Moorish Literature Part 7

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe.

"Yes, in the hour of peril away with pleasure's thrall!

Let honor take the lance and steed to meet our country's call.

For those who craven in the fight refuse to meet the foe Shall sink beneath the feet of all struck by a bitterer blow; In moments when fair honor's crown is offered to the brave And dangers yawn around our State, deep as the deadly grave, 'Tis right strong arms and st.u.r.dy hearts should take the sword of might, And eagerly for Fatherland descend into the fight.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe.

"Then lay aside the silken robes, the glittering brocade; Be all in vest of leather and twisted steel arrayed; On each left arm be hung the s.h.i.+eld, safe guardian of the breast, And take the crooked scimitar and put the lance in rest, And face the fortune of the day, for it is vain to fly, And the coward and the braggart now alone are doomed to die.

And let each manly bosom show, in the impending fray, A valor such as Mars himself in fury might display.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe.

He spoke, and at his valiant words, that rang through all the square, The veriest cowards of the town resolved to do and dare; And stirred by honor's eager fire forth from the gate they stream, And plumes are waving in the air, and spears and falchions gleam; And turbaned heads and faces fierce, and smiles in anger quenched, And sweating steeds and flas.h.i.+ng spurs and hands in fury clenched, Follow the fluttering banners that toward the vega swarm, And many a voice re-echoes the words of wild alarm.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe.

And, like the timid lambs that crowd with bleatings in the fold, When they advancing to their throats the furious wolf behold, The lovely Moorish maidens, with wet but flas.h.i.+ng eyes, Are crowded in a public square and fill the air with cries; And tho', like tender women, 'tis vain for them to arm, Yet loudly they re-echo the words of the alarm.

To heaven they cry for succor, and, while to heaven they pray, They call the knights they love so well to arm them for the fray.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe.

The foremost Moorish n.o.bles, Molina's chosen band, Rush forward from the city the invaders to withstand.

There marshalled in a squadron with s.h.i.+ning arms they speed, Like knights and n.o.ble gentlemen, to meet their country's need.

Twelve thousand Christians crowd the plain, twelve thousand warriors tried, They fire the homes, they reap the corn, upon the vega wide; And the warriors of Molina their furious lances ply, And in their own Arabian tongue they raise the rallying cry.

To arms, to arms, my captains!

Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe.

THE LOVES OF BOABDIL AND VINDARAJA

Where Antequera's city stands, upon the southern plain, The captive Vindaraja sits and mourns her lot in vain.

While Chico, proud Granada's King, nor night nor day can rest, For of all the Moorish ladies Vindaraja he loves best; And while naught can give her solace and naught can dry her tear, 'Tis not the task of slavery nor the cell that brings her fear; For while in Antequera her body lingers still, Her heart is in Granada upon Alhambra's hill.

There, while the Moorish monarch longs to have her at his side, More keen is Vindaraja's wish to be a monarch's bride.

Ah! long delays the moment that shall bring her liberty, A thousand thousand years in every second seem to fly!

For she thinks of royal Chico, and her face with tears is wet, For she knows that absence oft will make the fondest heart forget.

And the lover who is truest may yet suspicion feel, For the loved one in some distant land whose heart is firm as steel.

And now to solve her anxious doubts, she takes the pen one day And writes to royal Chico, in Granada far away.

Ah! long the letter that she wrote to tell him of her state, In lonely prison cell confined, a captive desolate!

She sent it by a Moorish knight, and sealed it with her ring; He was warden of Alhambra and stood beside the King, And he had come sent by the King to Antequera's tower, To learn how Vindaraja fared within that prison bower.

The Moor was faithful to his charge, a warrior stout and leal, And Chico took the note of love and trembling broke the seal; And when the open page he saw and read what it contained, These were the words in which the maid of her hard lot complained:

THE LETTER OF VINDARAJA

"Ah, hapless is the love-lorn maid like me in captive plight, For freedom once was mine, and I was happy day and night.

Yes, happy, for I knew that thou hadst given me thy love, Precious the gift to lonely hearts all other gifts above.

Well mightest thou forget me, though 'twere treachery to say The flame that filled thy royal heart as yet had pa.s.sed away.

Still, though too oft do lovers' hearts in absent hours repine.

I know if there are faithful vows, then faithful will be thine!

'Tis hard, indeed, for lovers to crush the doubting thought Which to the brooding bosom some lonely hour has brought.

There is no safety for the love, when languish out of sight The form, the smile, the flas.h.i.+ng eyes that once were love's delight; Nor can I, I confess it, feel certain of thy vow!

How many Moorish ladies are gathered round thee now!

How many fairer, brighter forms are cl.u.s.tered at thy throne, Whose power might change to very wax the heart of steel or stone!

And if, indeed, there be a cause why I should blame thy heart, 'Tis the delay that thou hast shown in taking here my part.

Why are not armies sent to break these prison bars, and bring Back to her home the Moorish maid, the favorite of the King?

A maid whose eyes are changed to springs whence flow the flood of tears, For she thinks of thee and weeps for thee through all these absent years.

