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Title: Moorish Literature

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MOORISH LITERATURE

COMPRISING

ROMANTIC BALLADS, TALES OF THE BERBERS, STORIES OF THE KABYLES, FOLK-LORE,
AND NATIONAL TRADITIONS

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH FOR THE FIRST TIME

WITH A SPECIAL INTRODUCTION BY

RENE BASSET, PH.D.

OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FRANCE, AND DIRECTOR OF THE ACADEMIE D'ALGER


1901





SPECIAL INTRODUCTION.


The region which extends from the frontiers of Egypt to the Atlantic Ocean,
and from the Mediterranean to the Niger, was in ancient times inhabited by
a people to whom we give the general name of Berbers, but whom the
ancients, particularly those of the Eastern portion, knew under the name of
Moors. "They were called Maurisi by the Greeks," said Strabo, "in the first
century A.D., and Mauri by the Romans. They are of Lybian origin, and form
a powerful and rich nation."[1] This name of Moors is applied not only to
the descendants of the ancient Lybians and Numidians, who live in the nomad
state or in settled abodes, but also to the descendants of the Arabs who,
in the eighth century A.D., brought with them Islamism, imposed by the
sabre of Ogbah and his successors. Even further was it carried, into Spain,
when Berbers and Arabs, reunited under the standard of Moussa and Tarik,
added this country to the empire of the Khalifa. In the fifteenth century
the Portuguese, in their turn, took the name to the Orient, and gave the
name of Moors to the Mussulmans whom they found on the Oriental coast of
Africa and in India.

[1] Geographica, t. xviii, ch. 3, Section ii.

The appellation particularizes, as one may see, three peoples entirely
different in origin--the Berbers, the Arabs of the west, and the Spanish
Mussulmans, widely divided, indeed, by political struggles, but united
since the seventh and eighth centuries in their religious law. This
distinction must be kept in mind, as it furnishes the necessary divisions
for a study of the Moorish literature.


The term Moorish Literature may appear ambitious applied to the monuments
of the Berber language which have come down to us, or are gathered daily
either from the lips of singers on the mountains of the Jurgura, of the
Aures, or of the Atlas of Morocco; under the tents of the Touaregs of the
desert or the Moors of Senegal; in the oases of the south of Algeria or in
Tunis. But it is useless to search for literary monuments such as have been
transmitted to us from Egypt and India, Assyria and Persia, ancient Judea,
Greece and Rome; from the Middle Ages; from Celt, Slav, and German; from
the Semitic and Ouralo-altaique tongues; the extreme Orient, and the modern
literature of the Old and New World.

But the manifestations of thought, in popular form, are no less curious and
worthy of study among the Berbers. I do not speak of the treatises on
religion which in the Middle Ages and in our day were translated from the
Arabic into certain dialects: that borrowed literature, which also exists
among the Sonalulis of Eastern Africa and the Haussas and the Peuls of the
Soudan, has nothing original. But the popular literature--the stories and
songs--has an altogether different importance. It is, above all, the
expression of the daily life, whether it relates to fetes or battles or
even simple fights. These songs may be satirical or laudatory, to celebrate
the victory of one party or deplore the defeat of the True Believers by the
Christians, resounding on the lips of children or women, or shouted in
political defiance. They permit us, in spite of a coarse rhythm and
language often incorrect, an insight into their manner of life, and to feel
as do peoples established for centuries on African soil. Their ancestors,
the Machouacha, threatened Egypt in the time of Moses and took possession
of it, and more than twenty centuries later, with the Fatimides, converted
Spain to the Mussulman faith. Under Arab chiefs they would have overcome
all Eastern Europe, had it not been for the hammer of Charles Martel, which
crushed them on the field of Poitiers.

The richest harvest of Berber songs in our possession is, without doubt,
that in the dialect of the Zouaous, inhabiting the Jurgura mountains, which
rise some miles distant from Algiers, their crests covered with snow part
of the year.[2] All kinds of songs are represented; the rondeaux of
children whose inspiration is alike in all countries:

[2] Hanoteau, Poesies Populaires de la Khabylie du Jurgura, Paris, 1867,
8vo.

  "Oh, moonlight clear in the narrow streets,
  Tell to our little friends
  To come out now with us to play--
  To play with us to-night.
  If they come not, then we will go
  To them with leather shoes. (Kabkab.)[3]

  "Rise up, O Sun, and hie thee forth,
  On thee we'll put a bonnet old:
  We'll plough for thee a little field--
  A little field of pebbles full:
  Our oxen but a pair of mice."

  "Oh, far distant moon:
  Could I but see thee, Ali!
  Ali, son of Sliman,
  The beard[4] of Milan
  Has gone to draw water.
  Her cruse, it is broken;
  But he mends it with thread,
  And draws water with her:
  He cried to Ayesha:
  'Give me my sabre,
  That I kill the merle
  Perched on the dunghill
  Where she dreams;
  She has eaten all my olives.'"[5]

[3] A sort of sandal.

[4] Affectionate term for a child.

[5] Hanoteau, v. 441-443.

In the same category one may find the songs which are peculiar to the
women, "couplets with which they accompany themselves in their dances; the
songs, the complaints which one hears them repeat during whole hours in a
rather slow and monotonous rhythm while they are at their household labors,
turning the hand-mill, spinning and weaving cloths, and composed by the
women, both words and music."[6]

One of the songs, among others, and the most celebrated in the region of
the Oued-Sahal, belonging to a class called Deker, is consecrated to the
memory of an assassin, Daman-On-Mesal, executed by a French justice. As in
most of these couplets, it is the guilty one who excites the interest:

  "The Christian oppresses. He has snatched away
    This deserving young man;
  He took him away to Bougre,
    The Christian women marvelled at him.
  Pardieu! O Mussulmans, you
  Have repudiated Kabyle honor." [7]

[6] Hanoteau, Preface, p. iii.

[7] Hanoteau, p. 94.

With the Berbers of lower Morocco the women's songs are called by the Arab
name Eghna.

If the woman, as in all Mussulman society, plays an inferior role--inferior
to that allowed to her in our modern civilizations--she is not less the
object of songs which celebrate the power given her by beauty:

  "O bird with azure plumes,
  Go, be my messenger--
  I ask thee that thy flight be swift;
  Take from me now thy recompense.
  Rise with the dawn--ah, very soon--
  For me neglect a hundred plans;
  Direct thy flight toward the fount,
  To Tanina and Cherifa.

  "Speak to the eyelash-darkened maid,
  To the beautiful one of the pure, white throat;
  With teeth like milky pearls.
  Red as vermillion are her cheeks;
  Her graceful charms have stol'n my reason;
  Ceaselessly I see her in my dreams."[8]

  "A woman with a pretty nose
  Is worth a house of solid stone;
  I'd give for her a hundred reaux,[9]
  E'en if she quitted me as soon.

  "Arching eyebrows on a maid,
  With love the genii would entice,
  I'd buy her for a thousand reaux,
  Even if exile were the price.

  "A woman neither fat nor lean
  Is like a pleasant forest green,
  When she unfolds her budding charms,
  She gleams and glows with springtime sheen."[10]

[8] Hanoteau, p. 350-357

[9] Reais

[10] Hanoteau, pp. 302, 303

The same sentiment inspires the Touareg songs, among which tribe women
enjoy much greater liberty and possess a knowledge of letters greater than
that of the men, and know more of that which we should call literature, if
that word were not too ambitious:

  "For God's sake leave those hearts in peace,
  'Tis Tosdenni torments them so;
  She is more graceful than a troop
  Of antelopes separated from gazelles;
  More beautiful than snowy flocks,
  Which move toward the tents,
  And with the evening shades appear
  To share the nightly gathering;
  More beautiful than the striped silks
  Enwrapped so closely under the haiks,
  More beautiful than the glossy ebon veil,
  Enveloped in its paper white,
  With which the young man decks himself,
  And which sets off his dusky cheek."[1]

[1] Masqueray, Observations grammaticales sur la grammaire Touareg et
textes de la Tourahog des Tailog, pp. 212, 213. Paris, 1897.

The poetic talent of the Touareg women, and the use they make of this
gift--which they employ to celebrate or to rail at, with the accompaniment
of their one-stringed violin, that which excites their admiration or
inspires them with disdain--is a stimulant for warriors:

  "That which spurs me to battle is a word of scorn,
  And the fear of the eternal malediction
  Of God, and the circles of the young
  Maidens with their violins.
  Their disdain is for those men
  Who care not for their own good names.[2]

  "Noon has come, the meeting's sure.
  Hearts of wind love not the battle;
  As though they had no fear of the violins,
  Which are on the knees of painted women--
  Arab women, who were not fed on sheep's milk;
  There is but camel's milk in all their land.
  More than one other has preceded thee and is widowed,
  For that in Amded, long since,
  My own heart was burned.
  Since you were a young lad I suffered--
  Since I wore the veil and wrapped
  My head in the folds of the haik."[3]

[2] Masqueray, p. 220.

[3] Masqueray, p. 227.

War, and the struggle of faction against faction, of tribe against tribe,
of confederation against confederation, it is which, with love, above all,
has inspired the Berber men. With the Khabyles a string of love-songs is
called "Alamato," because this word occurs in the first couplet, always
with a belligerent inspiration:

  "He has seized his banner for the fight
  In honor of the Bey whose cause he maintains,
  He guides the warriors with their gorgeous cloaks,
  With their spurs unto their boots well fastened,
  All that was hostile they destroyed with violence;
  And brought the insurgents to reason."

This couplet is followed by a second, where allusion is made to the snow
which interrupts communication:

  "Violently falls the snow,
  In the mist that precedes the lightning;
  It bends the branches to the earth,
  And splits the tallest trees in twain.
  Among the shepherds none can pasture his flock;
  It closes to traffic all the roads to market.
  Lovers then must trust the birds,
  With messages to their loves--
  Messages to express their passion.

  "Gentle tame falcon of mine,
  Rise in thy flight, spread out thy wings,
  If thou art my friend do me this service;
  To-morrow, ere ever the rise of the sun,
  Fly toward her house; there alight
  On the window of my gracious beauty."[4]

[4] Hanoteau, pp. 348-350.

With the Khabyles of the Jurgura the preceding love-songs are the
particular specialty of a whole list of poets who bear the Arab name of
_T'eballa_, or "tambourinists." Ordinarily they are accompanied in
their tours by a little troop of musicians who play the tambourine and the
haut-boy. Though they are held in small estimation, and are relegated to
the same level as the butchers and measurers of grain, they are none the
less desired, and their presence is considered indispensable at all
ceremonies--wedding fetes, and on the birth of a son, on the occasion of
circumcision, or for simple banquets.

Another class, composed of _Ameddah_, "panegyrists," or _Fecia_,
"eloquent men," are considered as much higher in rank. They take part in
all affairs of the country, and their advice is sought, for they dispense
at will praise or blame. It is they who express the national sentiment of
each tribe, and in case of war their accents uplift warriors, encourage the
brave, and wither the cowardly. They accompany themselves with a Basque
drum. Some, however, have with them one or two musicians who, after each
couplet, play an air on the flute as a refrain.[5]

[5] Hanoteau, Introduction.

In war-songs it is remarkable to see with what rapidity historical memories
are lost. The most ancient lay of this kind does not go beyond the conquest
of Algiers by the French. The most recent songs treat of contemporary
events. Nothing of the heroic traditions of the Berbers has survived in
their memory, and it is the Arab annalists who show us the role they have
played in history. If the songs relating to the conquest of Algeria had not
been gathered half a century ago, they would doubtless have been lost, or
nearly so, to-day. At that time, however, the remembrance was still alive,
and the poets quickly crystallized in song the rapidity of the triumph of
France, which represents their civilization:

  "From the day when the Consul left Algiers,
  The powerful French have gathered their hosts:
  Now the Turks have gone, without hope of return,
  Algiers the beautiful is wrested from them.

  "Unhappy Isle that they built in the desert,
  With vaults of limestone and brick;
  The celestial guardian who over them watched has withdrawn.
  Who can resist the power of God?

  "The forts that surround Algiers like stars,
  Are bereft of their masters;
  The baptized ones have entered.
  The Christian religion now is triumphant,
  O my eyes, weep tears of blood, weep evermore!

  "They are beasts of burden without cruppers,
  Their backs are loaded,
  Under a bushel their unkempt heads are hidden,
  They speak a _patois_ unintelligible,
  You can understand nothing they say.

  "The combat with these gloomy invaders
  Is like the first ploughing of a virgin soil,
  To which the harrowing implements
  Are rude and painful;
  Their attack is terrible.

  "They drag their cannons with them,
  And know how to use them, the impious ones;
  When they fire, the smoke forms in thick clouds:
  They are charged with shrapnel,
  Which falls like the hail of approaching spring.
  Unfortunate queen of cities--
  City of noble ramparts,
  Algiers, column of Islam,
  Thou art like the habitation of the dead,
  The banner of France envelops thee all."[6]

[6] Hanoteau, pp. 2, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11.

It is, one may believe, in similar terms that these songs, lost to-day,
recount the defeat of Jugurtha, or Talfarinas, by the Romans, or that of
the Kahina by the Arabs. But that which shows clearly how rapidly these
songs, and the remembrance of what had inspired them, have been lost is the
fact that in a poem of the same kind on the same subject, composed some
fifty years ago by the Chelha of meridional Morocco, it is not a question
of France nor the Hussains, but the Christians in general, against whom the
poet endeavors to excite his compatriots.

It is so, too, with the declamatory songs of the latest period of the
Middle Ages, the dialects more or less precise, where the oldest heroic
historical poems, like the Song of Roland, had disappeared to leave the
field free for the imagination of the poet who treats the struggles between
Christians and Saracens according to his own fantasy.

Thanks to General Hanoteau, the songs relating to the principal events of
Khabyle since the French conquest have been saved from oblivion, viz., the
expedition of Marechal Bugeaud in 1867; that of General Pelissier in 1891;
the insurrection of Bon Bar'la; those of Ameravun in 1896, and the divers
episodes of the campaign of 1897 against the Aith Traten, when the
mountains were the last citadel of the Khabyle independence:

  "The tribe was full of refugees,
  From all sides they sought refuge
  With the Aith Traten, the powerful confederation.
  'Let us go,' said they, 'to a sure refuge,'
  For the enemy has fallen on our heads,'
  But in Arba they established their home."[7]

[7] Hanoteau, p. 124.

