TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.

THE ABENCERRAGE.

[The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related in the Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada. They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last Moorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said by some historians to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, whose defection was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred; and it still retains their name, being called the “Sala de los Abencerrages.” Many of the most interesting old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic period.]

“Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colère dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance seule peut écarter de sa tête le poids d’infamie dont il est accablé.—Il se venge, parce qu’à ses yeux il n’y a qu’une âme basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce que s’il la sentoit s’éteindre, il croiroit avec elle avoir perdu une vertu.”

Sismondi.

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls,
Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o’er;
And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls
Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more.
Hush’d are the voices that in years gone by
Have mourn’d, exulted, menaced, through thy towers;
Within thy pillar’d courts the grass waves high,
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers.
Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows,
Through tall arcades unmark’d the sunbeam smiles,
And many a tint of soften’d brilliance throws
O’er fretted walls and shining peristyles.
And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone,
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair,
Some charm’d abode of beings all unknown,
Powerful and viewless, children of the air.
For there no footstep treads th’ enchanted ground,
There not a sound the deep repose pervades,
Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round,
Through the light domes and graceful colonnades.
Far other tones have swell’d those courts along
In days romance yet fondly loves to trace
The clash of arms, the voice of choral song,
The revels, combats of a vanish’d race.
And yet awhile, at Fancy’s potent call,
Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold;
Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall
With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old.
——The sun declines: upon Nevada’s height
There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light;
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow
Smiles in the richness of that parting glow,
And Darro’s wave reflects each passing dye
That melts and mingles in th’ empurpled sky.
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower,
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour;
Hush’d are the winds, and nature seems to sleep
In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep,
Are dyed with tints of glory, only given
To the rich evening of a southern heaven—
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught
—Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest
The fiery passions of the human breast,
Hark! from th’ Alhambra’s towers what stormy sound,
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around?
Those are no tumults of a festal throng,
Not the light zambra[65] nor the choral song:
The combat rages—’tis the shout of war,
’Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar.
Within the Hall of Lions,[66] where the rays
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze;
There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands,
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands:
There the strife centres—swords around him wave,
There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave;
While echoing domes return the battle-cry,
“Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!”
And onward rushing, and prevailing still,
Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill.
But first and bravest of that gallant train,
Where foes are mightiest, charging ne’er in vain;
In his red hand the sabre glancing bright,
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light,
Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds,
His Aben-Zurrahs[67] there young Hamet leads;
While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high,
“Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!”
Yes! trace the footsteps of the warrior’s wrath
By helm and corslet shatter’d in his path,
And by the thickest harvest of the slain,
And by the marble’s deepest crimson stain:
Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries
From triumph, anguish, or despair, arise;
And brightest where the shivering falchions glare,
And where the ground is reddest—he is there.
Yes! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host,
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost.
They perish’d—not as heroes should have died,
On the red field, in victory’s hour of pride,
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame,
And proudly smiling as the death-pang came:
Oh! had they thus expired, a warrior’s tear
Had flow’d, almost in triumph, o’er their bier.
For thus alone the brave should weep for those
Who brightly pass in glory to repose.
—Not such their fate: a tyrant’s stern command
Doom’d them to fall by some ignoble hand,
As, with the flower of all their high-born race,
Summon’d Abdallah’s royal feast to grace,
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh,
They sought the banquet’s gilded hall—to die.
Betray’d, unarm’d, they fell—the fountain wave
Flow’d crimson with the life-blood of the brave,
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate
Through the wide city rang from gate to gate,
And of that lineage each surviving son
Rush’d to the scene where vengeance might be won.
For this young Hamet mingles in the strife,
Leader of battle, prodigal of life,
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset,
Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet.
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more,
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o’er.
But lo! descending o’er the darken’d hall,
The twilight-shadows fast and deeply fall,
Nor yet the strife hath ceased—though scarce they know,
Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe;
Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray,
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay.
Where lurks Abdallah?—midst his yielding train
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain.
