Chapter 11

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 horsemen 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 passed 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 fortitude; 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. He thought of Albaicin, the palace of the dame, With its gayly gilded capitals and its walls of ancient fame. And the garden that behind it lay in which the palm was seen Swaying beneath the load of fruit its coronet of green. "O mistress of my soul," he said, "who callest me thine own, How easily all bars to bliss thy love might trample down! But time, that shall my constancy, thy fickleness will show, The world shall then my steadfast heart, thy tongue of treachery know. Woe worth the day when, for thy sake, I fair Granada sought, These anxious doubts may cloud my brow, they cannot guard thy thought. My foes increase, thy cruelty makes absence bitterer still, But naught can shake my constancy, and none can do me ill." On this from Alpujarra the tocsin sounded high. He rushed as one whose life is staked to save the maid or die.

THE DESPONDENT LOVER

He leaned upon his sabre's hilt, He trod upon his shield, Upon the ground he threw the lance That forced his foes to yield. His bridle hung at saddle-bow, And, with the reins close bound, His mare the garden entered free To feed and wander round. Upon a flowering almond-tree He fixed an ardent gaze; Its leaves were withered with the wind That flowers in ruin lays. Thus in Toledo's garden park, Did Abenamar wait, Who for fair Galliana Watched at the palace gate. The birds that clustered on the towers Spread out their wings to fly, And from afar his lady's veil He saw go floating by. And at this vision of delight, Which healed his spirit's pain, The exiled Moor took courage, And hope returned again. "O Galliana, best beloved, Whom art thou waiting now? And what has treacherous rendered My fortune and thy vow? Thou swearedst I should be thine own, Yet 'twas but yesterday We met, and with no greeting Thou wentest on thy way. Then, in my silence of distress, I wandered pondering-- If this is what to-day has brought, What will to-morrow bring? Happy the Moor from passion free, In peace or turmoil born, Who without pang of hate or love, Can slumber till the morn. O almond-tree, thou provest That the expected hours Of bliss may often turn to bane, As fade thy dazzling flowers. A mournful image art thou Of all that lays me low, And on my shield I'll bear thee As blazon of my woe. For thou dost bloom in many a flower, Till blasted by the wind, And 'tis of thee this word is true-- 'The season was not kind.'" He spoke and on his courser's head He slipped the bridle rein, And while he curbed his gentle steed He could not curb his pain, And to Ocana took his course, O'er Tagus' verdant plain.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY

"Unless thou wishest in one hour Thine April hope shouldst blighted be, Oh, tell me, Tarfe, tell me true, How I may Zaida chance to see. I mean the foreigner, the wife New wedded, her with golden hair, And for each lock a charm besides She counts--for she is passing fair. Her, whom the Moorish nobles all To heaven in their laudation raise, Till the fine ladies of the land Are left to languish in dispraise. The mosque I visit every day, And wait to see her come in sight; I wait to see her, where the rout And revel lengthen out the night. However, cost me what it may, I cannot meet the lovely dame. Ah, now my eyes are veiled in tears, Sure witness of my jealous flame. And tell me, Tarfe, that my rage Has cause enough, for since I've been Granada's guest (and would to God Granada I had never seen!) My lord forsakes me every night, Nor till the morning comes again; He shuns as painful my caress, My very presence brings him pain; Little indeed he recks of me, If only he may elsewhere reign. For if we in the garden meet, Or if we in the chamber be, His actions his estrangement prove, He has not even words for me. And if I say to him, 'My life!' He answers me, 'My dearest dear,' Yet with a coldness that congeals My very heart with sudden fear. And all the while I strive to make His soul reveal a traitorous thought, He turns his back on me, as if To him my trembling fear was naught. And when about his neck I cling, He drops his eyes and bows his face, As if, from thought of other arms He longed to slip from my embrace. His bosom heaves with discontent, Deep as from hell the sigh is wrenched; My heart with dark suspicion beats, And all my happiness is quenched. And if I ask of him the cause, He says the cause in me is found; That I am vain, the rover I, And to another's bosom bound. As if, since I have known his love, I at the window show my face, Or take another's hand in mine, Or seek the bull-ring, joust, or race; Or if my footsteps have been found To wander a suspected place, The prophet's curse upon me fall, Unless to keep the nuptial pact And serve the pleasure of my lord. I kept the Koran's law exact! But wherefore should I waste the time These tedious questions to recall? Thou knowest the chase on which he hies, And yet in silence hidest all. Nay, swear not--I will naught believe; Thine oaths are but a fowler's net, And woe betide the dame who falls Into the snare that thou hast set. For men are traitors one and all; And all their promises betray; Like letters on the water writ, They vanish, when love's fires decay. For to fulfil thy promise fair, What hours thou hast the whole day long, What chances on the open road, Or in the house when bolts are strong. O God! but what a thought is this? I strangle, in the sudden thrall Of this sharp pang of agony, Oh, hold me, Tarfe, lest I fall." Thus Adelifa weeping cried At thought of Abenamar's quest: In Moorish Tarfe's arms she fell, And panting lay upon his breast.

