Chapter 12

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 balls. 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 godspeed;

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 passion pure, though few the words she says. Her thoughts are ever with him, and they fly the mountain o'er When in the shaggy 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 passion after all is no ignoble 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 passion 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 passion 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 shore 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 pass 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 assured. No more those pearly tears of thine fall useless in the dust No more the jealous fear distract thy bosom with mistrust. Believe me by the oath I swear my heart I here resign, And all I have of love and care are, Adelifa, thine. Believe that Abenamar would his own life betray If he had courage thus to throw life's choicest gem away." Then Adelifa smiled on him and at the words he said, Upon his heaving bosom her blushing cheek she laid. And from that hour each jealous thought far from her mind she thrust And confidence returned again in place of dark distrust.

FUNERAL OF ABENAMAR

The Moors of haughty Gelves have changed their gay attire. The caftan and the braided cloak, the brooch of twisted wire, The gaudy robes, the mantles of texture rich and rare, The fluttering veils and tunic bright the Moors no longer wear. And wearied is their valorous strength, their sinewy arms hang down; No longer in their lady's sight they struggle for the crown. Whether their loves are absent or glowing in their eyes, They think no more of jealous feud nor smile nor favor prize; For love himself seems dead to-day amid that gallant train And the dirge beside the bier is heard and each one joins the strain, And silently they stand in line arrayed in mourning black For the dismal pall of Portugal is hung on every back. And their faces turned toward the bier where Abenamar lies, The men his kinsmen silent stand, amid the ladies' cries And thousand thousands ask and look upon the Moorish knight, By his coat of steel they weeping kneel, then turn them from the sight. And some proclaim his deeds of fame, his spirit high and brave, And the courage of adventure that had brought him to the grave. Some say that his heroic soul pined with a jealous smart, That disappointment and neglect had broke that mighty heart; That all his ancient hopes gave way beneath the cloud of grief, Until his green and youthful years were withered like a leaf; And he is wept by those he loved, by every faithful friend, And those who slandered him in life speak evil to the end. They found within his chamber where his arms of battle hung A parting message written all in the Moorish tongue: "Dear friends of mine, if ever in Gelves I should die, I would not that in foreign soil my buried ashes lie. But carry me, and dig my grave upon mine own estate, And raise no monument to me my life to celebrate, For banishment is not more dire where evil men abound, Than where home smiles upon you, but the good are never found."

BALLAD OF ALBAYALDOS

Three mortal wounds, three currents red, The Christian spear Has oped in head and thigh and head-- Brave Albayaldos feels that death is near.

The master's hand had dealt the blow, And long had been And hard the fight; now in his heart's blood low He wallows, and the pain, the pain is keen.

He raised to heaven his streaming face And low he said: "Sweet Jesus, grant me by thy grace, Unharmed to make this passage to the dead.

"Oh, let me now my sins recount, And grant at last Into thy presence I may mount, And thou, dear mother, think not of my past.

"Let not the fiend with fears affright My trembling soul; Though bitter, bitter is the night Whose darkling clouds this moment round me roll.

"Had I but listened to your plea, I ne'er had met Disaster; though this life be lost to me, Let not your ban upon my soul be set.

"In him, in him alone I trust, To him I pray, Who formed this wretched body from the dust. He will redeem me in the Judgment Day.

"And Muza, one last service will I ask, Dear friend of mine: Here, where I died, be it thy pious task To bury me beneath the tall green pine.

"And o'er my head a scroll indite, to tell How, on this sod, Fighting amid my valiant Moors, I fell. And tell King Chico how I turned to God,

"And longed to be a Christian at the last, And sought the light, So that the accursed Koran could not cast My soul to suffer in eternal night."

THE NIGHT RAID OF REDUAN

Two thousand are the Moorish knights that 'neath the banner stand Of mighty Reduan, as he starts in ravage thro' the land. With pillage and with fire he wastes the fields and fruitful farms, And thro' the startled border-land is heard the call to arms; By Jaen's towers his host advance and, like a lightning flash, Ubeda and Andujar can see his horsemen dash, While in Baeza every bell Does the appalling tidings tell, "Arm! Arm!" Rings on the night the loud alarm.

So silently they gallop, that gallant cavalcade, The very trumpet's muffled tone has no disturbance made. It seems to blend with the whispering sound of breezes on their way, The rattle of their harness and the charger's joyous neigh. But now from hill and turret high the flaming cressets stream And watch-fires blaze on every hill and helm and hauberk gleam. From post to post the signal along the border flies And the tocsin sounds its summons and the startled burghers rise, While in Baeza every bell Does the appalling tidings tell, "Arm! Arm!" Rings on the night the loud alarm.