He lies not number’d with the valiant dead,
His champions round him have not vainly bled;
But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil,
And his last warriors found each effort fail,
In wild despair he fled—a trusted few,
Kindred in crime, are still in danger true;
And o’er the scene of many a martial deed,
The Vega’s[68] green expanse, his flying footsteps lead.
He pass’d th’ Alhambra’s calm and lovely bowers,
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers
In dew and starlight—there, from grot and cave,
Gush’d in wild music many a sparkling wave;
There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose,
And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.
But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again.
Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course
Of him who flies from terror or remorse!
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom,
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb;
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there.
Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves
Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves;
Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise,
Wild notes of nature’s vesper-melodies;
Marks not how lovely, on the mountain’s head,
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread;
But urges onward, till his weary band,
Worn with their toil, a moment’s pause demand.
He stops, and turning, on Granada’s fanes
In silence gazing, fix’d awhile remains
In stern, deep silence: o’er his feverish brow,
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow,
But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar,
Sounds indistinctly fearful—as of war.
What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high,
O’er the blue clearness of the starry sky?
Awful it rises, like some Genie-form,
Seen midst the redness of the desert storm,
Magnificently dread—above, below,
Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow.
Lo! from the Alhambra’s towers the vivid glare
Streams through the still transparence of the air!
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre,
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire;
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height,
From dim perspective start to ruddy light.
Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah’s soul,
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control!
Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly
For life—such life as makes it bliss to die!
On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal’d
Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield.
Thither his steps are bent—yet oft he turns,
Watching that fearful beacon as it burns.
But paler grow the sinking flames at last,
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past;
And spiry vapours, rising o’er the scene,
Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been.
And now his feet have reach’d that lonely pile,
Where grief and terror may repose awhile;
Embower’d it stands, midst wood and cliff on high,
Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh:
He hails the scene where every care should cease,
And all—except the heart he brings—is peace.
There is deep stillness in those halls of state
Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late;
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin’s blast
Hath o’er the dwellings of the desert pass’d.[70]
Fearful the calm—nor voice, nor step, nor breath
Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death:
Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound,
Save the wild gush of waters—murmuring round
In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone,
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone.
O’er the mosaic floors, with carnage red,
Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread
In mingled fragments—glittering to the light
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright,
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed,
And smile in placid beauty o’er the dead:
O’er features where the fiery spirit’s trace
E’en death itself is powerless to efface;
O’er those who flush’d with ardent youth awoke,
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke,
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep;
In the low silent house, the narrow spot,
Home of forgetfulness—and soon forgot.
But slowly fade the stars—the night is o’er—
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more;
Slumberers who ne’er shall wake on earth again,
Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain.
Yet smiles the day—oh! not for mortal tear
Doth nature deviate from her calm career:
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair,
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share.
O’er the cold urn the beam of summer glows,
O’er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows;
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below,
And skies arch cloudless o’er a world of woe;
And flowers renew’d in spring’s green pathway bloom,
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb.
Within Granada’s walls the funeral rite
Attends that day of loveliness and light;
And many a chief, with dirges and with tears,
Is gather’d to the brave of other years:
And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade
His martyr’d brother and his sire are laid,
Feels every deep resolve and burning thought
Of ampler vengeance e’en to passion wrought;
Yet is the hour afar—and he must brood
O’er those dark dreams awhile in solitude.
Tumult and rage are hush’d—another day
In still solemnity hath pass’d away,
In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath,
The calm that follows in the tempest’s path.
And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane,
His ravaged city traversing again.
No sound of gladness his approach precedes,
No splendid pageant the procession leads;
Where’er he moves the silent streets along,
Broods a stern quiet o’er the sullen throng.
No voice is heard; but in each alter’d eye,
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh,
And in each look of those whose love hath fled
From all on earth to slumber with the dead,
Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown
On the bleak wilderness of life alone—
In youth’s quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage,
And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age,
May well be read a dark and fearful tale
Of thought that ill the indignant heart can veil,
And passion like the hush’d volcano’s power,
That waits in stillness its appointed hour.
