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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391575" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Abencerrage : Canto III.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Heroes of elder days! untaught to yield,<br>Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field;<br>Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore<br>Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore,<br>And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued,<br>Hallowed the wild Cantabrian solitude;<br>Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose,<br>In the last chastening of your Moslem foes!<br>Rejoice! - for Spain, arising in her strength,<br>Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length,<br>And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain,<br>And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain.<br>And thou, the warrior <br>born in happy hour,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Valencia's lord, whose name alone was power,<br>Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by,<br>Conqueror of kings! exult, O Cid! on high.<br>For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weal,<br>In life, in death, the watcher for Castile!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou, in that hour when Mauritania's bands<br>Rushed from their palmy groves and burning lands,<br>E'en in the realm of spirits didst retain<br>A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain!<br>Then, at deep midnight, rose the mighty sound,<br>By Leon heard, in shuddering awe profound,<br>As through her echoing streets, in dread array,<br>Beings, once mortal, held their viewless way:<br>Voices from worlds we know not - and the tread<br>Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead,<br>Thou and thy buried chieftains - from the grave<br>Then did thy summons rouse a king to save,<br>And join thy warriors with unearthly might<br>To aid the rescue in Tolosa's fight.<br>Those days are past - the crescent on thy shore,<br>O realm of evening! sets, to rise no more.<br>What banner of streams afar from Vela's tower?<br>The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power!<br>What the glad shout of each exulting voice?<br>Castile and Aragon! rejoice, rejoice!<br>Yielding free entrance to victorious foes,<br>The Moorish city sees her gates unclose,<br>And Spain's proud host, with pennon, shield, and lance,<br>Through her long streets in knightly garb advance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! ne'er in lofty dreams hath Fancy's eye<br>Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry,<br>At joust or tourney, theme of poet's lore,<br>High masque, or solemn festival of yore.<br>The giled cupolas, that proudly rise<br>O'erarched by cloudless and cerulean skies;<br>Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric skies;<br>Fountains, and palaces, and cypress bowers:<br>And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, <br>With helmets glittering as they move along<br>With broidered scarf, and gem-bestudded mail,<br>And graceful plumage streaming on the gale; <br>Shields, gold-embossed, and pennons floating far,<br>And all the gorgeous blazonry of war,<br>All brightened by the rich transparent hues<br>That southern suns o'er heaven and earth diffuse;<br>Blend in one scene of glory, formed to throw<br>O'er memory's page a never-fading glow.<br>And there, too, foremost 'midst the conquering brave,<br>Your azure-plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave.<br>There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port<br>Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court;<br>Calm, stern, collected - yet within his breast<br>Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfessed?<br>If such there be, it still must dwell unseen,<br>Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer's mien.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hear'st thou the solemn yet exulting sound<br>Of the deep anthem floating far around?<br>The choral voices, to the skies that raise<br>The full majestic harmony of praise?<br>Lo! where, surrounded by their princely train,<br>They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, <br>Borne on their trophied car - lo! bursting thence<br>A blaze of chivalrous magnificence!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Onward their slow and stately course they bend<br>To where the Alhambra's ancient towers ascend, <br>Reared and adorned by Moorish kings of yore,<br>Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They reached those towers - irregularly vast<br>And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast:<br>They enter - to their wondering sight is given<br>A genii palace - an Arabian heaven!<br>A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, <br>Its forms and colour seem alike of air. <br>Here, by sweet orange-bows, half shaded o'er,<br>The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor,<br>Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues<br>The calm transparence of its wave suffuse.<br>There, round the court, where Moorish arches bend,<br>Aerial columns, richly decked, ascend;<br>Unlike the models of each classic race,<br>Of Doric grandeur, or Corinthian grace,<br>But answering well each vision that portrays<br>Arabian splendour to the poet's gaze:<br>Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all - a mingling glow<br>Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below; <br>Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins<br>Of precious marble, and the vivid stains<br>Of rich mosaics o'er the light arcade, <br>In gay festoons and fairy knots displayed.