Moorish Literature Part 20

The river crossed, he spurred his steed, Lest he might reach the gate Of Jarez at an hour unfit, Too early or too late.

For Zaida, his own Zaida, Had scorned her lover leal, Wedding a rich and potent Moor A native of Seville; The nephew of a castellan, A Moorish prince of power, Who in Seville was seneschal Of castle and of tower.

By this accursed bridal Life's treasure he had lost; The Moor had gained the treasure, And now must pay the cost.

The second hour of night had rung When, on his gallant steed, He pa.s.sed thro' Jerez' gate resolved Upon a desperate deed.

And lo! to Zaida's dwelling With peaceful mien he came, Pondering his b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance Upon that house of shame.

For he will pa.s.s the portal, And strike the bridegroom low; But first must cross the wide, wide court, Ere he can reach his foe.

And he must pa.s.s the crowd of men, Who in the courtyard stand, Lighting the palace of the Moor, With torches in their hand.

And Zaida in the midst comes forth, Her lover at her side; He has come, amid his groomsmen, To take her for his bride.

And bold Gazul feels his heart bound With fury at the sight; A lion's rage is in his soul, His brow is black as night.

But now he checks his anger, And gently on his steed Draws near, with smile of greeting, That none may balk the deed.

And when he reached the bridal, Where all had taken their stand, Upon his mighty sword-hilt He sudden laid his hand; And in a voice that all could hear "Base craven Moor," said he, "The sweet, the lovely Zaida Shall ne'er be bride to thee.

And count me not a traitor, I Defy thee face to face, Lay hand upon thy scimitar If thou hast heart of grace."

And with these words he dealt one stroke, A cruel stroke and true, It reached the Moor, it struck his heart And pierced it through and through.

Down fell the wretch, that single stroke Had laid him with the dead-- "Now let him die for all his deeds,"

The a.s.sembled people said.

Gazul made bravely his defence, And none could check his flight; He dashed his rowels in his steed, And vanished in the night.

GAZUL AND ALBENZAIDE

"Tho' thou the lance can hurl as well As one a reed might cast, Talk not of courage for thy crimes Thy house's honor blast.

Seek not the revel or the dance, Loved by each Moorish dame.

The name of valor is not thine, Thou hast a coward's name; And lay aside thy mantle fair Thy veil and gaberdine, And boast no more of gold and gems-- Thou hast disgraced thy line.

And see thine arms, for honor fit, Are cheap and fashioned plain; Yet such that he whose name is lost May win it back again.

And Albenzaide keep thy tastes Proportioned to thy state; For oft from unrestrained desires Spring hopes infatuate.

Flee from thy thoughts, for they have wings, Whose light ambition lifts Thy soul to empty alt.i.tudes, Where purpose veers and drifts.

Fling not thyself into the sea, From which the breezes blow Now with abrupt disdain, and now With flattering whispers low.

For liberty once forfeited Is hard to be regained, And hardest, when the forfeit falls On heart and hand unstained."

Thus spake Gazul, the Moorish lord Of fame and honor bright; Yet, as a craven beggar, Fair Zaida scorned the knight.

GAZUL'S ARMS

"Now scour for me my coat of mail, Without delay, my page, For, so grief's fire consumes me, Thy haste will be an age; And take from out my bonnet The verdant plumes of pride, Which once Azarco gave me, When he took to him his bride.

And in their place put feathers black, And write this motto there: 'Heavy as lead is now his heart, Oppressed with a leaden care,'

And take away the diamonds, And in their place insert Black gems, that shall to all proclaim The deed that does me hurt, For if thou take away those gems It will announce to all The black and dismal lot that does Unfortuned me befall.

And give to me the buskins plain, Decked by no jewels' glow, For he to whom the world is false Had best in mourning go.

And give to me my lance of war, Whose point is doubly steeled, And, by the blood of Christians, Was tempered in the field.

For well I wish my goodly blade Once more may burnished glow; And if I can to cleave in twain The body of my foe.

And hang upon my baldric, The best of my ten swords.

Black as the midnight is the sheath, And with the rest accords.

Bring me the horse the Christian slave Gave to me for his sire, At Jaen; and no ransom But that did I require.

And even though he be not shod, Make haste to bring him here; Though treachery from men I dread, From beasts I have no fear.

The straps with rich enamel decked I bid you lay aside; And bind the rowels to my heel With thongs of dusky hide."

Thus spake aloud the brave Gazul, One gloomy Tuesday night; Gloomy the eve, as he prepared For victory in the fight.

For on that day the news had come That his fair Moorish maid Had wedded with his bitterest foe, The hated Albenzaide.

The Moor was rich and powerful, But not of lineage high, His wealth outweighed with one light maid Three years of constancy.

Touched to the heart, on hearing this, He stood in arms arrayed, Nor strange that he, disarmed by love, 'Gainst love should draw his blade.

And Venus, on the horizon, Had shown her earliest ray When he Sidonia left, and straight To Jerez took his way.