Ah, suddenly that deadly foe has fallen upon the prey, Yet stoutly rise the Christians and arm them for the foe, And doughty knights their lances seize and scour their coats of mail, The soldier with his cross-bow comes and the peasant with his flail. And Jaen's proud hidalgos, Andujar's yeomen true, And the lords of towered Ubeda the pagan foes pursue; And valiantly they meet the foe nor turn their backs in flight, And worthy do they show themselves of their fathers' deeds of might, While in Baeza every bell Does the appalling tidings tell, "Arm! Arm!" Rings on the night the loud alarm.

The gates of dawn are opened and sunlight fills the land, The Christians issuing from the gates in martial order stand, They close in fight, and paynim host and Christian knights of Spain, Not half a league from the city gate, are struggling on the plain. The din of battle rises like thunder to the sky, From many a crag and forest the thundering echoes fly, And there is sound of clashing arms, of sword and rattling steel, Moorish horns, the fife and drum, as the scattering squadrons reel, And the dying moan and the wounded shriek for the hurt that none can heal, While in Baeza every bell Does the appalling tidings tell, "Arm! Arm!" Rings on the night the loud alarm.

SIEGE OF JAEN

Now Reduan gazes from afar on Jaen's ramparts high, And tho' he smiles in triumph yet fear is in his eye, And vowed has he, whose courage none charged with a default, That he would climb the ramparts and take it by assault, Yet round the town the towers and walls the city's streets impale, And who of all his squadrons that bastion can scale? He pauses until one by one his hopes have died away, And his soul is filled with anguish and his face with deep dismay. He marks the tall escarpment, he measures with his eye The soaring towers above them that seem to touch the sky. Height upon height they mount to heaven, while glittering from afar Each cresset on the watch-towers burns like to a baleful star. His eyes and heart are fixed upon the rich and royal town, And from his eye the tear of grief, a manly tear, flows down. His bosom heaves with sighs of grief and heavy discontent, As to the royal city he makes his sad lament: "Ah, many a champion have I lost, fair Jaen, at thy gate, Yet lightly did I speak of thee with victory elate, The prowess of my tongue was more than all that I could do, And my word outstripped the lance and sword of my squadron strong and true. And yet I vowed with courage rash thy turrets I would bring To ruin and thy subjects make the captives of my King. That in one night my sword of might, before the morrow's sun, Would do for thy great citadel what centuries have not done. I pledged my life to that attempt, and vowed that thou shouldest fall, Yet now I stand in impotence before thy castle tall. For well I see, before my might shall win thee for my King, That thou, impregnable, on me wilt rout and ruin bring, Ah, fatal is the hasty tongue that gives such quick consent, And he who makes the hasty vow in leisure must repent. Ah! now too late I mourn the word that sent me on this quest, For I see that death awaits me here whilst thou livest on at rest, For I must enter Jaen's gates a conqueror or be sent Far from Granada's happy hills in hopeless banishment; But sorest is the thought that I to Lindaraja swore: If Jaen should repulse me I'd return to her no more; No more a happy lover would I linger at her side, Until Granada's warrior host had humbled Jaen's pride." Then turning to his warriors, the Moorish cavalier Asks for their counsel and awaits their answer while with fear. Five thousand warriors tried and true the Moors were standing near, All armed with leathern buckler, all armed with sword and spear. "The place," they answer, "is too strong, by walls too high 'tis bound, Too many are the watch-towers that circle it around. The knights and proud hidalgos who on the wall are seen, Their hearts are bold, their arms are strong, their swords and spears are keen. Disaster will be certain as the rising of the day, And victory and booty are a slippery prize," they say, "It would be wise in this emprise the conflict to forego; Not all the Moors Granada boasts could lay proud Jaen low."