The unhappy war of 1870, thanks to the stupidity of the military
authorities, revived the hope of a victorious insurrection. Mograne, Bon
Mazrag, and the Sheikh Haddad aroused the Khabyles, but the desert tribes
did not respond to their appeal. Barbary was again conquered, and the
popular songs composed on that occasion reproached them for the folly of
their attempt.

Bon Mezrah proclaimed in the mountains and on the plain:

  "Come on, a Holy War against the Christians,
  He followed his brother until his disaster,
  His noble wife was lost to him.
  As to his flocks and his children,
  He left them to wander in Sahara.
  Bon Mezrag is not a man,
  But the lowest of all beings;
  He deceived both Arabs and Khabyles,
  Saying, 'I have news of the Christians.'

  "I believed Haddad a saint indeed,
  With miracles and supernatural gifts;
  He has then no scent for game,
  And singular to make himself he tries.

  "I tell it to you; to all of you here
  (How many have fallen in the battles),
  That the Sheikh has submitted.
  From the mountain he has returned,
  Whoever followed him was blind.
  He took flight like one bereft of sense.
  How many wise men have fallen
  On his traces, the traces of an impostor,
  From Babors unto Guerrouma!
  This joker has ruined the country--
  He ravaged the world while he laughed;
  By his fault he has made of this land a desert."[8]

[8] R. Basset, L'insurrection Algerienne, de 1871 dans les chansons
populaires Khabyles Lourain, 1892.

The conclusion of poems of this kind is an appeal to the generosity of
France:

  "Since we have so low fallen,[9]
  You beat on us as on a drum;
  You have silenced our voices.
  We ask of you a pardon sincere,
  O France, nation of valorous men,
  And eternal shall be our repentance.
  From beginning to the end of the year
  We are waiting and hoping always:
  My God! Soften the hearts of the authorities."

[9] J.D. Luciani, Chansons Khabyles de Ismail Azekkion. Algiers, 1893.

With the Touaregs, the civil, or war against the Arabs, replaces the war
against the Christians, and has not been less actively celebrated:

  "We have saddled the shoulders of the docile camel,
  I excite him with my sabre, touching his neck,
  I fall on the crowd, give them sabre and lance;
  And then there remains but a mound,
  And the wild beasts find a brave meal."[10]

[10] Masqueray, pp. 228, 229.

One finds in this last verse the same inspiration that is found in the
celebrated passage of the Iliad, verses 2 and 5: "Anger which caused ten
thousand Achaeans to send to Hades numerous souls of heroes, and to make
food of them for the dogs and birds of prey." It is thus that the Arab poet
expresses his ante-Islamic "Antarah":

  "My pitiless steel pierced all the vestments,
  The general has no safety from my blade,
  I have left him as food for savage beasts
  Which tear him, crunching his bones,
  His handsome hands and brave arms."[1]

[1] Mo'allagah, v. 49, 50.

The Scandinavian Skalds have had the same savage accents, and one can
remember a strophe from the song of the death of Raynor Lodbrog:

    "I was yet young when in the Orient we gave the wolves a bloody
    repast and a pasture to the birds. When our rude swords rang on the
    helmet, then they saw the sea rise and the vultures wade in
    blood."[2]

[2] Marmier, Lettres sur l'Islemde.

Robbery and pillage under armed bands, the ambuscade even, are celebrated
among the Touaregs with as great pleasure as a brilliant engagement:

  "Matella! May thy father die!
  Thou art possessed by a demon,
  To believe that the Touaregs are not men.
  They know how to ride the camel; they
  Ride in the morning and they ride at night;
  They can travel; they can gallop:
  They know how to offer drink to those
  Who remain upon their beasts.
  They know how to surprise a
  Courageous man in the night.
  Happy he sleeps, fearless with kneeling camels;
  They pierce him with a lance,
  Sharp and slender as a thorn,
  And leave him to groan until
  His soul leaves his body:
  The eagle waits to devour his entrails."[3]

[3] Hanoteau, Essaie de grammaire de la langue Tamachek, pp. 210, 211.
Paris, 1860.

They also show great scorn for those who lead a life relatively less
barbarous, and who adorn themselves as much as the Touaregs can by means of
science and commerce:

  "The Tsaggmaren are not men,
  Not lance of iron, nor yet of wood,
  They are not in harness, not in saddles,
  They have no handsome saddle-bags,
  They've naught of what makes mankind proud;
  They've no fat and healthy camels,
  The Tsaggmaren; don't speak of them;
  They are people of a mixed race,
  There is no condition not found with them.
  Some are poor, yet not in need;
  Others are abused by the demon,
  Others own nothing but their clubs.
  There are those who make the pilgrimage, and repeat it,
  There are those who can read the Koran and learn by that
  They possess in the pasturage camels, and their little ones,
  Besides nuggets of gold all safely wrapped."[4]

[4] Hanoteau, p. 213.

Another style, no less sought for among the Berbers inhabiting cities, is
the "complaint" which flourished in lower Morocco, where it is known under
the Arab name of Lqist (history). When the subject is religious, they call
it _Nadith_ (tradition). One of the most celebrated is that wherein
they tell of the descent into the infernal regions of a young man in search
of his father and mother. It will give an idea of this style of composition
to recite the beginning:

  "In the name of God, most clement and merciful,
  Also benediction and homage to the prophet Mohammed,
  In the name of God, listen to the words of the author,
  This is what the Talebs tell, according to the august Koran.
  Let us begin this beautiful story by
  Invoking the name of God.
  Listen to this beautiful story, O good man,
  We will recite the story of a young man
  In Berbere; O God, give to us perfection;
  That which we bring to you is found in truthful tradition,
  Hard as a rock though thy heart be, it will melt;
  The father and mother of Saba died in his childhood
  And left him in great poverty;
  Our compassionate Lord guided him and showed him the way,
  God led him along toward the Prophet,
  And gave to him the Koran."[5]

[5] R. Basset, Le Poeme de Sabi, p. 15 et suis. Paris, 1879.

Other poems--for instance, that of Sidi Hammen and that of Job--are equally
celebrated in Morocco. The complaints on religious subjects are accompanied
on the violin, while those treating of a historical event or a story with a
moral have the accompaniment of a guitar. We may class this kind of poems
among those called _Tandant_, in lower Morocco, which consist in the
enumeration of short maxims. The same class exist also in Zouaona and in
Touareg.

But the inspiration of the Khabyle poets does not always maintain its
exaltation. Their talents become an arm to satirize those who have not
given them a sufficiently large recompense, or--worse still, and more
unpardonable--who have served to them a meagre repast:

  "I went to the home of vile animals,
  Ait Rebah is their name;
  I found them lying under the sun like green figs,
  They looked ill and infirm.
  They are lizards among adders,
  They inspire no fear, for they bite not.
  Put a sheepskin before them, they
  Will tear your arms and hands;
  Their parched lips are all scaly,
  Besides being red and spotted.

  "As the vultures on their dung heaps,
  When they see carrion, fall upon it,
  Tearing out its entrails,
  That day is for them one of joy.
  Judging by their breeches,
  And the headdresses of their wives,
  I think they are of Jewish origin."[6]

[6] Hanoteau, Poemes Populaires de la Khabyle, pp. 179-181, Du Jurgura.

This song, composed by Mohammed Said or Aihel Hadji, is still repeated when
one wishes to insult persons from Aith Erbah, who have tried several times
to assassinate the poet in revenge.

Sometimes two rival singers find themselves together, and each begins to
eulogize himself, which eulogy ends in a satire on the other. But the joust
begun by apostrophes and Homeric insults finishes often with a fight, and
the natural arm is the Basque drum until others separate, the
adversaries.[7] We have an example in a dialogue of this kind between
Youssuf ou Kassi, of the Aith Djemnad, and Mohand ou Abdaha, of the Aith
Kraten. The challenge and the jousts--less the blows--exist among the
chellahs of lower Morocco, where they are called _Tamawoucht_; but
between man and woman there is that which indicates the greatest liberty of
manners. The verses are improvised, and the authors are paid in small
money. Here is a specimen:

  _The woman_: "When it thunders and the sky is overcast,
                       Drive home the sheep, O watchful shepherd."

  _The man_: "When it thunders, and the sky is overcast,
                     We will bring home the sheep."

  _The woman_: "I wish I had a bunch of switches to strike you with!
                       May your father be accursed, Sheepkeeper!"

  _The man_: "Oh, God, I thank thee for having created
                     Old maids to grind meal for the toilers."[8]

[7] Hanoteau, p. 275 et seq.

[8] Stemme, p. 7, 8.

Another manifestation, and not less important of the popular Berber
literature, consists in the stories. Although no attempt has been made in
our days to gather them, many indications permit us to believe that they
have been at all times well treasured by these people. In the story of
Psyche that Apuleius inserted at the end of the second century A.D., in the
romance of Metamorphoses,[9] we read that Venus imposed on Psyche, among
other trials, that of sorting out and placing in separate jars the grains
of wheat, oats, millet and poppy pease, lentils and lima beans which she
had mixed together. This task, beyond the power of Psyche, was accomplished
by the ants which came to her aid, and thus she conquered the task set by
her cruel mother-in-law.

[9] Hanoteau, Essai de Grammaire Khabyle, p. 282 et seq. Alger.

This same trial we find in a Berber story. It is an episode in a Khabyle
story of the Mohammed ben Sol'tan, who, to obtain the hand of the daughter
of a king, separated wheat, corn, oats, and sorghum, which had been mingled
together. This trait is not found in Arab stories which have served as
models for the greater part of Khabyle tales. It is scarcely admissible
that the Berbers had read the "Golden Ass" of Apuleius, but it is probable
that he was born at Madaure, in Algeria, and retained an episode of a
popular Berber tale which he had heard in his childhood, and placed in his
story.

The tales have also preserved the memory of very ancient customs, and in
particular those of adoption. In the tales gathered in Khabyle by General
Hanoteau,[10] T. Riviere,[1] and Moulieras,[2] also that in the story of
Mizab, the hero took upon himself a supernatural task, and succeeded
because he became the adopted son of an ogress, at whose breast he
nursed.[3] This custom is an ancient one with the Berbers, for on a _bas
relief_ at Thebes it shows us a chief of the Machouacha (the Egyptian
name of the Berbers) of the XXII Dynasty nursed and adopted by the goddess
Hathor. Arab stories of Egypt have also preserved this trait--for instance,
"The Bear of the Kitchen,"[4] and El Schater Mohammed.[5]

[10] Hanoteau, p. 266. Le chasseur.

[1] Contes Populaires de la Khabylie du Jurgura, p. 239. Paris, 1892. Le
chausseur.

[2] Legendes et contes merveilleuses de la grande Khabylie, p. 20. 2 vols.
Tunis, 1893-1898. Le fils du Sultan et le chien des Chretiens, p. 90.
Histoire de Ali et sa mere.

[3] R Basset, Nouveaux Contes Berbers, p. 18. Paris, 1897. La Pomme de
jeunesse.

[4] Spitta-bey, Contes Arabes modernes, p. 12. Ley de 1883.

[5] Arless Pasha, Contes Populaire de la vallee du Nil. Paris, 1895.

During the conquest of the Magreb by the Arabs in the seventh century A.D.,
Kahina, a Berber queen, who at a given moment drove the Mussulman invaders
away and personified national defiance, employed the same ceremony to adopt
for son the Arab Khaled Ben Yazed, who was to betray her later.

Assisted by these traits of indigenous manners, we can call to mind ogres
and pagans who represent an ancient population, or, more exactly, the
sectarians of an ancient religion like the Paganism or the Christianity
which was maintained on some points of Northern Africa, with the Berbers,
until the eleventh century A.D. Fabulous features from the Arabs have
slipped into the descriptions of the Djohala, mingled with the confused
souvenirs of mythological beings belonging to paganism before the advent of
Christianity.

It is difficult to separate the different sources of the Berber stories.
Besides those appearing to be of indigenous origin, and which have for
scene a grotto or a mountain, one could scarcely deny that the greater
part, whether relating to stories of adventure, fairy stories, or comical
tales, were borrowed from foreign countries by way of the Arabs. Without
doubt they have furnished the larger part, but there are some of which
there are no counterparts in European countries. "Half a cock," for
instance, has travelled into the various provinces of France, Ireland,
Albania, among the Southern Slavs, and to Portugal, from whence it went to
Brazil; but the Arabs do not know it, nor do they know Tom Thumb, which
with the Khabyles becomes H'ab Sliman. In the actual state of our
knowledge, we can only say that there is a striking resemblance between a
Berber tale and such or such a version. From thence comes the presumption
of borrowed matter. But, for the best results to be gained, one should be
in possession of all the versions. When it relates to celebrated personages
among the Mussulmans, like Solomon, or the features of a legend of which no
trace remains of the names, one can certainly conclude that it is borrowed
from the Arabs. It is the same with the greater number of fairy tales,
whose first inventors, the Arabs, commenced with the "Thousand and One
Nights," and presented us with "The Languages of the Beasts," and also with
funny stories.

The principal personage of these last is Si Djeha, whose name was borrowed
from a comic narrative existing as early as the eleventh century A.D. The
contents are sometimes coarse and sometimes witty, are nearly all more
ancient, and yet belong to the domain of pleasantries from which in Germany
sprung the anecdotes of Tyll Eulenspiegel and the Seven Suabians, and in
England the Wise Men of Gotham. In Italy, and even in Albania, the name of
Djeha is preserved under the form of Guifa and Guicha; and the Turks, who
possess the richest literature on this person, have made him a Ghadji Sirii
Hissar, under the name of Nasr-eddin Hodja (a form altered from Djoha). The
traits attributed to such persons as Bon Idhes, Bon Goudous, Bon
Kheenpouch, are equally the same as those bestowed upon Si Djeha.

