« ZurückWeiter »
Rise up-rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down,
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the Town,
From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing,
And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's
And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere,
And the tall tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air ;
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the Town.
Arise, arise, Xarifa, I see Andalla's face,
He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace,
Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquiver
Rode forth Bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never.
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow of azure mixed with white,
I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night;
rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down, Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the Town.
“ What aileth thee, Xarifa, what makes thine eyes look down?
Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the Town?
I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth,
Andalla rides without a Peer, among all Granada's youth.
Without a Peer he rideth, and
milk-white horse doth go
Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow;
Then rise, oh rise, Xarifa-lay the golden cushion down,
Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the Town.”
The Zegri Lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down,
Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the Town ;-
But tho' her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove,
And tho' her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa wove;
One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise drew nigh
That bonny bud a tear effaced slow dropping from her eye.
“No-no,” she sighs—" bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down,
Το gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing Town.”
“ Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down?
Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing Town?
Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry,
He stops at Zara's palace-gate-why sit ye still—oh why?"
" At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover?
I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down,
To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing Town.”
My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they've dropt into the well,
And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot, tell-
'Twas thus Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter,
The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water
To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell,
And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell.
My ear-rings! my ear-rings ! they were pearls in silver set,
That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget,
That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale,
But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale
When he comes back and hears that I have dropped them in the well,
Oh what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot, tell.
My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! he'll say they should have been,
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen,
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear,
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well-
Thus will he think-and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell.
He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way-
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say—
He'll think some other lovers hand, among my tresses noosed,
From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl unloosed
He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well
My pearls fell in,- and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell.
say I am a woman, and we are all the same He'll
say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token. My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! oh ! luckless, luckless well, For what to say to Muça, alas ! I cannot tell.
I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve
That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone,
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love. lies in my heart, as they lie in the well.
KING ALMANZOR of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound,
He hath summoned all the Moorish Lords, from the hills and plains around;
From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil,
They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel.
'Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and state,
And they have closed, the spacious lists, beside the Alhamra's gate ;
gowns of black with silver laced within the tented ring, Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in presence of the king.
III. Eight Moorish Lords of valour tried, with stalwart arm and true, The onset of the beasts abide come trooping furious through; The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all with hope and trust, Yet ere high in heaven appears the Sun, they all have bit the dust.
* The day of the Baptist is a festival among the Mussulmans as well as among Christians.
Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour,
Make room, make room for Ganzul-throw wide, throw wide the door ;
Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly strike the drum,
The Alcayde of Agalya to fight the bull doth come.
And first before the king he passed, with reverence stooping low,
And next he bowed him to the queen, and the Infantas all a-rowe ;
Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to him did throw
A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow.
With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the sand,
Yet proudly in the centre hath Ganzul ta'en his stand;
And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye,
But the lance is firmly in its rest, and his look is calm and high.
Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on,
He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rejon;
Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow,
He blindly totters and gives back across the sand to go.
VIII. “ Turn, Ganzul, turn,” the people cry the third comes up behind, Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind; The mountaineers that lead the steers, without stand whispering low, “ Now thinks this proud Alcayde to stun Harpado so ?",
From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil,
From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill ;
But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear,
Beneath the oak trees was he nursed, this proud and stately steer.
Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil,
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil.
His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow;
But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe.
Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near,
From out the broad and wrinkled skull, like daggers they appear ;
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted tree,
Whereon the monster's shagged mane, like billows curled, ye see.
His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night,
Like a strong fail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might ;
Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock,
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayde's shock.
XIII. Now stops the drum--close, close they come-thrice meet, and thrice give back; The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of blackThe white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dunOnce more advance upon his lance-once more, thou fearless one ! VOL. VI.
Once more, once more ;-in dust and gore to ruin must thou 'reel
In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel
In vain, in vain, thou noble beast, I see, I see thee stagger,
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern Alcayde's dagger !
They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in,'
And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din.
Now stoop thee lady from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow
Upon Ganzul of Agalva, that hath laid Harpado low.
THE LAMENTATION OF GRANADA FOR THE DEATH OF CELIN.