<br>On through the enchanted realm, that only seems<br>Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams,<br>The royal conquerors pass - while still their sight<br>On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight.<br>Here the eye roves through slender colonnades,<br>O'er bowery terraces and myrtle shades;<br>Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high<br>The vast sierra mingling with the sky.<br>There, scattering far around their diamond spray,<br>Clear streams from founts of alabaster play,<br>Through pillared halls, where exquisitely wrought,<br>Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught,<br>Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene<br>A wild, romantic, Oriental mien:<br>While many a verse, from Eastern bards of old,<br>Borders the walls in characters of gold. <br>Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain,<br>Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign<br>'Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence brood,<br>And all be lone - a splendid solitude.<br>Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs,<br>From mingling voices of exulting throngs;<br>Tambour, and flute, and atabal, are there,<br>And joyous clarions pealing on the air;<br>While every hall resounds, 'Granada won!<br>Granada! for Castile and Aragon!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis night - from dome and tower, in dazzling maze,<br>The festal lamps innumerably blaze;<br>Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams<br>From every lattice their quivering lustre gleams<br>'Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill,<br>And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil;<br>Red flame the torches on each minaret's height,<br>And shines each street an avenue of light;<br>And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice<br>Through the long night still summons to rejoice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye<br>One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry,<br>Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours,<br>Galled by the chain, though decked awhile with flowers;<br>Stern passions working in the indignant breast,<br>Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpressed,<br>Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet -<br>Vengeance, and keen remorse, and vain regret.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow<br>Commands the wide, luxuriant plains below,<br>Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene,<br>Anguish and shame contending in his mien?<br>He, who, of heroes and of kings the son, <br>Hath lived to lose whate'er his fathers won;<br>Whose doubt and fears his people's fate have sealed,<br>Wavering alike in council and in field;<br>Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave,<br>Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies,<br>To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies;<br>Yet pauses on his way, to weep in vain<br>O'er all he never must behold again.<br>Fair spreads the scene around - for him <br>too<br>fair, <br>Each glowing charm but deepens his despair.<br>The Vega's meads, the city's glittering spires,<br>The old majestic palace of his sires,<br>The gay pavillions, and retired alcoves,<br>Bosomed in citron and pomegranate groves;<br>Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light,<br>All in one moment bursting on his sight,<br>Speak to his soul of glory's vanished years,<br>And wake the source of unavailing tears.<br>- Weepest thou, Abdallah? - Thou dost well to weep,<br>O feeble heart! o'er all thou couldst not keep!<br>Well do a woman's tears befit the eye<br>Of him who knew not, as a man, to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda's bower,<br>The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower.<br>No voice, no step, is in her father's halls,<br>Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; <br>No stranger enters at the chieftain's gate,<br>But all is hushed, and void, and desolate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There, through each tower and solitary shade,<br>In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid:<br>Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone,<br>Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown;<br>And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows<br>The stream whose music lulled her to repose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But oh! to him, whose self-accusing thought<br>Whispers, 'twas <br>he<br>that desolation wrought -<br>He, who his country and his faith betrayed,<br>And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid -<br>A voice of sorrow swells in every gale,<br>Each wave, low rippling, tells a mournful tale;<br>And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined,<br>In wild exuberance rustle to the wind;<br>Each leaf hath language to his startled sense,<br>And seems to murmur, 'Thou hast driven her hence!'<br>- Where hath lost love been once recalled again?<br>In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn,<br>His name can rouse no feeling now - but scorn.<br>O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart<br>Wakes to behold the void within - and start! <br>To feel its own abandonment, and brood<br>O'er the chill bosom's depth of solitude:<br>The stormy passions that in Hamet's breast<br>Have swayed so long, so fiercely, are at rest;<br>The avenger's task is closed : - he finds, too late,<br>It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate.<br>He was a lofty spirit, turned aside <br>From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and pride,<br>And onward, in its new tumultuous course,<br>Borne with too rapid and intense a force<br>To pause one moment in the dread career,<br>And ask - if such could be its native sphere?<br>Now are those days of wild delirium o'er,<br>Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more;<br>The feverish energies of passion close,<br>And his heart sinks in desolate repose,<br>Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not less<br>From its own deep and utter loneliness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a sound of voices on the air, <br>A flash of armour to the sunbeam's glare,<br>'Midst the wild Alpuxarras; - there, on high,<br>Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky,<br>A few brave tribes, with spirit yet unbroke,<br>Have fled indignant from the Spaniard's yoke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O ye dread scenes! where Nature dwells alone,<br>Severely glorious on her craggy throne;<br>Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, <br>Veiled by the mists, and girdled by the storms, -<br>Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding caves,<br>That hold communion with the torrent-waves;<br>And ye, the unstained and everlasting snows,<br>That dwell above in bright and still repose;<br>To you, in every clime, in every age,<br>Far from the tyrant's or the conqueror's rage,<br>Hath Freedom led her sons - untired to keep<br>Her fearless vigils on the barren steep.<br>She, like the mountain eagle, still delights<br>To gaze exulting from unconquered heights,<br>And build her eyrie in defiance proud, <br>To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now her deep voice, the soul's awakener, swells,<br>Wild Alpuxarras, through your inmost dells.<br>There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among,<br>As at the clarion's call, her children throng.<br>She with enduring strength had nerved each frame,<br>And made each heart the temple of her flame, <br>Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow <br>Unquenchably, surviving all below.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There high-born maids, that moved upon the earth<br>More like bright creatures of aerial birth,<br>Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share<br>The fate of brothers and of sires; to bear,<br>All undismayed, privation and distress,<br>And smile the roses of the wilderness:<br>And mothers with their infants, there to dwell<br>In the deep forest or the cavern cell,<br>And rear their offspring 'midst the rock, to be, <br>If now no more the mighty, still the free.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And 'midst that band are veterans, o'er whose head<br>Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed?<br>They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall,<br>O royal city! and the wreck of all<br>They loved and hallowed most: - doth aught remain<br>For these to prove of happiness or pain?<br>Life's cup is drained - earth fades before their eye;<br>Their task is closing - they have but to die. <br>Ask ye, why fled they hither? - that their doom<br>Might be, to sink unfettered to the tomb.<br>And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there,<br>And buoyancy of spirit, formed to dare<br>And suffer all things - fallen on evil days,<br>Yet darting o'er the world an ardent gaze,<br>As on the arena where its powers may find<br>Full scope to strive for glory with mankind.<br>Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold,<br>The high in heart, unconquered, uncontrolled:<br>The day, the huntsmen of the wild - by night,<br>Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire's light,<br>They from their bleak majestic home have caught<br>A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought,<br>While all around them bids the soul arise<br>To blend with Nature's dread sublimities.<br>- But these are lofty dreams, and must not be <br>Were tyranny is near: - the bended knee,<br>The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires,<br>And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires; <br>Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down <br>On regal conquerors, and defy their frown.<br>What warrior-band is toiling to explore <br>The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadowed o'er, <br>Startling with martial sounds each rude recess,<br>Where the deep echo slept in loneliness!<br>These are the sons of Spain! - Your foes are near,<br>O exiles of the wild sierra! hear!<br>Hear! wake! arise! and from your inmost caves<br>Pour like the torrent in its might of waves!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who leads the invaders on? - his features bear<br>The deep-worn traces of a calm despair;<br>Yet his dark brow is haughty - and his eye<br>Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy.<br>'Tis he! 'tis he again! the apostate chief; <br>He comes in all the sternness of his grief.<br>He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield<br>Falchion for proud Castile in battle field.<br>Against his country's children - though he leads <br>Castilian bands again to hostile deeds;<br>His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly,<br>To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die.