But if the Berbers have borrowed the majority of their tales, they have
given to their characters the manners and appearance and names of their
compatriots. The king does not differ from the Amir of a village, or an
Amanokul of the Touaregs. The palace is the same as all those of a
Haddarth, and Haroun al Raschid himself, when he passes into Berber
stories, is plucked of the splendor he possesses in the "Thousand and One
Nights," and in Oriental stories. This anachronism renders the heroes of
the tales more real, and they are real Berbers, who are alive, and who
express themselves like the mountaineers of Jurgura, the Arabs of the
Atlas; like the men of Ksour, or the nomads of Sahara. In general there is
little art in these stories, and in style they are far below other
collections celebrated through the entire world.

An important place is given to the fables or stories of animals, but there
is little that is not borrowed from foreign lands, and the animals are only
such as the Berbers are familiar with. The adventures of the jackal do not
differ from those of the fox in European stories. An African trait may be
signalled in the prominence which it offers the hare, as in the stories of
_Ouslofs_ and _Bantous_. Also, the hedgehog, neglected so
lamentably in our fables, holds an important place; and if the jackal
manages to deceive the lion, he is, in spite of his astute nature, duped by
the hedgehog when he tries a fall with him. As to the lion, the serpent,
the cock, the frog, the turtle, the hyena, the jackal, the rat, their roles
offer little of the place they play in the Arab tales, or even the
Europeans.

If we pass from Berber we find the Arab tongue as spoken among the Magreb,
and will see that the literature is composed of the same elements,
particularly in the tales and songs. There are few special publications
concerning the first, but there are few travellers who have not gathered
some, and thus rendered their relations with the people more pleasant. In
what concerns the fairy tales it is, above all, the children for whom they
are destined, "when at night, at the end of their wearisome days, the
mothers gather their children around them under the tent, under the shelter
of her Bon Rabah, the little ones demand with tears a story to carry their
imaginations far away." "Kherrfin ya summa" ("Tell us a story"), they say,
and she begins the long series of the exploits of Ah Di Douan.[6] Even the
men do not disdain to listen to the tales, and those that were gathered
from Tunis and Tripoli by Mr. Stemme,[7] and in Morocco by Messrs. Souin
and Stemme,[8] show that the marvellous adventures, wherein intervene the
Djinns, fairies, ogres, and sorcerers, are no less popular among the Arab
people than among the Berbers.

[6] Deeplun, Recueil de textes pour l'etude de l'Arabe parle, v. 12, p. iv.
Paris, 1891.

[7] Iumsche Maerchen und Gedichte. Leipzig, 1898. 2 vols. Maerchen und
Gedichte. Aus der Stadt Tripolis in Nord Afrika. Leipzig.

[8] Zum Arabischen Dialekt. Von Markko. Leipzig, 1893. Vers. 8.

We must not forget that these last-named have borrowed much from the first
ones, and it is by them that they have known the celebrated Khalif of
Bagdad, one of the principal heroes of the "Thousand and One Nights,"
Haroun al Raschid, whose presence surprises us not a little when figuring
in adventures incompatible with the dignity of a successor of the Prophet.

As in the Berber tales, one finds parallels to the Arab stories among the
folk-lore of Europe, whether they were borrowed directly or whether they
came from India. One will notice, however, in the Arab tales a superior
editing. The style is more ornate, the incidents better arranged. One feels
that, although it deals with a language disdaining the usage of letters, it
is expressed almost as well as though in a cultivated literary language.
The gathering of the populations must also be taken into consideration; the
citizens of Tunis, of Algiers, and even in the cities of Morocco, have a
more exact idea of civilized life than the Berber of the mountains or the
desert. As to the comic stories, it is still the Si Djeha who is the hero,
and his adventures differ little with those preserved in Berber, and which
are common to several literatures, even when the principal person bears
another name.

The popular poetry consists of two great divisions, quite different as to
subject. The first and best esteemed bears the name of Klam el Djedd, and
treats of that which concerns the Prophet, the saints, and miracles. A
specimen of this class is the complaint relative to the rupture of the Dam
of St. Denis of Sig, of which the following is the commencement:

  "A great disaster was fated:[9]
  The cavalier gave the alarm, at the moment of the break;
  The menace was realized by the Supreme Will,
  My God! Thou alone art good.
  The dam, perfidious thing,
  Precipitated his muddy Legions,
  With loud growlings.
  No bank so strong as to hold him in check.

  "He spurred to the right,
  The bridges which could not sustain his shock fell
  Under his added weight;
  His fury filled the country with fear, and he
  Crushed the barrier that would retain him."

[9] Delphin et Genis. Notes sur la Poesie et la musique Arabes dans le
Maghreb Algerien, pp. 14-16. Paris, 1886.

As to the class of declamatory poems, one in particular is popular in
Algiers, for it celebrates the conquest of the Maghreb in the eleventh
century by the divers branches of the Beni-Hilal, from whom descend almost
the whole of the Arabs who now are living in the northwest of Africa. This
veritable poem is old enough, perhaps under its present form, for the
historian, Ten Khaldoun, who wrote at the end of the fourteenth century and
the beginning of the fifteenth, has preserved the resume of the episode of
Djazza, the heroine who abandoned her children and husband to follow her
brothers to the conquest of Thrgya Hajoute. To him are attributed verses
which do not lack regularity, nor a certain rhythm, and also a facility of
expression, but which abound in interpolations and faults of grammar. The
city people could not bear to hear them nor to read them. In our days, for
their taste has changed--at least in that which touches the masses--the
recital of the deeds of the Helals is much liked in the Arab cafes in
Algeria and also in Tunis. Still more, these recitals have penetrated to
the Berbers, and if they have not preserved the indigenous songs of the
second Arab invasion, they have borrowed the traditions of their
conquerors, as we can see in the episode of Ali el Hilalien and of
Er-Redah.

The names of the invading chiefs have been preserved in the declamatory
songs: Abou Zeid, Hassan ben Serhan, and, above all, Dyab ben Ghanum, in
the mouth of whom the poet puts at the end of the epic the recital of the
exploits of his race:

  "Since the day when we quitted the soil and territory of the Medjid, I
                have not opened my heart to joy;
  We came to the homes of Chokir and Cherif ben Hachem who pours upon thee
                (Djazzah) a rain of tears;
  We have marched against Ed-Dabis ben Monime and we have overrun his
                cities and plains.
  We went to Koufat and have bought merchandise from the tradesmen who come
                to us by caravan.
  We arrived at Ras el Ain in all our brave attire and we mastered all the
                villages and their inhabitants.
  We came to Haleb, whose territory we had overrun, borne by our swift,
                magnificent steeds.
  We entered the country of the Khazi Mohammed who wore a coat of mail,
                with long, floating ends,
  We traversed Syria, going toward Ghaza, and reached Egypt, belonging to
                the son of Yakoub, Yousof, and found the Turks with their
                swift steeds.
  We reached the land of Raqin al Hoonara, and drowned him in a deluge of
                blood.
  We came to the country of the Mahdi, whom we rolled on the earth and as
                to his nobles their blood flowed in streams.
  We came to the iron house of Boraih, and found that the Jewish was the
                established religion.
  We arrived at the home of the warrior, El Hashais:
  The night was dark, he fell upon us while we slept without anxiety,
  He took from us our delicate and honored young girls, beauties whose eyes
                were darkened with kohol.
  Abou Zeid marched against him with his sharp sword and left him lying on
                the ground.
  Abou So'dah Khalifah the Zemati, made an expedition against us, and
                pursued us with the sword from all sides.
  I killed Abou So'dah Khalifah the Zemati, and I have put you in
                possession of all his estates.
  They gave me three provinces and So'dah, this is the exact truth that I
                am telling here.
  Then came an old woman of evil augur and she threw dissension among us,
                and the Helals left for a distant land.
  Then Abou Ali said to me: 'Dyab, you are but a fool,'
  I marched against him under the wing of the night, and flames were
                lighted in the sheepfolds.
  He sent against me Hassan the Hilali, I went to meet him and said, 'Seize
                this wretched dog.' These are the words of the Zoght Dyab
                ben Ghanem and the fire of illness was lighted in his
                breast."[10]


[10] R. Basset. Un Episode d'une chanson de geste Arabe sur la seconde
conquete de l'Afrique Septentrionale par les Mussulmans. Bulletin de
Correspondence Africaine, p. 147. Alger, 1885, in 8vo. See also Stemme.
Tripolitanisches Bederinenlieder. Leipzig, 1804, in 8vo.

The second style of modern Arabic poetry is the "Kelamel hazel." It
comprises the pieces which treat of wine, women, and pleasures; and, in
general, on all subjects considered light and unworthy of a serious mind.
One may find an example in the piece of "Said and Hyza," and in different
works of Mr. Stemme cited above. It is particularly among the nomad Arabs
that this style is found, even more than the dwellers in cities, on whom
rests the reproach of composing verses where the study and sometimes the
singularity of expression cannot replace the inspiration, the energy, and
even the delicacy of sentiment often found among the nomads:

  "The country remains a desert, the days of heat are ended, the trees of
                our land have borne the attack of Summer, that is my grief.
  After it was so magnificent to behold, its leaves are fallen, one by one,
                before my eyes.
  But I do not covet the verdure of a cypress; my sorrow has for its cause
                a woman, whose heart has captivated mine.
  I will describe her clearly; you will know who she is; since she has gone
                my heart fails me.
  Cheika of the eye constantly veiled, daughter of Mouloud, thy love has
                exhausted me.
  I have reached a point where I walk dizzily like one who has drunken and
                is drunk; still am I fasting; my heart has abandoned me.
  Thy thick hair is like the ostrich's plumes, the male ostrich, feeding in
                the depressions of the dunes; thy eyebrows are like two
                _nouns_ [Arab letters] of a Tlemcen writing.
  Thy eyes, my beautiful, are like two gleaming gun barrels, made at
                Stamboul, city defiant of Christians.
  The cheek of Cherikha is like the rose and the poppy when they open under
                the showers.
  Thy mouth insults the emerald and the diamond; thy saliva is a remedy
                against the malady; without doubt it is that which has
                cured me[1]."

[1] Joly, Poesie Arnaduno chez les Nomades Algeriennes. Revue Africaine,
XLV, pp. 217-219. Alger, 1901, 8vo.

To finish with the modern literature of the northwest of Africa, I should
mention a style of writings which played a grand role some five centuries
ago, but that sort is too closely connected with those composing the poems
on the Spanish Moors, and of them I shall speak later. It remains now to
but enumerate the enigmas found in all popular literature, and the satiric
sayings attributed to holy persons of the fifteenth century, who, for
having been virtuous and having possessed the gift of miracles, were none
the less men, and as such bore anger and spite. The most celebrated of all
was Sidi Ahmed ben Yousuf, who was buried at Miliana. By reason of the
axiom, "They lend but to the rich," they attributed to him all the
satirical sayings which are heard in the villages and among the tribes of
Algeria, of which, perhaps, he did pronounce some. Praises are rare:

  "He whom you see, wild and tall,
  Know him for a child of Algiers,"

  "Beni Menaur, son of the dispersed,
  Has many soldiers,
  And a false heart."

  "Some are going to call you Blida (little village),
  But I have called you Ourida (little rose)."

  "Cherchel is but shame,
  Avarice, and flight from society,
  His face is that of a sheep,
  His heart is the heart of a wolf;
  Be either sailor or forge worker,
  Or else leave the city."[2]

  [2] R. Basset. Les dictionnaires satiriques attribues a Sidi ben Yousof.
  Paris, 1890, 8vo.

  "He who stands there on a low hill
  All dressed in a small mantle,
  Holding in his hand a small stick
  And calling to sorrow, 'Come and find me,'
  Know him for a son of Medea."

  "Miliana; Error and evil renown,
  Of water and of wood,
  People are jealous of it,
  Women are Viziers there,
  And men the captives."

  "Tenes; built upon a dunghill,
  Its water is blood,
  Its air is poison,
  By the Eternal! Sidi Ahmed will not pass the night here,
  Get out of the house, O cat!"

  "People of Bon Speur,
  Women and men,
  That they throw into the sea."

  "From the Orient and Occident,
  I gathered the scamps,
  I brought them to Sidi Mohammed ben Djellal.
  There they escaped me,
  One part went to Morocco,
  And the rest went down into Eghres."

        "Oran the depraved,
        I sold thee at a reasonable price;
        The Christians have come there,
        Until the day of the resurrection."

     "Tlemcen: Glory of the chevaliers;
     Her water, her air,
     And the way her women veil themselves
     Are found in no other land."

  "Tunis: Land of hypocrisy and deceit,
  In the day there is abundance of vagabonds,
  At night their number is multiplied,
  God grant that I be not buried in its soil."

Another no less celebrated in Morocco, Sidi Abdan Rahman el Medjidont, is,
they say, the author of sentences in four verses, in which he curses the
vices of his time and satirizes the tribes, and attacks the women with a
bitterness worthy of Juvenal:

        "Morocco is the land of treason;
        Accursed be its habitants;
        They make guests sleep outside,
        And steal their provisions."[3]

  [3] H.J. Castries. Les Gnomes de Sidi Abdir Rahman El Medjedoub. Paris,
  1896.

     "Deceptive women are deceivers ever,
     I hastened to escape them.
     They girdle themselves with vipers,
     And fasten their gowns with scorpions."

  "Let not thyself fall victim to a widow,
  Even if her cheeks are bouquets,
  For though you are the best of husbands,
  She will repeat ceaselessly, 'God, be merciful to the dead.'"

        "No river on the mountains,
        No warm nights in the winter,
        No women doing kind actions,
        No generous-hearted enemies."

The battle of the Guadalete, where sank the Visigoth empire, delivered
Spain almost defenceless to the Arab and Berber conquest. There developed
then a civilization and an intellectual culture far superior to those of
the barbarous Christian refugees in the Asturias, where they led a rude and
coarse life which but seasoned them for future struggles. Of their literary
monuments, there remain to us but mediocre Latin chronicles. The court of
the Omayades at Cordova saw a literature blossom which did not disappear
even after the fall of the Khalifate. On the contrary, it seemed to regain
a new vigor in the small states which surged up about the Iberian
Peninsula. The Christians, under the domination of the Mussulmans, allowed
themselves to be seduced by the Arabian literature. "They loved to read
their poems and romances. They went to great expense and built immense
libraries. They scarcely knew how to express themselves in Latin, but when
it was necessary to write in Arabic, they found crowds of people who
understood that language, wrote it with the greatest elegance, and composed
poems even preferable in point of view to the art of the Arab poets
themselves."[4]

[4] Dozy. Histoire des Mussulmans de l'Espagne, pp. 103-166. Leyden, 1861,
in 12mo, 4to.