No more the clarion from Granada’s walls,
Heard o’er the Vega, to the tourney calls;
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high,
Bend o’er the lists the darkly-radiant eye:
Silence and gloom her palaces o’erspread,
And song is hush’d, and pageantry is fled.
—Weep, fated city! o’er thy heroes weep—
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep!
Furl’d are their banners in the lonely hall,
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall,
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o’er—
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more.
And they, who still thy tyrant’s wrath survive,
Whom he hath wrong’d too deeply to forgive,
That race of lineage high, of worth approved,
The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved—
Thine Aben-Zurrahs—they no more shall wield
In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shield:
Condemn’d to bid the cherish’d scenes farewell
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell,
And far o’er foreign plains as exiles roam,
Their land the desert, and the grave their home.
Yet there is one shall see that race depart
In deep though silent agony of heart:
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone,
Unseen her sorrows and their cause unknown,
And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear
That smile in which the spirit hath no share—
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow
O’er the cold solitude of Alpine snow.
Soft, fresh, and silent is the midnight hour,
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower;
That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined.
That name in vain stern reason would efface:
Hamet! ’tis thine, thou foe to all her race!
And yet not hers in bitterness to prove
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love—
Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume,
And make the heart of all delight the tomb,
Check the free spirit in its eagle flight,
And the spring-morn of early genius blight:
Not such her grief—though now she wakes to weep,
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.[71]
A step treads lightly through the citron-shade,
Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray’d—
Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot,
Scene of past hours that ne’er may be forgot?
’Tis he—but changed that eye, whose glance of fire
Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire,
As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught,
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought:
Thence the bright spirit’s eloquence hath fled,
And in its wild expression may be read
Stem thoughts and fierce resolves—now veil’d in shade,
And now in characters of fire portray’d.
Changed e’en his voice—as thus its mournful tone
Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own.
“Zayda! my doom is fix’d—another day
And the wrong’d exile shall be far away;
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be,
His home of youth, and, more than all—from thee.
Oh! what a cloud hath gather’d o’er my lot
Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot!
Lovely as then the soft and silent hour,
And not a rose hath faded from thy bower;
But I—my hopes the tempest hath o’erthrown,
And changed my heart, to all but thee alone.
Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise!
Heroic visions of my early days!
In me the glories of my race must end—
The exile hath no country to defend!
E’en in life’s morn my dreams of pride are o’er,
Youth’s buoyant spirit wakes for me no more,
And one wild feeling in my alter’d breast
Broods darkly o’er the ruins of the rest.
Yet fear not thou—to thee, in good or ill,
The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still!
But when my steps are distant, and my name
Thou hear’st no longer in the song of fame;
When Time steals on, in silence to efface
Of early love each pure and sacred trace,
Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem
But as the moonlight pictures of a dream,—
Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth
And all the fervour of affection’s youth?
If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play
In lonely beauty o’er thy wanderer’s way.”
“Ask not if such my love! Oh! trust the mind
To grief so long, so silently resign’d!
Let the light spirit, ne’er by sorrow taught
The pure and lofty constancy of thought,
Its fleeting trials eager to forget,
Rise with elastic power o’er each regret!
Foster’d in tears, our young affection grew,
And I have learn’d to suffer and be true.
Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower,
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower;
No! ’tis the child of tempests, and defies,
And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies!
Too well I feel, with grief’s prophetic heart,
That ne’er to meet in happier days we part.
We part! and e’en this agonising hour,
When love first feels his own o’erwhelming power,
Shall soon to memory’s fix’d and tearful eye
Seem almost happiness—for thou wert nigh!
Yes! when this heart in solitude shall bleed,
As days to days all wearily succeed,
When doom’d to weep in loneliness, ’twill be
Almost like rapture to have wept with thee!
“But thou, my Hamet! thou canst yet bestow
All that of joy my blighted lot can know.
