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Thomas Hood - The Key (A Moorish Romance)
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"On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the key of their ancestors` houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning and again planting the crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra."—Scott`s Travels in Morocco and Algiers. 

"Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?" Sancho Panza in Don Quixote
 

The Moor leans on his cushion, 
With the pipe between his lips; 
And still at frequent intervals 
The sweet sherbét he sips; 
But, spite of lulling vapor 
And the sober cooling cup, 
The spirit of the swarthy Moor 
Is fiercely kindling up!
 
One hand is on his pistol, 
On its ornamented stock, 
While his finger feels the trigger 
And is busy with the lock— 
The other seeks his ataghan, 
And clasps its jewell`d hilt— 
Oh! much of gore in days of yore 
That crooked blade has spilt!
 
His brows are knit, his eyes of jet 
In vivid blackness roll, 
And gleam with fatal flashes 
Like the fire-damp of the coal; 
His jaws are set, and through his teeth 
He draws a savage breath, 
As if about to raise the shout 
Of Victory or Death!
 
For why? the last Zebeck that came 
And moor`d within the Mole, 
Such tidings unto Tunis brought 
As stir his very soul— 
The cruel jar of civil war, 
The sad and stormy reign, 
That blackens like a thunder cloud 
The sunny land of Spain!
 
No strife of glorious Chivalry, 
For honor`s gain or loss, 
Nor yet that ancient rivalry, 
The Crescent with the Cross. 
No charge of gallant Paladins 
On Moslems stern and stanch; 
But Christians shedding Christian blood 
Beneath the olive`s branch!
 
A war of horrid parricide, 
And brother killing brother; 
Yea, like to "dogs and sons of dogs" 
That worry one another. 
But let them bite and tear and fight, 
The more the Kaffers slay, 
The sooner Hagar`s swarming sons 
Shall make the land a prey!
 
The sooner shall the Moor behold 
Th` Alhambra`s pile again; 
And those who pined in Barbary 
Shall shout for joy in Spain— 
The sooner shall the Crescent wave 
On dear Granada`s walls: 
And proud Mohammed Ali sit 
Within his fathers halls!
 
"Alla-il-alla!" tiger-like 
Up springs the swarthy Moor, 
And, with a wide and hasty stride, 
Steps o`er the marble floor; 
Across the hall, till from the wall, 
Where such quaint patterns be, 
With eager hand he snatches down 
And old and massive Key!
 
A massive Key of curious shape, 
And dark with dirt and rust, 
And well three weary centuries 
The metal might encrust! 
For since the King Boabdil fell 
Before the native stock, 
That ancient Key, so quaint to see, 
Hath never been in lock.
 
Brought over by the Saracens 
Who fled accross the main, 
A token of the secret hope 
Of going back again; 
From race to race, from hand to hand, 
From house to house it pass`d; 
O will it ever, ever ope 
The Palace gate at last?
 
Three hundred years and fifty-two 
On post and wall it hung— 
Three hundred years and fifty-two 
A dream to old and young; 
But now a brighter destiny 
The Prophet`s will accords: 
The time is come to scour the rust, 
And lubricate the wards.
 
For should the Moor with sword and lance 
At Algesiras land, 
Where is the bold Bernardo now 
Their progress to withstand? 
To Burgos should the Moslem come, 
Where is the noble Cid 
Five royal crowns to topple down 
As gallant Diaz did?
 
Hath Xeres any Pounder now, 
When other weapons fail, 
With club to thrash invaders rash, 
Like barley with a flail? 
Hath Seville any Perez still, 
To lay his clusters low, 
And ride with seven turbans green 
Around his saddle-bow?
 
No! never more shall Europe see 
Such Heroes brave and bold, 
Such Valor, Faith and Loyalty, 
As used to shine of old! 
No longer to one battle cry 
United Spaniards run, 
And with their thronging spears uphold 
The Virgin and her Son! 

From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay 
Internal discord dwells, 
And Barcelona bears the scars 
Of Spanish shot and shells. 
The fleets decline, the merchants pine 
For want of foreign trade; 
And gold is scant; and Alicante 
Is seal`d by strict blockade!
 
The loyal fly, and Valor falls, 
Opposed by court intrigue; 
But treachery and traitors thrive, 
Upheld by foreign league; 
While factions seeking private ends 
By turns usurping reign— 
Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor 
Exulting point to Spain!
 
Well may he cleanse the rusty Key 
With Afric sand and oil, 
And hope an Andalusian home 
Shall recompense the toil! 
Well may he swear the Moorish spear 
Through wild Castile shall sweep, 
And where the Catalonian sowed 
The Saracen shall reap!
 
Well may he vow to spurn the Cross 
Beneath the Arab hoof, 
And plant the Crescent yet again 
Above th` Alhambra`s roof— 
When those from whom St. Jago`s name 
In chorus once arose, 
Are shouting Faction`s battle-cries, 
And Spain forgets to "Close!"
 
Well may he swear his ataghan 
Shall rout the traitor swarm, 
And carve them into Arabesques 
That show no human form— 
The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds 
Invite the savage Moor, 
And tempt him with the ancient Key 
To seek the ancient door!
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