("Nous emmenions en esclavage."){VIII., March, 1828.}
We're bearing fivescore Christian dogsTo serve the cruel drivers:Some are fair beauties gently born,And some rough coral-divers.We hardy skimmers of the seaAre lucky in each sally,And, eighty strong, we send alongThe dreaded Pirate Galley.A nunnery was spied ashore,We lowered away the cutter,And, landing, seized the youngest nunEre she a cry could utter;Beside the creek, deaf to our oars,She slumbered in green alley,As, eighty strong, we sent alongThe dreaded Pirate Galley."Be silent, darling, you must come—The wind is off shore blowing;You only change your prison dullFor one that's splendid, glowing!His Highness doats on milky cheeks,So do not make us dally"—We, eighty strong, who send alongThe dreaded Pirate Galley.She sought to flee back to her cell,And called us each a devil!We dare do aught becomes Old Scratch,But like a treatment civil,So, spite of buffet, prayers, and calls—Too late her friends to rally—We, eighty strong, bore her alongUnto the Pirate Galley.The fairer for her tears profuse,As dews refresh the flower,She is well worth three purses full,And will adorn the bower—For vain her vow to pine and dieThus torn from her dear valley:She reigns, and we still row alongThe dreaded Pirate Galley.
("Si je n'était captive."){IX., July, 1828.}
Oh! were I not a captive,I should love this fair countree;Those fields with maize abounding,This ever-plaintive sea:I'd love those stars unnumbered,If, passing in the shade,Beneath our walls I saw notThe spahi's sparkling blade.I am no Tartar maidenThat a blackamoor of priceShould tune my lute and hold to meMy glass of sherbet-ice.Far from these haunts of vices,In my dear countree, weWith sweethearts in the evenMay chat and wander free.But still I love this climate,Where never wintry breezeInvades, with chilly murmur,These open lattices;Where rain is warm in summer,And the insect glossy green,Most like a living emerald,Shines 'mid the leafy screen.With her chapelles fair Smyrna—A gay princess is she!Still, at her summons, round herUnfading spring ye see.And, as in beauteous vases,Bright groups of flowers repose,So, in her gulfs are lyingHer archipelagoes.I love these tall red turrets;These standards brave unrolled;And, like an infant's playthings,These houses decked with gold.I love forsooth these reveries,Though sandstorms make me pant,Voluptuously swayingUpon an elephant.Here in this fairy palace,Full of such melodies,Methinks I hear deep murmursThat in the deserts rise;Soft mingling with the musicThe Genii's voices pour,Amid the air, unceasing,Around us evermore.I love the burning odorsThis glowing region gives;And, round each gilded lattice,The trembling, wreathing leaves;And, 'neath the bending palm-tree,The gayly gushing spring;And on the snow-white minaret,The stork with snowier wing.I love on mossy couch to singA Spanish roundelay,And see my sweet companionsAround commingling gay,—A roving band, light-hearted,In frolicsome array,—Who 'neath the screening parasolsDance down the merry day.But more than all enchantingAt night, it is to me,To sit, where winds are sighing,Lone, musing by the sea;And, on its surface gazing,To mark the moon so fair,Her silver fan outspreading,In trembling radiance there.W.D.,Tait's Edin. Magazine
("La lune était sereine."){X., September, 1828.}
Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave;At the cool casement, to the evening breeze flung wide,Leans the Sultana, and delights to watch the tide,With surge of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets lave.From her hand, as it falls, vibrates the light guitar.She listens—hark! that sound that echoes dull and low.Is it the beat upon the ArchipelagoOf some long galley's oar, from Scio bound afar?Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by one,Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls?Is it some hovering sprite with whistling scream that hurlsDown to the deep from yon old tower a loosened stone?Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio?'Tis no dark cormorants that on the ripple float,'Tis no dull plume of stone—no oars of Turkish boat,With measured beat along the water creeping slow.'Tis heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless dusky slaves;And could you dare to sound the depths of yon dark tide,Something like human form would stir within its side.Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave.JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
("Qu'avez-vous, mes frères?"){XI., September, 18288.}"Have you prayed tonight, Desdemona?"