In spite of the complaints of fanatics like Euloge and Alvaro, the literary
history of that time was filled with Christian names, either those of
Spanish who had remained faithful to the ancient faith, or renegades, or
children of renegades. By the side of the Arab names, like that of the
Bishop Arib ben Said of Cordova, are found those of Ibn Guzman (Son of
Guzman), Ibn el Goutya (son of Gothe), Ibn Loyon (son of Leon), Ibn er
Roumaye (son of the Greek), Ibn Konbaret (son of Comparatus), Ibn
Baschkoual (son of Paschal), and all have left a name among letters.

One magnificent period in literature unfolded itself in the eleventh
century A.D., in the little courts of Seville, of Murcie, of Malaga,
Valence, Toledo, and Badajos. The kings, like El Nis Sasim, El Mo'hadhid,
El Mishamed, Hbn Razin, rank among the best poets, and even the women
answered with talent to the verses which they inspired. They have preserved
the names and the pieces of some of them: Aicha, Rhadia, Fatima, Maryam,
Touna, and the Princess Ouallada. Greek antiquity has not left us more
elegant verses, nor elegies more passionate, than these, of which but a
small portion has been saved from forgetfulness in the anthologies of Hbn
Khayan, Hbn el Abbar, Hbn Bassam de Turad-eddin, and Ibn el Khatib el
Maggari. They needed the arrival of the Berbers to turn them into Almoran.
Those Berbers hastened there from the middle of Sahara and the borders of
Senegal to help the cause of Islamism against Spanish rule, as it was
menaced through the victories of Alfonso of Castile. The result would have
been to stifle those free manifestations of the literary art under a
rigorous piety which was almost always but the thin varnish of hypocrisy.

To the Almoravides succeeded the Almohades coming from the Atlas of
Morocco. To the Almohades, the Merias coming from Sahara in Algeria, but in
dying out each of these dynasties left each time a little more ground under
the hands of the Christians, who, since the time in Telage, when they were
tracked into the caverns of Covadonga, had not ceased, in spite of ill
fortune of all sorts, to follow the work of deliverance. It would have been
accomplished centuries before if the internal struggle in Christian Spain
in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries had not accorded some years of
respite to the kingdom which was being founded at Granada, and revived,
although with less brilliancy, the splendor of the times before the twelfth
century.

In the course of the long struggle the independent Christians had not been
able to avoid feeling in a certain measure something of the influence of
their neighbors, now their most civilized subjects. They translated into
prose imitations of the tales such as those of the book of Patronis,
borrowing from the general chronicles or in translations like the "Kalila
and traditions, legendary or historic, as they found them in the Dimna," or
the book of "The Ruses of Women," in verse.

In their oldest romances--for instance, that of the "Children of Sara,"[5]
and in those to which they have given the name of _romances
fronterizos_, or romances of the frontier--they give the facts of the
war between the Mussulmans and the Christians.

[5 ] T. Ramon Manendez Pidal. La legende de les Infantes de Sara. Madrid,
1896. 8vo.

But they gave the name of Mauresques to another and different class of
romances, of which the heroes are chevaliers, who have nothing of the
Mussulman but the name. The talent of certain _litterateurs_ of the
sixteenth century exercised itself in that class where the persons are all
conventional, or the descriptions are all imaginative, and made a portrait
of the Mussulman society so exact that the romances of Esplandian, Amadis
de Gaul, and others, which evoked the delicious knight-errantry of Don
Quixote, can present a picture of the veritable chivalry of the Middle
Ages. We possess but few verses of the Mussulmans of Granada. Argot de Moll
preserved them in Arabic, transcribed in Latin characters, one piece being
attributed to Mouley Abou Abdallah:

  "The charming Alhambra and its palaces weep
  Over their loss, Muley Boabdil (Bon Abdallah),
  Bring me my horse and my white buckler,
  That I may fight to retake the Alhambra;
  Bring me my horse and my buckler blue,
  That I may go to fight to retake my children.

  "My children are at Guadia, my wife at Jolfata;
  Thou hast caused my ruin, O Setti Omm el Fata.
  My children are at Guadia, my wife at Jolfata,
  Thou hast caused my ruin, O Setti Omm el Fata!"[6]

[6] A. de Circourt. Histoire des Moors mudijares et des Moresques. Paris,
1846.

As may be seen, these verses have no resemblance to those called Moorish.
These are of a purely Spanish diction.[7]

[7] T.A. de Circourt. I. iii., p. 327-332.

Some romances, but not of these last-named, have kept traces of the real
legends of the Arabs. There is among them one which treats of the
adventures of Don Rodrigues, the last king of the Visigoths--"The Closed
House of Toledo."[8] "The Seduction of la Cava," "The Vengeance of Count
Julien," "The Battle of Guadalete," are brought back in the same fashion by
the historians and writers of Mussulman romances.

[8] R. Basset. Legendes Arabes d'Espagne. La Maison fermee de Tolede. Oran,
1898, in 8vo.

The romance on the construction of the Alhambra has preserved the character
of an Arabic legend which dates from before the prophet.[9] There is also a
romance on the conquest of Spain, attributed to an Arab writer, the same
man whom Cervantes somewhat later feigned to present as the author of Don
Quixote, the Moor, Cid Hamet ben Engels.[10]

[9] R. Basset. D'Alhambra et le Chateau de Khanumag: Revue des traditions
populaires. Fairier, 1871, p. 459-465.

[10] Histoire des Conquetes d'Espagne par les Mores. Par Ali Aven Sufran.
Paris, 1720.

It is another style of writing, less seductive, perhaps, than that of the
Moorish romances, in spite of their lack of vivacity and their bad taste.
But why mark this as the expression of the Mussulman sentiment under
Christian domination? Conquered by the Castilians, the Aragons, and the
Portuguese, the Moors had lost the use of Arabic, but they had preserved
the exterior sign-writing, just as their new converts retained their usages
and their national costumes. We possess a complete literature composed in
Spanish, but written in Arabic characters. They called it by the name of
_Aljaniado_. Its chief characteristic is that it treats of the
principal legends of the Mussulmans; those of Solomon and Moses, of Jesus;
the birth, childhood, and the marriage of Mohammed; Temins ed Daria, the
war of the king El Mohallal, the miracle of the moon, the ascension of
Mohammed to heaven, the conversion of Omar, the battle of Yarmouk, the
golden castle, the marvels that God showed to Abraham, Ali and the forty
young girls, the anti-Christ and the day of judgment[1] etc.; the legend of
Joseph, son of Jacob; that of Alexander the Great,[2] to which could be
added the story of the princess Zoraida,[3] without speaking of the pious
exhortations, magic formulas, conjurations, and charms.[4]

[1] Guillon Robles. Legendas Moriscas. Madrid, 1885-86. 36 petit in 8vo.

[2] Guillon Robles. La Legenda de Jose, hijo de Jacob, ye do Alexandro
Magna. Zaragoza, 1888, en 8vo.

[3] L de Eguilas el Hditz, de La Princess Zoraida. Granada, 1892, 16mo.

[4] P. Gil y Ribera et Mar Sanches. Colleccion el textos Aljamiados.
Zaragoza, 1888, 8vo.

The Moors held to these documents all the more that they were written in
Arabic, and that the fury of the Inquisition was let loose upon them. To
save them from the flames, their owners hid them with the greatest care,
and but recently, at El Monacid, they found a whole library in Arabic and
Aljamiado, hidden more than two centuries between the double walls of an
old house.[5] The Mussulman proprietor of these books and his descendants
were dead, or had emigrated to Africa, abandoning the treasure which was to
see the light in a more tolerant epoch.

[5] Pamo. Las coplas del Peregrino de Puey Moncon. Zaragoza, 1897. Pet. en
8vo.

Political relations also existed between those of the Moors who remained in
Spain as converts and such as had fled from persecution and carried to the
populations of the north of Africa the hatred of the Spanish Christians.
Thus we find among the popular literature of the Magreb the same legends,
but edited in Arabic. Only a small number has been published.[6] Whether in
one language or the other, editing does not offer anything remarkable. The
stories have been developed, after the traditions of the Mussulmans, by the
_demi-litterateurs,_ and by that means they have become easier and
more accessible to the multitude.

[6] R. Basset. Les Aventures Merveilleuses de Tunis et Dais. Rome, 1891, en
8vo. L'expedition du Chateau d'or, et la combat d'Ali et du dragon. Rome,
1893, en 8vo. M'lle Florence Groff. Les sept dormants, La ville de Tram, et
l'excursion contre la Makke, Alger, 1891, en 8vo.

It is thus that a literature in Spain sadly ends which, during seven
centuries, had counted historians and poets, philologists, philosophers and
savants, and which the Christian literature replacing it can possibly equal
in some points, but never surpass.[7]

[Illustration (Signature Facsimile): Rene Basset]

[7] M. Basset's "Special Introduction" was written in French; the English
translation was made by Robert Arnot.



PREFACE


The Moorish ballads which appear in this volume are selected from a unique
department of European literature. They are found in the Spanish language,
but their character is oriental; their inspiration comes from the Mahometan
conquerors of northern Africa, and while they exhibit a blending of Spanish
earnestness and chivalry with the wild and dashing spirit of the Arab, they
present a type of literature which is quite unparalleled in the Latin and
Teutonic countries of the Mediterranean basin.

Spain is especially rich in ballad literature, infinitely richer than any
other civilized nation. These ballads take various forms. By Cervantes and
his countrymen they are styled romances, and the romance generally consists
in a poem which describes the character, sufferings, or exploits of a
single individual. The language is simple; the versification, often artless
though melodious, is seldom elaborated into complexity of rhyme. But the
heroic Moor is set before us in the most vivid colors. The hues and
material of his cloak, his housings, his caftan, and his plumes are given,
and quite a vocabulary is exhausted in depicting the color, sex, and breed
of his war-horse. His weapons, lance, scimitar, and corslet of steel are
dwelt upon with enthusiasm. He is as brave as Mars, and as comely as
Adonis. Sometimes he dashes into a bull-ring and slays wild creatures in
the sight of fair ladies and envious men. He throws his lance of cane,
which is filled with sand, so high that it vanishes in the clouds. He is
ready to strike down, in his own house, the Christian who has taken from
him and wedded the lady of his choice. He is almost always in love with
some lady who is unkind and cold, and for her he wanders at times in dark
array, expressing his sombre mood in the device and motto which he paints
upon his shield. Some of the ballads picture love more fortunate in the
most charming manner, and the dark tortures of jealousy are powerfully
described in others. The devotion of the Moor to his lady is scarcely
caricatured in the mocking language of Cervantes, and is not exceeded by
anything to be found in the history of French chivalry. But the god of
these ballads is Allah, and they sometimes reveal a trace of ferocity which
seems to be derived from religious fanaticism. Nor can the reader fail to
be struck by the profound pathos which many of them express so well. The
dirges are supremely beautiful, their language simple and direct, but
perfect in descriptive touches and in the cadence of the reiterated burden.

Beside the ballads of warlike and amorous adventures, there are sea-songs,
songs of captivity, and songs of the galley slave. The Spanish Moor is
seized by some African pirate and carried away to toil in the mill of his
master on some foreign shore, or he is chained to the rowing-bench of the
Berber galley, thence to be taken and sold when the voyage is over to some
master who leaves him to weep in solitary toil in the farm or garden.
Sometimes he wins the love of his mistress, who releases him and flies in
his company.

All these ballads have vivid descriptions of scenery. The towers of Baeza,
the walls of Granada, the green _vegas_ that spread outside every
city, the valley of the Guadalquivir, and the rushing waters of the Tagus,
the high cliffs of Cadiz, the Pillars of Hercules, and the blue waves of
the Mediterranean make a life-like background to every incident. In the
cities the ladies throng the balconies of curling iron-work or crowd the
plaza where the joust or bull-fight is to be witnessed, or steal at
nightfall to the edge of the _vega_ to meet a lover, and sometimes to
die in his arms at the hands of bandits.

There is a dramatic power in these ballads which is one of their most
remarkable features. They are sometimes mere sketches, but oftener the
story is told with consummate art, with strict economy of word and phrase,
and the _denouement_ comes with a point and power which show that the
Moorish minstrel was an artist of no mean skill and address.

The authors of the Moorish romances, songs, and ballads are unknown. They
have probably assumed their present literary form after being part of the
_repertoire_ of successive minstrels, and some of the incidents appear
in more than one version. The most ancient of them are often the shortest,
but they belong to the period when southern Spain under Mahometan rule was
at the height of its prosperity, and Arabian learning, art, and literature
made her rank among the first countries in Europe. The peninsula was
conquered by the Moors in the caliphate of Walid I, 705-715 A.D., and the
independent dynasty of the Ommiades was founded by Abderrhaman at Granada
in 755 A.D. It was from this latter date that the Spanish Moors began to
assume that special character in language, manners, and chivalric
enthusiasm which is represented in the present ballads; the spirit of
Christian knighthood is here seen blended with Arabian passion,
impetuosity, and impulsiveness, and the Spanish language has supplanted,
even among Mahometan poets, the oriental idiom. We may roughly estimate the
period in which the Moorish romance flourished as comprised in the years
between 1100 and 1600 A.D.

The term Moorish is somewhat indefinite, and is used in Spanish history as
a synonym of Saracen or Mahometan. It cannot be called a national
appellation, though originally in the Augustan age it was applied to the
dwellers in Mauretania, with whom the Romans had first come in contact when
the war with Hannibal was transferred from Italy and Spain to Africa. In
the present day, it may be applied to all the races of northwestern Africa
who have accepted Mahometanism; in which case it would include the
aborigines of that region, who live not on the coast and in towns, but in
the Atlas Mountain and the Sahara Desert. While these races, all Berbers
under different local names, are Mussulmans in profession, they are not so
highly civilized as their co-religionists who people the coast of the
Mediterranean. They live a tribal life, and are blood-thirsty and
predatory. They are of course mixed in race with the Arabians, but they are
separate in their life and institutions, and they possess no written
literature. Their oral literature is, however, abundant, though it is only
within quite recent years that it has become known to America and Europe.
The present collection of tales and fables is the first which has hitherto
been made in the English language. The learned men who collected the tales
of the Berbers and Kabyles (who are identical in ethnical origin) underwent
many hardships in gathering from half-savage lips the material for their
volume. They were forced to live among the wild tribesmen, join their nomad
life, sit at their feasts, and watch with them round their camp-fire, while
it was with difficulty they transferred to writing the syllables of a
barbarous tongue. The memory of the Berber story-teller seems to be
incredibly capacious and retentive, and the tales were recited over and
over again without a variation. As is to be expected these tales are very
varied, and many of them are of a didactic, if not ethical, cast. They are
instructive as revealing the social life and character of these mountain
and desert tribes.

