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.[72]
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 splendour 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--[73] 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 ardour 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.[74]
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,[75] 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 ardour 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 unexpress’d.
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 splendour 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;[76] 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.[77] 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, halt-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 deathbed 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.
“Oh! is it thus,” he cries, “we meet at last? Friend of my soul in years for ever past! Hath fate but led me hither to behold The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold,-- Receive thy latest agonising breath, And with vain pity soothe the pangs of death? Yet let me bear thee hence--while life remains, E’en though thus feebly circling through thy veins, Some healing balm thy sense may still revive; Hope is not lost--and Osmyn yet may live! And blest were he whose timely care should save A heart so noble, e’en from glory’s grave.”
Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed The dying warrior faintly lifts his head; O’er Hamet’s mien, with vague uncertain gaze, His doubtful glance awhile bewilder’d strays; Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain Lights up those features late convulsed with pain; A quivering radiance flashes from his eye, That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die; And the mind’s grandeur, in its parting hour, Looks from that brow with more than wonted power.
“Away!” he cries, in accents of command, And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand. “Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free-- E’en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee. ’Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes Of him who faithful to his country dies; Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head Of him who sinks to rest on glory’s bed. Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o’er, And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar: Be thine existence with a blighted name, Mine the bright death which seals a warrior’s fame!”
The glow hath vanish’d from his cheek--his eye Hath lost that beam of parting energy; Frozen and fix’d it seems--his brow is chill; One struggle more--that noble heart is still. Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes, Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose, More keen, more bitter, than th’ envenom’d dart Thy dying words have left in Hamet’s heart? Thy pangs were transient; his shall sleep no more, Till life’s delirious dream itself be o’er; But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave Be the pure altar of the patriot brave. Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought In the high spirit and unbending thought! Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride; While his soul rises, gathering all its force, To meet the fearful conflict with remorse.
To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been His own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene; Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies; Thou still art faithful to affection’s ties. Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn, Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem; And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice.
Within Granada’s walls are hearts and hands Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands; Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour, To win his silent way to Zayda’s bower, When night and peace are brooding o’er the world, When mute the clarions, and the banners furl’d. That hour is come--and, o’er the arms he bears, A wandering fakir’s garb the chieftain wears: Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide The lofty port, and glance of martial pride; But night befriends--through paths obscure he pass’d, And hail’d the lone and lovely scene at last; Young Zayda’s chosen haunt, the fair alcove, The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove: Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat, As form’d alone for happy hearts to meet. For happy hearts!--not such as hers, who there Bends o’er her lute with dark unbraided hair; That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien, Tell that despair her bosom’s guest hath been. So lost in thought she seems, the warrior’s feet Unheard approach her solitary seat, Till his known accents every sense restore-- “My own loved Zayda! do we meet once more?” She starts, she turns--the lightning of surprise, Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes; But that is fleeting--it is past--and how Far other meaning darkens o’er her brow: Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe-- “Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!” “Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine own? What mean those words, and that unwonted tone? I will not deem thee changed--but in thy face, It is not joy, it is not love, I trace! It was not thus in other days we met: Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget? Oh! speak once more--these rising doubts dispel: One smile of tenderness, and all is well!”
“Not thus we met in other days!--oh, no! Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country’s foe! Those days are past--we ne’er shall meet again With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then. But thy dark soul no gentler feelings sway, Leader of hostile bands! away, away! On in thy path of triumph and of power, Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower.”
“And thou, too, changed! thine earthly vow forgot! This, this alone, was wanting to my lot! Exiled and scorn’d, of every tie bereft, Thy love, the desert’s lonely fount, was left; And thou, my soul’s last hope, its lingering beam, Thou! the good angel of each brighter dream, Wert all the barrenness of life possest To wake one soft affection in my breast! That vision ended--fate hath nought in store Of joy or sorrow e’er to touch me more. Go, Zegri maid! to scenes of sunshine fly, From the stem pupil of adversity! And now to hope, to confidence, adieu! If thou art faithless, who shall e’er be true?”
“Hamet! oh, wrong me not!--I too could speak Of sorrows--trace them on my faded cheek, In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form, That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm! But words were idle--read my sufferings there, Where grief is stamp’d on all that once was fair.
“Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d, All that thy mien express’d, thy spirit seem’d, My love had been devotion!--till in death Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. But not the chief who leads a lawless band To crush the altars of his native land; Th’ apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace Hath stain’d the trophies of a glorious race; Not him I loved--but one whose youthful name Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour’s cloud O’er that young name had gather’d as a shroud, I then had mourn’d thee proudly, and my grief In its own loftiness had found relief; A noble sorrow, cherish’d to the last, When every meaner woe had long been past. Yes! let affection weep--no common tear She sheds when bending o’er a hero’s bier. Let nature mourn the dead--a grief like this, To pangs that rend my bosom, had been bliss!”
“High-minded maid! the time admits not now To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. That vow, too dread, too solemn, to recall, Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall. Yet this believe--no meaner aim inspires My soul, no dream of power ambition fires. No! every hope of power, of triumph, fled, Behold me but th’ avenger of the dead! One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows, And in thy love alone hath sought repose. Zayda! wilt thou his stern accuser be? False to his country, he is true to thee! Oh, hear me yet!--if Hamet e’er was dear, By our first vows, our young affection, hear! Soon must this fair and royal city fall, Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall; Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow, While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe? Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far From horrors thronging in the path of war: Fly, and repose in safety--till the blast Hath made a desert in its course--and pass’d!”
“Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come Hasten’d by thee, to seal thy country’s doom, With thee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly To peace and safety?--Woman, too, can die! And die exulting, though unknown to fame, In all the stainless beauty of her name! Be mine, unmurmuring, undismay’d, to share The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail, When the clouds gather and the blasts assail. Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour Call’d into life my spirit’s latent power; But I have energies that idly slept, While withering o’er my silent woes I wept; And now, when hope and happiness are fled, My soul is firm--for what remains to dread? Who shall have power to suffer and to bear If strength and courage dwell not with Despair?
“Hamet! farewell--retrace thy path again, To join thy brethren on the tented plain. There wave and wood in mingling murmurs tell How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell! Yes! on that soil hath Glory’s footstep been, Names unforgotten consecrate the scene! Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there, Whose voices call thee in the whispering air? Unheard, in vain they call--their fallen son Hath stain’d the name those mighty spirits won, And to the hatred of the brave and free Bequeath’d his own through ages yet to be!”
Still as she spoke, th’ enthusiast’s kindling eye Was lighted up with inborn majesty, While her fair form and youthful features caught All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, Severely beauteous.[78] Awe-struck and amazed, In silent trance a while the warrior gazed, As on some lofty vision--for she seem’d One all-inspired--each look with glory beam’d, While, brightly bursting through its cloud of woes, Her soul at once in all its light arose. Oh! ne’er had Hamet deem’d there dwelt enshrined In form so fragile that unconquer’d mind; And fix’d, as by some high enchantment, there He stood--till wonder yielded to despair.
“The dream is vanish’d--daughter of my foes! Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes. Thy words have pierced his soul; yet deem thou not Thou couldst be once adored, and e’er forgot! Oh, form’d for happier love, heroic maid! In grief sublime, in danger undismay’d, Farewell, and be thou blest!--all words were vain From him who ne’er may view that form again-- Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss, must be, He hath been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!”
