Tales and Historic Scenes

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TALES

AND

HISTORIC SCENES.

The Abencerrage

THE ABENCERRAGE.

Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colère dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance seule peut écarter de sa tête le poids d'infamie dont il est accablé,—Il se venge, parce qu'à ses yeux il n’y a qu'une âme basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts, et il nourrit sa rancune, parce que s'il la sentoit s'éteindre, il croiroit avec elle, avoir perdu une vertu.

Sismondi.

The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related in the "Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada." They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli or Abdali, the last Moorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said, by some historians, to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, whose defection was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred; and it still retains their name, being called the "Sala de los Abencerrages." Many of the most interesting old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic period.

THE ABENCERRAGE.

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o'er; And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls, Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more.

Hush'd are the voices, that, in years gone by, Have mourn'd, exulted, menaced, through thy towers; Within thy pillar'd courts the grass waves high, And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers.

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, Through tall arcades unmark'd the sunbeam smiles, And many a tint of soften’d brilliance throws O'er fretted walls, and shining peristyles.

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone, So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair, Some charm'd abode of Beings all unknown, Powerful and viewless, children of the air.

For there no footstep treads th' enchanted ground, There not a sound the deep repose pervades, Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round, Through the light domes and graceful colonnades.

Far other tones have swell'd those courts along, In days romance yet fondly loves to trace; The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, The revels, combats, of a vanish'd race.

And yet awhile, at Fancy's potent call, Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold! Peopling once more each fair, forsaken hall, With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old.

—The sun declines—upon Nevada's height There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light; Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow Smiles in the richness of that parting glow,

And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye That melts and mingles in th' empurpled sky. Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour: Hush'd are the winds, and Nature seems to sleep In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep, Are dyed with tints of glory, only given To the rich evening of a southern heaven; Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught. —Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest The fiery passions of the human breast. Hark! from th' Alhambra's towers what stormy sound, Each moment deepening, wildly swells around? Those are no tumults of a festal throng, Not the light zambra,1nor the choral song: The combat rages—'tis the shout of war, 'Tis the loud clash of shield and scymitar. Within the hall of Lions,2where the rays Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze; There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands, And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands; There the strife centres—swords around him wave; There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave,

While echoing domes return the battle-cry, "Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!" And onward rushing, and prevailing still, Court, hall, and tower, the fierce avengers fill.

But first and bravest of that gallant train, Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain; In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, His Aben-Zurrahs3 there young Hamet leads; While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, "Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!"

Yes, trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath, By helm and corslet shatter'd in his path; And by the thickest harvest of the slain, And by the marble's deepest crimson stain: Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries From triumph, anguish, or despair arise; And brightest where the shivering falchions glare, And where the ground is reddest—he is there. Yes, that young arm, amidst the Zegri host, Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost.

They perish'd—not as heroes should have died, On the red field, in victory's hour of pride, In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, And proudly smiling as the death-pang came: Oh! had they thus expired, a warrior's tear Had flow'd, almost in triumph, o'er their bier. For thus alone the brave should weep for those, Who brightly pass in glory to repose. —Not such their fate—a tyrant's stern command, Doom'd them to fall by some ignoble hand, As, with the flower of all their high-born race, Summon'd, Abdallah's royal feast to grace, Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, They sought the banquet's gilded hall—to die. Betray'd, unarm'd, they fell—the fountain wave Flow'd crimson with the life-blood of the brave, Till far the fearful tidings of their fate Through the wide city rung from gate to gate, And of that lineage each surviving son Rush'd to the scene where vengeance might be won.

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, Leader of battle, prodigal of life,

Urging his followers, till their foes beset, Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more, Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er.

But lo! descending o'er the darken'd hall, The twilight-shadows fast and deeply fall, Nor yet the strife hath ceased—though scarce they know, Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe; Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray, The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay.

Where lurks Abdallah?—'midst his yielding train, They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. He lies not number'd with the valiant dead, His champions round him have not vainly bled; But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, And his last warriors found each effort fail, In wild despair he fled—a trusted few, Kindred in crime, are still in danger true; And o'er the scene of many a martial deed, The Vega's4 green expanse, his flying footsteps lead. He pass'd th' Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers, Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers

In dew and starlight—there, from grot and cave, Gush'd, in wild music, many a sparkling wave; There, on each breeze, the breath of fragrance rose, And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.