We find the spirit of the vendetta pervading these tales with more than
Corsican bitterness and unreasoning cruelty, every man being allowed to
revenge himself by taking the life or property of another. This private and
personal warfare has done more than anything else to check the advance in
civilization of these tribesmen. The Berbers and Kabyles are fanatical
Mahometans and look upon Christians and Jews as dogs and outcasts. It is
considered honorable to cheat, rob, or deceive by lies one who does not
worship Allah. The tales illustrate, moreover, the degraded position of
women. A wife is literally a chattel, not only to be bought, but to be sold
also, and to be treated in every respect as man's inferior--a mere slave or
beast of burden. Yet the tribesmen are profoundly superstitious, and hold
in great dread the evil spirits who they think surround them and to whom
they attribute bodily and mental ills. An idiot is one who is possessed by
a wicked demon, and is to be feared accordingly.

There are found current among them a vast number of fairy tales, such as
equal in wildness and horror the strangest inventions of oriental
imagination. Their tales of ogres and ogresses are unsoftened by any of
that playfulness and bonhomie which give such undying charm to the
"Thousand and One Nights." The element of the miraculous takes many
original forms in their popular tales, and they have more than their share
of the folk-lore legends and traditions such as Herodotus loved to collect.
It was said of old that something new was always coming out of Africa, and
certainly the contribution which the Berbers and Kabyles have made to the
fund of wonder-stories in the world may be looked upon as new, in more than
one sense. It is new, not only because it is novel and unexpected, but
because it is fresh, original and highly interesting.

The fables of these tribes are very abundant and very curious. The great
hero of the animal fable in Europe has always been the fox, whose cunning,
greed, and duplicity are immortalized in the finest fable the world's
literature possesses. The fables of northwest Africa employ the jackal
instead of Reynard, whose place the sycophant of the lion not inaptly
fills.

There are a number of men among the Kabyles and other Berber tribes who
make a profession of reciting poems, tales, and proverbs, and travel from
one village or encampment to another in search of an audience. They know
the national traditions, the heroic legends, and warlike adventures that
pertain to each community, and are honored and welcomed wherever they go.
It was from these men that the various narratives contained in this
collection were obtained, and the translation of them has engaged the
talents and labors of some of the world's foremost oriental scholars.

[Illustration (Facsimile Signature): Epiphanius Wilson]




CONTENTS


MOORISH BALLADS

Fatima's Love
The Braggart Rebuked
The Admiral's Farewell
Moriana and Galvan
The Bereaved Father
The Warden of Molina
The Loves of Boabdil and Vindaraja
The Infanta Sevilla and Peranguelos
Celin's Farewell
Celin's Return
Baza Revisited
Captive Zara
The Jealous King
The Lovers of Antequera
Tarfe's Truce
The Two Moorish Knights
The King's Decision
Almanzar and Bobalias
The Moorish Infanta and Alfonzo Ramos
The Bull-fight of Zulema
The Renegade
The Tower of Gold
The Dirge for Aliatar
The Ship of Zara
Hamete Ali
Zaide's Love
Zaida's Jealousy
Zaida of Toledo
Zaide Rebuked
Zaida's Inconstancy
Zaide's Desolation
Zaida's Lament
Zaida's Curse
The Tournament of Zaide
Zaide's Complaint
Guhala's Love
Azarco of Granada
Azarco Rebuked
Adelifa's Farewell
Azarco's Farewell
Celinda's Courtesy
Gazul's Despondency
Gazul in Love
Celinda's Inconstancy
The Bull-fight
Lovers Reconciled
Call to Arms
Gazul Calumniated
Gazul's Despair
Vengeance of Gazul
Gazul and Albenzaide
Gazul's Arms
The Tournament
Abunemeya's Lament
The Despondent Lover
Love and Jealousy
The Captive of Toledo
The Blazon of Abenamar
Woman's Fickleness
King Juan
Abenamar's Jealousy
Adelifa's Jealousy
Funeral of Abenamar
Ballad of Albayaldos
The Night Raid of Reduan
Siege of Jaen
Death of Reduan
The Aged Lover
Fickleness Rebuked
The Galley Slave of Dragut
The Captive's Lament
Strike Sail
The Captive's Escape
The Spaniard of Oran


MOORISH ROMANCES

The Bull-fight of Gazul
The Zegri's Bride
The Bridal of Andalla
Zara's Ear-rings
The Lamentation for Celin


THE STORY OF SIDI BRAHIM OF MASSAT


FIVE BERBER STORIES

Djokhrane and the Jays
The Ogre and the Beautiful Woman
The False Vezir
The Soufi and the Targui
Ahmed el Hilalieu and El Redah


POEMS OF THE MAGHREB

Ali's Answer
In Honor of Lalla
Sayd and Hyzyya
The Aissaoua in Paris
Song of Fatima
The City Girl and the Country Girl


POPULAR TALES OF THE BERBERS

The Turtle, the Frog, and the Serpent
The Hedgehog, the Jackal, and the Lion
The Stolen Woman
The King, the Arab, and the Monster
The Lion, the Jackal, and the Man
Salomon and the Griffin
Adventure of Sidi Mahomet
The Haunted Garden
The Woman and the Fairy
Hamed ben Ceggad
The Magic Napkin
The Child and the King of the Genii
The Seven Brothers
Half-a-Cock
Strange Meetings
The King and His Family
Beddou
The Language of the Beasts
The Apple of Youth


POPULAR TALES OF THE KABYLES

Ali and Ou Ali
The Infidel Jew
The Sheik's Head
The Wagtail and the Jackal
The Flute-player
The Child
The Monkey and the Fisherman
The Two Friends
The Robber and the Two Pilgrims
The Little Child
The Wren
The Mule, the Jackal, and the Lion
Thadhellala
The Good Man and the Bad One
The Crow and the Child
H'ab Sliman
The King and His Son
Mahomet ben Soltan




MOORISH BALLADS

ROMANCEROS MORISCOS

[_Metrical Translation by Epiphanius Wilson, A.M._]



MOORISH BALLADS


FATIMA'S LOVE

  On the morn of John the Baptist, just at the break of day,
  The Moors upon Granada's fields streamed out in bright array.
  Their horses galloped o'er the sod, their lances flashed in air,
  And the banners that their dames had wrought spread out their colors
                fair.
  Their quivers bright flashed in the light with gold and silk brocade,
  And the Moor who saw his love was there looked best in the parade,
  And the Moor who had no lady love strove hard some love to gain.
  'Mong those who from Alhambra's towers gazed on that warrior train,
  There were two Moorish ladies there whom love had smitten sore;
  Zarifa one, and Fatima the name the other bore.
  Knit by warm friendship were their hearts till, filled with jealous pain,
  Their glances met, as one fair knight came prancing o'er the plain.
  Zarifa spoke to Fatima, "How has love marred thy face!
  Once roses bloomed on either cheek, now lilies take their place;
  And you, who once would talk of love, now still and silent stay.
  Come, come unto the window and watch the pageant gay!
  Abindarraez is riding by; his train is full in view;
  In all Granada none can boast a choicer retinue."
  "It is not love, Zarifa, that robs my cheek of rose;
  No fond and anxious passion this mournful bosom knows;
  My cheeks are pale and I am still and silent, it is true,--
  For, ah! I miss my father's face, whom fierce Alabey slew.
  And did I crave the boon of love, a thousand knights were fain
  To fight for me in service true on yonder flowery plain.
  And all the love I give to each to give me back again.
  And for Abindarraez, whose heart and valiant might,
  You praise and from the window watch, with rapturous delight----"
  The lady stopped, for at their feet knelt down the well-loved knight.



THE BRAGGART REBUKED

  "If thou art brave in battle's hour
      As thou art bold in pleasure's rout;
  If thou canst make the lances fly
      As thou canst fling thy words about;

  "If thou canst in the vega fight
      As thou the ladies' eyes canst praise;
  And show on horseback half the skill
      That marks thee in the dance's maze;

  "Meet with the briskness of the joust
      The challenge of the deadly lance,
  And in the play of scimitars
      Be sprightly as in festive dance;

  "If thou art ready in the field
      As thou art nimble on the square;
  And canst the front of battle face
      As though thou flirtest with the fair;

  "If thou dost don thy shining mail
      As lightly as thy festive suit,
  And listenest to the trumpet call
      As though it were thy lady's lute;

  "And if, as in the gamesome hour
      Thou flingest round the rattling reed
  Against the foeman's moated camp,
      Thou spurrest on thy thundering steed;

  "If, when the foe is face to face,
    Thou boastest as thou oft hast done
  When far away his ranks were ranged,
    And the fierce fight had not begun;--

  "Go, Zaide, to the Alhambra go,
    And there defend thy soldier fame;
  For every tongue is wagging there,
    And all, derisive, speak thy name.

  "And if thou fear to go alone,
    Take others with thee to thine aid;
  Thy friends are ready at thy beck,
    And Zaide need not be afraid!

  "It is not in the palace court,
    Amid the throng of ladies bright,
  That the good soldier, by his tongue,
    Proves himself valorous in the fight.

  "It is not there his hands can show
    What in the battle he can do;
  But where the shock of onset tests
    The fearless heart, the iron thew.

  "Betake thee to the bloody field
    And let thy sword thy praises sing;
  But silence is most eloquent
    Amid the courtiers of the King."

  Thus Tarfe wrote, the Moorish knight,
    His heart so filled with furious rage
  That where his fiery pen had passed
    It pierced and rent the flimsy page.

  He called his varlet to his side,
    "Now seek the Alhambra's hall," said he,
  "And privately to Zaide say
    That this epistle comes from me;

  "And whisper, that none else may hear,
    And say that I his coming wait,
  Where Genil's crystal torrent laves
    The pillars of yon palace gate."



THE ADMIRAL'S FAREWELL

  The royal fleet with fluttering sail is waiting in the bay;
  And brave Mustapha, the Admiral, must start at break of day.
  His hood and cloak of many hues he swiftly dons, and sets
  Upon his brow his turban gay with pearls and amulets;
  Of many tints above his head his plumes are waving wide;
  Like a crescent moon his scimitar is dangling at his side;
  And standing at the window, he gazes forth, and, hark!
  Across the rippling waters floats the summons to embark.

      Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!
      Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.
      Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring
      A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King!

  The haughty Turk his scarlet shoe upon the stirrup placed,
  Right easily he vaulted to his saddle-tree in haste.
  His courser was Arabian, in whose crest and pastern show
  A glossy coat as soft as silk, as white as driven snow.
  One mark alone was on his flank! 'twas branded deep and dark;
  The letter F in Arab script, stood out the sacred mark.
  By the color of his courser he wished it to be seen
  That the soul of the King's Admiral was white and true and clean.
  Oh, swift and full of mettle was the steed which that day bore
  Mustapha, the High Admiral, down to the wave-beat shore!
  The haughty Turk sails forth at morn, that Malta he may take,
  But many the greater conquest his gallant men shall make;
  For his heart is high and his soul is bent on death or victory,
  And he pauses, as the clashing sound comes from the distant sea;

      Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!
      Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.
      Let fife and flute, and sackbut in accord
          Proclaim, Aboard! Aboard!
      Thy pinnace waits thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard!

  And as he hears the summons Love makes for him reply,
  "O whither, cruel fortune, wilt thou bid the warrior fly?
  Must I seek thee in the ocean, where the winds and billows roar?
  Must I seek thee there, because in vain I sought thee on the shore?
  And dost thou think the ocean, crossed by my flashing sail,
  With all its myriad waters and its rivers, can avail
  To quench the ardent fire of love that rages in my breast,
  And soothe the fever of my soul into one hour of rest?"
  And as he mused, in bitter thought, Mustapha reached in haste
  A balcony; till dawn of day before that house he paced,
  And all his heart's anxieties he counted o'er and o'er,
  And, when the darkness of the night toward opening twilight wore,
  Upon the balcony there came the cause of all his sighs,
  But a smile was on her rosy lips and a light was in her eyes.
  "O lovely Zaida," he began, and gazed into her face,
  "If my presence at thy window is a burden to thy peace,
  One pledge bestow upon me, one pledge of love, I pray,
  And let me kiss thy lily hand before I sail away."
  "I grieve for thy departure," the lady made reply,
  "And it needs no pledge to tell thee I am faithful till I die,
  But if one token thou must have, take this ere thou depart;
  ('Twas fashioned by these hands of mine) and keep it on thy heart!"
  The Moor rose in his stirrups, he took it from her hand,
  'Twas a piece of lace of gold and silk shaped for a helmet band.
  There was the wheel of fortune with subtile needle drawn,
  (Ah, Fortune that had left him there dejected and forlorn!)
  And as he paused, he heard the sound tumultuous come again,
  'Twas from the fleet, down in the bay, and well he knew the strain.

      Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain;
      Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.
      Let fife and flute, and sackbut in accord
          Proclaim, Aboard! Aboard!
      Thy pinnace waits thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard!

  Oh, stay my foes, nor in such haste invite me to the field!
  Here let me take the triumphs that softer conquests yield!
  This is the goal of my desire, the aim of my design,
  That Zaida's hand in mine be placed and her heart beat close to mine!
  Then spake the fair Sultana, and she dropped a tender tear,
  "Nay mourn not for the present pain, for future bliss is near.
  The wings of Time are swift, and they bear a brighter day;
  And when once the longed-for gift is here 'twill never pass away!"
  Then the Moor's heart beat high with joy; to smiles were changed his
                sighs,
  In silent ecstasy he gazed into the lady's eyes.
  He rode to meet his waiting fleet, for favoring was the wind,
  But while his body went on board, he left his heart behind!

      Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!
      Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.
      Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring
      A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King.



MORIANA AND GALVAN

  Twas Princess Moriana,
    Upon a castle's height,
  That played with Moorish Galvan
    At cards for her delight;
  And oft he lost the stakes he set,
    Full many a coin I wis;
  When Moriana lost, she gave
    Her hand for him to kiss.
  And after hours of pleasure
    Moor Galvan sank to sleep;
  And soon the lady saw a knight
    Descend the mountain steep;
  His voice was raised in sorrow,
    His eyes with tears were wet,
  For lovely Moriana
    His heart could ne'er forget.
  For her, upon St. John's Day,
    While she was gathering flowers,
  The Moors had made a captive,
    Beneath her father's towers.
  And Moriana raised her eyes
    And saw her lover ride,
  And on her cheeks her Moorish lord
    The sparkling tears descried.
  With anger raged his spirit,
    And thus to her he cried:
  "What ails thee, gentle lady?
    Why flows with tears thine eye?
  If Moors of mine have done thee wrong,
    I swear that they shall die;
  If any of thy maidens
    Have caused thee this distress,
  The whip across their shoulders
    Shall avenge their wickedness.
  Or, if the Christian countrymen
    Have sorrow for thee made,
  I will, with conquering armies,
    Their provinces invade.
  The warlike weapons that I don
    Are festal robes to me;
  To me the din of battle
    Is sweet tranquillity;
  The direst toils the warrior bears
    With steadfast joy I meet;
  To me the watch that nightlong lasts
    Is like a slumber sweet."
  "No Moors of thine within these halls
    Have caused to me this pain;
  No maidens waiting in my bower
    Have showed to me disdain;
  Nor have my Christian kinsmen
    To mourn my spirit made,
  Provoking thee in vengeance
    Their province to invade.
  Vain the deep cause of my distress
    From Galvan's eye to hide--
  'Tis that I see down yonder mount
    A knight in armor ride.
  'Tis such a sight that does my tears
    From very heart-springs move;
  For yonder knight is all to me,
    My husband and my love."
  Straight the Moor's cheek with anger flushed,
    Till red eclipsed the brown,
  And his clenched fist he lifted
    As if to strike her down.
  He gnashed his teeth with passion,
    The fangs with blood were red,
  He called his slaves and bade them
    Strike off the lady's head.
  He bade them bind and take her
    First to the mountain's height,
  That she the doom might suffer
    Within her husband's sight;
  But all the lady answered,
    When she was brought to death,
  Were words of faith and loyalty
    Borne on her parting breath:
  "Behold, I die a Christian,
    And here repeat my vows
  Of faithfulness to yonder knight,
    My loved and lawful spouse."



THE BEREAVED FATHER

  "Rise up, rise up, thou hoary head,
    What madness causes thy delay?
  Thou killest swine on Thursday morn,
    And eatest flesh on fasting day.

  "'Tis now seven years since first I trod
    The valley and the wandering wood;
  My feet were bare, my flesh was torn,
    And all my pathway stained in blood.

  "Ah, mournfully I seek in vain
    The Emperor's daughter, who had gone
  A prisoner made by caitiff Moors,
    Upon the morning of St. John.

  "She gathered flowers upon the plain,
    She plucked the roses from the spray,
  And in the orchard of her sire
    They found and bore the maid away."

  These words has Moriana heard,
    Close nestled in the Moor's embrace;
  The tears that welled from out her eyes
    Have wet her captor's swarthy face.




THE WARDEN OF MOLINA

  The warden of Molina, ah! furious was his speed,
  As he dashed his glittering rowels in the flank of his good steed,
  And his reins left dangling from the bit, along the white highway,
  For his mind was set to speed his horse, to speed and not to stay.
  He rode upon a grizzled roan, and with the wind he raced,
  And the breezes rustled round him like a tempest in the waste.
  In the Plaza of Molina at last he made his stand,
  And in a voice of thunder he uttered his command:

          To arms, to arms, my captains!
          Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
          And let the thundering kettle-drum
          Give challenge to the foe.

  "Now leave your feasts and banquetings and gird you in your steel!
  And leave the couches of delight, where slumber's charm you feel;
  Your country calls for succor, all must the word obey,
  For the freedom of your fathers is in your hands to-day.
  Ah, sore may be the struggle, and vast may be the cost;
  But yet no tie of love must keep you now, or all is lost.
  In breasts where honor dwells there is no room in times like these
  To dally at a lady's side, kneel at a lady's knees.

      To arms, to arms, my captains!
      Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
      And let the thundering kettle-drum
      Give challenge to the foe.

  "Yes, in the hour of peril away with pleasure's thrall!
  Let honor take the lance and steed to meet our country's call.
  For those who craven in the fight refuse to meet the foe
  Shall sink beneath the feet of all struck by a bitterer blow;
  In moments when fair honor's crown is offered to the brave
  And dangers yawn around our State, deep as the deadly grave,
  'Tis right strong arms and sturdy hearts should take the sword of might,
  And eagerly for Fatherland descend into the fight.
      To arms, to arms, my captains!
      Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
      And let the thundering kettle-drum
      Give challenge to the foe.

  "Then lay aside the silken robes, the glittering brocade;
  Be all in vest of leather and twisted steel arrayed;
  On each left arm be hung the shield, safe guardian of the breast,
  And take the crooked scimitar and put the lance in rest,
  And face the fortune of the day, for it is vain to fly,
  And the coward and the braggart now alone are doomed to die.
  And let each manly bosom show, in the impending fray,
  A valor such as Mars himself in fury might display.
      To arms, to arms, my captains!
      Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
      And let the thundering kettle-drum
      Give challenge to the foe.

  He spoke, and at his valiant words, that rang through all the square,
  The veriest cowards of the town resolved to do and dare;
  And stirred by honor's eager fire forth from the gate they stream,
  And plumes are waving in the air, and spears and falchions gleam;
  And turbaned heads and faces fierce, and smiles in anger quenched,
  And sweating steeds and flashing spurs and hands in fury clenched,
  Follow the fluttering banners that toward the vega swarm,
  And many a voice re-echoes the words of wild alarm.
          To arms, to arms, my captains!
          Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
          And let the thundering kettle-drum
          Give challenge to the foe.

  And, like the timid lambs that crowd with bleatings in the fold,
  When they advancing to their throats the furious wolf behold,
  The lovely Moorish maidens, with wet but flashing eyes,
  Are crowded in a public square and fill the air with cries;
  And tho', like tender women, 'tis vain for them to arm,
  Yet loudly they re-echo the words of the alarm.
  To heaven they cry for succor, and, while to heaven they pray,
  They call the knights they love so well to arm them for the fray.
          To arms, to arms, my captains!
          Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
          And let the thundering kettle-drum
          Give challenge to the foe.

  The foremost Moorish nobles, Molina's chosen band,
  Rush forward from the city the invaders to withstand.
  There marshalled in a squadron with shining arms they speed,
  Like knights and noble gentlemen, to meet their country's need.
  Twelve thousand Christians crowd the plain, twelve thousand warriors
                tried,
  They fire the homes, they reap the corn, upon the vega wide;
  And the warriors of Molina their furious lances ply,
  And in their own Arabian tongue they raise the rallying cry.
          To arms, to arms, my captains!
          Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;
          And let the thundering kettle-drum
          Give challenge to the foe.



THE LOVES OF BOABDIL AND VINDARAJA

  Where Antequera's city stands, upon the southern plain,
  The captive Vindaraja sits and mourns her lot in vain.
  While Chico, proud Granada's King, nor night nor day can rest,
  For of all the Moorish ladies Vindaraja he loves best;
  And while naught can give her solace and naught can dry her tear,
  'Tis not the task of slavery nor the cell that brings her fear;
  For while in Antequera her body lingers still,
  Her heart is in Granada upon Alhambra's hill.
  There, while the Moorish monarch longs to have her at his side,
  More keen is Vindaraja's wish to be a monarch's bride.
  Ah! long delays the moment that shall bring her liberty,
  A thousand thousand years in every second seem to fly!
  For she thinks of royal Chico, and her face with tears is wet,
  For she knows that absence oft will make the fondest heart forget.
  And the lover who is truest may yet suspicion feel,
  For the loved one in some distant land whose heart is firm as steel.
  And now to solve her anxious doubts, she takes the pen one day
  And writes to royal Chico, in Granada far away.
  Ah! long the letter that she wrote to tell him of her state,
  In lonely prison cell confined, a captive desolate!
  She sent it by a Moorish knight, and sealed it with her ring;
  He was warden of Alhambra and stood beside the King,
  And he had come sent by the King to Antequera's tower,
  To learn how Vindaraja fared within that prison bower.
  The Moor was faithful to his charge, a warrior stout and leal,
  And Chico took the note of love and trembling broke the seal;
  And when the open page he saw and read what it contained,
  These were the words in which the maid of her hard lot complained:



THE LETTER OF VINDARAJA

  "Ah, hapless is the love-lorn maid like me in captive plight,
  For freedom once was mine, and I was happy day and night.
  Yes, happy, for I knew that thou hadst given me thy love,
  Precious the gift to lonely hearts all other gifts above.
  Well mightest thou forget me, though 'twere treachery to say
  The flame that filled thy royal heart as yet had passed away.
  Still, though too oft do lovers' hearts in absent hours repine.
  I know if there are faithful vows, then faithful will be thine!
  'Tis hard, indeed, for lovers to crush the doubting thought
  Which to the brooding bosom some lonely hour has brought.
  There is no safety for the love, when languish out of sight
  The form, the smile, the flashing eyes that once were love's delight;
  Nor can I, I confess it, feel certain of thy vow!
  How many Moorish ladies are gathered round thee now!
  How many fairer, brighter forms are clustered at thy throne,
  Whose power might change to very wax the heart of steel or stone!
  And if, indeed, there be a cause why I should blame thy heart,
  'Tis the delay that thou hast shown in taking here my part.
  Why are not armies sent to break these prison bars, and bring
  Back to her home the Moorish maid, the favorite of the King?
  A maid whose eyes are changed to springs whence flow the flood of tears,
  For she thinks of thee and weeps for thee through all these absent years.
  Believe me, if 'twere thou, who lay a captive in his chain,
  My life of joy, to rescue thee, my heart of blood I'd drain!
  O King and master, if, indeed, I am thy loved one still,
  As in those days when I was first upon Alhambra's hill,
  Send rescue for thy darling, or fear her love may fade,
  For love that needs the sunlight must wither in the shade.
  And yet I cannot doubt thee; if e'er suspicion's breath
  Should chill my heart, that moment would be Vindaraja's death.
  Nor think should you forget me or spurn me from your arms,
  That life for Vindaraja could have no other charms.
  It was thy boast thou once did love a princess, now a slave,
  I boasted that to thy behest I full obedience gave!
  And from this prison should I come, in freedom once again,
  To sit and hear thy words of love on Andalusia's plain,
  The brightest thought would be to me that thou, the King, has seen
  'Twas right to free a wretched slave that she might be thy Queen.
  Hard is the lot of bondage here, and heavy is my chain,
  And from my prison bars I gaze with lamentation vain;
  But these are slight and idle things--my one, my sole distress
  Is that I cannot see thy face and welcome thy caress!
  This only is the passion that can my bosom rend;
  'Tis this alone that makes me long for death, my sufferings end.
  The plagues of life are naught to me; life's only joy is this--
  To see thee and to hear thee and to blush beneath thy kiss!
  Alas! perchance this evening or to-morrow morn, may be,
  The lords who hold me here a slave in sad captivity,
  May, since they think me wanton, their treacherous measures take
  That I should be a Christian and my former faith forsake.
  But I tell them, and I weep to tell, that I will ne'er forego
  The creed my fathers fought for in centuries long ago!
  And yet I might forswear it, but that that creed divine
  'Tis vain I struggle to deny, for, ah, that creed is thine!"
  King Chico read his lady's note and silent laid it down;
  Then to the window he drew nigh, and gazed upon the town;
  And lost in thought he pondered upon each tender line,
  And sudden tears and a sigh of grief were his inward sorrow's sign.
  And he called for ink and paper, that Vindaraja's heart
  Might know that he remembered her and sought to heal its smart.
  He would tell her that the absence which caused to her those fears
  Had only made her dearer still, through all those mournful years.
  He would tell her that his heart was sad, because she was not near--
  Yes, far more sad than Moorish slave chained on the south frontier.
  And then he wrote the letter to the darling Moorish slave,
  And this is the tender message that royal Chico gave:



