Part 19

With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the sand, Yet proudly in the center hath Gazul ta'en his stand; And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye, But firmly he extends his arm—his look is calm and high.

Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on, He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his _rejón_; Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow He blindly totters and gives back, across the sand to go.

"Turn, Gazul, turn!" the people cry—the third comes up behind, Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind; The mountaineers that lead the steers, without stand whispering low, "Now thinks this proud _alcaydé_ to stun Harpado so?"

From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, From Gaudalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill; But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear, Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud and stately steer.

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil, And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil. His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow; But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe.

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near, From out the broad and wrinkled skull, like daggers they appear; His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted tree, Whereon the monster's shaggy mane, like billows curled, ye see.

His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night, Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might; Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock, Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the _alcaydé's_ shock.

Now stops the drum—close, close they come—thrice meet, and thrice give back; The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black— The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dun— Once more advance upon his lance—once more, thou fearless one!

Once more, once more;—in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel— In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel— In vain, in vain, thou noble beast, I see, I see thee stagger, Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern _alcaydé's_ dagger!

They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in, And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din. Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low.

THE ZEGRI'S BRIDE[59]

Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is Lisaro, To wield _rejón_ like him is none, or javelin to throw; From the place of his dominion, he ere the dawn doth go, From Alcala de Henares, he rides in weed of woe.

He rides not now as he was wont, when ye have seen him speed To the field of gay Toledo, to fling his lusty reed; No gambeson of silk is on, nor rich embroidery Of gold-wrought robe or turban—nor jeweled _tahali_.

No amethyst nor garnet is shining on his brow, No crimson sleeve, which damsels weave at Tunis, decks him now; The belt is black, the hilt is dim, but the sheathed blade is bright; They have housened his barb in a murky garb, but yet her hoofs are light.

Four horsemen good, of the Zegri blood, with Lisaro go out; No flashing spear may tell them near, but yet their shafts are stout; In darkness and in swiftness rides every armed knight— The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white.

Young Lisaro, as on they go, his bonnet doffeth he, Between its folds a sprig it holds of a dark and glossy tree; That sprig of bay, were it away, right heavy heart had he— Fair Zayda to her Zegri gave that token privily.

And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady's boon. "God knows," quoth he, "what fate may be—I may be slaughtered soon; Thou still art mine, though scarce the sign of hope that bloomed whilere, But in my grave I yet shall have my Zayda's token dear."

Young Lisaro was musing so, when onward on the path, He well could see them riding slow; then pricked he in his wrath. The raging sire, the kinsmen of Zayda's hateful house, Fought well that day, yet in the fray the Zegri won his spouse.

ZARA'S EARRINGS

"My earrings! my earrings! they've dropped into the well, And what to say to Muça, I can not, can not tell." 'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter "The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water— To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I can not tell.

"My earrings! my earrings! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget, That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those earrings pale— When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, Oh, what will Muça think of me, I can not, can not tell.

"My earrings! my earrings! he'll say they should have been, Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere— That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well— Thus will he think—and what to say, alas! I can not tell.

"He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way; He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say; He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed, From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl unloosed; He'll think, when I was sporting so beside this marble well, My pearls fell in—and what to say, alas! I can not tell.

"He'll say, I am a woman, and we are all the same; He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame— But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Muça, and care not for his token. My earrings! my earrings! O luckless, luckless well, For what to say to Muça, alas! I can not tell.

"I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe— That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve; That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His earrings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell, And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well."

THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred, At twilight at the Vega gate there is a trampling heard; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe. "What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing?" "A tower is fallen, a star is set. Alas! alas for Celin!"

Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw; Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing, For all have heard the misery. "Alas! alas for Celin!"—

Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood, 'Twas at the solemn jousting, around the nobles stood; The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share; But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing, For he was Granada's darling knight. "Alas! alas for Celin!"

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view; Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale; When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing, And all the people, far and near, cry—"Alas! alas for Celin!"

Oh! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all; His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale, The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail, And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing, Its sound is like no earthly sound—"Alas! alas for Celin!"