And is the warrior gone?--doth Zayda hear His parting footstep, and without a tear? Thou weep’st not, lofty maid!--yet who can tell What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell? They feel not least, the firm, the high in soul, Who best each feeling’s agony control. Yes! we may judge the measure of the grief Which finds in misery’s eloquence relief; But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe Whence breathes no language, whence no tears may flow? The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, Scorning itself that thus it could be moved? He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, Views all its weakness, pities all its throes; He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, Beholding anguish--all unknown to them.
Fair city! thou that midst thy stately fanes And gilded minarets, towering o’er the plains, In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies; While streams that bear thee treasures in their wave, Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave: Mourn, for thy doom is fixed--the days of fear, Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near! Within, around thee, are the trophied graves Of kings and chiefs--their children shall be slaves. Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell, But there a race that rear’d them not shall dwell; For midst thy councils discord still presides, Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides-- Last of a line whose regal spirit flown Hath to their offspring but bequeath’d a throne, Without one generous thought, or feeling high, To teach his soul how kings should live and die.
A voice resounds within Granada’s wall, The hearts of warriors echo to its call.[80] Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught To reach the source of pure exalted thought?
See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand, A form, majestic as a prophet, stand! His mien is all impassion’d, and his eye Fill’d with a light whose fountain is on high; Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow, And inspiration beams upon his brow; While, thronging round him, breathless thousands gaze, As on some mighty seer of elder days.
“Saw ye the banners of Castile display’d, The helmets glittering, and the line array’d? Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts?” he cries; “Children of conquerors! in your strength arise! O high-born tribes! O names unstain’d by fear! Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear![81] Be every feud forgotten, and your hands Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.[82] Wake, princes of the land! the hour is come, And the red sabre must decide your doom. Where is that spirit which prevail’d of yore, When Tarik’s bands o’erspread the western shore?[83] When the long combat raged on Xeres’ plain,[84] And Afric’s tecbir swell’d through yielding Spain?[85] Is the lance broken, is the shield decay’d, The warrior’s arm unstrung, his heart dismay’d? Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth? To guard the regions where our fathers’ blood Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood; Where long their dust hath blended with the soil Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil?
“O ye sierras of eternal snow! Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow, Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain! ye saw their might In many a fierce and unforgotten fight-- Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race Dwell midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace With each memorial of the past around, Each mighty monument of days renown’d? May this indignant heart ere then be cold, This frame be gather’d to its kindred mould! And the last life-drop circling through my veins Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains!
“And yet one struggle ere our doom is seal’d, One mighty effort, one deciding field! If vain each hope, we still have choice to be In life the fetter’d, or in death the free!”
Still while he speaks each gallant heart beats high, And ardour flashes from each kindling eye; Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught The glow of lofty hope and daring thought; And all is hush’d around--as every sense Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence.
But when his voice hath ceased, th’ impetuous cry Of eager thousands bursts at once on high; Rampart, and rock, and fortress ring around, And fair Alhambra’s inmost halls resound. “Lead us, O chieftain! lead us to the strife, To fame in death, or liberty in life!” O zeal of noble hearts! in vain display’d! Now, while the burning spirit of the brave Is roused to energies that yet might save-- E’en now, enthusiasts! while ye rush to claim Your glorious trial on the field of fame, Your king hath yielded! Valour’s dream is o’er;[86] Power, wealth, and freedom are your own no more; And for your children’s portion, but remains That bitter heritage--the stranger’s chains.
[72] Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a single combat (in which he was the victor) with a Moor, on the Vega of Granada.
[73] “El Rey D. Fernando bolviò à la Vega, y pusò su Real à la vista de Huecar, a veyute y seys dias del mes de Abril, adonde fuè fortificado de todo lo necessario; poniendo el Christiano toda su gente en esquadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas, y su Real Estandarte, el qual llevava por divisa un Christo crucificado.”--Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada.
[74] Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the evening or the west; in a word, the Hesperia of the Greeks.--See Casiri’s Bibliot. Arabico-Hispana, and Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c.
[75] “Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada librea azul y blanca, todos llenos de ricos texidos de plata, las plumas de la misma color; en sus adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages que desquixalavan leones, y otros un mundo que lo deshazia un selvage con un baston.”--Guerras Civiles de Granada.
[76] The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are those called Mulhacen and Picacho de Veleta.
[77] It is known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that the dying and the wounded drag themselves, as it were mechanically, to the shelter which may be afforded by any bush or thicket on the field.
[78] “Severe in youthful beauty.”--Milton.
[79] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 76 footnote 2. Granada stands upon two hills, separated by the Darro. The Xenil runs under the walls. The Darro is said to carry with its stream small particles of gold, and the Xenil of silver. When Charles V. came to Granada with the Empress Isabella, the city presented him with a crown made of gold, which had been collected from the Darro.--See Bourgoanne’s and other Travels.
[80] “At this period, while the inhabitants of Granada were sunk in indolence, one of those men whose natural and impassioned eloquence has sometimes aroused a people to deeds of heroism, raised his voice in the midst of the city, and awakened the inhabitants from their lethargy. Twenty thousand enthusiasts, ranged under his banners, were prepared to sally forth, with the fury of desperation, to attack the besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, more afraid of his subjects than of the enemy, resolved immediately to capitulate, and made terms with the Christians, by which it was agreed that the Moors should be allowed the free exercise of their religion and laws; should be permitted, if they thought proper, to depart unmolested with their effects to Africa; and that he himself, if he remained in Spain, should retain an extensive estate, with houses and slaves, or be granted an equivalent in money if he preferred retiring to Barbary.”--See Jacob’s Travel in Spain.
[81] Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of the Moors of Granada, all of high distinction.
[82] The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated by the civil dissensions which at this period prevailed in the city. Several of the Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuds, were fully prepared for submission to the Spaniards; others had embraced the cause of Muley el Zagal, the uncle and competitor for the throne of Abdallah, (or Abo Abdeli,) and all was jealousy and animosity.
[83] Tarik, the first leader of the Arabs and Moors into Spain. “The Saracens landed at the pillar or point of Europe. The corrupt and familiar appellation of Gibraltar (Gebel al Tarik) describes the mountain of Tarik; and the intrenchments of his camp were the first outline of those fortifications which, in the hands of our countrymen, have resisted the art and power of the house of Bourbon. The adjacent governors informed the court of Toledo of the descent and progress of the Arabs; and the defeat of his lieutenant Edeco, who had been commanded to seize and bind the presumptuous strangers, first admonished Roderic of the magnitude of the danger. At the royal summons, the dukes and counts, the bishops and nobles of the Gothic monarchy, assembled at the head of their followers; and the title of king of the Romans, which is employed by an Arabic historian, may be excused by the close affinity of language, religion, and manners, between the nations of Spain.”--Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. ix. p. 472, 473.
