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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529811" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Key (A Moorish Romance)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the key of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning and again planting the crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra.'<br>—Scott's <br>Travels in Morocco and Algiers. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?'<br>Sancho Panza in <br>Don Quixote</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Moor leans on his cushion, <br>With the pipe between his lips; <br>And still at frequent intervals <br>The sweet sherbét he sips; <br>But, spite of lulling vapor <br>And the sober cooling cup, <br>The spirit of the swarthy Moor <br>Is fiercely kindling up!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One hand is on his pistol, <br>On its ornamented stock, <br>While his finger feels the trigger <br>And is busy with the lock— <br>The other seeks his ataghan, <br>And clasps its jewell'd hilt— <br>Oh! much of gore in days of yore <br>That crooked blade has spilt!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His brows are knit, his eyes of jet <br>In vivid blackness roll, <br>And gleam with fatal flashes <br>Like the fire-damp of the coal; <br>His jaws are set, and through his teeth <br>He draws a savage breath, <br>As if about to raise the shout <br>Of Victory or Death!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For why? the last Zebeck that came <br>And moor'd within the Mole, <br>Such tidings unto Tunis brought <br>As stir his very soul— <br>The cruel jar of civil war, <br>The sad and stormy reign, <br>That blackens like a thunder cloud <br>The sunny land of Spain!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No strife of glorious Chivalry, <br>For honor's gain or loss, <br>Nor yet that ancient rivalry, <br>The Crescent with the Cross. <br>No charge of gallant Paladins <br>On Moslems stern and stanch; <br>But Christians shedding Christian blood <br>Beneath the olive's branch!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A war of horrid parricide, <br>And brother killing brother; <br>Yea, like to 'dogs and sons of dogs' <br>That worry one another. <br>But let them bite and tear and fight, <br>The more the Kaffers slay, <br>The sooner Hagar's swarming sons <br>Shall make the land a prey!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sooner shall the Moor behold <br>Th' Alhambra's pile again; <br>And those who pined in Barbary <br>Shall shout for joy in Spain— <br>The sooner shall the Crescent wave <br>On dear Granada's walls: <br>And proud Mohammed Ali sit <br>Within his fathers halls!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Alla-il-alla!' tiger-like <br>Up springs the swarthy Moor, <br>And, with a wide and hasty stride, <br>Steps o'er the marble floor; <br>Across the hall, till from the wall, <br>Where such quaint patterns be, <br>With eager hand he snatches down <br>And old and massive Key!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A massive Key of curious shape, <br>And dark with dirt and rust, <br>And well three weary centuries <br>The metal might encrust! <br>For since the King Boabdil fell <br>Before the native stock, <br>That ancient Key, so quaint to see, <br>Hath never been in lock.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Brought over by the Saracens <br>Who fled accross the main, <br>A token of the secret hope <br>Of going back again; <br>From race to race, from hand to hand, <br>From house to house it pass'd; <br>O will it ever, ever ope <br>The Palace gate at last?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Three hundred years and fifty-two <br>On post and wall it hung— <br>Three hundred years and fifty-two <br>A dream to old and young; <br>But now a brighter destiny <br>The Prophet's will accords: <br>The time is come to scour the rust, <br>And lubricate the wards.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For should the Moor with sword and lance <br>At Algesiras land, <br>Where is the bold Bernardo now <br>Their progress to withstand? <br>To Burgos should the Moslem come, <br>Where is the noble Cid <br>Five royal crowns to topple down <br>As gallant Diaz did?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hath Xeres any Pounder now, <br>When other weapons fail, <br>With club to thrash invaders rash, <br>Like barley with a flail? <br>Hath Seville any Perez still, <br>To lay his clusters low, <br>And ride with seven turbans green <br>Around his saddle-bow?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No! never more shall Europe see <br>Such Heroes brave and bold, <br>Such Valor, Faith and Loyalty, <br>As used to shine of old! <br>No longer to one battle cry <br>United Spaniards run, <br>And with their thronging spears uphold <br>The Virgin and her Son! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay <br>Internal discord dwells, <br>And Barcelona bears the scars <br>Of Spanish shot and shells. <br>The fleets decline, the merchants pine <br>For want of foreign trade; <br>And gold is scant; and Alicante <br>Is seal'd by strict blockade!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The loyal fly, and Valor falls, <br>Opposed by court intrigue; <br>But treachery and traitors thrive, <br>Upheld by foreign league; <br>While factions seeking private ends <br>By turns usurping reign— <br>Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor <br>Exulting point to Spain!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well may he cleanse the rusty Key <br>With Afric sand and oil, <br>And hope an Andalusian home <br>Shall recompense the toil! <br>Well may he swear the Moorish spear <br>Through wild Castile shall sweep, <br>And where the Catalonian sowed <br>The Saracen shall reap!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well may he vow to spurn the Cross <br>Beneath the Arab hoof, <br>And plant the Crescent yet again <br>Above th' Alhambra's roof— <br>When those from whom St. Jago's name <br>In chorus once arose, <br>Are shouting Faction's battle-cries, <br>And Spain forgets to 'Close!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well may he swear his ataghan <br>Shall rout the traitor swarm, <br>And carve them into Arabesques <br>That show no human form— <br>The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds <br>Invite the savage Moor, <br>And tempt him with the ancient Key <br>To seek the ancient door!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Hood">Thomas Hood</a><div class=q>
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