<br>So shall remorse and love the heart release,<br>Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace.<br>The mountain-echoes are awake - a sound<br>Of strife is ringing through the rocks around.<br>Within the steep defile that winds between<br>Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene,<br>Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight<br>Are wildly mingling in the serried fight.<br>Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen,<br>Whose bright transparence ne'er was stained till then;<br>While swell the war-note and the clash of spears<br>To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers,<br>Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada! wait,<br>In dread suspense, the tidings of their fate.<br>But he - whose spirit, panting for its rest,<br>Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast - <br>Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance<br>Almed at another's breast, would still advance -<br>Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by,<br>As if for him 'twas bliss too great to die. <br>Yes, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes<br>Reserved for thee ere Nature's last repose;<br>Thou knowest not yet what vengeance fate can wreak, <br>Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. <br>Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell<br>The sons of battle in that narrow dell;<br>Youth in its light of beauty there hath past,<br>And age, the weary, found repose at last;<br>Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil, <br>Borne down by numbers, and o'erpowered by toil. <br>Dispersed, disheartened, through the pass they fly, <br>Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high;<br>While Hamet's band in wonder gaze, nor dare<br>Track o'er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet he, to whom each danger hath become<br>A dark delight, and every wild a home, <br>Still urges onward - undismayed to tread <br>Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread.<br>But fear is for the happy - <br>they<br>may shrink <br>From the steep precipice, or torrent's brink;<br>They to whom earth is paradise - their doom<br>Lends to stern courage to approach the tomb:<br>Not such his lot, who, schooled by fate severe,<br>Were but too blest if aught remained to fear.<br>Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw<br>Eternal shadows o'er the glen below; <br>And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray<br>Half in a mist of radiance veils its way,<br>He holds his venturous track: - supported now<br>By some o'erhanging pine or ilex bough;<br>Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell<br>Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell.<br>Now hath his footstep gained the summit's head, <br>A level span, with emerald verdure spread,<br>A fairy circle - there the heath-flowers rise, <br>And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies;<br>And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide<br>In foam and thunder cleave the mountain-side;<br>But all is wild beyond - and Hamet's eye<br>Roves o'er a world of rude sublimity.<br>That dell beneath, where e'en at noon of day<br>Earth's chartered guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray;<br>Around, untrodden woods; and far above,<br>Where mortal footstep ne'er may hope to rove,<br>Bare granite cliffs, whose fixed, inherent dyes<br>Rival the tints that float o'er summer skies;<br>And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high,<br>That seems a part of Heaven's eternity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is no track of man where Hamet stands<br>Pathless the scene as Lybia's desert sands; <br>Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard<br>Of distant voices, and the gathering-word <br>Of Islam's tribes, now faint and fainter grown,<br>Now but the lingering echo of a tone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear,<br>He follows, reckless if his bands are near.<br>On by the rushing stream his way he bends,<br>And through the mountain's forest zone ascends;<br>Piercing the still and solitary shades<br>Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades,<br>Eternal twilight's reign: - those mazes past,<br>The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last,<br>And the lone wanderer now hath reached the source<br>Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. <br>But there he pauses -for the lonely scene <br>Towers in such dread magnificence of mien,<br>And, mingled oft with some wild eagle's cry,<br>From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky,<br>So deep the solemn and majestic sound<br>Of forests, and of waters murmuring round -<br>That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets <br>Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets.<br>- What earthly feeling unabashed can dwell<br>In Nature's mighty presence? - 'midst the swell<br>Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods,<br>And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods?<br>These their own grandeur on the soul impress,<br>And bid each passion feel its nothingness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave<br>Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave;<br>Shadowed by giant oaks, and rude and lone,<br>It seems the temple of some power unknown, <br>Where earthly being may not dare intrude<br>To pierce the secrets of the solitude.<br>Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail<br>Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale.<br>Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone? <br>Came it not o'er thee as a spirit's moan?<br>As some loved sound, that long from earth had fled,<br>The unforgotten accents of the dead?<br>E'en thus it rose - and springing from his trance<br>His eager footsteps to the sound advance.<br>He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor;<br>Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o'er;<br>He rushes on - and lo! where Zayda rends<br>Her locks, as o'er her slaughtered sire she bends<br>Lost in despair; - yet, as a step draws nigh,<br>Disturbing sorrow's lonely sanctity,<br>She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief,<br>Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief;<br>While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past,<br>And every woe forgetting - but the last.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Comest thou to weep with me? - for I am left <br>Alone on earth, of every tie bereft.<br>Low lies the warrior on his blood-stained bier;<br>His child may call, but he no more shall hear.<br>He sleeps - but never shall those eyes unclose;<br>'Twas not my voice that lulled him to repose;<br>Nor can it break his slumbers. - Dost thou mourn?<br>And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn?<br>Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, <br>That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name<br>When, swiftly rushing o'er her spirit, came<br>Each dark remembrance - by affliction's power<br>Awhile effaced in that o'erwhelming hour,<br>To wake with tenfold strength: 'twas then her eye<br>Resumed its light, her mien its majesty,<br>And o'er her wasted cheek a burning glow <br>Spreads, while her lips' indignant accents flow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Away! I dream! Oh, how hath sorrow's might<br>Bowed down my soul, and quenched its native light -<br>That I should thus forget! and bid <br>thy<br>tear<br>With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier!<br>Did he not perish, haply by thy hand, <br>In the last combat with thy ruthless band?<br>The morn beheld that conflict of despair: -<br>'Twas then he fell - he fell! - and thou wert there!<br>Thou! who thy country's children hast pursued <br>To their last refuge 'midst these mountains rude.<br>Was it for this I loved thee? - Thou hast taught<br>My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought!<br>'Twill soon be past - I bow to Heaven's decree,<br>Which bade each pang be ministered by thee.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I had not deemed that aught remained below<br>For me to prove of yet untasted woe;<br>But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart<br>One more, one keener agony of heart.<br>Oh, hear me yet! - I would have died to save<br>My foe, but still thy father, from the grave<br>But, in the fierce confusion of the strife,<br>In my own stern despair and scorn of life,<br>Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught,<br>Save that to perish there in vain I sought.<br>And let me share thy sorrows! - hadst thou known<br>All I have felt in silence and alone,<br>E'en <br>thou<br>mightst then relent, and deem, at last,<br>A grief like mine might expiate all the past.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower,<br>So fondly reared in luxury's guarded bower,<br>From every danger, every storm secured,<br>How hast <br>thou<br>suffered! what hast thou endured!<br>Daughter of palaces! and can it be<br>That this bleak desert is a home for thee!<br>These rocks <br>thy<br>dwelling! thou, who shouldst have known<br>Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone!<br>Oh, yet forgive! be all my guilt forgot,<br>Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'That lot is fixed; 'twere fruitless to repine:<br>Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine.<br>I may forgive - but not at will the heart <br>Can bid its dark remembrances depart.<br>No, Hamet, no! - too deeply are these traced,<br>Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced!<br>Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep<br>Her lonely vigils o'er the grave to weep:<br>E'en now, prophetic of my early doom,<br>Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb;<br>And ne'er in vain did hopeless mourner feel<br>That deep foreboding o'er the bosom steal!<br>Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side <br>Of him for whom I lived, and would have died;<br>Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot,<br>In pain and peril - I forsook him not. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And now, farewell! - behold the summer-day<br>Is passing like the dreams of life, away.<br>Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh,<br>With the last rites his bier to sanctify.<br>Oh, yet in time, away! - 'twere not <br>my<br>prayer<br>This hour they come - and dost thou scorn to fly?<br>Save me that one last pang - to see thee die!<br>E'en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread,<br>Onward they move, the kindred of the dead.<br>They reach the cave - they enter - slow their pace,<br>And calm, deep sadness marks each mourner's face,<br>And all is hushed, till he who seems to wait<br>In silent, stern devotedness, his fate,<br>Hath met their glance - then grief to fury turns;<br>Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns,<br>And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath:<br>Blood must atone for blood, and death for death!<br>They close around him; lofty still his mien,<br>His cheek unaltered, and his brow serene.