Moorish Literature Part 9

Ah! many were the triumphs that from Zara's hands I bore, When in the joust or in the dance she smiled on me of yore.

And now, while equal fortune incessantly I chase, Naught can I gather from thy hand but disaster and disgrace.

Since King Fernando brought his host fair Baza to blockade, My lot has been a wretched lot of anguish unalloyed.

Yet was Fernando kind to me with all his kingly art, He won my body to his arms, he could not win my heart."

While thus he spoke the mantle that he wore he cast away; 'Twas green, 'twas striped with red and white, 'twas lined with dismal gray.

"Best suits my fate, best suits the hue, in this misfortune's day; Not green, not white nor purple, but the palmer's garb of gray.

I ask no plumes for helm or cap of nature's living green, For hope has vanished from my life of that which might have been!

And from my target will I blot the blazon that is vain-- The lynx whose eyes are fixed upon the prey that it would gain.

For the glances that I cast around meet fortune's foul disdain; And I will blot the legend, as an accursed screed.

'Twas writ in Christian letters plain that all the world might read: 'My good right arm can gain me more altho' its range be short, Then all I know by eye-sight or the boundless range of thought.'

The blue tahala fluttering bright upon my armored brow In brilliant hue a.s.sorts but ill with the lot I meet with now.

I cast away this gaudy cap, it bears the purple dye; Not that my love is faithless, for I own her constancy; But for the fear that there may be, within the maiden's sight, A lover worthier of her love than this unhappy knight."

With that he took his lance in hand, and placed it in its rest, And o'er the plain with b.l.o.o.d.y spur the mournful Celin pressed.

On his steed's neck he threw the reins, the reins hung dangling low, That the courser might have liberty to choose where he would go; And he said: "My steed, oh, journey well, and make thy way to find The bliss which still eludes me, tho' 'tis ever in my mind.

Nor bit nor rein shall now restrain thy course across the lea, For the curb and the bridle I only use from infamy to flee."

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 b.l.o.o.d.y war, was I; It was my father bade him first to seek our strong retreat.

Would G.o.d that he had never come to Baza's castle seat!

Would G.o.d 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 a.s.sailed, 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

'Twas eight stout warriors matched with eight, and ten with valiant ten, As Aliatare formed a band allied with Moslem men, To joust, with loaded canes, that day in proud Toledo's ring, Against proud Adelifa's host before their lord the King.

The King by proclamation had announced the knightly play, For the cheerful trumpets sang a truce upon that very day; And Zaide, high Belchite's King, had sworn that war should cease, And with Tarfe of Valentia had ratified the peace.

But others spread the news, that flew like fire from tongue to tongue, That the King was doting-mad with love, for then the King was young; And had given to Celindaja the ordering of the day.

And there were knights beside the King she loved to see at play.

And now the lists are opened and, lo! a dazzling band, The Saracens, on sorrel steeds leap forth upon the sand; Their trailing cloaks are flashing like the golden orange rind, The hoods of green from their shoulders hang and flutter in the wind.

They carry targets blazoned bright with scimitars arow, But each deadly blade is deftly made into a Cupid's bow.

A shining legend can be seen in letters ranged above; And "Fire and Blood" the motto runs. It speaks of war and love.

In double file a company of warriors succeed; The bold Aliatares come mounted on Arab steeds.

The livery that they wear is dyed in tint of crimson red; And flower and leaf in white relief its surface overspread.

The globe of heaven, which many a star and constellation strow, Borne upon Atlas' shoulders, is the blazon that they show.

And a Moor of Aliatar this motto does express, Written upon a streamer, "I Endure through Weariness."

The Adelifas follow; a mighty race are they.

Their armor is more costly, their mantles are more gay.

Of bright carnation is the web, enriched with saffron streaks, And for favors there are fluttering veils upon their helmet peaks.

A globe they blazon on their shields, but it is bruised and broke By a savage with a bludgeon, who deals it many a stroke; And a rod, and underneath it this motto tells the tale, All written in Arabian scrip. It says, "The Strong Prevail."

The eight Azarques following these into the plaza spring, With air of haughty arrogance they gallop round the ring.

Of blue and purple and pale gold are the mantles that they wear, And for plumes they carry amulets that dangle high in air.

On their left arm are their targets, painted a dazzling green.

The orb of heaven is outlined there on which two hands are seen, The motto, "Green is paramount," is lettered full in view; Its arrogance explains to all those targets' vivid hue.

Then foams the King in rage to see his doting love was fleered, And his heart is filled with bitter thought as that proud shield appeared.

And he called the warden of his keep, Celin his henchman tried, And he pointed to Azarque, and, flushed with anger, cried-- "The sun upon that haughty shield myself will bid it set; It works some mischief upon me, like an evil amulet."

Azarque drew his ready lance, his strong arm hurled it high, The light shaft soared amid the clouds, and vanished in the sky.

And those whose vision followed it grew dizzy at the sight, They knew not whither it had flown, nor where it would alight.

The ladies of the burgesses at many a window press To see the javelin from his hand rise with such readiness, And those who on the platform were seated with the King Bent back to see how well the cane that gallant Moor could fling.

And as Azarque forward rides, as in retreat he flies, "Now, Allah guard thee, gallant knight," with shouts the people cries.

"My curse upon him; he shall die," the jealous King replies.

But Celindaja paid no heed to all that cavalcade; Her lips were parched, her throat was dry, her heart was sore dismayed.

She asked that they would bring her fruit, but yet she strove in vain With juice of any earthly tree to slake her fevered pain.

"Now let the sport be ended," the angry King decreed.

The joust was late, and every judge in weariness agreed.

And as they closed the empty lists, they heard the King's command, "Now seize, now seize Azarque, a traitor to this land."

The double lines of cavaliers who led the jousting train Threw down upon the open square the spear of idle cane; Then swiftly seized the lance of steel and couching it for fight, According to the royal wish rode down upon the knight.

For arms and plea must ever bootless prove To curb the pa.s.sions of a king in love.

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 pa.s.sion'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 pa.s.sions 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?