What has happened, my brothers? Your spirit to-daySome secret sorrow dampsThere's a cloud on your brow. What has happened? Oh, say,For your eyeballs glare out with a sinister rayLike the light of funeral lamps.And the blades of your poniards are half unsheathedIn your belt—and ye frown on me!There's a woe untold, there's a pang unbreathedIn your bosom, my brothers three!ELDEST BROTHER.Gulnara, make answer! Hast thou, since the dawn,To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn?THE SISTER.As I came, oh, my brother! at noon—from the bath—As I came—it was noon, my lords—And your sister had then, as she constantly hath,Drawn her veil close around her, aware that the pathIs beset by these foreign hordes.But the weight of the noonday's sultry hourNear the mosque was so oppressiveThat—forgetting a moment the eye of the Giaour—I yielded to th' heat excessive.SECOND BROTHER.Gulnara, make answer! Whom, then, hast thou seen,In a turban of white and a caftan of green?THE SISTER.Nay,hemight have been there; but I muflled me so,He could scarcely have seen my figure.—But why to your sister thus dark do you grow?What words to yourselves do you mutter thus low,Of "blood" and "an intriguer"?Oh! ye cannot of murder bring down the red guiltOn your souls, my brothers, surely!Though I fear—from the hands that are chafing the hilt,And the hints you give obscurely.THIRD BROTHER.Gulnara, this evening when sank the red sun,Didst thou mark how like blood in descending it shone?THE SISTER.Mercy! Allah! have pity! oh, spare!See! I cling to your knees repenting!Kind brothers, forgive me! for mercy, forbear!Be appeased at the cry of a sister's despair,For our mother's sake relenting.O God! must I die? They are deaf to my cries!Their sister's life-blood shedding;They have stabbed me each one—I faint—o'er my eyesAveil of Deathis spreading!THE BROTHERS.Gulnara, farewell! takethatveil; 'tis the giftOf thy brothers—a veil thou wilt never lift!"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY).
("N'ai-je pas pour toi, belle juive."){XII., Oct. 27, 1828.}
To please you, Jewess, jewel!I have thinned my harem out!Must every flirting of your fanPresage a dying shout?Grace for the damsels tenderWho have fear to hear your laugh,For seldom gladness gilds your lipsBut blood you mean to quaff.In jealousy so zealous,Never was there woman worse;You'd have no roses but those grownAbove some buried corse.Am I not pinioned firmly?Why be angered if the doorRepulses fifty suing maidsWho vainly there implore?Let them live on—to envyMy own empress of the world,To whom all Stamboul like a dogLies at the slippers curled.To you my heroes lowerThose scarred ensigns none have cowed;To you their turbans are depressedThat elsewhere march so proud.To you Bassora offersHer respect, and TrebizondeHer carpets richly wrought, and spiceAnd gems, of which you're fond.To you the Cyprus templesDare not bar or close the doors;For you the mighty Danube sendsThe choicest of its stores.Fear you the Grecian maidens,Pallid lilies of the isles?Or the scorching-eyed sand-roverFrom Baalbec's massy piles?Compared with yours, oh, daughterOf King Solomon the grand,What are round ebon bosoms,High brows from Hellas' strand?You're neither blanched nor blackened,For your tint of olive's clear;Yours are lips of ripest cherry,You are straight as Arab spear.Hence, launch no longer lightningOn these paltry slaves of ours.Why should your flow of tears be matchedBy their mean life-blood showers?Think only of our banquetsBrought and served by charming girls,For beauties sultans must adornAs dagger-hilts the pearls.
("Un jour Ali passait."){XIII, Nov. 8, 1828.}
Ali came riding by—the highest headBent to the dust, o'ercharged with dread,Whilst "God be praised!" all cried;But through the throng one dervish pressed,Aged and bent, who dared arrestThe pasha in his pride."Ali Tepelini, light of all light,Who hold'st the Divan's upper seat by right,Whose fame Fame's trump hath burst—Thou art the master of unnumbered hosts,Shade of the Sultan—yet he only boastsIn thee a dog accurst!"An unseen tomb-torch flickers on thy path,Whilst, as from vial full, thy spare-naught wrathSplashes this trembling race:These are thy grass as thou their trenchant scythesCleaving their neck as 'twere a willow withe—Their blood none can efface."But ends thy tether! for Janina makesA grave for thee where every turret quakes,And thou shalt drop belowTo where the spirits, to a tree enchained,Will clutch thee, there to be 'mid them retainedFor all to-come in woe!"Or if, by happy chance, thy soul might fleeThy victims, after, thou shouldst surely seeAnd hear thy crimes relate;Streaked with the guileless gore drained from their veins,Greater in number than the reigns on reignsThou hopedst for thy state."This so will be! and neither fleet nor fortCan stay or aid thee as the deathly portReceives thy harried frame!Though, like the cunning Hebrew knave of old,To cheat the angel black, thou didst enfoldIn altered guise thy name."Ali deemed anchorite or saint a pawn—The crater of his blunderbuss did yawn,Sword, dagger hung at ease:But he had let the holy man revile,Though clouds o'erswept his brow; then, with a smile,He tossed him his pelisse.
