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Felicia Dorothea Hemans - The Abencerrage : Canto III.Felicia Dorothea Hemans - The Abencerrage : Canto III.
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Heroes of elder days! untaught to yield, Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field; Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore Stood firm and fearless on Asturia`s shore, And with your spirit, ne`er to be subdued, Hallowed 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, 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 Rushed from their palmy groves and burning lands, E`en in the realm of spirits didst retain A patriot`s vigilance, remembering Spain! 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. What banner of streams afar from Vela`s tower? 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 giled cupolas, that proudly rise O`erarched by cloudless and cerulean skies; Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric skies; Fountains, and palaces, and cypress bowers: And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, With helmets glittering as they move along With broidered scarf, and gem-bestudded mail, And graceful plumage streaming on the gale; Shields, gold-embossed, and pennons floating far, And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, All brightened by the rich transparent hues That southern suns o`er heaven and earth diffuse; Blend in one scene of glory, formed 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, unconfessed? 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 the Alhambra`s ancient towers ascend, Reared and adorned by Moorish kings of yore, Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more. They reached those towers irregularly vast And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast: They enter to their wondering sight is given A genii palace an Arabian heaven! A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, Its forms and colour seem alike of air. Here, by sweet orange-bows, 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, Aerial columns, richly decked, 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 displayed. On through the 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 pillared 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. 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, And joyous clarions pealing on the air; While every hall resounds, "Granada won! Granada! for Castile and Aragon!" `Tis night from dome and tower, in dazzling maze, The festal lamps innumerably blaze; Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams From every lattice their quivering lustre gleams `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, Galled by the chain, though decked awhile with flowers; Stern passions working in the indignant breast, Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpressed, 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 doubt and fears his people`s fate have sealed, 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; 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 pavillions, and retired alcoves, Bosomed 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 vanished years, And wake the source of unavailing tears. Weepest 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. 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 hushed, 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 lulled her to repose. But oh! to him, whose self-accusing thought Whispers, `twas he that desolation wrought He, who his country and his faith betrayed, 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!" Where hath lost love been once recalled 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 swayed so long, so fiercely, are at rest; The avenger`s task is closed : he finds, too late, It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. He was a lofty spirit, turned 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; there, on high, Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky, A few brave tribes, with spirit 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, Veiled by the mists, and girdled by the storms, Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding caves, That hold communion with the torrent-waves; And ye, the unstained 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 unconquered 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 had 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 aerial birth, Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share The fate of brothers and of sires; to bear, All undismayed, 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 rock, 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 hallowed most: doth aught remain For these to prove of happiness or pain? Life`s cup is drained 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 unfettered to the tomb. And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there, And buoyancy of spirit, formed to dare And suffer all things fallen 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, unconquered, uncontrolled: The 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 Were 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 shadowed 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 stained 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 Almed at another`s breast, would still advance Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by, As if for him `twas bliss too great to die. Yes, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes Reserved for thee ere Nature`s last repose; Thou knowest 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 past, And age, the weary, found repose at last; Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil, Borne down by numbers, and o`erpowered by toil. Dispersed, disheartened, 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 undismayed 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 to stern courage to approach the tomb: Not such his lot, who, schooled by fate severe, Were but too blest if aught remained to fear. 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 gained 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 chartered 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 fixed, inherent dyes Rival the tints that float o`er summer skies; 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 reached 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 unabashed 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; Shadowed 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 slaughtered 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. "Comest thou to weep with me? for I am left Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. Low lies the warrior on his blood-stained bier; His child may call, but he no more shall hear. He sleeps but never shall those eyes unclose; `Twas not my voice that lulled 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 Bowed down my soul, and quenched 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 ministered by thee." "I had not deemed that aught remained 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 reared in luxury`s guarded bower, From every danger, every storm secured, How hast thou suffered! 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 fixed; `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 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 hushed, 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 unaltered, and his brow serene. Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda`s cry; Fruitless her prayer, unmarked 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 Aimed 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 thrilled, But sterner duties called and were fulfilled: 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; Severed 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 surveyed; These have no words nor are by words portrayed. 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 formed for earth. Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, Which brightly passed, and left no trace. But calmly sleep! for thou art free, And hands unchained 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 flowed; 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, despoiled 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 years, and in the lonely cave Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet`s grave. Severed in life, united in the tomb Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom! Their dirge, of woods and waves the 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, sequestered 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 suffered, and who thus repose.
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