Oh! be thou still the high-soul’d and the brave,
To whom my first and fondest vows I gave;
In thy proud fame’s untarnish’d beauty still
The lofty visions of my youth fulfil.
So shall it soothe me, midst my heart’s despair,
To hold undimm’d one glorious image there!”
“Zayda, my best-beloved! my words too well,
Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel;
Yet must my soul to thee unveil’d be shown,
And all its dreams and all its passions known.
Thou shalt not be deceived—for pure as heaven
Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given.
I said my heart was changed—and would thy thought
Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought,
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes,
Crush’d by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains;
And such that heart where desolation’s hand
Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand!
But Vengeance, fix’d upon her burning throne,
Sits midst the wreck in silence and alone;
And I, in stem devotion at her shrine,
Each softer feeling, but my love, resign.
Yes! they whose spirits all my thoughts control,
Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul;
They, the betray’d, the sacrificed, the brave,
Who fill a blood-stain’d and untimely grave,
Must be avenged! and pity and remorse
In that stem cause are banish’d from my course.
Zayda! thou tremblest—and thy gentle breast
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest;
Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour,
Pass brightly o’er my soul with softening power,
And, oft recall’d, thy voice beguile my lot,
Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne’er forgot.
“But the night wanes—the hours too swiftly fly,
The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh;
Yet, loved one! weep not thus—in joy or pain,
Oh! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again!
Yes, we shall meet! and haply smile at last
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past.
On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell,
Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!”
Is the voice hush’d, whose loved expressive tone
Thrill’d to her heart—and doth she weep alone?
Alone she weeps; that hour of parting o’er,
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more?
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair,
Showering the dewy rose-leaves o’er her hair;
But ne’er for her shall dwell reviving power
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower,
To wake once more that calm serene delight,
The soul’s young bloom, which passion’s breath could blight—
The smiling stillness of life’s morning hour,
Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power.
Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious shade,
In the rich foliage of the South array’d,
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day,
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way.
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave
On high o’er many an Aben-Zurrah’s grave.
Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves,
To canopy the dead; nor wanting there
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air,
Nor wood-bird’s note, nor fall of plaintive stream—
Wild music, soothing to the mourner’s dream.
There sleep the chiefs of old—their combats o’er,
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more.
Unheard by them th’ awakening clarion blows;
The sons of war at length in peace repose.
No martial note is in the gale that sighs
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise,
Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom—
As, in his native vale, some shepherd’s tomb.
There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread
Dark o’er that silent valley of the dead;
Where two fair pillars rise, embower’d and lone,
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o’ergrown,
Young Hamet kneels—while thus his vows are pour’d,
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword:
—“Spirit of him who first within my mind
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined,
And taught my steps the line of light to trace
Left by the glorious fathers of my race,
Hear thou my voice!—for thine is with me still,
In every dream its tones my bosom thrill,
In the deep calm of midnight they are near,
Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear,
Still murmuring ‘vengeance!’—nor in vain the call,
Few, few shall triumph in a hero’s fall!
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame,
Within my heart there lives one only aim;
There, till th’ oppressor for thy fate atone,
Concentring every thought, it reigns alone.
I will not weep—revenge, not grief, must be,
And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee;
But the dark hour of stern delight will come,
And thou shalt triumph, warrior! in thy tomb.
“Thou, too, my brother! thou art pass’d away,
Without thy fame, in life’s fair dawning day.
Son of the brave! of thee no trace will shine
In the proud annals of thy lofty line;
Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays
That hold communion with the after-days.
Yet, by the wreaths thou might’st have nobly won,
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun;
By glory lost, I swear! by hope betray’d,
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid:
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife,
And to avenge thy death devote my life.
“Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain!
Hear, and be with me on the battle-plain!
At noon, at midnight, still around me bide,
Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died!”

[65] Zambra, a Moorish dance.

[66] The Hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alhambra, and was so called from twelve sculptured lions which supported an alabaster basin in the centre.

[67] Aben-Zurrahs: the name thus written is taken from the translation of an Arabic MS. given in the third volume of Bourgoanne’s Travels through Spain.

