Chapter 7

To heaven she raised her eyes, and saw, That early morning-tide, A clump of spears and an armored band From Guadalquivir ride.

Alfonzo Ramos with them came, The admiral of Castile. "Now welcome, Alfonzo Ramos! Now welcome, steed and steel, What tidings do you bring of my fleet, What tidings of woe or weal?"

"I'll tell thee tidings, lady, If my life thou wilt assure." "Tell on, Alfonzo Ramos, Thy life shall be secure."

"Seville, Seville has fallen, To the arms of the Berber Moor."

"But for my word thy head this day To the vultures had been tost!" "If head of mine were forfeited, Tis thine must pay the cost."

THE BULL-FIGHT OF ZULEMA

He was a valorous gentleman, a gay and gallant knight, Like stars on heaven's fifth circle was the splendor of his might. In peace, accomplished in the arts of great Apollo's choir, In war, the brilliant swordsman that Mars might well admire. His great exploits were written on history's brightest page, And rightly was he reckoned as the mirror of his age; Great deeds he did with point of lance and won bright honor's crown, Before the year when each red cheek was clothed in manly down. And such he was through all the world by minstrel harps extolled, Both for the vigor of his arm and for his bearing bold. His very foes, whom he had made surrender in the fight, While trembling at his valor, asked blessings on the knight. And Fame herself, whose pace is swift, whose voice like fire can run, Grew weary with reciting the deeds that he had done. To tell aright his jeopardies, escapes, and rescues wrought, A swifter-flying pinion and a louder tongue she sought! Such was Zulema, such was he, the warrior of renown, The son of that Zulema who ruled Toledo's town. Ah! bright the fame the father left, for it shall never die-- The glory of his greater son shall keep its memory. Now once it happened that he reached a city's towering gate; 'Twas Avila, and there that day the games they celebrate. The mighty square, when he arrived, was changed into a bower; And every knight wore fluttering plumes and every dame a flower. The scene was strange, because the Moor, in southern cities reared, Had never seen how gay Castile on festal days appeared. He marked the Adelifas in the King's pavilion stand, And he asked, and his prayer was granted, to join the champion band. Yet when they gave consent they feared that great Zulema's might Would surely quite excel in joust the best Castilian knight. But a thousand times they asked that heaven would give to him success, And a thousand times they wondered at his glorious Moorish dress. Full many a lady's beck and smile were on the warrior bent, And they looked on his manly beauty and they sighed with deep content. But now Zulema by the hand the wardens take and greet, And 'mid the highest noblemen they yield the knight a seat. His seat was placed in honor 'mid ladies gay and bright, Mid warriors of Castile, the first in courage and in might. Then suddenly, more swift than wind, more wild than comet's glare, Jerama's bull, far famed was he, rushed on the crowded square. Ah! brave was he in flashing eyes, and fierce was he in heart, His brow was like a storm-cloud, each horn a giant's dart, His wide-spread nostrils snorted fire, his neck was short and deep, His skin was black as the thunder-cloud that crowns the mountain's steep. Before his coming fled the crowd, until the sunny square Was emptied of the multitude, and every stone was bare. Those only who on horseback sat remained to face the foe. Now trembling with alarm they stand, and now with hope they glow. Good sport they looked to have with him, and lay him in the dust, But the Andalusian hero evaded every thrust. And sometimes, with a gallant charge he threw them from their seat, He gored them with his savage horn, and trod them with his feet! Ah! great the shame of the vanquished knights; they dared not raise their eyes To the ladies who looked down and smiled from banks and balconies. For those soft eyes were fixed no more upon each vanquished knight, But on the monster proud and strong who conquered them in fight. The dames upon the royal seat to Zulema turned their eyes, And one, the loveliest of them all, who wore a strange disguise, Yet through her veil such rays she shot that she seemed like the sun on high When he rises, quenching all the stars that filled the midnight sky. She made a sign to him and spoke directly from her heart, Whose tongue is in a woman's eye. Ah! well it plays its part! She bade him to redeem the day and avenge each gallant knight Who had fallen in the dust before the foe in stubborn fight. And the Moor with gracious mien assents, and from his seat descends; But first with glance and waving scarf a tender message sends To the lovely Moorish damsel who had called him to the fray, And had filled his heart with sudden love upon the festal day. And as he leapt into the sand it was as if he flew, For love lent wings at his lady's nod, some glorious deed to do. And when the bull beheld approach, upon the bloody sand, His bold and tall antagonist, a dagger in his hand, He roared like thunder, with his hoofs he pawed the dusty ground, The plaza shook, the castle tower re-echoed to the sound! Long subject to the hand of man, and in subjection born, He thought to subject human foe to hoof and mighty horn. Zulema started toward the beast, loud cries would hold him back, But well he knew that victory would follow his attack. The bull was on him with a bound, and, glaring face to face, They stood one moment, while a hush fell on the crowded place. With bold right hand Zulema drew his keen and mighty blade; Blow after blow 'mid blood and dust upon his foe he laid; The startled beast retired before such onslaught of his foe, And the people shouted loud applause and the King himself bowed low. The bull with tossing head roared forth a challenge to the knight, As Zulema turned, and with a bound rushed to the desperate fight. Ah! cruel were the strokes that rained upon that foaming flank! Into the sand that life-blood like a shower of autumn sank. He roars, he snorts, he spurns the ground, the bloody dust flies high, Now here, now there, in angry pain they see the monster fly. He turns to see what new-found foe has crossed his path to-day; But when Zulema faces him he stops to turn away. For the third time the fight begins; the bull with many a roar Turns to his foe, while from his lips run mingled foam and gore. The Moor enraged to see the beast again before him stand, Deals him the deep, the fatal wound, with an unerring hand. That wound, at last, has oped the gate through which may enter death, And staggering to the dust the beast snorts forth his latest breath. As the bull falls, the crowded square rings with a loud acclaim, And envy burns in many a knight, and love in many a dame. The highest nobles of the land the conqueror embrace; He sees the blush of passion burn on many a damsel's face. And Fame has blown her trumpet and flies from town to town, And Apollo takes his pen and writes the hero's title down.