THE CAPTIVE OF TOLEDO

Upon the loftiest mountain height That rises in its pride, And sees its summits mirrored In Tagus' crystal tide, The banished Abenamar, Bound by a captive chain, Looks on the high-road to Madrid That seams the dusty plain. He measures, with his pining eyes, The stretching hills that stand Between his place of banishment And his sweet native land. His sighs and tears of sorrow No longer bear restraint, And thus in words of anguish He utters his complaint: "Oh, dismal is the exile That wrings the heart with woes And locks the lips in silence, Amid unfeeling foes.

O road of high adventure, That leadest many a band To yon ungrateful country where My native turrets stand, The country that my valor Did oft with glory crown, The land that lets me languish here, Who won for her renown. Thou who hast succored many a knight, Hast thou no help for me, Who languish on Toledo's height In captive misery? 'Tis on thy world-wide chivalry I base my word of blame, 'Tis that I love thee most of all, Thy coldness brings me shame. Oh, dismal is the exile, That wrings my heart with woes, And locks my lips in silence Among unfeeling foes.

The warden of fierce Reduan With cruelty more deep That that of a hidalgo, Has locked this prison keep; And on this frontier set me, To pine without repose, To watch, from dawn to sunset, Over his Christian foes. Here like a watch-tower am I set For Santiago's lord, And for a royal mistress Who breaks her plighted word. And when I cry with anguish And seek in song relief, With threats my life is threatened, Till silence cloak my grief. Oh, dismal is the exile, That wrings my heart with woes, And locks my lips in silence Among unfeeling foes.

And when I stand in silence, Me dumb my jailers deem, And if I speak, in gentle words, They say that I blaspheme. Thus grievously perverting The sense of all I say, Upon my lips the raging crowd The gag of silence lay. Thus heaping wrong on wrong my foes Their prisoner impeach, Until the outrage of my heart Deprives my tongue of speech. And while my word the passion Of my sad heart betrays, My foes are all unconscious Of what my silence says. Now God confound the evil judge Who caused my misery, And had no heart of pity To soften his decree. Oh, dismal is the exile, That wrings my heart with woes, And locks my lips in silence Among unfeeling foes.

THE BLAZON OF ABENAMAR

By gloomy fortune overcast, Vassal of one he held in scorn, Complaining of the wintry world, And by his lady left forlorn, The wretched Abenamar mourned, Because his country was unkind, Had brought him to a lot of woe, And to a foreign home resigned. A stranger Moor had won the throne, And in Granada sat in state. Many the darlings of his soul He claimed with love insatiate, He, foul in face, of craven heart, Had won the mistress of the knight; Her blooming years of beauteous youth Were Abenamar's own by right. But royal favor had decreed A foreign tyrant there should reign, For many a galley owned him lord And master, in the seas of Spain. Oh, haply 'twas that Zaida's self, Ungrateful like her changing sex, Had chosen this emir, thus in scorn Her Abenamar's soul to vex. This was the thought that turned to tears The eyes of the desponding knight, As on his sufferings past he thought, His labors and his present plight; His hopes, to disappointment turned; His wealth, now held in alien hands, His agony o'er love betrayed, Lost honor, confiscated lands. And as his loyalty had met Such ill requital from the King, He called his page and bade him straight A limner deft before him bring. For he would have him paint at large, In color, many a new device And write his sufferings on his shield. No single blazon would suffice. And first a green field parched and seared; A coal, in myriad blazes burned, And like his ardent hopes of yore, At length to dust and ashes turned. And then a miser, rich in gold, Who locks away some jewel bright, For fear the thief a gem may steal, Which yet can yield him no delight. A fair Adonis done to death Beneath the wild boar's cruel tusk. 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 sex. 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 tassel 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 butt 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 Generalifé 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