[68] The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent actions between the Moors and Christians.

[69] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 68 footnote 3. An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the Simoom.—See Bruce’s Travels.

[70] Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the following account in Volney’s Travels:—“These winds are known in Egypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because they prevail more frequently in the fifty days preceding and following the equinox. They are mentioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds or hot winds of the desert: their heat is so excessive, that it is difficult to form any idea of its violence without having experienced it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet colour; the air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled with a subtle dust, which penetrates every where: respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where. The natives of towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the desert in tents, or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter: he must suffer all its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal.”

[71] “Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber.”—Shakspeare.

CANTO II.

——“Oh! ben provvide il Cielo
Ch’ Uom per delitti mai lieto non sia.”
Alfieri.
Fair land! of chivalry the old domain,
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain!
Though not for thee with classic shores to vie
In charms that fix th’ enthusiast’s pensive eye;
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought;
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame.
Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows,
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose.
No sound of battle swells on Douro’s shore,
And banners wave on Ebro’s banks no more.
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead?
Blest be that soil! where England’s heroes share
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there;
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays,
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days—
By goatherd lone and rude serrano sung
Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among.
How oft those rocks have echo’d to the tale
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles’ vale;
Of him, renown’d in old heroic lore,
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador;
Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died
When Rio Verde roll’d a crimson tide;
Or that high name, by Garcilaso’s might
On the Green Vega won in single fight.[72]
Round fair Granada, deepening from afar,
O’er that Green Vega rose the din of war.
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone
O’er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone;
On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced,
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced.
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove,
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above;
And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright
With gold, reflecting every tint of light,
And many a floating plume and blazon’d shield
Diffused romantic splendour o’er the field.
There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start
Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart:
The clang of echoing steel, the charger’s neigh,
The measured tread of hosts in war’s array;
And, oh! that music, whose exulting breath
Speaks but of glory on the road to death;
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power
To wake the stormy joy of danger’s hour;
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain,
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain;
And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife,
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life.
High o’er the camp, in many a broider’d fold,
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold:
There, imaged on the cross, his form appears
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears—[73]
His form, whose word recall’d the spirit fled,
Now borne by hosts to guide them o’er the dead!
O’er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high,
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry.
Fired with that ardour which, in days of yore,
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore;
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal,
They come, the gallant children of Castile;
The proud, the calmly dignified:—and there
Ebro’s dark sons with haughty mien repair,
And those who guide the fiery steed of war
From yon rich province of the western star.[74]
But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene,
Stern grandeur stamp’d upon thy princely mien;
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest,
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,[75]
Young Aben-Zurrah! midst that host of foes,
Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose!
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train,
O son of Afric! midst the sons of Spain?
Hast thou with these thy nation’s fall conspired,
Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired?
How art thou changed! still first in every fight,
Hamet the Moor! Castile’s devoted knight!
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye,
But not the light that shone in days gone by;
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone,
But not the soul’s expression once thine own,
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway?
No eye but Heaven’s may pierce that curtain’d breast,
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpress’d.
There hath been combat on the tented plain;
The Vega’s turf is red with many a stain;
And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field.
But all is peaceful now: the west is bright
With the rich splendour of departing light;
Mulhacen’s peak, half lost amidst the sky,
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high,
And tints, that mock the pencil’s art, o’erspread
Th’ eternal snow that crowns Veleta’s head;[76]
While the warm sunset o’er the landscape throws
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose.
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day,
And Hamet wanders from the camp away.
In silent musings rapt:—the slaughter’d brave
Lie thickly strewn by Darro’s rippling wave.
Soft fall the dews—but other drops have dyed
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side,
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired,
The wounded sought a shelter—and expired.[77]
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days,
By the bright windings of the stream he strays,
Till, more remote from battle’s ravaged scene,
All is repose and solitude serene.