[84] “In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of Xeres has been illustrated by the encounter which determined the fate of the kingdom; the stream of the Guadalete, which falls into the bay, divided the two camps, and marked the advancing and retreating skirmishes of three successive days. On the fourth day, the two armies joined a more serious and decisive issue. Notwithstanding the valour of the Saracens, they fainted under the weight of multitudes, and the plain of Xeres was overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead bodies.--‘My brethren,’ said Tarik to his surviving companions, ‘the enemy is before you, the sea is behind; whither would ye fly? Follow your general; I am resolved either to lose my life, or to trample on the prostrate king of the Romans.’ Besides the resource of despair, he confided in the secret correspondence and nocturnal interviews of Count Julian with the sons and the brother of Witiza. The two princes, and the Archbishop of Toledo, occupied the most important post: their well-timed defection broke the ranks of the Christians; each warrior was prompted by fear or suspicion to consult his personal safety; and the remains of the Gothic army were scattered or destroyed in the flight and pursuit of the three following days.”--Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. ix. p. 473, 474.
[85] The tecbir, the shout of onset used by the Saracens in battle.
Canto III
“Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto.” Hippolito Pindemonte.
Heroes of elder days! untaught to yield, Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field; Ye that around the oaken cross of yore[87] Stood firm and fearless on Asturia’s shore, And with your spirit, ne’er to be subdued, Hallow’d the wild Cantabrian solitude; Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose, In the last chastening of your Moslem foes! Rejoice!--for Spain, arising in her strength, Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length, And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain, And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. And thou, the warrior born in happy hour,[88] Valencia’s lord, whose name alone was power, Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by, Conqueror of kings! exult, O Cid! on high; For still ’twas thine to guard thy country’s weal, In life, in death, the watcher for Castile!
Thou, in that hour when Mauritania’s bands Rush’d from their palmy groves and burning lands, E’en in the realm of spirits didst retain A patriot’s vigilance, remembering Spain![89] Then at deep midnight rose the mighty sound, By Leon heard in shuddering awe profound, As through her echoing streets, in dread array, Beings once mortal held their viewless way-- Voices from worlds we know not--and the tread Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead, Thou and thy buried chieftains: from the grave Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, And join thy warriors with unearthly might To aid the rescue in Tolosa’s fight. Those days are past--the crescent on thy shore, O realm of evening! sets, to rise no more.[90] What banner streams afar from Vela’s tower?[91] The cross, bright ensign of Iberia’s power! What the glad shout of each exulting voice? “Castile and Aragon! rejoice, rejoice!” Yielding free entrance to victorious foes, The Moorish city sees her gates unclose, And Spain’s proud host, with pennon, shield, and lance, Through her long streets in knightly garb advance.
Oh! ne’er in lofty dreams hath Fancy’s eye Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, At joust or tourney, theme of poet’s lore, High masque or solemn festival of yore. The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise O’erarch’d by cloudless and cerulean skies; Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers, Fountains and palaces, and cypress bowers: And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, With helmets glittering as they move along, With broider’d scarf and gem-bestudded mail, And graceful plumage streaming on the gale; Shields, gold-emboss’d, and pennons floating far, And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, All brighten’d by the rich transparent hues That southern suns o’er heaven and earth diffuse-- Blend in one scene of glory, form’d to throw O’er memory’s page a never-fading glow, And there, too, foremost midst the conquering brave, Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave. There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court; Calm, stern, collected--yet within his breast Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfess’d? If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer’s mien.
Hear’st thou the solemn yet exulting sound Of the deep anthem floating far around? The choral voices, to the skies that raise The full majestic harmony of praise? Lo! where, surrounded by their princely train, They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, Borne on their trophied car--lo! bursting thence A blaze of chivalrous magnificence!
Onward their slow and stately course they bend To where th’ Alhambra’s ancient towers ascend, Rear’d and adorn’d by Moorish kings of yore, Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more.
They reach those towers--irregularly vast And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast:[92] They enter--to their wondering sight is given A genii palace--an Arabian heaven![93] A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, Its forms and colour seem alike of air. Here, by sweet orange-boughs half shaded o’er, The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor, Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues The calm transparence of its wave suffuse. There round the court, where Moorish arches bend, Aërial columns, richly deck’d, ascend; Unlike the models of each classic race, Of Doric grandeur or Corinthian grace, But answering well each vision that portrays Arabian splendour to the poet’s gaze: Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all--a mingling glow Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below; Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins Of precious marble, and the vivid stains Of rich mosaics o’er the light arcade, In gay festoons and fairy knots display’d. On through th’ enchanted realm, that only seems Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams, The royal conquerors pass--while still their sight On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight. Here the eye roves through slender colonnades, O’er bowery terraces and myrtle shades; Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high The vast sierra mingling with the sky. There, scattering far around their diamond spray, Clear streams from founts of alabaster play, Through pillar’d halls, where, exquisitely wrought, Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught, Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene A wild, romantic, oriental mien: While many a verse, from eastern bards of old, Borders the walls in characters of gold.[94] Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain, Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence brood, And all be lone--a splendid solitude. Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs, From mingling voices of exulting throngs; Tambour and flute, and atabal are there,[95] And joyous clarions pealing on the air; While every hall resounds, “Granada won! Granada! for Castile and Aragon!”[96]
’Tis night--from dome and tower, in dazzling maze, The festal lamps innumerably blaze;[97] Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams, From every lattice tremulously streams, Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill, And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil; Red flame the torches on each minaret’s height, And shines each street an avenue of light; And midnight feasts are held, and music’s voice Through the long night still summons to rejoice.
Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry, Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours, Gall’d by the chain, though deck’d awhile with flowers; Stern passions working in th’ indignant breast, Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpress’d, Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet-- Vengeance and keen remorse, and vain regret.
From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow Commands the wide luxuriant plains below, Who lingering gazes o’er the lovely scene, Anguish and shame contending in his mien He who of heroes and of kings the son, Hath lived to lose whate’er his fathers won; Whose doubts and fears his people’s fate have seal’d, Wavering alike in council and in field; Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave, Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave.
Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, To Afric’s wilds the royal exile flies;[98] Yet pauses on his way to weep in vain O’er all he never must behold again. Fair spreads the scene around--for him too fair, Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. The Vega’s meads, the city’s glittering spires, The old majestic palace of his sires, The gay pavilions and retired alcoves, Bosom’d in citron and pomegranate groves; Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light, All in one moment bursting on his sight, Speak to his soul of glory’s vanish’d years, And wake the source of unavailing tears. --Weep’st thou, Abdallah?--Thou dost well to weep, O feeble heart! o’er all thou couldst not keep! Well do a woman’s tears befit the eye Of him who knew not as a man to die.[99]
The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda’s bower, The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower. No voice, no step, is in her father’s halls, Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; No stranger enters at the chieftain’s gate, But all is hush’d, and void, and desolate.
There, through each tower and solitary shade, In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid: Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone, Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown; And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows The stream whose music lull’d her to repose.