THE RENEGADE

Through the mountains of Moncayo, Lo! all in arms arrayed, Rides pagan Bobalias, Bobalias the renegade.

Seven times he was a Moor, seven times To Christ he trembling turned; At the eighth, the devil cozened him And the Christian cross he spurned, And took back the faith of Mahomet, In childhood he had learned.

He was the mightiest of the Moors, And letters from afar Had told him how Sevila Was marshalling for war.

He arms his ships and galleys, His infantry and horse, And straight to Guadalquivir's flood His pennons take their course.

The flags that on Tablada's plain Above his camp unfold, Flutter above three hundred tents Of silk brocade and gold.

In the middle, the pavilion Of the pagan they prepare; On the summit a ruby stone is set, A jewel rich and rare.

It gleams at morn, and when the night Mantles the world at length, It pours a ray like the light of day, When the sun is at its strength.

THE TOWER OF GOLD

Brave Arbolan a prisoner lay Within the Tower of Gold; By order of the King there stood Four guards to keep the hold. 'Twas not because against his King He played a treacherous part; But only that Guhala's charms Had won the captive's heart.

"Guhala, Guhala, My longing heart must cry; This mournful vow I utter now-- To see thee or to die."

No longer free those sturdy limbs! Revenge had bid them bind The iron chain on hands and feet; They could not chain his mind! How dolorous was the warrior's lot! All hope at last had fled; And, standing at the window, With sighing voice he said:

"Guhala, Guhala, My longing heart must cry; This mournful vow I utter now-- To see thee or to die."

He turned his eyes to where the banks Of Guadalquivir lay; "Inhuman King!" in grief he cried, "Thy mandates I obey; Thou bidst them load my limbs with steel; Thy cruel sentinel Keeps watch beside my prison door; Yet who my crime can tell?

"Guhala, Guhala, My longing heart must cry; This mournful vow I utter now-- To see thee or to die."

THE DIRGE FOR ALIATAR

No azure-hued tahalia now Flutters about each warrior's brow; No crooked scimitars display Their gilded scabbards to the day. The Afric turbans, that of yore Were fashioned on Morocco's shore, To-day their tufted crown is bare; There are no fluttering feathers there. In mourning garments all are clad, Fit harness for the occasion sad; But, four by four the mighty throng In slow procession streams along. Ah! Aliatar! well he knew The soldiers of his army true, The soldiers whose afflicted strain Gives utterance to their bosom's pain.

Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

The phoenix that would shine in gold On the high banner's fluttering fold, Scarce can the breeze in gladness bring To spread aloft its waving wing. It seemed as if the fire of death For the first time had quenched her breath. For tribulation o'er the world The mantle of despair had furled; There was no breeze the ground to bless, The plain lay panting in distress; Beneath the trailing silken shroud Alfarez carried through the crowd.

Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

For Aliatar, one sad morn, Mounted his steed and blew his horn; A hundred Moors behind him rode; Fleeter than wind their coursers strode. Toward Motril their course is made, While foes the castle town blockade; There Aliatar's brother lay, Pent by the foes that fatal day. Woe work the hour, the day, when he Vaulted upon his saddle-tree! Ne'er from that seat should he descend To challenge foe or welcome friend, Nor knew he that the hour was near, His couch should be the funeral bier.

Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

That day the master's knights were sent, As if on sport and jousting bent; And Aliatar, on his way, By cruel ambush they betray; With sword and hauberk they surround And smite the warrior to the ground. And wounded deep from every vein He bleeding lies upon the plain. The furious foes in deadly fight His scanty followers put to flight, In panic-stricken fear they fly, And leave him unavenged to die.

Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

Ah sadly swift the news has flown To Zaida in the silent town; Speechless she sat, while every thought Fresh sorrow to her bosom brought; Then flowed her tears in larger flood, Than from his wounds the tide of blood. Like dazzling pearls the tear-drops streak The pallid beauty of her cheek. Say, Love, and didst thou e'er behold A maid more fair and knight more bold? And if thou didst not see him die, And Zaida's tears of agony, The bandage on thine orbs draw tight-- That thou mayst never meet the sight!

Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

Not only Zaida's eyes are wet, For him her soul shall ne'er forget; But many a heart in equal share The sorrow of that lady bare. Yes, all who drink the water sweet Where Genil's stream and Darro meet, All of bold Albaicins's line, Who mid Alhambra's princes shine-- The ladies mourn the warrior high, Mirror of love and courtesy; The brave lament him, as their peer; The princes, as their comrade dear; The poor deplore, with hearts that bleed, Their shelter in the time of need.

Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.

THE SHIP OF ZARA

It was the Moorish maiden, the fairest of the fair, Whose name amid the Moorish knights was worshipped everywhere. And she was wise and modest, as her race has ever been, And in Alhambra's palace courts she waited on the Queen, A daughter of Hamete--of royal line was he, And held the mighty castle of Baja's town in fee. Now sad and mournful all the day the maiden weeping sat, And her captive heart was thinking still of the distant caliphat, Which in the stubborn straits of war had passed from Moslem reign, And now was the dominion of King Ferdinand of Spain. She thought upon the dreary siege in Baja's desert vale When the fight was long and the food of beasts and men began to fail, And her wretched father, forced to yield, gave up his castle hold, For falling were the towers, falling fast his warriors bold. And Zara, lovely Zara, did he give into the care Of the noble Countess Palma, who loved the maiden fair. And the countess had to Baja come when Queen Isabella came, The lovely vega of the town to waste with sword and flame. And the countess asked of Zara if she were skilled in aught, The needle, or the 'broidery frame, to Christian damsels taught. And how she made the hours go by when, on Guadalquivir's strand, She sat in the Alhambra, a princess of the land. And, while her eyes were full of tears, the Moorish maid replied: "'Twas I the silver tinsel fixed on garments duly dyed; 'Twas I who with deft fingers with gold lace overlaid The dazzling robes of flowery tint of velvet and brocade. And sometimes would I take my lute and play for dancers there; And sometimes trust my own weak voice in some romantic air; But now, this moment, I retain but one, one mournful art-- To weep, to mourn the banishment that ever grieves my heart. And since 'tis thou alone whose bread, whose roof my life didst save, I weep the bitterest tears of all because I am a slave! Yet wouldst thou deign, O lady dear, to make more light to me The hours I pass beneath thy roof, in dark captivity,-- I bid thee build for me, if thou approve of the design, An ocean bark, well fitted to cross the surging brine; Let it be swift, let it be strong, and leave all barks behind, When on the surges of the main it feels the favoring wind. We'll launch it from the sloping shore, and, when the wind is high, And the fierce billows threatening mix their foam-tops with the sky, We'll lower the mainsail, lest the storm should carry us away, And sweep us on the reefs that lurk in some deep Afric bay. And on the lofty topmast shall this inscription stand, Written in letters which they use in every Christian land: 'This ship is tossed in many a storm, it lands on many a shore, And the wide sea, beneath the wind, it swiftly travels o'er; 'Tis like the human heart which brings no treasure and no gain, Till, tossed by hard misfortune, it has known the sea of pain.' And let there be upon the fringe round this inscription hung Another legend which shall say in the Arabian tongue: 'Oh, might it be that Allah, the merciful, would send To all my captive miseries a swift and happy end.'" The countess said: "To build this ship methinks would please me well, Such tasks the sorrows of thy heart might lighten or dispel; And, Zara, when the summer comes, and winds and floods are free, We'll build our bark, we'll hoist our sail, and start across the sea."