But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. Oh! vainly bright is Nature in the course Of him who flies from terror or remorse! A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb; There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair, But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves, Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise, Wild notes of Nature's vesper-melodies; Marks not, how lovely, on the mountain's head, Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread; But urges onward, till his weary band, Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand. He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes In silence gazing, fix'd awhile remains;

In stern, deep silence—o'er his feverish brow, And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, But waft, in fitful murmurs, from afar, Sounds, indistinctly fearful,—as of war. What meteor bursts, with sudden blaze, on high, O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky? Awful it rises, like some Genie-form, Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm5, Magnificently dread—above, below, Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow. Lo! from th' Alhambra's towers the vivid glare Streams through the still transparence of the air, Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire; And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, From dim perspective start to ruddy light.

Oh heaven! the anguish of Abdallah's soul, The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control! Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly, For life—such life as makes it bliss to die! On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal'd Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield.

Thither his steps are bent—yet oft he turns, Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. But paler grow the sinking flames at last, Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past, And spiry vapours, rising o'er the scene, Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. And now his feet have reach'd that lonely pile, Where grief and terror may repose awhile; Embower'd it stands, 'midst wood and cliff on high, Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh; He hails the scene where every care should cease, And all—except the heart he brings—is peace.

There is deep stillness in those halls of state, Where the loud cries of conflict rung so late; Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert pass'd6. Fearful the calm—nor voice, nor step, nor breath, Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death: Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, Save the wild gush of waters—murmuring round, In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone, Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red, Breastplate, and shield, and cloven helm are spread

In mingled fragments—glittering to the light Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright, Their streaming lustre tremulously shed, And smile, in placid beauty, o'er the dead: O'er features, where the fiery spirit's trace, E'en death itself is powerless to efface, O'er those, who flush'd with ardent youth, awoke, When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke, Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep, Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep. In the low silent house, the narrow spot, Home of forgetfulness—and soon forgot.

But slowly fade the stars—the night is o'er— Morn beams on those who hail her light no more; Slumberers who ne'er shall wake on earth again, Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. Yet smiles the day—oh! not for mortal tear Doth nature deviate from her calm career, Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share. O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows; Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, And skies arch cloudless o'er a world of woe,

And flowers renew'd in spring's green pathway bloom, Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb.

Within Granada's walls the funeral-rite Attends that day of loveliness and light; And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, Is gathered to the brave of other years: And Hamet, as beneath the cypress-shade His martyr'd brother and his sire are laid, Feels every deep resolve, and burning thought Of ampler vengeance, e'en to passion wrought; Yet is the hour afar—and he must brood O'er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. Tumult and rage are hush'd—another day In still solemnity hath pass'd away, In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, The calm that follows in the tempest's path.

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, His ravaged city traversing again. No sound of gladness his approach precedes, No splendid pageant the procession leads, Where'er he moves the silent streets along, Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng;

No voice is heard—but in each alter'd eye, Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, And in each look of those, whose love hath fled From all on earth to slumber with the dead, Those, by his guilt made desolate, and thrown On the bleak wilderness of life alone. In youth's quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage, And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age, May well be read a dark and fearful tale Of thought that ill th' indignant heart can veil, And passion, like the hush'd volcano's power, That waits in stillness its appointed hour,

No more the clarion, from Granada's walls, Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls; No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, Bend o'er the lists the darkly-radiant eye; Silence and gloom her palaces o'erspread, And song is hush'd, and pageantry is fled. —Weep, fated city! o'er thy heroes weep— Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep! Furl'd are their banners in the lonely hall, Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall,

Wildly their chargers range the pastures o'er, Their voice in battle shall be heard no more; And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive, Whom he hath wrong'd too deeply to forgive, That race, of lineage high, of worth approved, The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved; Thine Aben-Zurrahs—they no more shall wield In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shield: Condemned to bid the cherish'd scenes farewell Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell, And far o'er foreign plains, as exiles, roam, Their land the desert, and the grave their home. Yet there is one shall see that race depart, In deep, though silent, agony of heart; One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone, Unseen her sorrows, and their cause unknown, And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear That smile, in which the spirit hath no share; Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow.

Soft, fresh, and silent, is the midnight hour, And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower;

That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind, One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. That name in vain stern Reason would efface, Hamet! 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race?

And yet not hers in bitterness to prove The sleepless pangs of unrequited love; Pangs, which the rose of wasted youth consume, And make the heart of all delight the tomb, Check the free spirit in its eagle-flight, And the spring-morn of early genius blight; Not such her grief—though now she wakes to weep, While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.7

A step treads lightly through the citron-shade, Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray d— Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot, Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot? 'Tis he—but changed that eye, whose glance of fire Could, like a sunbeam, hope and joy inspire, As, luminous with youth, with ardor fraught, It spoke of glory to the inmost thought; Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled, And in its wild expression may be read

Stern thoughts and fierce resolves—now veil'd in shade, And now in characters of fire pourtray'd. Changed e'en his voice—as thus its mournful tone Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own.