But oh! to him, whose self-accusing thought Whispers ’twas he that desolation wrought; He who his country and his faith betray’d, And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid; A voice of sorrow swells in every gale, Each wave low rippling tells a mournful tale: And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined, In wild exuberance rustle to the wind, Each leaf hath language to his startled sense, And seems to murmur--“Thou hast driven her hence!” And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, --Where hath lost love been once recall’d again? In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn, His name can rouse no feeling now--but scorn. O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart Wakes to behold the void within--and start! To feel its own abandonment, and brood O’er the chill bosom’s depth of solitude. The stormy passions that in Hamet’s breast Have sway’d so long, so fiercely, are at rest; The avenger’s task is closed:[100]--he finds too late It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. He was a lofty spirit, turn’d aside From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and pride, And onward, in its new tumultuous course, Borne with too rapid and intense a force To pause one moment in the dread career, And ask if such could be its native sphere. Now are those days of wild delirium o’er, Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more; The feverish energies of passion close, And his heart sinks in desolate repose, Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not less From its own deep and utter loneliness.
There is a sound of voices on the air, A flash of armour to the sunbeam’s glare, Midst the wild Alpuxarras;[101]--there, on high, Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky, A few brave tribes, with spirits yet unbroke, Have fled indignant from the Spaniard’s yoke.
O ye dread scenes! where nature dwells alone, Severely glorious on her craggy throne; Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, Veil’d by the mists and girdled by the storms,-- Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding caves, That hold communion with the torrent-waves; And ye, th’ unstain’d and everlasting snows, That dwell above in bright and still repose; To you, in every clime, in every age, Far from the tyrant’s or the conqueror’s rage, Hath Freedom led her sons--untired to keep Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. She, like the mountain-eagle, still delights To gaze exulting from unconquer’d heights, And build her eyrie in defiance proud, To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud.
Now her deep voice, the soul’s awakener, swells, Wild Alpuxarras! through your inmost dells. There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among, As at the clarion’s call, her children throng. She with enduring strength has nerved each frame, And made each heart the temple of her flame, Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow Unquenchably, surviving all below.
There high-born maids, that moved upon the earth More like bright creatures of aërial birth, Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share The fate of brothers and of sires; to bear, All undismay’d, privation and distress, And smile the roses of the wilderness: And mothers with their infants, there to dwell In the deep forest or the cavern cell, And rear their offspring midst the rocks, to be, If now no more the mighty, still the free.
And midst that band are veterans, o’er whose head Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed: They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, O royal city! and the wreck of all They loved and hallow’d most:--doth aught remain For these to prove of happiness or pain? Life’s cup is drain’d--earth fades before their eye; Their task is closing--they have but to die. Ask ye why fled they hither?--that their doom Might be, to sink unfetter’d to the tomb. And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there, And buoyancy of spirit, form’d to dare And suffer all things--fall’n on evil days, Yet darting o’er the world an ardent gaze, As on the arena where its powers may find Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold, The high in heart, unconquer’d, uncontroll’d: By day, the huntsmen of the wild--by night, Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire’s light, They from their bleak majestic home have caught A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought, While all around them bids the soul arise To blend with nature’s dread sublimities. --But these are lofty dreams, and must not be Where tyranny is near:--the bended knee, The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires; Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down On regal conquerors, and defy their frown. What warrior-band is toiling to explore The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadow’d o’er, Startling with martial sounds each rude recess, Where the deep echo slept in loneliness? These are the sons of Spain!--Your foes are near, O exiles of the wild sierra! hear! Hear! wake! arise! and from your inmost caves Pour like the torrent in its might of waves!
Who leads the invaders on?--his features bear The deep-worn traces of a calm despair; Yet his dark brow is haughty--and his eye Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy. ’Tis he! ’tis he again! the apostate chief; He comes in all the sternness of his grief. He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield Falchion for proud Castile in battle-field, Against his country’s children though he leads Castilian bands again to hostile deeds: His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die. So shall remorse and love the heart release, Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace. The mountain-echoes are awake--a sound Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. Within the steep defile that winds between Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene, Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen, Whose bright transparence ne’er was stain’d till then; While swell the war-note and the clash of spears To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers, Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada! wait In dread suspense the tidings of their fate. But he--whose spirit, panting for its rest, Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast-- Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance Aim’d at another’s breast, would still advance-- Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by, As if for him ’twere bliss too great to die. Yes, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes Reserved for thee ere nature’s last repose; Thou know’st not yet what vengeance fate can wreak, Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell The sons of battle in that narrow dell; Youth in its light of beauty there hath pass’d, And age, the weary, found repose at last; Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil, Borne down by numbers and o’erpower’d by toil. Dispersed, dishearten’d, through the pass they fly, Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high; While Hamet’s band in wonder gaze, nor dare Track o’er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair.
Yet he, to whom each danger hath become A dark delight, and every wild a home, Still urges onward--undismay’d to tread Where life’s fond lovers would recoil with dread. But fear is’ for the happy--they may shrink From the steep precipice or torrent’s brink; They to whom earth is paradise--their doom Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb: Not such his lot, who, school’d by fate severe, Were but too blest if aught remain’d to fear.[102] Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw Eternal shadows o’er the glen below; And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray Half in a mist of radiance veils its way, He holds his venturous track:--supported now By some o’erhanging pine or ilex bough; Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell. Now hath his footstep gain’d the summit’s head, A level span, with emerald verdure spread, A fairy circle--there the heath-flowers rise, And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies; And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side: But all is wild beyond--and Hamet’s eye Roves o’er a world of rude sublimity. That dell beneath, where e’en at noon of day Earth’s charter’d guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray; Around, untrodden woods; and far above, Where mortal footstep ne’er may hope to rove, Bare granite cliffs, whose fix’d, inherent dyes Rival the tints that float o’er summer skies:[103] And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high, That seems a part of heaven’s eternity.
There is no track of man where Hamet stands, Pathless the scene as Lybia’s desert sands; Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard Of distant voices, and the gathering-word Of Islam’s tribes, now faint and fainter grown, Now but the lingering echo of a tone.
That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear, He follows, reckless if his bands are near. On by the rushing stream his way he bends, And through the mountain’s forest zone ascends; Piercing the still and solitary shades Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades, Eternal twilight’s reign:--those mazes past, The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, And the lone wanderer now hath reach’d the source Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. But there he pauses--for the lonely scene Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, And, mingled oft with some wild eagle’s cry, From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, So deep the solemn and majestic sound Of forests, and of waters murmuring round-- That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets. --What earthly feeling unabash’d can dwell In nature’s mighty presence?--midst the swell Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods, And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods? These their own grandeur on the soul impress, And bid each passion feel its nothingness.
Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave; Shadow’d by giant oaks, and rude and lone, It seems the temple of some power unknown, Where earthly being may not dare intrude To pierce the secrets of the solitude. Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone? Came it not o’er thee as a spirit’s moan? As some loved sound that long from earth had fled, The unforgotten accents of the dead! E’en thus it rose--and springing from his trance His eager footsteps to the sound advance. He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor; Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o’er He rushes on--and lo! where Zayda rends Her locks, as o’er her slaughter’d sire she bends, Lost in despair;--yet, as a step draws nigh, Disturbing sorrow’s lonely sanctity, She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief, Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief; While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past, And every woe forgetting--but the last.
“Com’st thou to weep with me?--for I am left Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain’d bier; His child may call, but he no more shall hear. He sleeps--but never shall those eyes unclose; ’Twas not my voice that lull’d him to repose; Nor can it break his slumbers.--Dost thou mourn? And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn? Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, That o’er his grave my tears with Hamet’s flow?”
