A Moorish Romance

"On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors stillpreserve the key of their ancestors' houses in Spain; towhich country they still express the hopes of one dayreturning and again planting the crescent on the ancientwalls of the Alhambra."--SCOTT'S Travels in Moroccoand Algiers.

"Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to wantclosing?"

The Moor leans on his cushion,With the pipe between his lips;And still at frequent intervalsThe sweet sherbet he sips;But, spite of lulling vaporAnd the sober cooling cup,The spirit of the swarthy MoorIs fiercely kindling up!

One hand is on his pistol,On its ornamented stock,While his finger feels the triggerAnd is busy with the lock--The other seeks his ataghan,And clasps its jewell'd hilt--Oh! much of gore in days of yoreThat crooked blade has spilt!

His brows are knit, his eyes of jetIn vivid blackness roll,And gleam with fatal flashesLike the fire-damp of the coal;His jaws are set, and through his teethHe draws a savage breath,As if about to raise the shoutOf Victory or Death!

For why? the last Zebeck that cameAnd moor'd within the Mole,Such tidings unto Tunis broughtAs stir his very soul--The cruel jar of civil war,The sad and stormy reign,That blackens like a thunder cloudThe sunny land of Spain!

No strife of glorious Chivalry,For honor's gain or loss,Nor yet that ancient rivalry,The Crescent with the Cross.No charge of gallant PaladinsOn Moslems stern and stanch;But Christians shedding Christian bloodBeneath the olive's branch!

A war of horrid parricide,And brother killing brother;Yea, like to "dogs and sons of dogs"That worry one another.But let them bite and tear and fight,The more the Kaffers slay,The sooner Hagar's swarming sonsShall make the land a prey!

The sooner shall the Moor beholdTh' Alhambra's pile again;And those who pined in BarbaryShall shout for joy in Spain--The sooner shall the Crescent waveOn dear Granada's walls:And proud Mohammed Ali sitWithin his fathers halls!

"Alla-il-alla!" tiger-likeUp springs the swarthy Moor,And, with a wide and hasty stride,Steps o'er the marble floor;Across the hall, till from the wall,Where such quaint patterns be,With eager hand he snatches downAnd old and massive Key!

A massive Key of curious shape,And dark with dirt and rust,And well three weary centuriesThe metal might encrust!For since the King Boabdil fellBefore the native stock,That ancient Key, so quaint to see,Hath never been in lock.

Brought over by the SaracensWho fled accross the main,A token of the secret hopeOf going back again;From race to race, from hand to hand,From house to house it pass'd;O will it ever, ever opeThe Palace gate at last?

Three hundred years and fifty-twoOn post and wall it hung--Three hundred years and fifty-twoA dream to old and young;But now a brighter destinyThe Prophet's will accords:The time is come to scour the rust,And lubricate the wards.

For should the Moor with sword and lanceAt Algesiras land,Where is the bold Bernardo nowTheir progress to withstand?To Burgos should the Moslem come,Where is the noble CidFive royal crowns to topple downAs gallant Diaz did?

Hath Xeres any Pounder now,When other weapons fail,With club to thrash invaders rash,Like barley with a flail?Hath Seville any Perez still,To lay his clusters low,And ride with seven turbans greenAround his saddle-bow?

No! never more shall Europe seeSuch Heroes brave and bold,Such Valor, Faith and Loyalty,As used to shine of old!No longer to one battle cryUnited Spaniards run,And with their thronging spears upholdThe Virgin and her Son!

From Cadiz Bay to rough BiscayInternal discord dwells,And Barcelona bears the scarsOf Spanish shot and shells.The fleets decline, the merchants pineFor want of foreign trade;And gold is scant; and AlicanteIs seal'd by strict blockade!

The loyal fly, and Valor falls,Opposed by court intrigue;But treachery and traitors thrive,Upheld by foreign league;While factions seeking private endsBy turns usurping reign--Well may the dreaming, scheming MoorExulting point to Spain!

Well may he cleanse the rusty KeyWith Afric sand and oil,And hope an Andalusian homeShall recompense the toil!Well may he swear the Moorish spearThrough wild Castile shall sweep,And where the Catalonian sowedThe Saracen shall reap!

Well may he vow to spurn the CrossBeneath the Arab hoof,And plant the Crescent yet againAbove th' Alhambra's roof--When those from whom St. Jago's nameIn chorus once arose,Are shouting Faction's battle-cries,And Spain forgets to "Close!"

Well may he swear his ataghanShall rout the traitor swarm,And carve them into ArabesquesThat show no human form--The blame be theirs, whose bloody feudsInvite the savage Moor,And tempt him with the ancient KeyTo seek the ancient door!