Moorish Literature Part 15

With thee there is no other law of love and kindliness But what alone may give thee joy and garland of success.

With each new plume thy maidens in thy dark locks arrange, With each new tinted garment thy thoughts, thy fancies change.

I own that thou art fairer than even the fairest flower That at the flush of early dawn bedecks the summer's bower.

But, ah, the flowers in summer hours change even till they fade, And thou art changeful as the rose that withers in the shade.

And though thou art the mirror of beauty's glittering train, Thy bosom has one blemish, thy mind one deadly stain; For upon all alike thou shed'st the radiance of thy smile, And this the treachery by which thou dost the world beguile.

I do not plead in my complaint thy loveliness is marred, Because thy words are cruel, because thy heart is hard; Would G.o.d that thou wert insensible as is the ocean wild And not to all who meet thee so affable and mild; Ah, sweetest is the lingering fruit that latest comes in time, Ah, sweetest is the palm-tree's nut that those who reach must climb.

Alas! 'twas only yesterday a stranger reached the town-- Thou offeredst him thy heart and bade him keep it for his own!

O Zaida, tell me, how was this? for oft I heard thee say That thou wert mine and 'twas to me thy heart was given away.

Hast thou more hearts than one, false girl, or is it changefulness That makes thee give that stranger guest the heart that I possess?

One heart alone is mine, and that to thee did I resign.

If thou hast many, is my love inadequate to thine?

O Zaida, how I fear for thee, my veins with anger glow; O Zaida, turn once more to me, and let the stranger go.

As soon as he hath left thy side his pledges, thou wilt find, Were hollow and his promises all scattered to the wind.

And if thou sayst thou canst not feel the pains that absence brings, 'Tis that thy heart has never known love's gentle whisperings.

'Tis that thy fickle mind has me relinquished here to pine, Like some old slave forgotten in this palace court of thine.

Ah, little dost thou reck of me, of all my pleasures flown, But in thy pride dost only think, false lady, of thine own.

And is it weakness bids me still to all thy faults be blind And bear thy lovely image thus stamped upon my mind?

For when I love, the slight offence, though fleeting may be the smart, Is heinous as the treacherous stroke that stabs a faithful heart.

And woman by one look unkind, one frown, can bring despair Upon the bosom of the man whose spirit wors.h.i.+ps her.

Take, then, this counsel, 'tis the last that I shall breathe to thee, Though on the winds I know these words of mine will wasted be: I was the first on whom thou didst bestow the fond caress, And gave those pledges of thy soul, that hour of happiness; Oh, keep the faith of those young days! Thy honor and renown Thou must not blight by love unkind, by treachery's heartless frown.

For naught in life is safe and sure if faith thou shouldst discard, And the sunlight of the fairest soul is oft the swiftest marred.

I will not sign this letter nor set to it my name; For I am not that happy man to whom love's message came, Who in thy bower thy accents sweet enraptured heard that day, When on thy heaving bosom, thy chosen love, I lay.

Yet well thou'lt know the hand that wrote this letter for thine eye, For conscience will remind thee of thy fickle treachery.

Dissemble as thou wilt, and play with woman's skill thy part, Thou knowest there is but one who bears for thee a broken heart."

Thus read the valiant castellan of Baza's castle tower, Then sealed the scrip and sent it to the Moorish maiden's bower.

ZAIDA OF TOLEDO

Upon a gilded balcony, which decked a mansion high, A place where ladies kept their watch on every pa.s.ser-by, While Tagus with a murmur mild his gentle waters drew To touch the mighty b.u.t.tress with waves so bright and blue, Stands Zaida, radiant in her charms, the flower of Moorish maids, And with her arching hand of snow her anxious eyes she shades, Searching the long and dusty road that to Ocana leads, For the flash of knightly armor and the tramp of hurrying steeds.