But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name, When, swiftly rushing o’er her spirit, came Each dark remembrance--by affliction’s power Awhile effaced in that o’erwhelming hour, To wake with tenfold strength: ’twas then her eye Resumed its light, her mien its majesty, And o’er her wasted cheek a burning glow Spreads, while her lips’ indignant accents flow.
“Away! I dream! Oh, how hath sorrow’s might Bow’d down my soul, and quench’d its native light-- That I should thus forget! and bid thy tear With mine be mingled o’er a father’s bier! Did he not perish, haply by thy hand, In the last combat with thy ruthless band? The morn beheld that conflict of despair:-- ’Twas then he fell--he fell!--and thou wert there! Thou! who thy country’s children hast pursued To their last refuge midst these mountains rude. Was it for this I loved thee?--Thou hast taught My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought! ’Twill soon be past--I bow to heaven’s decree, Which bade each pang be minister’d by thee.”
“I had not deem’d that aught remain’d below For me to prove of yet untasted woe; But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart One more, one keener agony of heart. Oh, hear me yet!--I would have died to save My foe, but still thy father, from the grave; But in the fierce confusion of the strife, In my own stern despair and scorn of life, Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, Save that to perish there in vain I sought. And let me share thy sorrows!--hadst thou known All I have felt in silence and alone, E’en thou mightst then relent, and deem, at last, A grief like mine might expiate all the past
“But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower, So fondly rear’d in luxury’s guarded bower, From every danger, every storm secured, How hast thou suffer’d! what hast thou endured! Daughter of palaces! and can it be That this bleak desert is a home for thee! These rocks thy dwelling! thou, who shouldst have known Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone! Oh, yet forgive!--be all my guilt forgot, Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!”
“That lot is fix’d--’twere fruitless to repine: Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. I may forgive--but not at will the heart Can bid its dark remembrances depart. No, Hamet! no!--too deeply are these traced; Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced! Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep Her lonely vigils o’er the grave to weep. E’en now, prophetic of my early doom, Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb; And ne’er in vain did hopeless mourner feel That deep foreboding o’er the bosom steal! Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side Of him for whom I lived, and would have died; Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot, In pain and peril--I forsook him not.
“And now, farewell!--behold the summer-day Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh, With the last rites his bier to sanctify. Oh, yet in time, away!--’twere not my prayer Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare! This hour they come--and dost thou scorn to fly? Save me that one last pang--to see thee die!” E’en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread; Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. They reach the cave--they enter--slow their pace, And calm deep sadness marks each mourner’s face; And all is hush’d, till he who seems to wait In silent stern devotedness his fate, Hath met their glance--then grief to fury turns: Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns, And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath. Blood must atone for blood, and death for death! They close around him: lofty still his mien, His cheek unalter’d, and his brow serene. Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda’s cry; Fruitless her prayer, unmark’d her agony. But as his foremost foes their weapons bend Against the life he seeks not to defend, Wildly she darts between--each feeling past, Save strong affection, which prevails at last. Oh, not in vain its daring!--for the blow Aim’d at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow; And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast Where in that hour her head may calmly rest, For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band, Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand: While, every thought of hate and vengeance o’er, They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. She, she alone is calm:--a fading smile, Like sunset, passes o’er her cheek the while; And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell Those last faint rays, the parting soul’s farewell.
“Now is the conflict past, and I have proved How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved! Yes! in an hour like this ’twere vain to hide The heart so long and so severely tried: Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill’d, But sterner duties call’d--and were fulfill’d. And I am blest!--To every holier tie My life was faithful,--and for thee I die! Nor shall the love so purified be vain; Sever’d on earth, we yet shall meet again. Farewell!--And ye, at Zayda’s dying prayer, Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare! Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, While I, beside my sire, in peace repose.”
Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. One pang--’tis past--her task on earth is done, And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. But he for whom she died--oh! who may paint The grief to which all other woes were faint? There is no power in language to impart The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart, By the dread Searcher of the soul survey’d: These have no words--nor are by words portray’d.
A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear Far o’er the Alpuxarras;--wild its tone, And rocks and caverns echo, “Thou art gone!”
“Daughter of heroes! thou art gone To share his tomb who gave thee birth: Peace to the lovely spirit flown! It was not form’d for earth. Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, Which brightly pass’d and left no trace.
“But calmly sleep!--for thou art free, And hands unchain’d thy tomb shall raise. Sleep! they are closed at length for thee, Life’s few and evil days! Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye, The lingering death of liberty.
“Flower of the desert! thou thy bloom Didst early to the storm resign: We bear it still--and dark their doom Who cannot weep for thine! For us, whose every hope is fled, The time is past to mourn the dead.
“The days have been, when o’er thy bier Far other strains than these had flow’d; Now, as a home from grief and fear, We hail thy dark abode! We, who but linger to bequeath Our sons the choice of chains or death.
“Thou art with those, the free, the brave, The mighty of departed years; And for the slumberers of the grave Our fate hath left no tears. Though loved and lost, to weep were vain For thee, who ne’er shalt weep again.
“Have we not seen despoil’d by foes The land our fathers won of yore? And is there yet a pang for those Who gaze on this no more? Oh, that like them ’twere ours to rest! Daughter of heroes! thou art blest!”
A few short year’s, and in the lonely cave Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet’s grave. Sever’d in life, united in the tomb-- Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom! Their dirge, of woods and waves th’ eternal moan; Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. And oft beside the midnight watch-fire’s blaze, Amidst those rocks, in long-departed days, (When freedom fled, to hold, sequester’d there, The stern and lofty councils of despair,) Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild, Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled, Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those Who thus have suffer’d, and who thus repose.
[86] The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement of popular feeling seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdeli’s capitulation. “Aterrado Abo Abdeli con el alboroto y temiendo no ser ya el Dueño de un pueblo amotinádo, se apresuró á concluir una capitulation, la menos dura que podia obtenir en tan urgentes circumstancias, y ofrecio entregor á Granada el dia seis de Enero.”--Paseos en Granada, vol. i. p. 298.
[87] The oaken cross, carried by Pelagius in battle.
[88] See Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid, in which that warrior is frequently styled, “he who was born in happy hour.”
[89] “Moreover, when the Miramamolin brought over from Africa against King Don Alfonso, the eighth of that name, the mightiest power of the misbelievers that had ever been brought against Spain, since the destruction of the kings of the Goths, the Cid Campeador remembered his country in that great danger; for the night before the battle was fought at the Navas de Tolosa, in the dead of the night, a mighty sound was heard in the whole city of Leon, as if it were the tramp of a great army passing through; and it passed on to the royal monastery of St Isidro, and there was a great knocking at the gate thereof, and they called to a priest who was keeping vigils in the church, and told him that the captains of the army whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, and Count Ferran Gonzalez, and that they came there to call up King Don Fernando the Great, who lay buried in that church, that he might go with them to deliver Spain. And on the morrow that great battle of the Navas de Tolosa was fought, wherein sixty thousand of the misbelievers were slain, which was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won over the Moors.”--Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid.
[90] The name of Andalusia, the region of evening, or of the west, was applied by the Arabs not only to the province so called, but to the whole peninsula.