There, ’neath an olive’s ancient shade reclined,
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening’s wind,
The harass’d warrior, yielding to the power,
The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour,
Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm
Shed o’er his troubled soul unwonted balm;
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot,
The past, the future, are awhile forgot;
And Hope, scarce own’d, yet stealing o’er his breast,
Half dares to whisper, “Thou shalt yet be blest!”
Such his vague musings—but a plaintive sound
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round;
A low, halt-stifled moan, that seems to rise
From life and death’s contending agonies.
He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade?
—A youthful warrior on his deathbed laid.
All rent and stain’d his broider’d Moorish vest,
The corslet shatter’d on his bleeding breast;
In his cold hand the broken falchion strain’d,
With life’s last force convulsively retain’d;
His plumage soil’d with dust, with crimson dyed,
And the red lance in fragments by his side:
He lies forsaken—pillow’d on his shield,
His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal’d.
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish’d now
The light once throned on that commanding brow;
And o’er that fading eye, still upward cast,
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast.
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene
Sheds the pale olive’s waving boughs between,
Too well can Hamet’s conscious heart retrace,
Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face,
Whose every feature to his soul conveys
Some bitter thought of long-departed days.
“Oh! is it thus,” he cries, “we meet at last?
Friend of my soul in years for ever past!
Hath fate but led me hither to behold
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold,—
Receive thy latest agonising breath,
And with vain pity soothe the pangs of death?
Yet let me bear thee hence—while life remains,
E’en though thus feebly circling through thy veins,
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive;
Hope is not lost—and Osmyn yet may live!
And blest were he whose timely care should save
A heart so noble, e’en from glory’s grave.”
Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head;
O’er Hamet’s mien, with vague uncertain gaze,
His doubtful glance awhile bewilder’d strays;
Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain;
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye,
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die;
And the mind’s grandeur, in its parting hour,
Looks from that brow with more than wonted power.
“Away!” he cries, in accents of command,
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand.
“Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free—
E’en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee.
’Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes
Of him who faithful to his country dies;
Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head
Of him who sinks to rest on glory’s bed.
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o’er,
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar:
Be thine existence with a blighted name,
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior’s fame!”
The glow hath vanish’d from his cheek—his eye
Hath lost that beam of parting energy;
Frozen and fix’d it seems—his brow is chill;
One struggle more—that noble heart is still.
Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes,
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose,
More keen, more bitter, than th’ envenom’d dart
Thy dying words have left in Hamet’s heart?
Thy pangs were transient; his shall sleep no more,
Till life’s delirious dream itself be o’er;
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave.
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought
In the high spirit and unbending thought!
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide,
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride;
While his soul rises, gathering all its force,
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse.
To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been
His own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene;
Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies;
Thou still art faithful to affection’s ties.
Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn,
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem;
And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice.
Within Granada’s walls are hearts and hands
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands;
Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour,
To win his silent way to Zayda’s bower,
When night and peace are brooding o’er the world,
When mute the clarions, and the banners furl’d.
That hour is come—and, o’er the arms he bears,
A wandering fakir’s garb the chieftain wears:
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride;
But night befriends—through paths obscure he pass’d,
And hail’d the lone and lovely scene at last;
Young Zayda’s chosen haunt, the fair alcove,
The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove:
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat,
As form’d alone for happy hearts to meet.
For happy hearts!—not such as hers, who there
Bends o’er her lute with dark unbraided hair;
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien,
Tell that despair her bosom’s guest hath been.
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior’s feet
Unheard approach her solitary seat,
Till his known accents every sense restore—
“My own loved Zayda! do we meet once more?”
She starts, she turns—the lightning of surprise,
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes;
But that is fleeting—it is past—and how
Far other meaning darkens o’er her brow:
Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe—
“Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!”
“Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine own?
What mean those words, and that unwonted tone?
I will not deem thee changed—but in thy face,
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace!
It was not thus in other days we met:
Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget?
Oh! speak once more—these rising doubts dispel:
One smile of tenderness, and all is well!”