THE LETTER OF THE KING

  "Thy words have done me grievous wrong, for, lovely Mooress, couldst thou
                think
  That he who loves thee more than life could e'er to such a treachery
                sink?
  His life is naught without the thought that thou art happy in thy lot;
  And while the red blood at his heart is beating thou art ne'er forgot!
  Thou woundest me because thy heart mistrusts me as a fickle fool;
  Thou dost not know when passion true has one apt pupil taken to school.
  Oblivion could not, could not cloud the image on his soul impressed,
  Unless dark treachery from the first had been the monarch of his breast
  And if perhaps some weary hours I thought that Vindaraja's mind
  Might in some happier cavalier the solace of her slavery find,
  I checked the thought; I drove away the vision that with death was rife,
  For e'er my trust in thee I lost, in battle I'd forego my life!
  Yet even the doubt that thou hast breathed gives me no franchise to
                forget,
  And were I willing that thy face should cease to fill my vision, yet
  'Tis separation's self that binds us closer though the centuries roll,
  And forges that eternal chain that binds together soul and soul!
  And even were this thought no more than the wild vision of my mind,
  Yet in a thousand worlds no face to change for thine this heart could
                find.
  Thro' life, thro' death 'twere all the same, and when to heaven our
                glance we raise,
  Full in the very heart of bliss thine eyes shall meet my ardent gaze.
  For eyes that have beheld thy face, full readily the truth will own
  That God exhausted, when he made thee, all the treasures of his throne!
  And my trusting heart will answer while it fills my veins with fire
  That to hear of, is to see thee; and to see, is to desire!
  Yet unless my Vindaraja I could look upon awhile,
  As some traveller in a desert I should perish for her smile;
  For 'tis longing for her presence makes the spring of life to me,
  And allays the secret suffering none except her eye can see.
  In this thought alone my spirit finds refreshment and delight;
  This is sweeter than the struggle, than the glory of the fight;
  And if e'er I could forget her heaving breast and laughing eye,
  Tender word, and soft caresses--Vindaraja, I should die!
  If the King should bid me hasten to release thee from thy chain,
  Oh, believe me, dearest lady, he would never bid in vain;
  Naught he could demand were greater than the price that I would pay,
  If in high Alhambra's halls I once again could see thee gay!
  None can say I am remiss, and heedless of thy dismal fate;
  Love comes to prompt me every hour, he will not let my zeal abate.
  If occasion call, I yield myself, my soul to set thee free;
  Take this offering if thou wilt, I wait thy word on bended knee.
  Dost thou suffer, noble lady, by these fancies overwrought?
  Ah, my soul is filled with sorrow at the agonizing thought;
  For to know that Vindaraja languishes, oppressed with care,
  Is enough to make death welcome, if I could but rescue her.
  Yes, the world shall know that I would die not only for the bliss
  Of clasping thee in love's embrace and kindling at thy tender kiss.
  This, indeed, would be a prize, for which the coward death would dare--
  I would die to make thee happy, tho' thy lot I might not share!
  Then, though I should fail to lift the burden on my darling laid,
  Though I could not prove my love by rescuing my Moorish maid,
  Yet my love would have this witness, first, thy confidence sublime,
  Then my death for thee, recorded on the scroll of future time!
  Yes, my death, for should I perish, it were comfort but to think
  Thou couldst have henceforth on earth no blacker, bitterer cup to drink!
  Sorrow's shafts would be exhausted, thou couldst laugh at fortune's
                power.
  Tho' I lost thee, yet this thought would cheer me in my parting hour.
  Yet I believe that fate intends (oh, bear this forecast in thy mind!)
  That all the love my passions crave will soon a full fruition find;
  Fast my passion stronger grows, and if of love there measure be,
  Believe it, dearest, that the whole can find its summary in me!
  Deem that thou art foully wronged, whose graces have such power to bless,
  If any of thy subject slaves to thee, their queen, should offer less,
  And accept this pledged assurance, that oblivion cannot roll
  O'er the image of thy beauty stamped on this enamored soul.
  Then dismiss thy anxious musings, let them with the wind away,
  As the gloomy clouds are scattered at the rising of the day.
  Think that he is now thy slave, who, when he wooed thee, was thy King;
  Think that not the brightest morning can to him contentment bring,
  Till the light of other moments in thy melting eyes he trace,
  And the gates of Paradise are opened in thy warm embrace.
  Since thou knowest that death to me and thee will strike an equal blow,
  It is just that, while we live, our hearts with equal hopes should glow.
  Then no longer vex thy lover with complaints that he may change;
  Darling, oft these bitter questions can the fondest love estrange;
  No, I dream not of estrangement, for thy Chico evermore
  Thinks upon his Vindaraja's image only to adore."



THE INFANTA SEVILLA AND PERANZUELOS

  Upon Toledo's loftiest towers
    Sevilla kept the height;
  So wondrous fair was she that love
    Was blinded at the sight.

  She stood amid the battlements,
    And gazed upon the scene
  Where Tagus runs through woodland
    And flowers and glades of green.

  And she saw upon the wide highway
    The figure of a knight;
  He rode upon a dappled steed,
    And all his arms were bright.

  Seven Moors in chains he led with him,
    And one arm's length aloof
  Came a dog of a Moor from Morocco's shore
    In arms of double proof.

  His steed was swift, his countenance
    In a warlike scowl was set,
  And in his furious rage he cursed
    The beard of Mahomet!

  He shouted, as he galloped up:
    "Now halt thee, Christian hound;
  I see at the head of thy captive band
    My sire, in fetters bound.

  "And the rest are brothers of my blood,
    And friends I long to free;
  And if thou wilt surrender all,
    I'll pay thee gold and fee."

  When Peranzuelos heard him,
    He wheeled his courser round.
  With lance in rest, he hotly pressed
    To strike him to the ground;
  His sudden rage and onset came
    Swift as the thunder's sound.

  The Moor at the first encounter reeled
    To earth, from his saddle bow;
  And the Christian knight, dismounting,
    Set heel on the neck of his foe.

  He cleft his head from his shoulders,
    And, marshalling his train,
  Made haste once more on his journey
    Across Toledo's plain.



CELIN'S FAREWELL

  He sadly gazes back again upon those bastions high,
  The towers and fretted battlements that soar into the sky;
  And Celin, whom the King in wrath has from Granada banned
  Weeps as he turns to leave for aye his own dear native land;
  No hope has he his footsteps from exile to retrace;
  No hope again to look upon his lady's lovely face.
  Then sighing deep he went his way, and as he went he said:
      "I see thee shining from afar,
      As in heaven's arch some radiant star.
      Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,
      Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

  "I see outstretched before my eyes thy green and beauteous shore,
  Those meadow-lands and gardens that with flowers are dappled o'er.
  The wind that lingers o'er those glades received the tribute given
  By many a trembling calyx, wet with the dews of heaven.
  From Genil's banks full many a bough down to the water bends,
  Yon vega's green and fertile line from flood to wall extends;
  There laughing ladies seek the shade that yields to them delight,
  And the velvet turf is printed deep by many a mounted knight.
      I see thee shining from afar,
      As in heaven's arch some radiant star.
      Granada, queen and town of loveliness,
      Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

  "Ye springs and founts that sparkling well from yonder mountain-side,
  And flow with dimpling torrent o'er mead and garden wide,
  If e'er the tears that from my breast to these sad eyes ascend
  Should with your happy waters their floods of sadness blend,
  Oh, take them to your bosom with love, for love has bidden
  These drops to tell the wasting woe that in my heart is hidden.
      I see thee shining from afar,
      As in heaven's arch some radiant star.
      Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,
      Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.

  "Ye balmy winds of heaven, whose sound is in the rippling trees,
  Whose scented breath brings back to me a thousand memories,
  Ye sweep beneath the arch of heaven like to the ocean surge
  That beats from Guadalquivir's bay to earth's extremest verge.
  Oh, when ye to Granada come (and may great Allah send
  His guardian host to guide you to that sweet journey's end!),
  Carry my sighs along with you, and breathe them in the ear
  Of foes who do me deadly wrong, of her who holds me dear.
  Oh, tell them all the agony I bear in banishment,
  That she may share my sorrow, and my foe the King relent.
      I see thee shining from afar,
      As in heaven's arch some radiant star.
      Granada, queen and crown of loveliness,
      Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress."



CELIN'S RETURN

  Now Celin would be merry, and appoints a festal day,
  When he the pang of absence from his lady would allay:
  The brave Abencerrages and Gulanes straight he calls,
  His bosom friends, to join him as he decks his stately halls.
  And secretly he bids them come, and in secret bids them go;
  For the day of merriment must come unnoticed by his foe;
  For peering eyes and curious ears are watching high and low,
  But he only seeks one happy day may reparation bring
  For the foul and causeless punishment inflicted by the King.
      "For in the widest prison-house is misery for me,
      And the stoutest heart is broken unless the hand is free."

  His followers all he bade them dress in Christian array,
  With rude and rustic mantles of color bright and gay;
  With silken streamers in their caps, their caps of pointed crown,
  With flowing blouse, and mantle and gaberdine of brown.
  But he himself wore sober robes of white and lion gray,
  The emblems of the hopeless grief in which the warrior lay.
  And the thoughts of Adalifa, of her words and glancing eyes,
  Gave colors of befitting gloom to tint his dark disguise.
  And he came with purpose to perform some great and glorious deed,
  To drive away the saddening thoughts that made the bosom bleed.
      "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,
      And the stoutest heart is broken unless the arm be free."

  There streams into Granada's gate a stately cavalcade
  Of prancing steeds caparisoned, and knights in steel arrayed;
  And all their acclamations raise, when Celin comes in sight--
  "The foremost in the tournament, the bravest in the fight"--
  And Moorish maiden Cegri straight to the window flies,
  To see the glittering pageant and to hear the joyous cries.
  She calls her maidens all to mark how, from misfortune free,
  The gallant Celin comes again, the ladies' knight is he!
  They know the story of his fate and undeserved disgrace,
  And eagerly they gaze upon the splendor of his face.
  Needs not his exploit in the fields, his valorous deeds to tell--
  The ladies of Granada have heard and know them well!
      "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,
      And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arm be free."

  The beauty of Granada crowds Elvira's gate this night;
  There are straining necks and flushing cheeks when Celin comes in sight;
  And whispered tales go round the groups, and hearts indignant swell,
  As they think what in Granada that hero knight befell.
  Now a thousand Moorish warriors to Celin's fame aspire,
  And a thousand ladies gaze on him with passionate desire.
  And they talk of Adalifa, to whom he made his vow,
  Though neither speech nor written page unites them longer now.
      "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,
      And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arms be free."

  The city waits his coming, for the feast has been prepared,
  By rich and poor, by high and low the revel shall be shared;
  And there are warriors high in hope to win the jousting prize,
  And there are ladies longing for a smile from Celin's eyes.
  But when the news of gladness reached Adalifa's ear,
  Her loving heart was touched with grief and filled with jealous fear;
  And she wrote to Celin, bidding him to hold no revel high,
  For the thought of such rejoicing brought the tear-drop to her eye;
  The Moor received the letter as Granada came in sight,
  And straight he turned his courser's head toward Jaen's towering height,
  And exchanged for hues of mourning his robe of festal white.
      "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me,
      And the stoutest heart is broke unless the warrior's arm be free."



BAZA REVISITED

  Brave Celin came, the valiant son of him the _castelain_
  Of the fortress of Alora and Alhama's windy plain.
  He came to see great Baza, where he in former days
  Had won from Zara's father that aged warrior's praise.
  The Moor gazed on that fortress strong, the towers all desolate,
  The castle high that touched the sky, the rampart and the gate.
  The ruined hold he greeted, it seemed its native land,
  For there his bliss had been complete while Zara held his hand.
  And Fortune's cruel fickleness he furiously reviled,
  For his heart sent madness to his brain and all his words were wild.
  "O goddess who controllest on earth our human fate,
  How is it I offend thee, that my life is desolate?
  Ah! many were the triumphs that from Zara's hands I bore,
  When in the joust or in the dance she smiled on me of yore.
  And now, while equal fortune incessantly I chase,
  Naught can I gather from thy hand but disaster and disgrace.
  Since King Fernando brought his host fair Baza to blockade,
  My lot has been a wretched lot of anguish unalloyed.
  Yet was Fernando kind to me with all his kingly art,
  He won my body to his arms, he could not win my heart."
  While thus he spoke the mantle that he wore he cast away;
  'Twas green, 'twas striped with red and white, 'twas lined with dismal
                gray.
  "Best suits my fate, best suits the hue, in this misfortune's day;
  Not green, not white nor purple, but the palmer's garb of gray.
  I ask no plumes for helm or cap of nature's living green,
  For hope has vanished from my life of that which might have been!
  And from my target will I blot the blazon that is vain--
  The lynx whose eyes are fixed upon the prey that it would gain.
  For the glances that I cast around meet fortune's foul disdain;
  And I will blot the legend, as an accursed screed.
  'Twas writ in Christian letters plain that all the world might read:
  'My good right arm can gain me more altho' its range be short,
  Then all I know by eye-sight or the boundless range of thought.'
  The blue tahala fluttering bright upon my armored brow
  In brilliant hue assorts but ill with the lot I meet with now.
  I cast away this gaudy cap, it bears the purple dye;
  Not that my love is faithless, for I own her constancy;
  But for the fear that there may be, within the maiden's sight,
  A lover worthier of her love than this unhappy knight."
  With that he took his lance in hand, and placed it in its rest,
  And o'er the plain with bloody spur the mournful Celin pressed.
  On his steed's neck he threw the reins, the reins hung dangling low,
  That the courser might have liberty to choose where he would go;
  And he said: "My steed, oh, journey well, and make thy way to find
  The bliss which still eludes me, tho' 'tis ever in my mind.
  Nor bit nor rein shall now restrain thy course across the lea,
  For the curb and the bridle I only use from infamy to flee."



CAPTIVE ZARA

  In Palma there was little joy, so lovely Zara found;
  She felt herself a slave, although by captive chain unbound.
  In Palma's towers she wandered from all the guests apart;
  For while Palma had her body, 'twas Baza held her heart.
  And while her heart was fixed on one, her charms no less enthralled
  The heart of this brave cavalier, Celin Andalla called.
  Ah, hapless, hapless maiden, for in her deep despair
  She did not know what grief her face had caused that knight to bear;
  And though the Countess Palma strove with many a service kind
  To show her love, to soothe the pang that wrung the maiden's mind,
  Yet borne upon the tempest of the captive's bitter grief,
  She never lowered the sail to give her suffering heart relief.
  And, in search of consolation to another captive maid,
  She told the bitter sorrow to no one else displayed.
  She told it, while the tears ran fast, and yet no balm did gain,
  For it made more keen her grief, I ween, to give another pain.
  And she said to her companion, as she clasped her tender hand:
  "I was born in high Granada, my loved, my native land;
  For years within Alhambra's courts my life ran on serene;
  I was a princess of the realm and handmaid to a queen.
  Within her private chamber I served both night and day,
  And the costliest jewels of her crown in my protection lay.
  To her I was the favorite of all the maids she knew;
  And, ah! my royal mistress I loved, I loved her true!
  No closer tie I owned on earth than bound me to her side;
  No closer tie; I loved her more than all the world beside.
  But more I loved than aught on earth, the gallant Moorish knight,
  Brave Celin, who is solely mine, and I his sole delight.
  Yes, he was brave, and all men own the valor of his brand;
  Yes, and for this I loved him more than monarchs of the land.
  For me he lived, for me he fought, for me he mourned and wept,
  When he saw me in this captive home like a ship to the breakers swept.
  He called on heaven, and heaven was deaf to all his bitter cry,
  For the victim of the strife of kings, of the bloody war, was I;
  It was my father bade him first to seek our strong retreat.
  Would God that he had never come to Baza's castle seat!
  Would God that he had never come, an armored knight, to stand
  Amid the soldiers that were ranked beneath my sire's command.
  He came, he came, that valiant Moor, beneath our roof to rest.
  His body served my father; his heart, my sole behest;
  What perils did he face upon that castle's frowning height!
  Winning my father's praise, he gained more favor in my sight.
  And when the city by the bands of Christians was assailed,
  My soul 'neath terrors fiercer still in lonely terror quailed.
  For I have lost my sire, and I have lost my lover brave,
  For here I languish all alone, a subject and a slave.
  And yet the Moor, altho' he left with me his loving heart,
  I fear may have forgotten that I own his better part.
  And now the needle that I ply is witness to the state
  Of bondage, which I feel to-day with heart disconsolate.
  And here upon the web be writ, in the Arabian tongue,
  The legend that shall tell the tale of how my heart is wrung.
  Here read: 'If thou hast ta'en my heart when thou didst ride away,
  Remember that myself, my living soul, behind thee stay.'
  And on the other side these words embroidered would I place:
  'The word shall never fail that once I spake before thy face.'
  And on the border underneath this posy, written plain:
  'The promise that I made to thee still constant shall remain.'
  And last of all, this line I add, the last and yet the best:
  'Thou ne'er shalt find inconstancy in this unchanging breast.'
  Thus runs the embroidery of love, and in the midst appears
  A phoenix, painted clear, the bird that lives eternal years.
  For she from the cold ashes of life at its last wane,
  Takes hope, and spreads her wings and soars through skyey tracks again.
  And there a hunter draws his bow outlined with skilful thread,
  And underneath a word which says, 'Nay, shoot not at the dead.'"
  Thus spake the Moorish maiden, and in her eyes were tears of grief,
  Tho' in her busy needle she seemed to find relief.
  And the kindly countess called from far: "Zara, what aileth thee?
  Where art thou? For I called, and yet thou didst not answer me."