HAMETE ALI

Hamete Ali on his way toward the city goes, His tunic is a brilliant green with stripes of crimson rose, In sign that no despondency this daring wanderer knows. His arm, that wears the twisted steel, reflects the sunlight sheen, And bound to it by many a knot is hung his hood of green. And o'er his bonnet azure-blue, two feathery plumes there fly; The one is green as the summer and one is blue as sky. He does not wear these hues to show that he is passion's slave, They are emblems of the life that beats within his bosom brave. Yet dusky is his lance's hue and dusky is his shield, On which are serpents scattered upon a golden field. Their venomed tongues are quivering and ears before them stand, To show how slanderous hearts can spread their poison o'er the land. A lettered motto in the midst which everyone may read, Is written in Arabian script, ah! good that all should heed! "'Tis naught but innocence of heart can save me from the blow With which the slanderous serpents would lay their victim low." Upon a piebald colt he rode along the valley's side, The bravest of the valiant Moors and once Granada's pride. In furious rage descending from bold Ubeda's steep, He crossed the vale and mounted to Baza's castle keep. Defiant still of Fortune's power, his thoughts at last found vent, For Fortune had been cruel, and in words of discontent, As if he blamed the serpent upon his shield displayed, The torrent of his heart broke forth and in wrath the warrior said: "O wasters of the brightest hope I knew in years long past! O clouds by which the blazing sun of bliss is overcast! O blight of love, O ruin of aspirations pure! Vile worms, that gnaw and waste away the treasures most secure! Attempt no more to banish me from my own native land, That in my place of honor ye, envious slaves, may stand; I, too, have friends, whose swords are keen, whose love is strong and leal. To them I look for my defence by stratagem or steel. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

"Permit it not that in the generous breasts of those whose blood Flows in my veins, who by my side as faithful champions stood, Those cursed asps, whose effigies my shield's circumference fill, Could plant the thoughts of villany by which they work me ill. Just heaven forbids their words should blot the honor of my name, For pure and faithful is my heart, howe'er my foes defame; And Zaida, lovely Zaida, at a word that did me wrong, Would close her ears in scornful ire and curse the slanderous tongue. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

"Nay, Fortune, turn no more thy wheel, I care not that it rest, Nor bid thee draw the nail that makes it stand at man's behest Oh, may I never say to thee, when for thy aid I call, Let me attain the height of bliss whate'er may be my fall! And when I roam from those I love, may never cloud arise To dim my hope of a return and hide me from their eyes. Yet doubtless, 'tis the absent are oftenest forgot, Till those who loved when they were near in absence love them not. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

"And since 'tis my unhappy lot, through slander's cruel wiles, I should be robbed so many years of Zaida's cheering smiles, Yet those who say that I am false, and name Celinda's name, Oh, may they gain no end at length but obloquy and shame! It is not just that to these words and to these anxious fears, These wild complaints, the god of love should close his heedless ears! Yes, I deserve a better fate, the fate that makes more sure; The fame of those whose slanderous tongue in banishment endure. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment."

He spoke, and, lo! before him he saw the city stand, With walls and towers that frowned in might upon that fertile land. And he saw the glittering banners of Almanzor set on high, And swaying in the gentle breeze that filled the summer sky. And those who stood upon the walls, soon as he came in sight, Streamed forth from the portcullis with welcome for the knight, For they marvelled at the prancing steed that rushed across the plain, They marvelled at his thundering voice and words of deep disdain. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment.

And as he rode into the town and galloped to the square, Upon the balconies he saw bright dames with faces bare; They stood, they gazed with eyes of love and gestures of delight, For they joyed to see among them so stout, so fair a knight. And all of Baza's people with cries his coming greet, And follow at his horse's tail from street to crowded street. His heart with gratitude was filled, his bosom filled with pride, And with doffed bonnet, lo, he bowed and once again he cried: "And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment."

They led him to the warden's house, and there was feasting high. Brave men and beauteous women in crowds were standing by. The trumpets blew in merry strain, the Moorish horns resound, And the strain of joy was echoed from every castle round. And from his colt dismounting he laid his lance aside, And greeted all the multitude that filled the plaza wide. Then to the strong tower of the place he hurried from the street, And as he went a thousand times his lips would still repeat: "And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment."

ZAIDE'S LOVE