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door, One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore— Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew Upon their broidered garments of crimson, green, and blue— Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low—"Alas! alas for Celin!"

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry; Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye. 'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago; She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know. With one deep shriek she through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing— "Let me kiss my Celin ere I die—Alas! alas for Celin!"

TURKISH LITERATURE

LEGEND AND POETRY AMONG THE TURKS

"_Once upon a time._" THE OLD, OLD BEGINNING.

_While still I live, 'tis well that I should mirth and glee enjoy._" SULTAN MURAD II.

LEGEND AND POETRY AMONG THE TURKS

(INTRODUCTION)

Turkish literature, as pointed out in our general introduction, is of a less advanced character than that of most of the Semitic literatures from which it is sprung. An epigrammatic summary of the Turkish character has said that every fourth word of Turkish is Arabic, every third idea Persian, and every second impulse Mohammedan. This, while not seeming to leave much of the original Turk, is perhaps not an unfair estimate of the extent of the Turks' indebtedness to the earlier races and religion upon which their civilization is built.

The Ottoman Turks, that is, the Turks who founded the present Turkish Empire, were a Tartar or Turanian tribe from Central Asia who adopted the Mohammedan faith and began their conquest of the Mohammedan world about the year 1300. They then possessed legends or childish tales of their own which still survive; and these are still told among the mass of the people with simple faith. One or two of these are given here, to show the natural human character of the race.

The Turks next turned, in literature, to poetry. Persian Mohammedan poetry was then at its best; and the Turks imitated, but scarcely improved upon, its forms. So great, indeed, became the Turkish admiration for poetry that almost every Turkish Sultan, from the year fourteen hundred down to the present, has written poetry. Our book gives a series, by themselves, of the best of these royal poems.

Turkish poetry has chiefly followed the Arabic fashion of expending itself upon language rather than upon thought. We are told that when the first Turkish epic poet Ahmedi presented to Sultan Bajazet's son his long epic history of Alexander the Great, the prince rebuked the poet's years of labor, saying that one tiny, perfectly polished poem would have been worth more than all the epic. Hence it is chiefly to the polishing of tiny poems that the poetic genius of the Turks has been applied. They have a favorite form called the "gazel," which might be likened to our English sonnet, except that the gazel is by far more intricate. It is, in fact, compared by the Turks to a flower with its petals constantly overlapping, forming a circle, and ending at the point where they began. In rhyme, for instance, the gazel opens with a rhyming couplet, and then through the whole poem the second line of each couplet repeats this opening rhyme.

We have tried to give the chief Turkish poets in somewhat chronological order, beginning with their first poet Ashiq, who died in 1332 and whose very name is forgotten, since _ashiq_ means merely "the lover." In other words, Turkish poetry begins with the passion of an unknown lover, not apparently for woman, but for life and God. The collected poems of Ashiq are called a _divan_, the usual Persian and Turkish word for such collections; but very little of the _divan_ of Ashiq has survived.

Among Turkish epic poets, the earliest is Ahmedi (died 1412), who wrote the Book of Alexander the Great. The first romantic song is that of Sheykhi (1426) on the loves of the maiden Shirin. The first religious epic is that of Yaziji-Oglu (1449), called the "Book of Mohammed." These, then, were the early singers. Of poets accounted of the highest rank, the earliest was Nejati (1508). Lamii was the scholar poet, a dervish or monk who delved into the older Persian literature and drew his themes perhaps from ancient Zoroastrian tales. He is usually named as the second greatest of Turkish poets. Gazali, Fuzuli, and Nabi were also noted singers of the sixteenth century, which was the great age of the Turkish Empire, both in literature and in military glory.

Of the two poetesses on our list, Mihri has been called the Turkish Sappho. Yet as the life of a Turkish woman of rank is carefully secluded, no scandal ever attached to her personal life. Her poems are mere dreams of fancy. Zeyneb was equally honored, a lady of high rank and a student of the Persian and Arabic poets.

