Moorish Literature Part 22

A wintry dawn on pallid skies, A summer's day that turns to dusk.

A lovely garden green and fair Ravaged and slashed by strokes of steel; Or wasted in its trim parterres And trampled by the common heel.

So spake the brave heart-broken Moor; Until his tears and struggling sighs Turned to fierce rage; the painting then He waited for with eager eyes.

He asks that one would fetch a steed, Of his good mare no more he recks, For womankind have done him wrong, And she is woman in her s.e.x.

The plumes of yellow, blue, and white From off his bonnet brim he tears, He will no longer carry them; They are the colors Zaida wears.

He recks no more of woman's love, His city now he bids farewell, And swears he will no more return Nor in Granada seek to dwell.

WOMAN'S FICKLENESS

A stout and valorous gentleman, Granada knew his worth, And rich with many a spoil of love, Went Abenamar forth.

Upon his bonnet, richly dyed, He bore a lettered scroll, It ran, "'Tis only love that makes The solace of my soul."

His bonnet and his brow were hid Beneath a hood of green, And plumes of violet and white Above his head were seen.

And 'twixt the ta.s.sel and the crown An emerald circlet shone.

The legend of the jewel said, "Thou art my hope alone."

He rode upon a dappled steed With housings richly dight, And at his left side clanking hung A scimitar of might.

And his right arm was sleeved in cloth Of tawny lion's hue, And at his lance-head, lifted high, A Turkish pennon flew.

And when he reached Daraja's camp He saw Daraja stand Beside his own perfidious love, And clasp her by the hand.

He made to her the wonted sign, Then lingered for a while, For jealous anguish filled his heart To see her tender smile.

He spurred his courser to the blood; One clattering bound he took, The Moorish maiden turned to him.

Ah, love was in her look!

Ah, well he saw his hopeless fate, And in his jealous mood The heart that nothing feared in fight Was whelmed in sorrow's flood.

"O false and faithless one," he said, "What is it that I view?

Thus the foreboding of my soul I see at last come true; Shame that a janizary vile, Of Christian creed and race, A b.u.t.t of bright Alhambra's feasts, Has taken now my place.

Where is the love thou didst avow, The pledge, the kiss, the tear, And all the tender promises Thou whisperedst in my ear?

Thou, frailer than the withered reed, More changeful than the wind, More thankless than the hardest heart In all of womankind; I marvel not at what I see, Nor yet for vengeance call; For thou art woman to the core, And in that name is all."

The gallant Moor his courser checked, His cheek with anger burned, Men saw, that all his gallant mien To gloom and rage was turned.

KING JUAN

"Abenamar, Abenamar," said the monarch to the knight, "A Moor art thou of the Moors, I trow, and the ladies' fond delight, And on the day when first you lay upon your mother's breast, On land and sea was a prodigy, to the Christians brought unrest; The sea was still as a ruined mill and the winds were hushed to rest.

And the broad, broad moon sank down at noon, red in the stormy west.

If thus thou wert born thou well mayst scorn to ope those lips of thine, That out should fly a treacherous lie, to meet a word of mine."

"I have not lied," the Moor replied, and he bowed his haughty head Before the King whose wrath might fling his life among the dead.

"I would not deign with falsehood's stain my lineage to betray; Tho' for the truth my life, in sooth, should be the price I pay.

I am son and squire of a Moorish sire, who with the Christians strove, And the captive dame of Christian name was his fair wedded love; And I a child from that mother mild, who taught me at her knee Was ever told to be true and bold with a tongue that was frank and free, That the liar's art and the caitiff heart would lead to the house of doom; And still I must hear my mother dear, for she speaks to me from the tomb.

Then give me my task, O King, and ask what question thou mayst choose; I will give to you the word that is true, for why should I refuse?"

"I give you grace for your open face, and the courteous words you use.

What castles are those on the hill where grows the palm-tree and the pine?

They are so high that they touch the sky, and with gold their pinnacles shine."

"In the sunset's fire there glisten, sire, Alhambra's tinted tiles; And somewhat lower Alijire's tower upon the vega smiles, And many a band of subtile hand has wrought its pillared aisles.

The Moor whose thought and genius wrought those works for many moons Received each day a princely pay--five hundred gold doubloons-- Each day he left his labor deft, his guerdon was denied; Nor less he lost than his labor cost when he his hand applied.

And yonder I see the Generalife with its orchard green and wide; There are growing there the apple and pear that are Granada's pride.

There shadows fall from the soaring wall of high Bermeja's tower; It has flourished long as a castle strong, the seat of the Soldan's power."

The King had bent and his ear had lent to the words the warrior spoke, And at last he said, as he raised his head before the crowd of folk: "I would take thee now with a faithful vow, Granada for my bride, King Juan's Queen would hold, I ween, a throne and crown of pride; That very hour I would give thee dower that well would suit thy will; Cordova's town should be thine own, and the mosque of proud Seville.

Nay, ask not, King, for I wear the ring of a faithful wife and true; Some graceful maid or a widow arrayed in her weeds is the wife for you, And close I cling to the Moorish King who holds me to his breast, For well I ween it can be seen that of all he loves me best."

ABENAMAR'S JEALOUSY

Alhambra's bell had not yet pealed Its morning note o'er tower and field; Barmeja's bastions glittered bright, O'ersilvered with the morning light; When rising from a pallet blest With no refreshing dews of rest, For slumber had relinquished there His place to solitary care, Brave Abenamar pondered deep How lovers must surrender sleep.

And when he saw the morning rise, While sleep still sealed Daraja's eyes, Amid his tears, to soothe his pain, He sang this melancholy strain: "The morn is up, The heavens alight, My jealous soul Still owns the sway of night.