"Zayda, my doom is fix'd—another day, And the wrong'd exile shall be far away; Far from the scenes where still his heart must be, His home of youth, and, more than all—from thee. Oh! what a cloud hath gather'd o'er my lot, Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot! Lovely as then, the soft and silent hour, And not a rose hath faded from thy bower; But I–my hopes the tempest hath o'erthrown, And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise, Heroic visions of my early days! In me the glories of my race must end, The exile hath no country to defend! E’en in life's morn, my dreams of pride are o'er, Youth's buoyant spirit wakes for me no more, And one wild feeling in my alter'd breast Broods darkly o'er the ruins of the rest

Yet fear not thou—to thee, in good or ill, The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still! But when my steps are distant, and my name Thou hear'st no longer in the song of fame, When Time steals on, in silence to efface Of early love each pure and sacred trace, Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem But as the moonlight pictures of a dream, Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth And all the fervor of affection's youth? —If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play In lonely beauty, o'er thy wanderer's way."

"Ask not, if such my love! oh! trust the mind To grief so long, so silently resign'd! Let the light spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught The pure and lofty constancy of thought, Its fleeting trials eager to forget, Rise with elastic power o'er each regret! Foster'd in tears, our young affection grew, And I have learn'd to suffer and be true. Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower, Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower;

No! 'tis the child of tempests, and defies, And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies! Too well I feel, with grief's prophetic heart, That ne'er to meet in happier days, we part. We part! and e'en this agonizing hour, When love first feels his own o'erwhelming power, Shall soon to Memory's fixed and tearful eye Seem almost happiness—for thou wert nigh! Yes! when this heart in solitude shall bleed, As days to days all wearily succeed, When doom'd to weep in loneliness, 'twill be Almost like rapture to have wept with thee.

"But thou, my Hamet, thou canst yet bestow All that of joy my blighted lot can know. Oh! be thou still the high-soul'd and the brave, To whom my first and fondest vows I gave, In thy proud fame's untarnish'd beauty still The lofty visions of my youth fulfil, So shall it soothe me, 'midst my heart's despair, To hold undimm'd one glorious image there!"

"Zayda, my best-beloved! my words too well, Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel;

Yet must my soul to thee unveil'd be shown, And all its dreams and all its passions known. Thou shalt not be deceived—for pure as heaven Is thy young love, in faith and fervor given. I said my heart was changed—and would thy thought Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought, In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, Crush'd by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains, And such that heart—where desolation's hand Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand! But Vengeance, fix'd upon her burning throne, Sits 'midst the wreck in silence and alone, And I, in stern devotion at her shrine, Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. —Yes! they whose spirits all my thoughts controul, Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul; They, the betray'd, the sacrificed, the brave, Who fill a blood-stain'd and untimely grave, Must be avenged! and pity and remorse, In that stern cause, are banish'd from my course. Zayda, thou tremblest—and thy gentle breast Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest; Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour, Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power,

And, oft recall'd, thy voice beguile my lot, Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne'er forgot.

"But the night wanes—the hours too swiftly fly, The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh, Yet, loved one! weep not thus—in joy or pain, Oh! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again! Yes, we shall meet! and haply smile at last On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!"

Is the voice hush'd, whose loved, expressive tone Thrill'd to her heart, and doth she weep alone? Alone she weeps—that hour of parting o'er— When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more? The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair, Showering the dewy rose-leaves o'er her hair; But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power, In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, To wake once more that calm, serene delight, The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath could blight;

The smiling stillness of life's morning hour, Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power. Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxuriant shade, In the rich foliage of the South array d, Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day, Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave On high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave, Lonely and fair—its fresh and glittering leaves, With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves, To canopy the dead—nor wanting there Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air, Nor wood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive stream, Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream. There sleep the chiefs of old—their combats o'er, The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more! Unheard by them th' awakening clarion blows; The sons of war at length in peace repose. No martial note is in the gale that sighs, Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, 'Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom, As, in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb.

There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead,

Where two fair pillars rise, embower'd and lone, Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o'ergrown, Young Hamet kneels—while thus his vows are pour'd, The fearful vows that consecrate his sword. —"Spirit of him, who first within my mind Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined, And taught my steps the line of light to trace, Left by the glorious fathers of my race, Hear thou my voice—for thine is with me still, In every dream its tones my bosom thrill, In the deep calm of midnight they are near, 'Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear, Still murmuring 'vengeance!'—nor in vain the call, Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall! Cold as thine own to glory and to fame, Within my heart there lives one only aim, There, till th' oppressor for thy fate atone, Concentring every thought, it reigns alone. I will not weep—revenge, not grief, must be, And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee; But the dark hour of stern delight will come, And thou shalt triumph, warrior! in thy tomb

"Thou, too, my brother! thou art pass'd away, Without thy fame, in life's fair-dawning day. Son of the brave! of thee no trace will shine In the proud annals of thy lofty line, Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays That hold communion with the after-days. Yet, by the wreaths thou might'st have nobly won, Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun, By glory lost, I swear, by hope betray'd, Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid; War with thy foes I deem a holy strife, And, to avenge thy death, devote my life.

"Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain! Hear, and be with me on the battle-plain! At noon, at midnight, still around me bide, Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died!"

CANTO II.

———Oh! ben provvide il Cielo Ch' Uom per delitti mai lieto non sia. Alfieri.

Fair land! of chivalry the old domain, Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain! Though not for thee with classic shores to vie In charms that fix th' enthusiast's pensive eye; Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought; Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame. Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows, Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose. No sound of battle swells on Douro's shore, And banners wave on Ebro's banks no more. But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead?

Blest be that soil! where England's heroes share The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there; Whose names are glorious in romantic lays, The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days. By goatherd lone, and rude serrano sung, Thy cypress dells, and vine-clad rocks among. How oft those rocks have echo'd to the tale Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale; Of him, renown'd in old heroic lore, First of the brave, the gallant Campeador; Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died, When "Rio Verde" roll'd a crimson tide; Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might, On the green Vega won in single fight.8

Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, O'er that green Vega rose the din of war. At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone O'er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone; On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced, On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, Tents rose around, and banners glanced above,

And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright With gold, reflecting every tint of light, And many a floating plume, and blazon'd shield, Diffused romantic splendor o'er the field.

There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start Swift to the mantling cheek, and beating heart. The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh, The measured tread of hosts in war's array; And oh! that music, whose exulting breath Speaks but of glory on the road to death; In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power To wake the stormy joy of danger's hour; To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain, Rouse from despondence, and support in pain; And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife, Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life.

High o'er the camp, in many a broider'd fold, Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold: There, imaged on the cross, his form appears, Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears.9 His form, whose word recall'd the spirit, fled, Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead!

O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. Fired with that ardor, which, in days of yore, To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore; Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal, They come, the gallant children of Castile; The proud, the calmly dignified:—and there Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair, And those who guide the fiery steed of war From yon rich province of the western star.10

But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene, Stern grandeur stamp'd upon thy princely mien; Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,11 Young Aben-Zurrah! midst that host of foes, Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose! Why rise the tents, where dwell thy kindred train, O son of Afric, midst the sons of Spain? Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired, Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired? How art thou changed! Still first in every fight, Hamet, the Moor! Castile's devoted knight!

There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, But not the light that shone in days gone by; There is wild ardor in thy look and tone, But not the soul's expression once thine own, Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway? No eye but heaven's may pierce that curtain'd breast, Whose joys and griefs alike are unexprest.

There hath been combat on the tented plain; The Vega's turf is red with many a stain, And rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield, Tell of a fierce and well-contested field; But all is peaceful now—the west is bright With the rich splendor of departing light; Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky, Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high, And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'erspread Th' eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head,12 While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. Closed are the toils and tumults of the day, And Hamet wanders from the camp away,

In silent musings rapt:—the slaughter'd brave Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave. Soft fall the dews—but other drops have dyed The scented shrubs that fringe the river side, Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, The wounded sought a shelter, and expired.13 Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days, By the bright windings of the stream he strays, Till, more remote from battle's ravaged scene, All is repose, and solitude serene. There, 'neath an olive's ancient shade reclined, Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind, The harass'd warrior, yielding to the power, The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour, Feels, by degrees, a long-forgotten calm Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted balm; His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, The past, the future, are awhile forgot; And Hope, scarce own'd, yet stealing o'er his breast, Half dares to whisper, "Thou shalt yet be blest!"

Such his vague musings—but a plaintive sound Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round;

A low, half-stifled moan, that seems to rise From life and death's contending agonies. He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade? —A youthful warrior on his death-bed laid. All rent and stain'd his broider'd Moorish vest, The corslet shatter'd on his bleeding breast; In his cold hand the broken falchion strain'd, With life's last force convulsively retain'd; His plumage soil'd with dust, with crimson dyed, And the red lance, in fragments, by his side; He lies forsaken—pillow'd on his shield, His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal'd. Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish'd now The light once throned on that commanding brow; And o'er that fading eye, still upward cast, The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene Sheds the pale olive's waving boughs between, Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace, Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face, Whose every feature to his soul conveys Some bitter thought of long-departed days.