The glow of amorous hope has lit her cheek with rosy red, Yet wrinkles of too anxious love her beauteous brow o'er-spread; For she looks to see if up the road there rides a warrior tall-- The haughty Bencerraje, whom she loves the best of all.

At every looming figure that blots the vega bright, She starts and peers with changing face, and strains her eager sight; For every burly form she sees upon the distant street Is to her the Bencerraje whom her bosom longs to greet.

And many a distant object that rose upon her view Filled her whole soul with rapture, as her eager eyes it drew; But when it nearer came, she turned away, in half despair, Her vision had deceived her, Bencerraje was not there.

"My own, my Bencerraje, if but lately you descried That I was angry in my heart, and stubborn in my pride, Oh, let my eyes win pardon, for they with tears were wet.

Why wilt thou not forgive me, why wilt thou not forget?

And I repented of that mood, and gave myself the blame, And thought, perhaps it was my fault that, at the jousting game, There was no face among the knights so filled with care as thine, So sad and so dejected, yes, I thought the blame was mine!

And yet I was, if thou with thought impartial wilt reflect, Not without cause incensed with thee, for all thy strange neglect.

Neglect that not from falseness or words of mine had sprung But from the slanderous charges made by a lying tongue; And now I ask thee pardon, if it be not too late, Oh, take thy Zaida to thy heart, for she is desolate!

For if thou pardon her, and make her thine again, I swear Thou never wilt repent, dear love, thou thus hast humored her!

It is the law of honor, which thou wilt never break, That the secret of sweet hours of love thou mayst not common make.

That never shouldst thou fail in love, or into coldness fall, Toward thy little Moorish maiden, who has given thee her all."

She spoke; and Bencerraje, upon his gallant bay, Was calling to her from the street, where he loitered blithe and gay, And quickly she came down to him, to give him, e'er they part, Her rounded arms, her ivory neck, her bosom, and her heart!

ZAIDE REBUKED

"See, Zaide, let me tell you not to pa.s.s along my street, Nor gossip with my maidens nor with my servants treat; Nor ask them whom I'm waiting for, nor who a visit pays, What b.a.l.l.s I seek, what robe I think my beauty most displays.

'Tis quite enough that for thy sake so many face to face Aver that I, a witless Moor, a witless lover chase.

I know that thou art a valiant man, that thou hast slaughtered more, Among thy Christian enemies, than thou hast drops of gore.

Thou art a gallant horseman, canst dance and sing and play Better than can the best we meet upon a summer's day.

Thy brow is white, thy cheek is red, thy lineage is renowned, And thou amid the reckless and the gay art foremost found.

I know how great would be my loss, in losing such as thee; I know, if I e'er won thee, how great my gain would be: And wert thou dumb even from thy birth, and silent as the grave, Each woman might adore thee, and call herself thy slave.

But 'twere better for us both I turn away from thee, Thy tongue is far too voluble, thy manners far too free; Go find some other heart than mine that will thy ways endure, Some woman who, thy constancy and silence to secure, Can build within thy bosom her castle high and strong, And put a jailer at thy lips, to lock thy recreant tongue.

Yet hast thou gifts that ladies love; thy bearing bold and bright Can break through every obstacle that bars them from delight.

And with such gifts, friend Zaide, thou spreadest thy banquet board, And bidst them eat the dish so sweet, and never say a word!

But that which thou hast done to me, Zaide, shall cost thee dear; And happy would thy lot have been hadst thou no change to fear.

Happy if when thy snare availed to make the prize thine own, Thou hadst secured the golden cage before the bird was flown.

For scarce thy hurrying footsteps from Tarfe's garden came, Ere thou boastedst of thine hour of bliss, and of my lot of shame.

They tell me that the lock of hair I gave thee on that night, Thou drewest from thy bosom, in all the people's sight, And gav'st it to a base-born Moor, who took the tresses curled, And tied them in thy turban, before the laughing world.

I ask not that thou wilt return nor yet the relic keep, But I tell thee, while thou wearest it, my shame is dire and deep: They say that thou hast challenged him, and swearest he shall rue For all the truths he spake of thee--would G.o.d they were not true!

