The Poems of Felicia Hemans
of an Arabic MS. given in the third volume of Bourgoanne’s Travels
through Spain.
[68] The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent
actions between the Moors and Christians.
[69] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 68 footnote
3. An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the Simoom.--See
Bruce’s _Travels_.
[70] Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the
following account in Volney’s Travels:--“These winds are known in Egypt
by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because they prevail
more frequently in the fifty days preceding and following the equinox.
They are mentioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds
or hot winds of the desert: their heat is so excessive, that it is
difficult to form any idea of its violence without having experienced
it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in
this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun loses his splendour,
and appears of a violet colour; the air is not cloudy, but gray and
thick, and is filled with a subtle dust, which penetrates every where:
respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the
lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal
heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, though
the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a
dead silence pervades every where. The natives of towns and villages
shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the desert in tents,
or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termination of this
heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it
surprises remote from shelter: he must suffer all its dreadful effects,
which are sometimes mortal.”
[71] “Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber.”--Shakspeare.
CANTO II.
----“Oh! ben provvide il Cielo
Ch’ Uom per delitti mai lieto non sia.”
Alfieri.
Fair land! of chivalry the old domain,
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain!
Though not for thee with classic shores to vie
In charms that fix th’ enthusiast’s pensive eye;
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought;
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame.
Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows,
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose.
No sound of battle swells on Douro’s shore,
And banners wave on Ebro’s banks no more.
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead?
Blest be that soil! where England’s heroes share
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there;
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays,
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days--
By goatherd lone and rude serrano sung
Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among.
How oft those rocks have echo’d to the tale
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles’ vale;
Of him, renown’d in old heroic lore,
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador;
Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died
When Rio Verde roll’d a crimson tide;
Or that high name, by Garcilaso’s might
On the Green Vega won in single fight.[72]
Round fair Granada, deepening from afar,
O’er that Green Vega rose the din of war.
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone
O’er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone;
On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced,
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced.
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove,
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above;
And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright
With gold, reflecting every tint of light,
And many a floating plume and blazon’d shield
Diffused romantic splendour o’er the field.
There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start
Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart:
The clang of echoing steel, the charger’s neigh,
The measured tread of hosts in war’s array;
And, oh! that music, whose exulting breath
Speaks but of glory on the road to death;
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power
To wake the stormy joy of danger’s hour;
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain,
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain;
And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife,
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life.
High o’er the camp, in many a broider’d fold,
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold:
There, imaged on the cross, _his_ form appears
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears--[73]
_His_ form, whose word recall’d the spirit fled,
Now borne by hosts to guide them o’er the dead!
O’er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high,
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry.
Fired with that ardour which, in days of yore,
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore;
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal,
They come, the gallant children of Castile;
The proud, the calmly dignified:--and there
Ebro’s dark sons with haughty mien repair,
And those who guide the fiery steed of war
From yon rich province of the western star.[74]
But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene,
Stern grandeur stamp’d upon thy princely mien;
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest,
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,[75]
Young Aben-Zurrah! midst that host of foes,
Why shines _thy_ helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose!
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train,
O son of Afric! midst the sons of Spain?
Hast thou with these thy nation’s fall conspired,
Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired?
How art thou changed! still first in every fight,
Hamet the Moor! Castile’s devoted knight!
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye,
But not the light that shone in days gone by;
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone,
But not the soul’s expression once thine own,
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway?
No eye but Heaven’s may pierce that curtain’d breast,
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpress’d.
There hath been combat on the tented plain;
The Vega’s turf is red with many a stain;
And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field.
But all is peaceful now: the west is bright
With the rich splendour of departing light;
Mulhacen’s peak, half lost amidst the sky,
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high,
And tints, that mock the pencil’s art, o’erspread
Th’ eternal snow that crowns Veleta’s head;[76]
While the warm sunset o’er the landscape throws
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose.
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day,
And Hamet wanders from the camp away.
In silent musings rapt:--the slaughter’d brave
Lie thickly strewn by Darro’s rippling wave.
Soft fall the dews--but other drops have dyed
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side,
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired,
The wounded sought a shelter--and expired.[77]
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days,
By the bright windings of the stream he strays,
Till, more remote from battle’s ravaged scene,
All is repose and solitude serene.
There, ’neath an olive’s ancient shade reclined,
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening’s wind,
The harass’d warrior, yielding to the power,
The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour,
Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm
Shed o’er his troubled soul unwonted balm;
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot,
The past, the future, are awhile forgot;
And Hope, scarce own’d, yet stealing o’er his breast,
Half dares to whisper, “Thou shalt yet be blest!”
Such his vague musings--but a plaintive sound
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round;
A low, halt-stifled moan, that seems to rise
From life and death’s contending agonies.
He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade?
--A youthful warrior on his deathbed laid.
All rent and stain’d his broider’d Moorish vest,
The corslet shatter’d on his bleeding breast;
In his cold hand the broken falchion strain’d,
With life’s last force convulsively retain’d;
His plumage soil’d with dust, with crimson dyed,
And the red lance in fragments by his side:
He lies forsaken--pillow’d on his shield,
His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal’d.
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish’d now
The light once throned on that commanding brow;
And o’er that fading eye, still upward cast,
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast.
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene
Sheds the pale olive’s waving boughs between,
Too well can Hamet’s conscious heart retrace,
Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face,
Whose every feature to his soul conveys
Some bitter thought of long-departed days.
“Oh! is it thus,” he cries, “we meet at last?
Friend of my soul in years for ever past!
Hath fate but led me hither to behold
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold,--
Receive thy latest agonising breath,
And with vain pity soothe the pangs of death?
Yet let me bear thee hence--while life remains,
E’en though thus feebly circling through thy veins,
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive;
Hope is not lost--and Osmyn yet may live!
And blest were he whose timely care should save
A heart so noble, e’en from glory’s grave.”
Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head;
O’er Hamet’s mien, with vague uncertain gaze,
His doubtful glance awhile bewilder’d strays;
Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain;
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye,
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die;
And the mind’s grandeur, in its parting hour,
Looks from that brow with more than wonted power.
“Away!” he cries, in accents of command,
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand.
“Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free--
E’en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee.
’Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes
Of him who faithful to his country dies;
Not for _thy_ hand to raise the drooping head
Of him who sinks to rest on glory’s bed.
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o’er,
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar:
Be thine existence with a blighted name,
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior’s fame!”
The glow hath vanish’d from his cheek--his eye
Hath lost that beam of parting energy;
Frozen and fix’d it seems--his brow is chill;
One struggle more--that noble heart is still.
Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes,
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose,
More keen, more bitter, than th’ envenom’d dart
Thy dying words have left in Hamet’s heart?
_Thy_ pangs were transient; _his_ shall sleep no more,
Till life’s delirious dream itself be o’er;
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave.
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought
In the high spirit and unbending thought!
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide,
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride;
While his soul rises, gathering all its force,