Thro' all the night I wept forlorn, Awaiting anxiously the morn; And tho' no sunlight strikes on me, My bosom burns with jealousy.

The twinkling starlets disappear; Their radiance made my sorrow clear; The sun has vanished from my sight, Turned into water is his light; What boots it that the glorious sun From India his course has run, To bring to Spain the gleam of day, If from my sight he hides away?

The morn is up, The heavens are bright, My jealous soul Still owns the sway of night."

ADELIFA'S JEALOUSY

Fair Adelifa sees in wrath, kindled by jealous flames, Her Abenamar gazed upon by the kind Moorish dames.

And if they chance to speak to him, or take him by the hand, She swoons to see her own beloved with other ladies stand.

When with companions of his own, the bravest of his race, He meets the bull within the ring, and braves him to his face, Or if he mount his horse of war, and sallying from his tent Engages with his comrades in tilt or tournament, She sits apart from all the rest, and when he wins the prize She smiles in answer to his smile and devours him with her eyes.

And in the joyous festival and in Alhambra's halls, She follows as he treads the dance at merry Moorish b.a.l.l.s.

And when the tide of battle is rising o'er the land, And he leaves his home, obedient to his honored King's command, With tears and lamentation she sees the warrior go With arms heroic to subdue the proud presumptuous foe.

Though 'tis to save his country's towers he mounts his fiery steed She has no cheerful word for him, no blessing and G.o.dspeed;

And were there some light pretext to keep him at her side, In chains of love she'd bind him there, whate'er the land betide.

Or, if 'twere fair that dames should dare the terrors of the fight, She'd mount her jennet in his train and follow with delight.

For soon as o'er the mountain ridge his bright plume disappears, She feels that in her heart the jealous smart that fills her eyes with tears.

Yet when he stands beside her and smiles beneath her gaze, Her cheek is pale with pa.s.sion pure, though few the words she says.

Her thoughts are ever with him, and they fly the mountain o'er When in the s.h.a.ggy forest he hunts the bristly boar.

In vain she seeks the festal scene 'mid dance and merry song, Her heart for Abenamar has left that giddy throng.

For jealous pa.s.sion after all is no ign.o.ble fire, It is the child of glowing love, the shadow of desire.

Ah! he who loves with ardent breast and constant spirit must Feel in his inmost bosom lodged the arrows of distrust.

And as the faithful lover by his loved one's empty seat Knows that the wind of love may change e'er once again they meet, So to this sad foreboding do fancied griefs appear As he who has most cause to love has too most cause for fear.

And once, when placid evening was mellowing into night, The lovely Adelifa sat with her darling knight; And then the pent-up feeling from out her spirit's deeps Rose with a storm of heavy sighs and trembled on her lips: "My valiant knight, who art, indeed, the whole wide world to me, Clear mirror of victorious arms and rose of chivalry, Thou terror of thy valorous foe, to whom all champions yield, The rampart and the castle of fair Granada's field, In thee the armies of the land their bright example see, And all their hopes of victory are founded upon thee; And I, poor loving woman, have hope in thee no less, For thou to me art life itself, a life of happiness.

Yet, in this anxious trembling heart strange pangs of fear arise, Ah, wonder not if oft you see from out these faithful eyes The tears in torrents o'er my cheek, e'en in thy presence flow.

Half prompted by my love for thee and half by fears of woe, These eyes are like alembics, and when with tears they fill It is the flame of pa.s.sion that does that dew distil.

And what the source from which they flow, but the sorrow and the care That gather in my heart like mist, and forever linger there.

And when the flame is fiercest and love is at its height, The waters rise to these fond eyes, and rob me of my sight, For love is but a lasting pain and ever goes with grief, And only at the spring of tears the heart can drink relief.

Thus fire and love and fear combined bring to my heart distress, With jealous rage and dark distrust alarm and fitfulness.

These rage within my bosom; they torment me till I'd weep.

By day and night without delight a lonely watch I keep.

By Allah, I beseech thee, if thou art true to me, That when the Moorish ladies turn round and gaze on thee, Thou wilt not glance again at them nor meet their smiling eye, Or else, my Abenamar, I shall lay me down and die.

For thou art gallant, fair, and good; oh, soothe my heart's alarms, And be as tender in thy love as thou art brave in arms.

And as they yield to thee the prize for valor in the field Oh, show that thou wilt pity to thy loving lady yield."

Then Abenamar, with a smile, a kiss of pa.s.sion gave.

"If it be needful," he replied, "to give the pledge you crave To tell thee, Adelifa, that thou art my soul's delight And lay my inmost bosom bare before thy anxious sight, The bosom on whose mirror shines thy face in lines of light, Here let me ope the secret cell that thou thyself may see, The altar and the blazing lamp that always burn for thee.

And if perchance thou art not thus released from torturing care, Oh, see the faith, the blameless love that wait upon thee there.

And if thou dost imagine I am a perjured knight, I pray that Allah on my head may call down bane and blight, And when into the battle with the Christian I go I pray that I may perish by the lances of the foe; And when I don my armor for the toils of the campaign, That I may never wear the palm of victory again, But as a captive, on a sh.o.r.e far from Granada, pine, While the freedom that I long to have may never more be mine.

Yes, may my foes torment me in that sad hour of need; My very friends, for their own ends, prove worthless as a reed.

My kin deny, my fortune fly, and, on my dying day, My very hopes of Paradise in darkness pa.s.s away.

Or if I live in freedom to see my love once more, May I meet the fate which most I hate, and at my palace door Find that some caitiff lover has won thee for his own, And turn to die, of mad despair, distracted and alone.

Wherefore, my life, my darling wife, let all thy pain be cured; Thy trust in my fidelity be from this hour a.s.sured.

No more those pearly tears of thine fall useless in the dust No more the jealous fear distract thy bosom with mistrust.