[91] “En este dia, para siempre memorable, los estandartes de la Cruz, de St Jago, y el de los Reyes de Castilla se tremoláran sobre la torre mas alta, llamada de la Vela; y un exercito prosternado, inundandose en lagrimas de gozo y reconocimiento, asistio al mas glorioso de los espectaculos.”--Paseos en Granada, vol. i. p. 299.
[92] Swinburne, after describing the noble palace built by Charles V. in the precincts of the Alhambra, thus proceeds: “Adjoining (to the north) stands a huge heap of as ugly buildings as can well be seen, all huddled together, seemingly without the least intention of forming one habitation out of them. The walls are entirely unornamented, all gravel and pebbles, daubed over with plaster by a very coarse hand; yet this is the palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, indisputably the most curious place within that exists in Spain, perhaps in Europe. In many countries you may see excellent modern as well as ancient architecture, both entire and in ruins; but nothing to be met with any where else can convey an idea of this edifice, except you take it from the decorations of an opera, or the tales of the genii.”--Swinburne’s Travels through Spain.
[93] “Passing round the corner of the emperor’s palace, you are admitted at a plain unornamented door in a corner. On my first visit, I confess, I was struck with amazement as I stept over the threshold, to find myself on a sudden transported into a species of fairy land. The first place you come to is the court called the Communa, or del Mesucar, that is, the common baths: an oblong square, with a deep basin of clear water in the middle; two flights of marble steps leading down to the bottom; on each side a parterre of flowers, and a row of orange-trees. Round the court runs a peristyle paved with marble; the arches bear upon very slight pillars, in proportions and style different from all the regular orders of architecture. The ceilings and walls are incrustated with fretwork in stucco, so minute and intricate that the most patient draughtsman would find it difficult to follow it, unless he made himself master of the general plan.”--Swinburne’s Travels in Spain.
[94] The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with inscriptions in Arabic characters. “In examining this abode of magnificence,” says Bourgoanne, “the observer is every moment astonished at the new and interesting mixture of architecture and poetry. The palace of the Alhambra may be called a collection of fugitive pieces; and whatever duration these may have, time, with which every thing passes away, has too much contributed to confirm to them that title.”--See Bourgoanne’s Travels in Spain.
[95] Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum.
[96] “Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al Alhambra, y encima de la torre de Comares tan famosa se levantò la señal de la Santa Cruz, y luego el real estandarte de los dos Christianos reyes. Y al punto los reyes de armas, à grandes bozes dizieron, ‘Granada! Granada! por su magestad, y por la reyna su muger.’ La serenissima reyna D. Isabel, que viò ia señal de la Santa Cruz sobre la hermosa torre de Comares, y el su estandarte real con ella, se hincò de rodillas, y diò infinitas gracias à Dios por la victoria que le avia dado contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real de la capilla del rey luego à canto de organo cantò Te Deum laudamus. Fuè tan grande el plazer que todos lloravan. Luego del Alhambra sonaron mil instrumentos de musica de belicas trompetas. Los Moros amigos del rey, que querian ser Christianos, cuya cabeza era el valeroso Muça, tomaron mil dulzaynas y añafiles, sonando grande ruydo de atambores por toda la ciudad.”--Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada.
[97] “Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella noche jugaron galanamente alcancias y cañas. Andava Granada aquella noche con tanta alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que parecia que se ardia la terra.”--Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada.
Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in the years 1775 and 1776, mentions, that the anniversary of the surrender of Granada to Ferdinand and Isabella was still observed in the city as a great festival and day of rejoicing; and that the populace on that occasion paid an annual visit to the Moorish palace.
[98] “Los Gomeles todos se passeron en Africa, y el Rey Chico con ellos, que no quisò estar en España, y en Africa le mataron los Moros de aquellas partes, porque perdiò a Granada.”--Guerras Civiles de Granada.
[99] Abo Abdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its conquest by Ferdinand and Isabella, stopped on the hill of Padul to take a last look of his city and palace. Overcome by the sight, he burst into tears, and was thus reproached by his mother, the Sultaness Ayxa,--“Thou dost well to weep like a woman, over the loss of that kingdom which thou knewest not how to defend and die for like a man.”
[100] “El rey mandò, que si quedavan Zegris, que no viviessen en Granada, por la maldad qui hizieron contra los Abencerrages.”--Guerras Civiles de Granada.
[101] “The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of Barbary, and the cities of Tangier and Ceuta, are discovered from their summits; they are about seventeen leagues in length, from Veles Malaga to Almeria, and eleven in breadth, and abound with fruit trees of great beauty and prodigious size. In these mountains the wretched remains of the Moors took refuge.”--Bourgoanne’s Travels in Spain.
[102] “Plût à Dieu que je craignisse!”--Andromaque.
[103] Mrs Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks of the Rhine, thus describes the colours of granite rocks in the mountains of the Bergstrasse. “The nearer we approached these mountains, the more we had occasion to admire the various tints of their granites. Sometimes the precipices were of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or a blush approaching to lilac; and sometimes gleams of a pale yellow mingled with the low shrubs that grew upon their sides. The day was cloudless and bright, and we were too near these heights to be deceived by the illusions of aërial colouring; the real hues of their features were as beautiful as their magnitude was sublime.”
THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS.
[“In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germany, the Romans, excited by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently desired to restore the ancient glory of the Republic, made a bold attempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authority of the popes, whose vices rendered them objects of universal contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in the Mole of Hadrian, which long afterwards continued to be called the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks upon this fortress, at last entered into negotiations; and, pledging his imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius, and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate leader was betrayed into his power, and immediately beheaded, with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, concealing her affliction and her resentment for the insults to which she had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge her husband and herself. On the return of Otho from a pilgrimage to Mount Gargano, which perhaps a feeling of remorse had induced him to undertake, she found means to be introduced to him, and to gain his confidence; and a poison administered by her was soon afterwards the cause of his painful death.”--Sismondi, History of the Italian Republics, vol. i.]
“L’orage peut briser en un moment les fleurs qui tiennent encore la tête levée.”--Mad. de Stael.
Midst Tivoli’s luxuriant glades, Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, Where dwelt, in days departed long, The sons of battle and of song, No tree, no shrub its foliage rears But o’er the wrecks of other years, Temples and domes, which long have been The soil of that enchanted scene.
There the wild fig-tree and the vine O’er Hadrian’s mouldering villa twine;[104] The cypress, in funereal grace, Usurps the vanish’d column’s place; O’er fallen shrine and ruin’d frieze The wall-flower rustles in the breeze; Acanthus-leaves the marble hide They once adorn’d in sculptured pride; And nature hath resumed her throne O’er the vast works of ages flown.
Was it for this that many a pile, Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, To Anio’s banks the image lent Of each imperial monument?[105] Now Athens weeps her shatter’d fanes, Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains; And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear’d From Tibur’s vale have disappear’d. We need no prescient sibyl there The doom of grandeur to declare; Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, Reveals some oracle of Time; Each relic utters Fate’s decree-- The future as the past shall be.
