THE Moslem star was on the wane,
Eclipsed the Paynim powers,
And the haughty lord of Christian Spain
Besieged Granada's towers:
Gonsalvo, with a hundred knights
Of Leon's chivalrie,
Well posted on Alhama's heights,
Staid succour from the sea.
One morn a Moorish youth was led
To brave Gonsalvo's tent,
His escort from the field had fled,
And his horse had fall'n o'erspent ;
He hung his head in speechless grief,
As the tear roll'd down his cheek,
And scornful looked each mailed chief,
To behold a youth so weak.
"Is it a girl," Gonsalvo cries,
"That in our toils is caught?
That thus it weeps, in woman's guise, Where its fierce forefathers fought?" "Nay, hear my tale," exclaimed the youth, His eye one moment bright'ning, "And Allah, if I speak not truth,
Consume me with his lightning!
"From beauteous Malaga I came,
But by no beaten way;
Superb Granada was my aim,--
Wo, wo the luckless day!
For had I in my journey sped
To Darro's rushing water,
This morn Zorayda I had wed,
Granada's fairest daughter.
"If pity, then, or love's sweet power,
E'er touched thy gallant breast,
But grant me freedom for an hour-
To the oar I give the rest;
These few bright moments yield in grace,
My mournful fate to tell,
To see once more Zorayda's face,
And take my long farewell!"
Gonsalvo had no marble heart,
Albeit his look was stern;
He bade the Moorish youth depart,
And ere set of sun return:
Each pass and strait the chieftain eyed,
Yet sometimes turned his head,
To mark how down the mountain side
His captive featly sped.
The Sierra's dazzling peak of snow
Yet blush'd with rosy light,
When again the grieving Moor bowed low
Before the Christian knight;
But alone he came not, as he went,
For a damsel pressed his arm,
Faint as a rose by tempests bent,
And quivering with alarm.
Awhile they stood in speechless gloom,
She look'd at him and wept;
And the knights, still reckless of his doom,
An equal silence kept.
At length the maid unveiled her head,
She knelt at the chieftain's knee,
Few were the stifled words she said,
But he well could guess the plea.
"Gazul, thy captive, Christian knight,
Is here by his solemn vow,
He was my lover yesternight,
He is my husband now;
Without him life to me is vain,
And its sounding pageants hollow,
With him I've promised to remain ;
Him, him alone I follow.
"'Twas for me he dared, unwisely brave,
The ambush'd road to take;
He was your foe, he is your slave,
But he suffers for my sake:
Ah! then, his love still let me share,
To whom I've pledged my oath ;
The fetters, if you will, prepare,
But let them bind us both!"
Knights, little used to pity, sighed,
They softened to his suit;
For her voice to their hearts was felt to glide
Like music from a lute.
"Our arms," Gonsalvo said, "achieve
The buttress, not the bower ;
My falchion's edged the oak to cleave,
And not to crush the flower.
"Peace be to both! you both are free!
Live happy; and whene'er
To you a Christian bends his knee,
Believe Gonsalvo there !"
They silent kiss'd his robes, and sped
To their own dear Darro's water;
And thus Gazul Zorayda wed,
Granada's noblest daughter!
THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.
'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret
We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,
But Hope is round us with her angel lay,
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;
Dear are her whispers still, tho' lost their early power.
In youth the cheek was crimsoned with her glow;
Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song
Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe
Was all unheard her sunny bowers among.
Life's little world of bliss was newly born;
We knew not, cared not, it was born to die. Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn,
With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few.
And manhood felt her sway too,—on the eye,
Half realized, her early dreams burst bright,
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;
And though at times might lower the thunder storm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air
Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form,
The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there.
'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen,
Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green.
But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,
There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now;
That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness,
Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow;
That smile shall brighten the dim evening star
That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart
Till the faint light of life is fled afar,
And hushed the last deep beating of the heart;
The meteor-bearer of our parting breath,
A moon-beam in the midnight cloud of death.
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