("Allah! qui me rendra-"){XVI., May, 1828.}
Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array?My emirs and my cavalry that shook the earth to-day;My tent, my wide-extending camp, all dazzling to the sight,Whose watchfires, kindled numberless beneath the brow of night,Seemed oft unto the sentinel that watched the midnight hours,As heaven along the sombre hill had rained its stars in showers?Where are my beys so gorgeous, in their light pelisses gay,And where my fierce Timariot bands, so fearless in the fray;My dauntless khans, my spahis brave, swift thunderbolts of war;My sunburnt Bedouins, trooping from the Pyramids afar,Who laughed to see the laboring hind stand terrified at gaze,And urged their desert horses on amid the ripening maize?These horses with their fiery eyes, their slight untiring feet,That flew along the fields of corn like grasshoppers so fleet—What! to behold again no more, loud charging o'er the plain,Their squadrons, in the hostile shot diminished all in vain,Burst grandly on the heavy squares, like clouds that bear the storms,Enveloping in lightning fires the dark resisting swarms!Oh! they are dead! their housings bright are trailed amid their gore;Dark blood is on their manes and sides, all deeply clotted o'er;All vainly now the spur would strike these cold and rounded flanks,To wake them to their wonted speed amid the rapid ranks:Here the bold riders red and stark upon the sands lie down,Who in their friendly shadows slept throughout the halt at noon.Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array?See where it straggles 'long the fields for leagues on leagues away,Like riches from a spendthrift's hand flung prodigal to earth.Lo! steed and rider;—Tartar chiefs or of Arabian birth,Their turbans and their cruel course, their banners and their cries,Seem now as if a troubled dream had passed before mine eyes—My valiant warriors and their steeds, thus doomed to fall and bleed!Their voices rouse no echo now, their footsteps have no speed;They sleep, and have forgot at last the sabre and the bit—Yon vale, with all the corpses heaped, seems one wide charnel-pit.Long shall the evil omen rest upon this plain of dread—To-night, the taint of solemn blood; to-morrow, of the dead.Alas! 'tis but a shadow now, that noble armament!How terribly they strove, and struck from morn to eve unspent,Amid the fatal fiery ring, enamoured of the fight!Now o'er the dim horizon sinks the peaceful pall of night:The brave have nobly done their work, and calmly sleep at last.The crows begin, and o'er the dead are gathering dark and fast;Already through their feathers black they pass their eager beaks.Forth from the forest's distant depth, from bald and barren peaks,They congregate in hungry flocks and rend their gory prey.Woe to that flaunting army's pride, so vaunting yesterday!That formidable host, alas! is coldly nerveless nowTo drive the vulture from his gorge, or scare the carrion crow.Were now that host again mine own, with banner broad unfurled,With it I would advance and win the empire of the world.Monarchs to it should yield their realms and veil their haughty brows;My sister it should ever be, my lady and my spouse.Oh! what will unrestoring Death, that jealous tyrant lord,Do with the brave departed souls that cannot swing a sword?Why turned the balls aside from me? Why struck no hostile handMy head within its turban green upon the ruddy sand?I stood all potent yesterday; my bravest captains three,All stirless in their tigered selle, magnificent to see,Hailed as before my gilded tent rose flowing to the gales,Shorn from the tameless desert steeds, three dark and tossing tails.But yesterday a hundred drums were heard when I went by;Full forty agas turned their looks respectful on mine eye,And trembled with contracted brows within their hall of state.Instead of heavy catapults, of slow unwieldy weight,I had bright cannons rolling on oak wheels in threatening tiers,And calm and steady by their sides marched English cannoniers.But yesterday, and I had towns, and castles strong and high,And Greeks in thousands, for the base and merciless to buy.But yesterday, and arsenals and harems were my own;While now, defeated and proscribed, deserted and alone,I flee away, a fugitive, and of my former power,Allah! I have not now at least one battlemented tower.And must he fly—the grand vizier! the pasha of three tails!O'er the horizon's bounding hills, where distant vision fails,All stealthily, with eyes on earth, and shrinking from the sight,As a nocturnal robber holds his dark and breathless flight,And thinks he sees the gibbet spread its arms in solemn wrath,In every tree that dimly throws its shadow on his path!Thus, after his defeat, pale Reschid speaks.Among the dead we mourned a thousand Greeks.Lone from the field the Pasha fled afar,And, musing, wiped his reeking scimitar;His two dead steeds upon the sands were flung,And on their sides their empty stirrups hung.W.D.,Bentley's Miscellany, 1839.