At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred,
At twilight at the Vega gate there is a trampling heard ;
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow,
And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of wo.
What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing?
A tower is fallen, a star is set. Alas! alas for Celin.
II. Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw ; Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go ; In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch ; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing, For all have heard the misery. Alas! alas for Celin.
Him yesterday a Moor did slay of Bencerraje's blood,
'Twas at the solemn jousting, around the nobles stood;
The nobles of the land were there, and the ladies bright and fair
Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share ;
But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing,
For he was Granada's darling knight. Alas ! alas for Celin.
Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two,
With ashes on their turbans spread most pitiful to view ;
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil,
Between the tambours dismal strokes take up their doleful tale;
When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing,
And all the people, far and near, cry-alas! alas for Celin.
Oh lovely lies he on the bier above the purple pall,
The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all;
His dark dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale,
The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail,
And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing,
Its sound is like no earthly sound-alas ! alas for Celin.
The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door,
One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore
Down to the dust men bow their heads and ashes black they strew,
Upon their broidered garments of crimson, green, and blue-
Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing
From door and lattice, high and low—alas ! alas for Celin.
VII. An old old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry ; Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye. 'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago ; She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know. -With one deep shriek she through doth break, when her ears receive their
wailing, “ Let me kiss my Celin ere I die-alas ! alas for Celin.” The last specimen we shall give for the present is one of the many
ballads on the subject of the capture of Granada. It is, perhaps, the most striking of the whole of those composed in celebration of that signal catastrophe.
There was crying in Granada when the sun was going down,
Some calling on the Trinity, some calling on Mahoun;
Here passed away the Koran, there in the Cross was borne,
And here was heard the Christidan bell, and there the Moorish horn;
Te Deum Laudamus was up the Alcala sung;
Down from th' Alhamra's minarets were all the crescents flung;
The arms thereon of Arragon and Castille they display ;
One king comes in in triumph, one weeping goes away.
Thus cried the weeper while his hands his old white beard did tear,
Farewell, farewell, Granada, thou city without peer;
Wo, wo, thou pride of Heathendom, seven hundred years and more
Have gone since first the faithful thy royal sceptre bore.
Thou wert the happy mother of an high renowned race;
Within thee dwelt a noble line that now go from their place ;
Within thee fearless knights did dwell who fought with meikle glee
The enemies of proud Castille, the bane of Christientèe.
The mother of fair dames wert thou of truth and beauty rare,
Into whose arms did noble knights for solace sweet repair
For whose dear sakes the gallants of Afric made display
Of might in joust and battle on many a bloody day:
Here gallants held it little thing for ladies' sake to die,
Or for the Prophet's honour-and pride of Soldanry.
In thee did valour flourish, and deeds of warlike might
Ennobled lordly palaces, in which we had delight.
The gardens of thy Vega, its fields and blooming bowers-
Wo, wo, I see their beauty gone, and scattered all their flowers.-
No reverence can he claim the king that such a land hath lost,
On charger never can he ride, nor be heard among the host-
But in some dark and dismal place where none his face may see,
There, weeping and lamenting, alone that king should be.
Thus spake Granada's king as he was riding to the sea,
About to cross Gibraltar's strait away to Barbary-
Thus he in heaviness of soul unto his queen
(He had stopped and ta’en her in his arms, for together did they fly,
Filling with groans and piercing shrieks the black and trembling sky)-
Unhappy king! whose craven soul can brook (did she reply),
To leave behind Granada, and hast not heart to die,
Now for the love I bore thy youth thee gladly could I slay,
For what is life to leave when such a crown is cast away!
We cannot conclude this brief sketch without directing more particularly the attention of our readers to MURPHY's magnificent Engravings * of the remains of Moorish taste and magnificence in Spain. After looking over those superb pages, every one will feel and understand more concerning this most interesting people, than we have at present either the power or the leisure to convey to them.
The Arabian Antiquities of Spain ; by J. C. Murphy, Architect. One hundred Engravings, with descriptions. Large folio. T. Cadell and w. Davies, London, 1816.