THE DEATH OF REDUAN

He shrank not from his promise, did Reduan the brave, The promise to Granada's King with daring high he gave; And when the morning rose and lit the hills with ruddy glow, He marshalled forth his warriors to strike a final blow. With shouts they hurry to the walls, ten thousand fighting men-- Resolved to plant the crescent on the bulwarks of Jaen. The bugle blast upon the air with clarion tone is heard, The burghers on the city wall reply with scoffing word; And like the noise of thunder the clattering squadrons haste, And on his charger fleet he leads his army o'er the waste. In front of his attendants his march the hero made, He tarried not for retinue or clattering cavalcade, And they who blamed the rash assault with weak and coward minds Deserted him their leader bold or loitered far behind. And now he stands beneath the wall and sees before him rise The object of the great campaign, his valor's priceless prize; He dreams one moment that he holds her subject to his arms, He dreams that to Granada he flies from war's alarms, Each battlement he fondly eyes, each bastion grim and tall, And in fancy sees the crescents rise above the Christian wall. But suddenly an archer has drawn his bow of might, And suddenly the bolt descends in its unerring flight, Straight to the heart of Reduan the fatal arrow flies, The gallant hero struck to death upon the vega lies. And as he lies, from his couch of blood, in melancholy tone, Thus to the heavens the hero stout, though fainting, makes his moan, And ere his lofty soul in death forth from its prison breaks, Brave Reduan a last farewell of Lindaraja takes: "Ah, greater were the glory had it been mine to die, Not thus among the Christians and hear their joyful cry, But in that happy city, reclining at thy feet, Where thou with kind and tender hands hast wove my winding-sheet. Ah! had it been my fate once more to gaze upon thy face, And love and pity in those eyes with dying glance to trace, Altho' a thousand times had death dissolved this mortal frame, Soon as thy form before me in radiant beauty came, A thousand times one look of thine had given me back my breath, And called thy lover to thy side even from the gate of death. What boots it, Lindaraja, that I, at Jaen's gate, That unsurrendered city, have met my final fate? What boots it, that this city proud will ne'er the Soldan own, For thee and not for Jaen this hour I make my moan; I weep for Lindaraja, I weep to think that she May mourn a hostage and a slave in long captivity. But worse than this that some proud Moor will take thee to his heart, And all thy thoughts of Reduan new love may bid depart. And dwelling on thy beauty he will deem it better far, To win fair Lindaraja than all the spoils of war, Yet would I pray if Mahomet, whose servant I have been, Should ever from the throne of God look on this bloody scene, And deem it right to all my vows requital fit to make, And for my valor who attacked the town I could not take, That he would make thy constancy as steadfast as the tower Of Jaen's mighty fortress, that withstood the Moorish power; Now as my life be ebbing fast, my spirit is oppressed, And Reduan the warrior bold is sinking to his rest, Oh, may my prayers be answered, if so kind heaven allow, And may the King forgive me for the failure of my vow, And, Lindaraja, may my soul, when it has taken its flight, And for the sweet Elysian fields exchange these realms of night, Contented in the joys and peace of that celestial seat, Await the happy moment when we once more shall meet."

THE AGED LOVER

'Twas from a lofty balcony Arselia looked down On golden Tagus' crystal stream that hemmed Toledo's town; And now she watched the eddies that dimpled in the flood And now she landward turned her eye to gaze on waste and wood, But in all that lay around her she sought for rest in vain, For her heart, her heart was aching, and she could not heal the pain. 'Tis of no courtly gallant the Moorish damsel dreams, No lordly emir who commands the fort by Tagus' streams, 'Twas on the banks of Tornes stood the haughty towers of note Where the young alcaydé loved by the maid from cities dwelt remote. And never at Almanzor's court had he for honor sought, Though he dwelt in high Toledo in fair Arselia's thought; And now she dreams of love's great gift, of passion's deep delight, When far away from her palace walls a stranger came in sight. It was no gallant lovelorn youth she saw approaching fast, It was the hero Reduan whose vernal years were past. He rode upon a sorrel horse and swiftly he came nigh, And stood where the dazzling sun beat down upon her balcony; And with a thoughtful air upon the maiden turned his eye, For suddenly the aged knight feels all his heart on fire, And all the frost of his broken frame is kindling with desire. And while he fain would hide his pain he paces up and down Before the palace turrets that Toledo's rampart crown. With anger glows the maiden's mind, "Now get thee gone," she cries, "For can it be that love of me in blood like thine can rise? I sicken at the very thought; thy locks, old man, are gray, Thy baldness and thy trembling hand a doting age betray. Ah, little must thou count my years of beauty and of bloom, If thou wouldst wed them with a life thus tottering to the tomb, Decrepitude is now thy lot, and wherefore canst thou dare To ask that youthful charms these vile infirmities should share?" And Moorish Reduan heard her words, and saw the meaning plain. Advancing to the balcony he answered her again: "The sun is king of everything, o'er all he holds his sway, And thou art like the sun--thy charms I own and I obey; Thy beauty warms my veins again, and in its rays, forsooth, I feel the blithe, courageous mood of long-forgotten youth; Sure love of mine can harm thee not, as sunlight is not lost When its kind radiance dissolves the fetters of the frost." Then turning round, a parchment did Reduan unfold, And on it was a writing in characters of gold; The meaning of the posy at once the maiden caught: "Since I can venture, I can have; as yet, I am not naught." He shows upon his shield a sun, circled with burning rays; And on the rim was written a little verse which says, "Two suns, one on my shield, and one in beauty's eyes, I trace." Then at the cold disdain he saw upon her lovely face, He covered with a gauzy veil the blazon of his shield, "The sun upon my targe," he cried, "before thy light must yield." But as the maid still pouted and eyed him with disdain, "The mimic sun," continued he, "which here is blazoned plain, Is overcast and hides itself from the true orb of day, And I by beauty's radiance eclipsed must ride away." And as he spoke the Moor struck deep the rowels in his steed, And rode away from Tagus' side across the grassy mead. The Moorish maiden recked not if he were far or near, Her thoughts returned to fancies sweet of her absent cavalier.

FICKLENESS REBUKED