Moorish Literature Part 10

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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.ddess 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 pa.s.sion'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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 gra.s.s, drenched to the hilt in gore.

And, falling on the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 gla.s.s 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.s 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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;

"Six troops of Saracens are here; Six Christian troops, with targe and steed Be ready, when the day is fixed, To join the jousting of the reed.

"For 'tis not right that furious war, Which sets the city's roofs in flames, Should kindle with a fruitless fire The tender bosom of our dames.

"In spite of all we suffer here Our ladies are with you arrayed, They pity you in this fierce war, This labor of the long blockade.

"Amid the hardships of the siege Let pleasure yield a respite brief; (For war must ever have its truce) And give our hardships some relief.

"What solace to the war-worn frame, To every soul what blest release, To fling aside the targe and mail, And don one hour the plumes of peace!

"And he who shall the victor be Among the jousters of the game, I pledge my knightly word to him, In token of his valorous fame,

"On his right arm myself to bind The favor of my lady bright; 'Twas given me by her own white hand, The hand as fair as it is white."

'Twas thus that Tarfe, valiant Moor, His proclamation wrote at large; He, King Darraja's favored squire, Has nailed the cartel to his targe.

'Twas on the day the truce was made, By Calatrava's master bold, To change the quarters of his camp, And with his foes a conference hold.

Six Moorish striplings Tarfe sent In bold Abencerraje's train-- His kindred both in race and house-- To meet the leaguers on the plain.

In every tent was welcome warm; And when their challenge they display, The master granted their request To join the joust on Easter day.

In courteous words that cartel bold He answered; and a cavalcade Of Christians, with the Moorish guards, Their journey to Granada made.

The guise of war at once was dropped; The armory closed its iron door; And all put on the damask robes That at high festival they wore.

The Moorish youths and maidens crowd, With joyful face, the city square; These mount their steeds, those sit and braid Bright favors for their knights to wear.

Those stern antagonists in war, Like friends, within the town are met; And peacefully they grasp the hand, And for one day the past forget.

And gallant Almarada comes (Not Tarfe's self more brave, I ween), Lord of a lovely Moorish dame, Who rules her lover like a queen.

A hundred thousand favors she In public or in private gives, To show her lover that her life Is Almarada's while she lives!