All other singers, however, are accounted by the Turks inferior to the great lyric poet Baqi (1526-1600). Baqi was at first a saddler, but he studied law and rose to the highest legal position of the empire. Poetry was the avocation of the great lawyer's leisure, and it won him the admiring friendship of the four successive Sultans who reigned during his life. The very name Baqi means "that which lasts," or "the enduring," so it has been frequently punned upon. The poet himself used a seal with a Persian couplet,

"Fleeting is the world, and without faith God alone endures (or, Baqi alone is god); all else is fleeting"

OLD TURKISH TALES

THE QUEEN OF NIGHT

Once upon a time there was an old man who had three daughters. All of them were beautiful, but the youngest, whose name was Rosa, was not only more lovely, but also more amiable and more intelligent than the others. Jealous and envious exceedingly were the two sisters when they found that the fame of Rosa's beauty was greater than the fame of theirs. They, however, refused to believe that Rosa was really more lovely than they were, and they resolved to ask the Sun's opinion on the subject.

So, one day at dawn, the sisters stood at their open window and cried, "Sun, shining Sun, who wanderest all over the world, say who is the most beautiful among our father's daughters?"

The Sun replied, "I am beautiful, and you are both beautiful; but your youngest sister is the most beautiful of all."

When the two girls heard this, they were beside themselves with anger and spite, and determined to get rid of the sister who so outshone them. Saying nothing to her of what the Sun had told them, they on the following day invited Rosa to accompany them to the wood to gather a salad of wild herbs for their father's dinner. The unsuspecting Rosa at once complied, took her basket, and set out with her sisters, who led her to a spot she had never before visited, a long way from her father's house, and surrounded on all sides by forest. When they were arrived, the eldest sister said,

"Do thou, Rosa, gather all the herbs that are here; we will go a little farther on, and when we have filled our baskets we will return."

The wicked girls, however, went straight home, abandoning Rosa to her fate. When some hours had passed, and she found that they did not return, she feared that she might, while seeking for the herbs, have wandered from the spot where her sisters had left her. Too innocent to suspect them of the wicked treachery of which they had been guilty, she only blamed herself for her carelessness, and wept bitterly at the thought of remaining all night alone in the wild and lonely wood.

After a time the sun set, the twilight came and passed, and darkness fell. The birds ceased their songs, and the silence of the forest was broken only by the flutter of a bat or great gray moth, the melancholy hoot of an owl, and the faint little rustle made by the other flying and creeping things that come forth with the stars. Seated on a great tree-trunk, Rosa wept more and more bitterly as the darkness deepened, and no one came to her aid. Hours passed, the air grew chilly; and faint with hunger and cold, she was about to lay herself down to die, when suddenly a brilliant light, like the sparkling of many stars, shot through the wood and advanced toward the spot where she sat. It was the Queen of Night, who, attended by all her court, was returning to her palace after her usual journey, for it was now near dawn. Rosa, dazzled and frightened, covered her face with her hands, and wept more bitterly than ever. Attracted by the sound of her sobbing, the Radiant Lady approached the weeping girl, and in a kind and gentle voice asked how she came to be there. Rosa looked up, and, reassured by the benign countenance of the Queen of Night, told her story.

"Come then and live with me, dear girl; I will be your mother, and you shall be my daughter," said the Queen, who knew perfectly well how it had all happened.

Gladly the poor girl accompanied the Queen to her palace, and being, as we know, as amiable and intelligent as she was beautiful, her protectress soon became very fond of her, and did everything in her power to make her adopted daughter happy. She gave Rosa the keys of all her treasures, made her the mistress of her palace, and let her do whatever she pleased.

But let us now leave this lucky girl with the Queen of Night for a little while, and return to her sisters. Though they fully believed she must either have perished of hunger or been devoured by wild beasts, they after a time, to make quite certain, went again to their window and cried,

"Sun, shining Sun, who wanderest all over the world, tell us who is the most beautiful of our father's daughters?"

The Sun replied as before, "I am beautiful, and you are both beautiful; but your youngest sister is the most beautiful of all."

"But Rosa has long been dead!"

"No," replied the Sun, "Rosa still lives, and she is in the palace of the Queen of Night."