Halls of the dead! in Tibur’s vale, Who now shall tell your lofty tale? Who trace the high patrician’s dome, The bard’s retreat, the hero’s home? When moss-clad wrecks alone record There dwelt the world’s departed lord, In scenes where verdure’s rich array Still sheds young beauty o’er decay, And sunshine on each glowing hill Midst ruins finds a dwelling still.
Sunk is thy palace--but thy tomb, Hadrian! hath shared a prouder doom.[106] Though vanish’d with the days of old Its pillars of Corinthian mould; Though the fair forms by sculpture wrought, Each bodying some immortal thought, Which o’er that temple of the dead Serene but solemn beauty shed, Have found, like glory’s self, a grave In time’s abyss or Tiber’s wave;[107] Yet dreams more lofty and more fair Than art’s bold hand hath imaged e’er. High thoughts of many a mighty mind Expanding when all else declined, In twilight years, when only they Recall’d the radiance pass’d away, Have made that ancient pile their home, Fortress of freedom and of Rome.
There he, who strove in evil days Again to kindle glory’s rays, Whose spirit sought a path of light For those dim ages far too bright-- Crescentius--long maintain’d the strife Which closed but with its martyr’s life, And left th’ imperial tomb a name, A heritage of holier fame. There closed De Brescia’s mission high, From thence the patriot came to die;[108] And thou, whose Roman soul the last Spoke with the voice of ages past,[109] Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled To mingle with the glorious dead, That midst the world’s degenerate race They vainly sought a dwelling-place, Within that house of death didst brood O’er visions to thy ruin woo’d. Yet, worthy of a brighter lot, Rienzi, be thy faults forgot! For thou, when all around thee lay Chain’d in the slumbers of decay-- So sunk each heart, that mortal eye Had scarce a tear for liberty-- Alone, amidst the darkness there, Couldst gaze on Rome--yet not despair![110]
’Tis morn--and nature’s richest dyes Are floating o’er Italian skies; Tints of transparent lustre shine Along the snow-clad Apennine; The clouds have left Soracte’s height, And yellow Tiber winds in light, Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew’d The wide Campagna’s solitude. ’Tis sad amidst that scene to trace Those relics of a vanish’d race; Yet, o’er the ravaged path of time-- Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, Where nature still, though empires fall, Holds her triumphant festival-- E’en desolation wears a smile, Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while; And heaven’s own light, earth’s richest bloom, Array the ruin and the tomb.
But she, who from yon convent tower Breathes the pure freshness of the hour; She, whose rich flow of raven hair Streams wildly on the morning air, Heeds not how fair the scene below, Robed in Italia’s brightest glow. Though throned midst Latium’s classic plains Th’ Eternal City’s towers and fanes, And they, the Pleiades of earth, The seven proud hills of Empire’s birth, Lie spread beneath; not now her glance Roves o’er that vast sublime expanse; Inspired, and bright with hope,’tis thrown On Adrian’s massy tomb alone; There, from the storm, when Freedom fled, His faithful few Crescentius led; While she, his anxious bride, who now Bends o’er the scene her youthful brow, Sought refuge in the hallow’d fane, Which then could shelter, not in vain.
But now the lofty strife is o’er, And Liberty shall weep no more. At length imperial Otho’s voice Bids her devoted sons rejoice; And he, who battled to restore The glories and the rights of yore, Whose accents, like the clarion’s sound, Could burst the dead repose around, Again his native Rome shall see The sceptred city of the free! And young Stephania waits the hour When leaves her lord his fortress-tower-- Her ardent heart with joy elate, That seems beyond the reach of fate; Her mien, like creature from above, All vivified with hope and love.
Fair is her form, and in her eye Lives all the soul of Italy; A meaning lofty and inspired, As by her native day-star fired; Such wild and high expression, fraught With glances of impassion’d thought, As fancy sheds, in visions bright, O’er priestess of the God of Light; And the dark locks that lend her face A youthful and luxuriant grace, Wave o’er her cheek, whose kindling dyes Seem from the fire within to rise, But deepen’d by the burning heaven To her own land of sunbeams given. Italian art that fervid glow Would o’er ideal beauty throw, And with such ardent life express Her high-wrought dreams of loveliness,-- Dreams which, surviving Empire’s fall, The shade of glory still recall.
But see!--the banner of the brave O’er Adrian’s tomb hath ceased to wave. ’Tis lower’d--and now Stephania’s eye Can well the martial train descry, Who, issuing from that ancient dome, Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. Now from her watch-tower on the height, With step as fabled wood-nymph’s light, She flies--and swift her way pursues Through the lone convent’s avenues. Dark cypress groves, and fields o’erspread With records of the conquering dead, And paths which track a glowing waste, She traverses in breathless haste; And by the tombs where dust is shrined Once tenanted by loftiest mind, Still passing on, hath reach’d the gate Of Rome, the proud, the desolate! Throng’d are the streets, and, still renew’d, Rush on the gathering multitude. --Is it their high-soul’d chief to greet That thus the Roman thousands meet? With names that bid their thoughts ascend, Crescentius! thine in song to blend; And of triumphal days gone by Recall th’ inspiring pageantry? --There is an air of breathless dread, An eager glance, a hurrying tread; And now a fearful silence round, And now a fitful murmuring sound, Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. Quick is each step and wild each mien, Portentous of some awful scene. Bride of Crescentius! as the throng Bore thee with whelming force along, How did thine anxious heart beat high, Till rose suspense to agony!-- Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, And leave thy heart to deeper woes.
Who midst yon guarded precinct stands, With fearless mien but fetter’d hands? The ministers of death are nigh, Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye; And in his glance there fives a mind Which was not form’d for chains to bind, But cast in such heroic mould As theirs, th’ ascendant ones of old. Crescentius! freedom’s daring son, Is this the guerdon thou hast won? Oh, worthy to have lived and died In the bright days of Latium’s pride! Thus must the beam of glory close O’er the seven hills again that rose, When at thy voice, to burst the yoke, The soul of Rome indignant woke? Vain dream! the sacred shields are gone,[111] Sunk is the crowning city’s throne:[112] Th’ illusions, that around her cast Their guardian spells, have long been past.[113] Thy life hath been a shot-star’s ray, Shed o’er her midnight of decay; Thy death at freedom’s ruin’d shrine Must rivet every chain--but thine.
Calm is his aspect, and his eye Now fix’d upon the deep blue sky, Now on those wrecks of ages fled Around in desolation spread-- Arch, temple, column, worn and gray, Recording triumphs pass’d away; Works of the mighty and the free, Whose steps on earth no more shall be, Though their bright course hath left a trace Nor years nor sorrows can efface. Why changes now the patriot’s mien, Erewhile so loftily serene? Thus can approaching death control The might of that commanding soul? No!--Heard ye not that thrilling cry Which told of bitterest agony? He heard it, and at once, subdued, Hath sunk the hero’s fortitude. He heard it, and his heart too well Whence rose that voice of woe can tell; And midst the gazing throngs around One well-known form his glance hath found-- One fondly loving and beloved, In grief, in peril, faithful proved. Yes! in the wildness of despair, She, his devoted bride, is there. Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies, The light of frenzy in her eyes: But ere her arms can clasp the form Which life ere long must cease to warm-- Ere on his agonising breast Her heart can heave, her head can rest-- Check’d in her course by ruthless hands, Mute, motionless, at once she stands; With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, Frozen and fix’d in horror’s trance; Spell-bound, as every sense were fled, And thought o’erwhelm’d, and feeling dead; And the light waving of her hair, And veil, far floating on the air, Alone, in that dread moment, show She is no sculptured form of woe.