THE JEALOUS KING

  'Twas eight stout warriors matched with eight, and ten with valiant ten,
  As Aliatare formed a band allied with Moslem men,
  To joust, with loaded canes, that day in proud Toledo's ring,
  Against proud Adelifa's host before their lord the King.
  The King by proclamation had announced the knightly play,
  For the cheerful trumpets sang a truce upon that very day;
  And Zaide, high Belchite's King, had sworn that war should cease,
  And with Tarfe of Valentia had ratified the peace.
  But others spread the news, that flew like fire from tongue to tongue,
  That the King was doting-mad with love, for then the King was young;
  And had given to Celindaja the ordering of the day.
  And there were knights beside the King she loved to see at play.
  And now the lists are opened and, lo! a dazzling band,
  The Saracens, on sorrel steeds leap forth upon the sand;
  Their trailing cloaks are flashing like the golden orange rind,
  The hoods of green from their shoulders hang and flutter in the wind.
  They carry targets blazoned bright with scimitars arow,
  But each deadly blade is deftly made into a Cupid's bow.
  A shining legend can be seen in letters ranged above;
  And "Fire and Blood" the motto runs. It speaks of war and love.
  In double file a company of warriors succeed;
  The bold Aliatares come mounted on Arab steeds.
  The livery that they wear is dyed in tint of crimson red;
  And flower and leaf in white relief its surface overspread.
  The globe of heaven, which many a star and constellation strow,
  Borne upon Atlas' shoulders, is the blazon that they show.
  And a Moor of Aliatar this motto does express,
  Written upon a streamer, "I Endure through Weariness."
  The Adelifas follow; a mighty race are they.
  Their armor is more costly, their mantles are more gay.
  Of bright carnation is the web, enriched with saffron streaks,
  And for favors there are fluttering veils upon their helmet peaks.
  A globe they blazon on their shields, but it is bruised and broke
  By a savage with a bludgeon, who deals it many a stroke;
  And a rod, and underneath it this motto tells the tale,
  All written in Arabian scrip. It says, "The Strong Prevail."
  The eight Azarques following these into the plaza spring,
  With air of haughty arrogance they gallop round the ring.
  Of blue and purple and pale gold are the mantles that they wear,
  And for plumes they carry amulets that dangle high in air.
  On their left arm are their targets, painted a dazzling green.
  The orb of heaven is outlined there on which two hands are seen,
  The motto, "Green is paramount," is lettered full in view;
  Its arrogance explains to all those targets' vivid hue.
  Then foams the King in rage to see his doting love was fleered,
  And his heart is filled with bitter thought as that proud shield
                appeared.
  And he called the warden of his keep, Celin his henchman tried,
  And he pointed to Azarque, and, flushed with anger, cried--
  "The sun upon that haughty shield myself will bid it set;
  It works some mischief upon me, like an evil amulet."
  Azarque drew his ready lance, his strong arm hurled it high,
  The light shaft soared amid the clouds, and vanished in the sky.
  And those whose vision followed it grew dizzy at the sight,
  They knew not whither it had flown, nor where it would alight.
  The ladies of the burgesses at many a window press
  To see the javelin from his hand rise with such readiness,
  And those who on the platform were seated with the King
  Bent back to see how well the cane that gallant Moor could fling.
  And as Azarque forward rides, as in retreat he flies,
  "Now, Allah guard thee, gallant knight," with shouts the people cries.
  "My curse upon him; he shall die," the jealous King replies.
  But Celindaja paid no heed to all that cavalcade;
  Her lips were parched, her throat was dry, her heart was sore dismayed.
  She asked that they would bring her fruit, but yet she strove in vain
  With juice of any earthly tree to slake her fevered pain.
  "Now let the sport be ended," the angry King decreed.
  The joust was late, and every judge in weariness agreed.
  And as they closed the empty lists, they heard the King's command,
  "Now seize, now seize Azarque, a traitor to this land."
  The double lines of cavaliers who led the jousting train
  Threw down upon the open square the spear of idle cane;
  Then swiftly seized the lance of steel and couching it for fight,
  According to the royal wish rode down upon the knight.
    For arms and plea must ever bootless prove
    To curb the passions of a king in love.

  The other band came forth to save Azarque from his foes,
  But the stout Moor waves his hand to them ere they in battle close.
  Then calmly cries: "Tho' love, it seems, has no respect for law,
  'Tis right that ye keep peace to-day and from the lists withdraw!
  Nay, gentlemen, your lances lower before it be too late;
  And let our foes their lances raise, in sign of passion's hate;
  Thus without blood accorded be a victory and defeat.
  'Tis only bloodshed makes the one more bitter or more sweet,
    For arms or reason unavailing prove
    To curb the passions of a king in love."

  At last they seize the struggling Moor, the chains are on his hands;
  And the populace, with anger filled, arrange themselves in bands.
  They place a guard at every point, in haste to set him free,
  But where the brave commander who shall lead to victory?
  And where the leader who shall shout and stir their hearts to fight?
  These are but empty braggarts, but prowlers of the night,
  Cut-throats and needy idlers--and so the tumult ends--
  Azarque lies in prison, forsaken by his friends.
    For, ah, both arms and reason powerless prove
    To turn the purpose of a king in love.

  Alone does Celindaja the coward crowd implore,
  "Oh, save him, save him, generous friends, give back to me my Moor."
  She stands upon the balcony and from that lofty place
  Would fling herself upon the stones to save him from disgrace.
  Her mother round the weeping girl has flung her withered arm.
  "O fool," she whispers in her ear, "in Mary's name be calm!"
  Thou madly rushest to thy death by this distracted show.
  Surely thou knowest well this truth, if anyone can know,
    How arms and reason powerless prove
    To turn the purpose of a king in love.

  Then came a message of the King, in which the monarch said
  That a house wherein his kindred dwelt must be a prison made.
  Then Celindaja, white with rage: "Go to the King and say
  I choose to be my prison-house for many and many a day,
  The memory of Azarque, in which henceforth I live:
  But the treachery of a monarch my heart will not forgive.
    For the will of one weak woman shall never powerless prove
    To turn the foolish purpose of a king who is in love.

  "Alas for thee, Toledo! in former times they said
  That they called thee for vengeance upon a traitor's head.
  But now 'tis not on traitors, but on loyal men and true
  That they call to thee for vengeance, which to caitiff hearts are due.
  And Tagus gently murmurs in his billows fresh and free
  And hastens from Toledo to reach the mighty sea."
  E'er she said more, they seized the dame, and led her to the gate,
  Where the warden of the castle in solemn judgment sate.



THE LOVERS OF ANTEQUERA

  The brave Hamete reined his steed and from the crupper bent,
  To greet fair Tartagona, who saw him with content,
  The daughter of Zulema, who had many a foe repelled
  From the castle on the hill, which he in Archidora held;
  For six-and-thirty years he kept the Christian host at bay,
  A watchful warden, fearless of the stoutest foes' array.
  And now adown the well-known path, a secret path and sure,
  Led by the noble lady, hurried the gallant Moor.
  The sentinels beneath the wall were careless, or they slept;
  They heeded not Hamete as down the slope he crept.
  And when he reached the level plain, full twenty feet away,
  He hobbled fast his courser, lest he should farther stray.
  Then to the Moorish lady he turned, as if to speak,
  Around her waist he flung his arms and kissed her on the cheek.
  "O goddess of my heart," he said, "by actions I will prove,
  If thou wilt name some high emprise, how faithful is my love!
  And in Granada I am great, and have much honored been,
  Both by the King Fernando and Isabel his Queen.
  My name is high, my lineage long, yet none of all my line
  Have reached the pitch of glory which men allow is mine.
  Narvarez is a knight of name, in love and arms adept,
  In Antequera's castle he well the marches kept.
  Jarifa was a captive maid, he loved Jarifa well,
  And oft the maiden visited within her prison cell.
  And, if the thing with honor and virtuous heart may be,
  What he did with Jarifa, that would I do with thee."
  A star was shining overhead upon the breast of night,
  The warrior turned his course, and led the lady by its light.
  They reached the foot of one tall rock, and stood within the shade,
  Where thousand thousand ivy leaves a bower of beauty made.
  They heard the genet browsing and stamping as he fed,
  And smiling Love his pinions over the lovers spread.
  But ere they reached the pleasant bower, they saw before them stand,
  Armed to the teeth, with frowning face, a strange and savage band.
  Yes, seventy men with sword in hand surrounded dame and knight,
  The robbers of the mountain, and they trembled at the sight!
  With one accord these freebooters upon Hamete fell,
  Like hounds that on the stag at bay rush at the hunter's call,
  Burned the Moor's heart at once with wrath, at once with passion's flame,
  To save the life and, more than life, the honor of his dame.
  Straight to his feet he sprung and straight he drew his mighty sword,
  And plunged into the robber crowd and uttered not a word.
  No jousting game was e'er so brisk as that which then he waged;
  On arm and thigh with deadly blow the slashing weapon raged;
  Though certain was his death, yet still, with failing heart, he prayed
  That till his lady could escape, that death might be delayed.
  But, in the dark, a deadly stone, flung with no warning sound,
  Was buried in his forehead and stretched him on the ground.
  The breath his heaving bosom left and, from his nerveless hand,
  The sword fell clattering to the ground, before that bloody band.
  And when the damsel saw herself within those caitiffs' power,
  And saw the city mantled in the darkness of the hour,
  No grief that ever woman felt was equal to her pain,
  And no despair like that of hers shall e'er be known again.
  Those villains did not see those locks, that shone like threads of gold;
  Only the summer sunlight their wondrous beauty told.
  They did not mark the glittering chain of gold and jewels fine,
  That in the daylight would appear her ivory throat to twine.
  But straight she took the scimitar, that once her lover wore,
  It lay amid the dewy grass, drenched to the hilt in gore.
  And, falling on the bloody point, she pierced her bosom through,
  And Tartagona breathed her last, mourned by that robber crew.
  And there she lay, clasping in death her lover's lifeless face,
  Her valor's paragon, and she the glass of woman's grace.
  And since that hour the tale is told, while many a tear-drop falls,
  Of the lovers of the vega by Antequera's walls.
  And they praise the noble lady and they curse the robber band,
  And they name her the Lucretia of fair Andalusia's land.
  And if the hearer of the tale should doubt that it be true,
  Let him pass along the mountain road, till Ronda comes in view,
  There must he halt and searching he may the story trace
  In letters that are deeply cut on the rocky mountain's face.



TARFE'S TRUCE

  "Oho, ye Catholic cavaliers
    Who eye Granada day and night,
  On whose left shoulder is the cross,
    The crimson cross, your blazon bright.

  "If e'er your youthful hearts have felt
    The flame of love that brings delight,
  As angry Mars, in coat of steel,
    Feels the fierce ardor of the fight;

  "If 'tis your will, within our walls,
    To join the joust, with loaded reed,
  As ye were wont, beneath these towers
    The bloody lance of war to speed;

  "If bloodless tumult in the square
    May serve instead of battle's fray,
  And, donning now the silken cloak,
    Ye put the coat of steel away;

  "Six troops of Saracens are here;
    Six Christian troops, with targe and steed
  Be ready, when the day is fixed,
    To join the jousting of the reed.

  "For 'tis not right that furious war,
    Which sets the city's roofs in flames,
  Should kindle with a fruitless fire
    The tender bosom of our dames.

  "In spite of all we suffer here
    Our ladies are with you arrayed,
  They pity you in this fierce war,
    This labor of the long blockade.

  "Amid the hardships of the siege
    Let pleasure yield a respite brief;
  (For war must ever have its truce)
    And give our hardships some relief.

  "What solace to the war-worn frame,
    To every soul what blest release,
  To fling aside the targe and mail,
    And don one hour the plumes of peace!

  "And he who shall the victor be
    Among the jousters of the game,
  I pledge my knightly word to him,
    In token of his valorous fame,

  "On his right arm myself to bind
    The favor of my lady bright;
  'Twas given me by her own white hand,
    The hand as fair as it is white."

  'Twas thus that Tarfe, valiant Moor,
    His proclamation wrote at large;
  He, King Darraja's favored squire,
    Has nailed the cartel to his targe.

  'Twas on the day the truce was made,
    By Calatrava's master bold,
  To change the quarters of his camp,
    And with his foes a conference hold.

  Six Moorish striplings Tarfe sent
    In bold Abencerraje's train--
  His kindred both in race and house--
    To meet the leaguers on the plain.

  In every tent was welcome warm;
    And when their challenge they display,
  The master grant