition; but he was addicted to ill-nature and satire in some of his criticisms.

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance To Modena,--where still religiously Among her ancient trophies, is preserved Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),-- Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.

Its n.o.ble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain thee; through their arche'd walks, Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse Of knights and dames such as in old romance, And lovers such as in heroic song,-- Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, That in the springtime, as alone they sate, Venturing together on a tale of love.

Read only part that day.--A summer sun Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go, Enter the house--prithee, forget it not-- And look awhile upon a picture there.

'T is of a lady in her earliest youth, The very last of that ill.u.s.trious race, Done by Zampieri--but by whom I care not.

He who observes it, ere he pa.s.ses on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half-open, and her finger up, As though she said, "Beware!" her vest of gold, Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart,-- It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs Over a moldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent With scripture stories from the life of Christ; A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old ancestors-- That, by the way, it may be true or false-- But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not, When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire; The young Ginevra was his all in life, Still as she grew, forever in his sight; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.

But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum: And, in the l.u.s.ter of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast, When all sate down, the bride was wanting there.

Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, " 'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And filled his gla.s.s to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.

But now, alas! she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, But that she was not!--Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Orsini lived; and long was to be seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find--he knew not what.

When he was gone, the house remained a while Silent and tenantless--then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That moldering chest was noticed; and 't was said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking place?"

'T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo! a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.

All else had perished, save a nuptial ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "Ginevra."---There then had she found a grave!

Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down forever!

NOTES.--The above selection is part of the poem, "Italy." Of the story Rogers says, "This story is, I believe, founded on fact; though the time and place are uncertain. Many old houses in England lay claim to it."

Modena is the capital of a province of the same name in northern Italy.

Bologna's bucket. This is affirmed to be the very bucket which Ta.s.soni, an Italian poet, has celebrated in his mock heroics as the cause of a war between Bologna and Modena.

Reggio is a city about sixteen miles northwest of Modena.

The Orsini. A famous Italian family in the Middle Ages.