When the sisters heard this, their rage and spite knew no bounds. Long they consulted together as to the best means of bringing about her death; and finally these wicked girls decided to obtain from a witch of their acquaintance an enchanted kerchief which would make the person wearing it appear to be dead.

Well, they set out, and presently arrived at the palace at an hour when they knew that the Queen of Night would be absent and they might find their sister alone. Rosa was delighted to see them, for though they had often been unkind to her, she loved her sisters very dearly, and welcoming them warmly, she offered them everything she had, and pressed them to remain. They, on their part, pretended to be overjoyed at finding again the sister they had mourned as lost, and congratulated her on her good fortune. When they had eaten and drunk of the good things she set before them, and were about to take their departure, the eldest sister produced from her basket the enchanted kerchief.

"Here, dear Rosa," said she, "is a little present which we should like you to wear for our sakes. Let me pin it round your shoulders. Good-bye, dear!" she added, kissing her affectionately on both cheeks, "we will come and see you again before long and bring our father with us."

"Do, dear sisters, and tell my dear father that I will go to see him as soon as my kind protectress may give me leave."

Rosa watched her sisters from the window till they were out of sight, and then turned to the embroidery-frame which she had laid aside on their arrival. She had not, however, made many stitches, before a feeling of faintness came over her; and letting her work slip from her hands, she fell back on the sofa and lost consciousness. When the Queen of Night came home, she went first, as was her wont, to the chamber of her dear adopted daughter, and finding her thus, she said, as she bent over the maiden and kissed her beautiful mouth, "She has tired herself, poor child, over that embroidery-frame; she is so industrious."

But the beautiful lips were cold and white, and the maiden neither breathed nor stirred. Distracted with grief, the Queen of Night began to unfasten Rosa's dress in order to ascertain whether her death had been caused by the bite of some poisonous reptile, and while doing so, she observed that the kerchief on her shoulders was not one that her daughter was in the habit of wearing. When she had unpinned and taken it off, Rosa heaved a deep sigh, opened her eyes, and seeing the Queen bending over her, smiled and stretched out her arms to her dear mother, saying,

"I must have slept a long time! Oh, I remember!" she added, "I was feeling faint and giddy and lay down, and, I suppose, fell asleep immediately, for I don't recollect anything else."

"But where did you get this?" asked the Queen, picking up the kerchief from the floor. "I don't remember having given it to you."

"Oh, I have not told you that I had a great pleasure yesterday. My sisters, who had thought me forever lost, found out where I was and came to see me, bringing this kerchief as a present. Is it not pretty?"

These words told the Queen of Night the secret of the whole matter; but, not wishing to distress her daughter by acquainting her with her sisters' cruel perfidy, she only replied, "Yes, very pretty. Will you give it to me, Rosa? I should like to have it for myself."

Rosa was naturally only too pleased to be able to give her kind protectress something in return for all her favors; and she also promised her, though not without tears, never again to receive any visitors, not even her sisters, when she was left by herself in the palace.

These wicked creatures in a little while again stood at their window and cried, "Sun, shining Sun, who wanderest the world over, say, is there now any one more beautiful than we are?"

But the Sun only replied as before, "I am beautiful; you, too, are beautiful; but Rosa is the most beautiful of all!"

The sisters looked at each other in dismay. "The kerchief has then failed," said the elder to the younger. "We must try some other method of getting rid of her."

So the wretches went to the same old witch who had given them the magic kerchief, and got from her an enchanted sugar-plum. When at nightfall they again knocked at the door of the palace, the porter informed them that his mistress was absent, and had given orders that the palace-gates were not to be opened until her return. They, however, saw Rosa at her window, and pretending to be greatly distressed at their exclusion, asked her at least to accept from them the delicious sugar-plum which they had brought for her.

"Let down a basket," said the eldest; "I will put the sugar-plum inside, and you can draw it up."

Rosa did so, and drew up the sweetmeat.

"Taste it at once," cried the second sister, "and if you like it, we will bring you more of the same kind."

The poor girl, suspecting no evil, put the sugar-plum into her mouth; but scarcely had she tasted it, than she fell back as if dead; and her sisters, seeing this, hurried away home.