“Not thus we met in other days!—oh, no!
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country’s foe!
Those days are past—we ne’er shall meet again
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then.
But thy dark soul no gentler feelings sway,
Leader of hostile bands! away, away!
On in thy path of triumph and of power,
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower.”
“And thou, too, changed! thine earthly vow forgot!
This, this alone, was wanting to my lot!
Exiled and scorn’d, of every tie bereft,
Thy love, the desert’s lonely fount, was left;
And thou, my soul’s last hope, its lingering beam,
Thou! the good angel of each brighter dream,
Wert all the barrenness of life possest
To wake one soft affection in my breast!
That vision ended—fate hath nought in store
Of joy or sorrow e’er to touch me more.
Go, Zegri maid! to scenes of sunshine fly,
From the stem pupil of adversity!
And now to hope, to confidence, adieu!
If thou art faithless, who shall e’er be true?”
“Hamet! oh, wrong me not!—I too could speak
Of sorrows—trace them on my faded cheek,
In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form,
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm!
But words were idle—read my sufferings there,
Where grief is stamp’d on all that once was fair.
“Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d,
All that thy mien express’d, thy spirit seem’d,
My love had been devotion!—till in death
Thy name had trembled on my latest breath.
But not the chief who leads a lawless band
To crush the altars of his native land;
Th’ apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace
Hath stain’d the trophies of a glorious race;
Not him I loved—but one whose youthful name
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame.
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour’s cloud
O’er that young name had gather’d as a shroud,
I then had mourn’d thee proudly, and my grief
In its own loftiness had found relief;
A noble sorrow, cherish’d to the last,
When every meaner woe had long been past.
Yes! let affection weep—no common tear
She sheds when bending o’er a hero’s bier.
Let nature mourn the dead—a grief like this,
To pangs that rend my bosom, had been bliss!”
“High-minded maid! the time admits not now
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow.
That vow, too dread, too solemn, to recall,
Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall.
Yet this believe—no meaner aim inspires
My soul, no dream of power ambition fires.
No! every hope of power, of triumph, fled,
Behold me but th’ avenger of the dead!
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows,
And in thy love alone hath sought repose.
Zayda! wilt thou his stern accuser be?
False to his country, he is true to thee!
Oh, hear me yet!—if Hamet e’er was dear,
By our first vows, our young affection, hear!
Soon must this fair and royal city fall,
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall;
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow,
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe?
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far
From horrors thronging in the path of war:
Fly, and repose in safety—till the blast
Hath made a desert in its course—and pass’d!”
“Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come
Hasten’d by thee, to seal thy country’s doom,
With thee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly
To peace and safety?—Woman, too, can die!
And die exulting, though unknown to fame,
In all the stainless beauty of her name!
Be mine, unmurmuring, undismay’d, to share
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear.
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail,
When the clouds gather and the blasts assail.
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour
Call’d into life my spirit’s latent power;
But I have energies that idly slept,
While withering o’er my silent woes I wept;
And now, when hope and happiness are fled,
My soul is firm—for what remains to dread?
Who shall have power to suffer and to bear
If strength and courage dwell not with Despair?
“Hamet! farewell—retrace thy path again,
To join thy brethren on the tented plain.
There wave and wood in mingling murmurs tell
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell!
Yes! on that soil hath Glory’s footstep been,
Names unforgotten consecrate the scene!
Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there,
Whose voices call thee in the whispering air?
Unheard, in vain they call—their fallen son
Hath stain’d the name those mighty spirits won,
And to the hatred of the brave and free
Bequeath’d his own through ages yet to be!”
Still as she spoke, th’ enthusiast’s kindling eye
Was lighted up with inborn majesty,
While her fair form and youthful features caught
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought,
Severely beauteous.[78] Awe-struck and amazed,
In silent trance a while the warrior gazed,
As on some lofty vision—for she seem’d
One all-inspired—each look with glory beam’d,
While, brightly bursting through its cloud of woes,
Her soul at once in all its light arose.