THE TOURNAMENT

His temples glittered with the spoils and garlands of his love, When stout Gazul to Gelvas came, the jouster's skill to prove.

He rode a fiery dappled gray, like wind he scoured the plain; Yet all her power and mettle could a slender bit restrain; The livery of his pages was purple, green, and red-- Tints gay as was the vernal joy within his bosom shed.

And all had lances tawny gray, and all on jennets rode, Plumes twixt their ears; adown their flanks the costly housings flowed.

Himself upon his gallant steed carries the circling shield, And a new device is blazoned upon its ample field.

The phoenix there is figured, on flaming nest it dies, And from its dust and ashes again it seems to rise.

And on the margin of the shield this motto is expressed: "Tis hard to hide the flames of love once kindled in the breast."

And now the ladies take their seats; each jouster mounts his steed; From footmen and from hors.e.m.e.n flies fast the loaded reed.

And there appears fair Zaida, whom in a luckless day The Moor had loved, but since, that love in loathing pa.s.sed away.

Her treachery had grieved his heart, and she who did the wrong Mourned with repentant heart amid that gay and happy throng.

And with her was Zafira, to whom her husband brings More bliss and happiness than reign amid Granada's kings.

And when she looked at brave Gazul his deeds her grief renew; The more she sees, the more her heart is ravished at the view.

And now she blushes with desire, now grows with envy pale; Her heart is like the changing beam that quivers in the scale.

Alminda sees the lovely dame with sudden anguish start, And speaks with hope she may reveal the secret of her heart.

And troubled Zaida makes reply, "A sudden thought of ill Has flashed across my mind and caused the anguish that I feel."

"'Twere better," said Alminda, "to check thy fancy's flight, For thought can rob the happiest hours of all their deep delight."

Then said the maid of Xerez, "To me thou showest plain Thou hast not felt black envy's tooth nor known what is disdain.

To know it, would thy spirit move to pity my despair, Who writhe and die from agony, in which thou hast no share."

Zafira seized the lady's hand, and silence fell around, As mixed in loud confusion brushed the jousters to the ground.

In came the Berber tribesmen, in varied cloaks arrayed; They ranged themselves in companies against the palisade.

The sound of barbarous trumpets rang, the startled horses reared, And snort and neigh and tramp of hoofs on every side was heard, Then troop meets troop, and valiant hearts the mimic fight pursue; They hurl their javelins o'er the sand and pierce the bucklers through.

Long time the battling hosts contend, until that festive day, The shout, the clash, the applauding cry, in silence die away.

They fain had prayed that time himself would stop Apollo's car.

They hate to see the sunset gloom, the rise of evening's star.

And even when the sun is set, he who a foe discerns, With no less vigor to his targe the loaded javelin turns, The onset joined, each lance discharged, the judge's voice is heard; He bids the heralds sound a truce, and the wide lists are cleared.

ABENUMEYA'S LAMENT

The young Abenumeya, Granada's royal heir, Was brave in battle with his foe and gallant with the fair.

By lovely Felisarda his heart had been ensnared, The daughter of brave Ferri; the captain of the guard.

He through the vega of Genii bestrode his sorrel steed, Alone, on melancholy thoughts his anxious soul to feed, The tints that clothed the landscape round were gloomy as the scene Of his past life, wherein his lot had naught but suffering been.

His mantle hue was of iron gray bestrewn with purple flowers, Which bloomed amid distress and pain, like hope of happier hours.

And on his cloak were columns worked, (his cloak was saffron hued,) To show that dark suspicion's fears had tried his fort.i.tude; His shield was blazoned with the moon, a purple streak above, To show that fears of fickleness are ever born with love.

He bore an azure pennant 'neath the iron of his spear, To show that lovers oft go wrong deceived by jealous fear.

The hood he wore was wrought of gold and silk of crimson clear; His bonnet crest was a heron plume with an emerald stone beneath; And under all a motto ran, "Too long a hope is death."

He started forth in such array, but armed from head to heel With tempered blade and dagger and coat of twisted steel.

And hangling low at his saddle-bow was the helmet for his head; And as he journeyed on his way the warrior sighed and said: "O Felisarda, dearest maid, him in thy memory keep Who in his soul has writ thy name in letters dark and deep.

Think that for thee in coat of mail he ever rides afield, In his right hand the spear must stand, his left must grasp the shield.

And he must skirmish in the plain and broil of battle brave, And wounded be, for weapons ne'er from jealousy can save."

And as he spoke the lonely Moor from out his mantle's fold With many a sigh, that scorched the air, a lettered page unrolled.

He tried in vain to read it but his eyes with tears were blind, And mantling clouds of sorrow hid the letters from his mind.

The page was moistened by the tears that flowed in plenteous tide, But by the breath of sighs and sobs the softened page was dried.

Fresh wounds he felt at sight of it, and when the cause he sought, His spirit to Granada flew upon the wings of thought.