("Les Turcs ont passés là."){XVIII., June 10, 1828.}
All is a ruin where rage knew no bounds:Chio is levelled, and loathed by the hounds,For shivered yest'reen was her lance;Sulphurous vapors envenom the placeWhere her true beauties of Beauty's true raceWere lately linked close in the dance.Dark is the desert, with one single soul;Cerulean eyes! whence the burning tears rollIn anguish of uttermost shame,Under the shadow of one shrub of May,Splashed still with ruddy drops, bent in decayWhere fiercely the hand of Lust came."Soft and sweet urchin, still red with the lashOf rein and of scabbard of wild Kuzzilbash,What lack you for changing your sob—If not unto laughter beseeming a child—To utterance milder, though they have defiledThe graves which they shrank not to rob?"Would'st thou a trinket, a flower, or scarf,Would'st thou have silver? I'm ready with halfThese sequins a-shine in the sun!Still more have I money—if you'll but speak!"He spoke: and furious the cry of the Greek,"Oh, give me your dagger and gun!"
("Sara, belle d'indolence."){XIX., August, 1828.}
In a swinging hammock lying,Lightly flying,Zara, lovely indolent,O'er a fountain's crystal waveThere to laveHer young beauty—see her bent.As she leans, so sweet and soft,Flitting oft,O'er the mirror to and fro,Seems that airy floating bat,Like a featherFrom some sea-gull's wing of snow.Every time the frail boat ladenWith the maidenSkims the water in its flight,Starting from its trembling sheen,Swift are seenA white foot and neck so white.As that lithe foot's timid tipsQuick she dips,Passing, in the rippling pool,(Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!)Frolic, sheLaughs to feel the pleasant cool.Here displayed, but half concealed—Half revealed,Each bright charm shall you behold,In her innocence emerging,As a-vergingOn the wave her hands grow cold.For no star howe'er divineHas the shineOf a maid's pure loveliness,Frightened if a leaf but quiversAs she shivers,Veiled with naught but dripping trees.By the happy breezes fannedSee her stand,—Blushing like a living rose,On her bosom swelling highIf a flyDare to seek a sweet repose.In those eyes which maiden prideFain would hide,Mark how passion's lightnings sleep!And their glance is brighter farThan the starBrightest in heaven's bluest deep.O'er her limbs the glittering currentIn soft torrentRains adown the gentle girl,As if, drop by drop, should fall,One and allFrom her necklace every pearl.Lengthening still the reckless pleasureAt her leisure,Care-free Zara ever slowAs the hammock floats and swingsSmiles and sings,To herself, so sweet and low."Oh, were I a capitana,Or sultana,Amber should be always mixtIn my bath of jewelled stone,Near my throne,Griffins twain of gold betwixt."Then my hammock should be silk,White as milk;And, more soft than down of dove,Velvet cushions where I sitShould emitPerfumes that inspire love."Then should I, no danger near,Free from fear,Revel in my garden's stream;Nor amid the shadows deepDread the peep,Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam."He who thus would play the spy,On the dieFor such sight his head must throw;In his blood the sabre nakedWould be slakèd,Of my slaves of ebon brow."Then my rich robes trailing showAs I go,None to chide should be so bold;And upon my sandals fineHow should shineRubies worked in cloth-of-gold!"Fancying herself a queen,All unseen,Thus vibrating in delight;In her indolent coquettingQuite forgettingHow the hours wing their flight.As she lists the showery tinklingOf the sprinklingBy her wanton curvets made;Never pauses she to thinkOf the brinkWhere her wrapper white is laid.To the harvest-fields the while,In long file,Speed her sisters' lively band,Like a flock of birds in flightStreaming light,Dancing onward hand in hand.And they're singing, every one,As they runThis the burden of their lay:"Fie upon such idleness!Not to dressEarlier on harvest-day!"JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
("Moune, écureuil."){xx.}
Squirrel, mount yon oak so high,To its twig that next the skyBends and trembles as a flower!Strain, O stork, thy pinion well,—From thy nest 'neath old church-bell,Mount to yon tall citadel,And its tallest donjon tower!To your mountain, eagle old,Mount, whose brow so white and cold,Kisses the last ray of even!And, O thou that lov'st to markMorn's first sunbeam pierce the dark,Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark—Joyous lark, O mount to heaven!And now say, from topmost bough,Towering shaft, and peak of snow,And heaven's arch—O, can you seeOne white plume that like a star,Streams along the plain afar,And a steed that from the warBears my lover back to me?JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