<br>Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda's cry;<br>Fruitless her prayer, unmarked her agony, <br>But as his foremost foes their weapons bend<br>Against the life he seeks not to defend,<br>Wildly she darts between - each feeling past,<br>Save strong affection, which prevails at last.<br>Oh, not in vain its daring! - for the blow <br>Aimed at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow; <br>And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast,<br>Where, in that hour, her head may calmly rest,<br>For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band,<br>Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand:<br>While, every thought of hate and vengeance o'er,<br>They weep for her who soon shall weep no more.<br>She, she alone is calm: - a fading smile, <br>Like sunset, passes o'er her cheek the while;<br>And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell<br>Those last faint rays, the parting soul's farewell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Now is the conflict past, and I have proved<br>How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved!<br>Yes! in an hour like this 'twere vain to hide <br>The heart so long and so severely tried:<br>Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrilled,<br>But sterner duties called - and were fulfilled:<br>And I am blest! - To every holier tie<br>My life was faithful, - and for thee I die!<br>Nor shall the love so purified be vain; <br>Severed on earth, we yet shall meet again.<br>Farewell! - And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer,<br>Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare! <br>Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes,<br>While I, beside my sire, in peace repose.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death:<br>Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath.<br>One pang - 'tis past - her task on earth is done,<br>And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown.<br>But he for whom she died - Oh! who may paint<br>The grief, to which all other woes were faint?<br>There is no power in language to impart <br>The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart,<br>By the dread Searcher of the soul surveyed;<br>These have no words - nor are by words portrayed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, <br>Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear<br>Far o'er the Alpuxarras; - wild its tone,<br>And rocks and caverns echo, 'Thou art gone!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Daughter of heroes! thou art gone<br>To share his tomb who gave thee birth;<br>Peace to the lovely spirit flown!<br>It was not formed for earth.<br>Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race,<br>Which brightly passed, and left no trace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But calmly sleep! - for thou art free,<br>And hands unchained thy tomb shall raise.<br>Sleep! they are closed at length for thee,<br>Life's few and evil days!<br>Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye,<br>The lingering death of liberty.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Flower of the desert! thou thy bloom<br>Didst early to the storm resign:<br>We bear it still - and dark <br>their<br>doom<br>Who cannot weep for thine!<br>For us, whose every hope is fled,<br>The time is past to mourn the dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The days have been when o'er thy bier<br>Far other strains than these had flowed;<br>Now, as a home from grief and fear,<br>We hail thy dark abode!<br>We, who but linger to bequeath<br>Our sons the choice of chains or death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou art with those, the free, the brave,<br>The mighty of departed years;<br>And for the slumberers of the grave<br>Our fate hath left no tears.<br>Though loved and lost, to weep were vain<br>For thee, who ne'er shalt weep again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Have we not seen, despoiled by foes,<br>The land our fathers won of yore?<br>And is there yet a pang for those <br>Who gaze on <br>this<br>no more?<br>Oh, that like them 'twere ours to rest!<br>Daughter of heroes! thou art blest!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A few short years, and in the lonely cave<br>Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet's grave.<br>Severed in life, united in the tomb -<br>Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom!<br>Their dirge, of woods and waves the eternal moan;<br>Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone.<br>And oft beside the midnight watch-fire's blaze,<br>Amidst those rocks, in long departed days<br>(When freedom fled, to hold, sequestered there,<br>The stern and lofty councils of despair), <br>Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild, <br>Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled,<br>Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those <br>Who thus have suffered, and who thus repose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Felicia+Dorothea+Hemans">Felicia Dorothea Hemans</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391575" data-title="The Abencerrage : Canto III. de Felicia Dorothea Hemans" data-description="Heroes of elder days! untaught to yield,
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field;
Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore,
And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued,
Hallowed the wild Cantabrian solit..."></div>
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