Who but can laugh to hear thee blame the whispers that reveal Thy secret, though thy secret thyself couldst not conceal.

No words of thine can clear thy guilt nor pardon win from me, For the last time my words, my glance, have been addressed to thee."

Thus to the lofty warrior of Abencerraje's race The lady spoke in anger, and turned away her face: "'Tis right," she said, "the Moor whose tongue has proved to me unkind Should in the sentence of my tongue fit retribution find."

ZAIDA'S INCONSTANCY

O fairest Zaida, thou whose face brings rapture to mine eyes!

O fairest Zaida, in whose smile my soul's existence lies!

Fairest of Moorish maidens, yet in revengeful mood, Above all Moorish maidens, stained by black ingrat.i.tude.

'Tis of thy golden locks that love has many a noose entwined, And souls of free men at thy sight full oft are stricken blind; Yet tell me, proud one, tell me, what pleasure canst thou gain From showing to the world a heart so fickle and so vain?

And, since my adoration thou canst not fail to know, How is it that thy tender heart can treat thy lover so?

And art thou not content my fondest hopes to take away, But thou must all my hope, my life, destroy, in utter ruin lay?

My faithful love, sweet enemy! how ill dost thou requite!

And givest in exchange for it but coldness and despite; Thy promises, thy pledge of love, thou to the gale wouldst fling; Enough that they were thine, false girl, that they should all take wing.

Remember how upon that day thou gavest many a sign Of love and lavished'st the kiss which told me thou wert mine.

Remember, lovely Zaida, though memory bring thee pain, Thy bliss when 'neath thy window I sang my amorous strain.

By day, before the window, I saw my darling move, At night, upon the balcony, I told thee of my love.

If I were late or absence detained me from thy sight, Then jealous rage distraught thy heart, thine eyes with tears were bright.

But now that thou hast turned from me, I come thy face to greet, And thou biddest me begone, and pa.s.s no longer through thy street.

Thou biddest me look on thee no more, nor even dare to write The letter or the _billet-doux,_ that caused thee once delight.

Yes, Zaida, all thy favors, thy love, thy vows, are shown To be but false and faithless, since thou art faithless grown.

But why? thou art a woman, to fickle falseness born; Thou prizest those who scorn thee--those who love thee thou dost scorn.

I change not, thou art changed, whose heart once fondly breathed my name; But the more thy bosom turns to ice, the fiercer burns my flame; For all thy coldness I with love and longing would repay, For pa.s.sion founded on good faith can never die away.

ZAIDE'S DESOLATION

It was the hour when t.i.tan from Aurora's couch awoke, And on the world her radiant face in wonted beauty broke, When a Moor came by in sad array, and Zaide was his name.

Disguised, because his heart was sad with love's consuming flame; No s.h.i.+eld he bore, he couched no lance, he rode no warrior steed; No plume nor mantle he a.s.sumed, motto or blazon screed; Still on the flank of his mantle blank one word was written plain, In the Moorish of the people, "I languish through disdain."

A flimsy cape his shoulders clad, for, when the garb is poor, n.o.bility is honored most because 'tis most obscure.

If he in poverty appeared, 'twas love that made him so; Till love might give the wealth he sought thus mourning would he go.

And still he journeys through the hills and shuns the haunts of men; None look upon his misery in field or lonely fen.

Fair Zaida ne'er forgets that he is prince of all the land, And ruler of the castles that at Granada stand; But gold or silver or brocade can ne'er supply the lack Of honor in a n.o.ble line whose crimes have stained it black; For sunlight never clears the sky when night has spread her cloak, But only when the glory of the morning has awoke.

He lives secure from jealous care, holding the priceless dower Which seldom falls to loving hearts or sons of wealth and power.

Poor is his garb, yet at his side a costly blade appears, 'Tis through security of mind no other arms he bears.