("Si j'étais la feuille."){XXII., September, 1828.}
Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West,His course through the forest uncaring;To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breastIn a pendulous cradle is bearing.All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste,As the dewdrops upon me were glancing;When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste,And round her the breezes are dancing.On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rushThro' the glens and the valleys to quiver;Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush,And the murmuring fall of the river.By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane,To catch the sweet breath of the roses;Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky,Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring;Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh,And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way,A charm that would lead to the bower;Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day,At the dawn and the vesper hour.Then hovering down on her brow would I light,'Midst her golden tresses entwining;That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright,And the sunbeams upon it shining.A single frail gem on her beautiful head,I should sit in the golden glory;And prouder I'd be than the diadem spreadRound the brow of kings famous in story.V.,Eton Observer.
("La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!"){XXIII., November, 1825.}
Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume,The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks;Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks.Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high,Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel;Prostrate, the palaces, huge tombs of fire, lie,While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel!Died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms,O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight;With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms,At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.Lo! where the city lies mantled in pall of death;Lo! where thy mighty hand hath passed, all things must bend!Priests prayed, the sword estopped blaspheming breath,Vainly their cheating book for shield did they extend.Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steelStill drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian-kind,To kiss thy sandall'd foot, O King, thy people kneel,And golden circlets to thy victor-ankle bind.JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
("Entre deux rocs d'un noir d'ébène."){XXVII., November, 1828.}
Between two ebon rocksBehold yon sombre den,Where brambles bristle like the locksOf wool between the horns of scapegoat banned by men!Remote in ruddy fogStill hear the tiger growlAt the lion and stripèd dogThat prowl with rusty throats to taunt and roar and howl;Whilst other monsters fastThe hissing basilisk;The hippopotamus so vast,And the boa with waking appetite made brisk!The orfrey showing tongue,The fly in stinging mood,The elephant that crushes strongAnd elastic bamboos an the scorpion's brood;And the men of the treesWith their families fierce,Till there is not one scorching breezeBut brings here its venom—its horror to pierce—Yet, rather there be lone,'Mid all those horrors there,Than hear the sickly honeyed toneAnd see the swimming eyes of Noormahal the Fair!{Footnote 1: Noormahal (Arabic) the light of the house; some of theOrientals deem fair hair and complexion a beauty.}
("Murs, ville et port."){XXVIII., Aug. 28, 1828.}