Believe me, if 'twere thou, who lay a captive in his chain, My life of joy, to rescue thee, my heart of blood I'd drain!

O King and master, if, indeed, I am thy loved one still, As in those days when I was first upon Alhambra's hill, Send rescue for thy darling, or fear her love may fade, For love that needs the sunlight must wither in the shade.

And yet I cannot doubt thee; if e'er suspicion's breath Should chill my heart, that moment would be Vindaraja's death.

Nor think should you forget me or spurn me from your arms, That life for Vindaraja could have no other charms.

It was thy boast thou once did love a princess, now a slave, I boasted that to thy behest I full obedience gave!

And from this prison should I come, in freedom once again, To sit and hear thy words of love on Andalusia's plain, The brightest thought would be to me that thou, the King, has seen 'Twas right to free a wretched slave that she might be thy Queen.

Hard is the lot of bondage here, and heavy is my chain, And from my prison bars I gaze with lamentation vain; But these are slight and idle things--my one, my sole distress Is that I cannot see thy face and welcome thy caress!

This only is the pa.s.sion that can my bosom rend; 'Tis this alone that makes me long for death, my sufferings end.

The plagues of life are naught to me; life's only joy is this-- To see thee and to hear thee and to blush beneath thy kiss!

Alas! perchance this evening or to-morrow morn, may be, The lords who hold me here a slave in sad captivity, May, since they think me wanton, their treacherous measures take That I should be a Christian and my former faith forsake.

But I tell them, and I weep to tell, that I will ne'er forego The creed my fathers fought for in centuries long ago!

And yet I might forswear it, but that that creed divine 'Tis vain I struggle to deny, for, ah, that creed is thine!"

King Chico read his lady's note and silent laid it down; Then to the window he drew nigh, and gazed upon the town; And lost in thought he pondered upon each tender line, And sudden tears and a sigh of grief were his inward sorrow's sign.

And he called for ink and paper, that Vindaraja's heart Might know that he remembered her and sought to heal its smart.

He would tell her that the absence which caused to her those fears Had only made her dearer still, through all those mournful years.

He would tell her that his heart was sad, because she was not near-- Yes, far more sad than Moorish slave chained on the south frontier.

And then he wrote the letter to the darling Moorish slave, And this is the tender message that royal Chico gave:

THE LETTER OF THE KING

"Thy words have done me grievous wrong, for, lovely Mooress, couldst thou think That he who loves thee more than life could e'er to such a treachery sink?

His life is naught without the thought that thou art happy in thy lot; And while the red blood at his heart is beating thou art ne'er forgot!

Thou woundest me because thy heart mistrusts me as a fickle fool; Thou dost not know when pa.s.sion true has one apt pupil taken to school.

Oblivion could not, could not cloud the image on his soul impressed, Unless dark treachery from the first had been the monarch of his breast And if perhaps some weary hours I thought that Vindaraja's mind Might in some happier cavalier the solace of her slavery find, I checked the thought; I drove away the vision that with death was rife, For e'er my trust in thee I lost, in battle I'd forego my life!

Yet even the doubt that thou hast breathed gives me no franchise to forget, And were I willing that thy face should cease to fill my vision, yet 'Tis separation's self that binds us closer though the centuries roll, And forges that eternal chain that binds together soul and soul!

And even were this thought no more than the wild vision of my mind, Yet in a thousand worlds no face to change for thine this heart could find.

Thro' life, thro' death 'twere all the same, and when to heaven our glance we raise, Full in the very heart of bliss thine eyes shall meet my ardent gaze.

For eyes that have beheld thy face, full readily the truth will own That G.o.d exhausted, when he made thee, all the treasures of his throne!

And my trusting heart will answer while it fills my veins with fire That to hear of, is to see thee; and to see, is to desire!

Yet unless my Vindaraja I could look upon awhile, As some traveller in a desert I should perish for her smile; For 'tis longing for her presence makes the spring of life to me, And allays the secret suffering none except her eye can see.

In this thought alone my spirit finds refreshment and delight; This is sweeter than the struggle, than the glory of the fight; And if e'er I could forget her heaving breast and laughing eye, Tender word, and soft caresses--Vindaraja, I should die!

If the King should bid me hasten to release thee from thy chain, Oh, believe me, dearest lady, he would never bid in vain; Naught he could demand were greater than the price that I would pay, If in high Alhambra's halls I once again could see thee gay!

None can say I am remiss, and heedless of thy dismal fate; Love comes to prompt me every hour, he will not let my zeal abate.

If occasion call, I yield myself, my soul to set thee free; Take this offering if thou wilt, I wait thy word on bended knee.

Dost thou suffer, n.o.ble lady, by these fancies overwrought?

Ah, my soul is filled with sorrow at the agonizing thought; For to know that Vindaraja languishes, oppressed with care, Is enough to make death welcome, if I could but rescue her.

Yes, the world shall know that I would die not only for the bliss Of clasping thee in love's embrace and kindling at thy tender kiss.