The scene of grief and death is o’er, The patriot’s heart shall throb no more: But hers--so vainly form’d to prove The pure devotedness of love, And draw from fond affection’s eye All thought sublime, all feeling high-- When consciousness again shall wake, Hath now no refuge but to break. The spirit long inured to pain May smile at fate in calm disdain, Survive its darkest hour, and rise In more majestic energies. But in the glow of vernal pride, If each warm hope at once hath died, Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower, Dead to the sunbeam and the shower; A broken gem, whose inborn light Is scatter’d--ne’er to re-unite.
[104] “J’étais allé passer quelques jours seuls à Tivoli. Je parcourus les environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana. Surpris par la pluie au milieu de ma course, je me réfugiai dans les Salles des Thermes voisins du Pécile, (monumens de la villa,) sous un figuier qui avait renversé le pan d’un mur en s’élevant. Dans un petit salon octogone, ouvert devant moi, une vigne vierge avait percé la voûte de l’édifice, et son gros cep lisse, rouge, et tortueux, montait le long du mur comme un serpent. Autour de moi, à travers les arcades des ruines, s’ouvraient des points de vue sur la Campagne Romaine. Des buissons de sureau remplissaient les salles désertes où venaient se réfugier quelques merles solitaires. Les fragmens de maçonnerie étaient tapissées de feuilles de scolopendre, dont la verdure satinée se dessinait comme un travail en mosaïque sur la blancheur des marbres: çà et là de hauts cyprès remplaçaient les colonnes tombées dans ces palais de la Mort; l’acanthe sauvage rampait à leurs pieds, sur des débris, comme si la nature s’était plu à reproduire sur ces chefs-d’œuvre mutilés d’architecture, l’ornement de leur beauté passée.”--Chateaubriand’s Souvenirs d’ Italie.
[105] The gardens and buildings of Hadrian’s villa were copies of the most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions--the Lycæum, the Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the Temple of Serapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c.
[106] The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St Angelo, was first converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his successful defence of Rome against the Goths. “The lover of the arts,” says Gibbon, “must read with a sigh that the works of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn from their lofty pedestals, and hurled into the ditch on the heads of the besiegers.” He adds, in a note, that the celebrated Sleeping Faun of the Barberini palace was found, in a mutilated state, when the ditch of St Angelo was cleansed under Urban VIII. In the middle ages, the Moles Hadriani was made a permanent fortress by the Roman government, and bastions, outworks, &c. were added to the original edifice, which had been stripped of its marble covering, its Corinthian pillars, and the brazen cone which crowned its summit.
[107] “Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus admirables statues, out étés jetées dans le Tibre, et sont cachées sous ses flots. Qui sait si, pour les chercher, on ne le détournera pas un jour de son lit? Mais quand on songe que les chefs-d’œuvres du génie humain sont peut-être là devant nous, et qu’un œil plus perçant les verrait à travers les ondes, l’on éprouve je ne sais quelle émotion, qui renaît à Rome sans cesse sous diverses formes, et fait trouver une société pour la pensée dans les objets physiques, muets partout ailleurs.”--Mad. de Stael.
[108] Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent champion of Roman liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore the ancient constitution of the republic, was put to death in the year 1155 by Adrian IV. This event is thus described by Sismondi, Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, vol. ii. pages 68 and 69. “Le préfet demeura dans le château Saint Ange avec son prisonnier: il le fit transporter un matin sur la place destinée aux exécutions, devant la porte du peuple. Arnaud de Brescia, élevé sur un bûcher, fut attaché à un poteau, en face du Corso. Il pouvoit mésurer des yeux les trois longues rues qui aboutissoient devant son échafaud; elles font presqu’ une moitié de Rome. C’est là qu’habitoient les hommes qu’il avoit si souvent appelés à la liberté. Ils reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger de leur législateur. Le tumulte de l’exécution et la flamme du bûcher réveillèrent les Romains; ils s’armèrent, ils accoururent, mais trop tard; et les cohortes du pape repoussèrent, avec leurs lances, ceux qui, n’ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du moins recueillir ses cendres comme de précieuses reliques.”
[109] “Posterity will compare the virtues and fadings of this extraordinary man; but in a long period of anarchy and servitude, the name of Rienzi has often been celebrated as the deliverer of his country, and the last of the Roman patriots.”--Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 362.
[110] “Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui honteusement jusqu’à Venouse. Cet homme, de la plus basse naissance, n’avoit été élevé au consulat que pour mortifier la noblesse: mais le sénat ne voulut pas jouir de ce malheureux triomphe; il vit combien il étoit nécessaire qu’il s’attirât dans cette occasion la confiance du peuple--il alla au-devant Varron, et le remercia de ce qu’il n’avoit pas désespéré de la republique.”--Montesquieu’s Grandeur et Décadence des Romains.
[111] Of the sacred bucklers, or ancilia of Rome, which were kept in the temple of Mars, Plutarch gives the following account:--“In the eighth year of Numa’s reign, a pestilence prevailed in Italy; Rome also felt its ravages. While the people were greatly dejected, we are told that a brazen buckler fell from heaven into the hands of Numa. Of this he gave a very wonderful account, received from Egeria and the Muses: that the buckler was sent down for the preservation of the city, and should be kept with great care; that eleven others should be made as like it as possible in size and fashion, in order that, if any person were disposed to steal it, he might not be able to distinguish that which fell from heaven from the rest. He further declared, that the place, and the meadows about it, where he frequently conversed with the Muses, should be consecrated to those divinities; and that the spring which watered the ground should be sacred to the use of the Vestal Virgins, daily to sprinkle and purify their temple. The immediate cessation of the pestilence is said to have confirmed the truth of this account.”--Life of Numa.
[112] “Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the crowning city, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honourable of the earth?”--Isaiah, chap. 23.
[113] “Un mélange bizarre de grandeur d’àme et de foiblesse entroit dès cette époque (l’onzième siècle) dans le caractère des Romains. Un mouvement généreux vers les grandes choses faisoit place tout-à-coup à l’abattement; ils passoient de la liberté la plus orageuse, à la servitude la plus avilissante. On auroit dit que les ruines et les portiques déserts de la capitale du monde, entretenoient ses habitans dans le sentiment de leur impuissance; au milieu de ces monumens de leur domination passée, les citoyens éprouvoient d’une manière trop décourageante leur propre nullité. Le nom des Romains qu’ils portoient ranimoit fréquemment leur enthousiasme, comme il le ranime encore aujourd’hui; mas bientôt la vue de Rome, du forum désert, des sept collines de nouveau rendues au pâturage des troupeaux, des temples désolés, des monumens tombant en ruine, les ramenoit à sentir qu’ils n’étoient plus les Romains d’autrefois.”--Sismondi, Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, vol. i. p. 172.