Town, tower,Shore, deep,Where lowerCliff's steep;Waves gray,Where playWinds gay,All sleep.Hark! a sound,Far and slight,Breathes aroundOn the nightHigh and higher,Nigh and nigher,Like a fire,Roaring, bright.Now, on 'tis sweepingWith rattling beat,Like dwarf imp leapingIn gallop fleetHe flies, he prances,In frolic fancies,On wave-crest dancesWith pattering feet.Hark, the rising swell,With each new burst!Like the tolling bellOf a convent curst;Like the billowy roarOn a storm-lashed shore,—Now hushed, but once moreMaddening to its worst.O God! the deadly soundOf the Djinn's fearful cry!Quick, 'neath the spiral roundOf the deep staircase fly!See, see our lamplight fade!And of the balustradeMounts, mounts the circling shadeUp to the ceiling high!'Tis the Djinns' wild streaming swarmWhistling in their tempest flight;Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm,Like a pine flame crackling bright.Swift though heavy, lo! their crowdThrough the heavens rushing loudLike a livid thunder-cloudWith its bolt of fiery might!Ho! they are on us, close without!Shut tight the shelter where we lie!With hideous din the monster rout,Dragon and vampire, fill the sky!The loosened rafter overheadTrembles and bends like quivering reed;Shakes the old door with shuddering dread,As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly!Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek!The horrid troop before the tempest tossed—O Heaven!—descends my lowly roof to seek:Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host.Totters the house as though, like dry leaf shornFrom autumn bough and on the mad blast borne,Up from its deep foundations it were tornTo join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost!O Prophet! if thy hand but nowSave from these hellish things,A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow,Laden with pious offerings.Bid their hot breath its fiery rainStream on the faithful's door in vain;Vainly upon my blackened paneGrate the fierce claws of their dark wings!They have passed!—and their wild legionCease to thunder at my door;Fleeting through night's rayless region,Hither they return no more.Clanking chains and sounds of woeFill the forests as they go;And the tall oaks cower low,Bent their flaming light before.On! on! the storm of wingsBears far the fiery fear,Till scarce the breeze now bringsDim murmurings to the ear;Like locusts' humming hail,Or thrash of tiny flailPlied by the fitful galeOn some old roof-tree sere.Fainter now are borneFeeble mutterings still;As when Arab hornSwells its magic peal,Shoreward o'er the deepFairy voices sweep,And the infant's sleepGolden visions fill.Each deadly Djinn,Dark child of fright,Of death and sin,Speeds in wild flight.Hark, the dull moan,Like the deep toneOf Ocean's groan,Afar, by night!More and moreFades it slow,As on shoreRipples flow,—As the plaintFar and faintOf a saintMurmured low.Hark! hist!Around,I list!The boundsOf spaceAll traceEffaceOf sound.JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
("A Juana la Grenadine!"){XXIX., October, 1843.}
To Juana ever gay,Sultan Achmet spoke one day"Lo, the realms that kneel to ownHomage to my sword and crownAll I'd freely cast away,Maiden dear, for thee alone.""Be a Christian, noble king!For it were a grievous thing:Love to seek and find too wellIn the arms of infidel.Spain with cry of shame would ring,If from honor faithful fell.""By these pearls whose spotless chain,Oh, my gentle sovereign,Clasps thy neck of ivory,Aught thou askest I will be,If that necklace pure of stainThou wilt give for rosary."JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
A MOORISH BALLAD.("Don Roderique est à la chasse."){XXX., May, 1828.}
Unto the chase Rodrigo's gone,With neither lance nor buckler;A baleful light his eyes outshone—To pity he's no truckler.He follows not the royal stag,But, full of fiery hating,Beside the way one sees him lag,Impatient at the waiting.He longs his nephew's blood to spill,Who 'scaped (the young Mudarra)That trap he made and laid to killThe seven sons of Lara.Along the road—at last, no balk—A youth looms on a jennet;He rises like a sparrow-hawkAbout to seize a linnet."What ho!" "Who calls?" "Art Christian knight,Or basely born and boorish,Or yet that thing I still more slight—The spawn of some dog Moorish?"I seek the by-born spawn of oneI e'er renounce as brother—Who chose to make his latest sonCaress a Moor as mother."I've sought that cub in every hole,'Midland, and coast, and islet,For he's the thief who came and stoleOur sheathless jewelled stilet.""If you well know the poniard wornWithout edge-dulling cover—Look on it now—here, plain, upborne!And further be no rover."Tis I—as sure as you're abhorredRodrigo—cruel slayer,'Tis I am Vengeance, and your lord,Who bids you crouch in prayer!"I shall not grant the least delay—Use what you have, defending,I'll send you on that darksome wayYour victims late were wending."And if I wore this, with its crest—Our seal with gems enwreathing—In open air—'twas in your breastTo seek its fated sheathing!"