Oh! ne’er had Hamet deem’d there dwelt enshrined
In form so fragile that unconquer’d mind;
And fix’d, as by some high enchantment, there
He stood—till wonder yielded to despair.
“The dream is vanish’d—daughter of my foes!
Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes.
Thy words have pierced his soul; yet deem thou not
Thou couldst be once adored, and e’er forgot!
Oh, form’d for happier love, heroic maid!
In grief sublime, in danger undismay’d,
Farewell, and be thou blest!—all words were vain
From him who ne’er may view that form again—
Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss, must be,
He hath been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!”
And is the warrior gone?—doth Zayda hear
His parting footstep, and without a tear?
Thou weep’st not, lofty maid!—yet who can tell
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell?
They feel not least, the firm, the high in soul,
Who best each feeling’s agony control.
Yes! we may judge the measure of the grief
Which finds in misery’s eloquence relief;
But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe
Whence breathes no language, whence no tears may flow?
The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved,
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved?
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows,
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes;
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn,
Beholding anguish—all unknown to them.
Fair city! thou that midst thy stately fanes
And gilded minarets, towering o’er the plains,
In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies;
While streams that bear thee treasures in their wave,
Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave:
Mourn, for thy doom is fixed—the days of fear,
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near!
Within, around thee, are the trophied graves
Of kings and chiefs—their children shall be slaves.
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell,
But there a race that rear’d them not shall dwell;
For midst thy councils discord still presides,
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides—
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown
Hath to their offspring but bequeath’d a throne,
Without one generous thought, or feeling high,
To teach his soul how kings should live and die.
A voice resounds within Granada’s wall,
The hearts of warriors echo to its call.[80]
Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught
To reach the source of pure exalted thought?
See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand,
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand!
His mien is all impassion’d, and his eye
Fill’d with a light whose fountain is on high;
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow,
And inspiration beams upon his brow;
While, thronging round him, breathless thousands gaze,
As on some mighty seer of elder days.
“Saw ye the banners of Castile display’d,
The helmets glittering, and the line array’d?
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts?” he cries;
“Children of conquerors! in your strength arise!
O high-born tribes! O names unstain’d by fear!
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear![81]
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.[82]
Wake, princes of the land! the hour is come,
And the red sabre must decide your doom.
Where is that spirit which prevail’d of yore,
When Tarik’s bands o’erspread the western shore?[83]
When the long combat raged on Xeres’ plain,[84]
And Afric’s tecbir swell’d through yielding Spain?[85]
Is the lance broken, is the shield decay’d,
The warrior’s arm unstrung, his heart dismay’d?
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth?
To guard the regions where our fathers’ blood
Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood;
Where long their dust hath blended with the soil
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil?
“O ye sierras of eternal snow!
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow,
Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain! ye saw their might
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight—
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race
Dwell midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace
With each memorial of the past around,
Each mighty monument of days renown’d?
May this indignant heart ere then be cold,
This frame be gather’d to its kindred mould!
And the last life-drop circling through my veins
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains!
“And yet one struggle ere our doom is seal’d,
One mighty effort, one deciding field!
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be
In life the fetter’d, or in death the free!”
Still while he speaks each gallant heart beats high,
And ardour flashes from each kindling eye;
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought;
And all is hush’d around—as every sense
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence.
But when his voice hath ceased, th’ impetuous cry
Of eager thousands bursts at once on high;
Rampart, and rock, and fortress ring around,
And fair Alhambra’s inmost halls resound.
“Lead us, O chieftain! lead us to the strife,
To fame in death, or liberty in life!”
O zeal of noble hearts! in vain display’d!
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave
Is roused to energies that yet might save—
E’en now, enthusiasts! while ye rush to claim
Your glorious trial on the field of fame,
Your king hath yielded! Valour’s dream is o’er;[86]
Power, wealth, and freedom are your own no more;
And for your children’s portion, but remains
That bitter heritage—the stranger’s chains.