"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."—Scott's Travels in Morocco and Algiers. "Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?" Sancho Panza in Don Quixote The Moor leans on his cushion,
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals The sweet sherbét he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapor And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor Is fiercely kindling up!
One hand is on his pistol,
On its ornamented stock,
While his finger feels the trigger And is busy with the lock— The other seeks his ataghan,
And clasps its jewell'd hilt— Oh! much of gore in days of yore That crooked blade has spilt!
His brows are knit, his eyes of jet In vivid blackness roll,
And gleam with fatal flashes Like the fire-damp of the coal;
His jaws are set, and through his teeth He draws a savage breath,
As if about to raise the shout Of Victory or Death!
For why? the last Zebeck that came And moor'd within the Mole,
Such tidings unto Tunis brought As stir his very soul— The cruel jar of civil war,
The sad and stormy reign,
That blackens like a thunder cloud The sunny land of Spain!
No strife of glorious Chivalry,
For honor's gain or loss,
Nor yet that ancient rivalry,
The Crescent with the Cross.
No charge of gallant Paladins On Moslems stern and stanch;
But Christians shedding Christian blood Beneath the olive's branch!
A war of horrid parricide,
And brother killing brother;
Yea, like to "dogs and sons of dogs" That worry one another.
But let them bite and tear and fight,
The more the Kaffers slay,
The sooner Hagar's swarming sons Shall make the land a prey!
The sooner shall the Moor behold Th' Alhambra's pile again;
And those who pined in Barbary Shall shout for joy in Spain— The sooner shall the Crescent wave On dear Granada's walls:
And proud Mohammed Ali sit Within his fathers halls! "Alla-il-alla!" tiger-like Up springs the swarthy Moor,
And, with a wide and hasty stride,
Steps o'er the marble floor;
Across the hall, till from the wall,
Where such quaint patterns be,
With eager hand he snatches down And old and massive Key!
A massive Key of curious shape,
And dark with dirt and rust,
And well three weary centuries The metal might encrust!
For since the King Boabdil fell Before the native stock,
That ancient Key, so quaint to see,
Hath never been in lock.
Brought over by the Saracens Who fled accross the main,
A token of the secret hope Of going back again;
From race to race, from hand to hand,
From house to house it pass'd;
O will it ever, ever ope The Palace gate at last?
Three hundred years and fifty-two On post and wall it hung— Three hundred years and fifty-two A dream to old and young;
But now a brighter destiny The Prophet's will accords:
The time is come to scour the rust,
And lubricate the wards.
For should the Moor with sword and lance At Algesiras land,
Where is the bold Bernardo now Their progress to withstand?
To Burgos should the Moslem come,
Where is the noble Cid Five royal crowns to topple down As gallant Diaz did?
Hath Xeres any Pounder now,
When other weapons fail,
With club to thrash invaders rash,
Like barley with a flail?
Hath Seville any Perez still,
To lay his clusters low,
And ride with seven turbans green Around his saddle-bow?
No! never more shall Europe see Such Heroes brave and bold,
Such Valor,
Faith and Loyalty,
As used to shine of old!
No longer to one battle cry United Spaniards run,
And with their thronging spears uphold The Virgin and her Son!
From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay Internal discord dwells,
And Barcelona bears the scars Of Spanish shot and shells.
The fleets decline, the merchants pine For want of foreign trade;
And gold is scant; and Alicante Is seal'd by strict blockade!
The loyal fly, and Valor falls,
Opposed by court intrigue;
But treachery and traitors thrive,
Upheld by foreign league;
While factions seeking private ends By turns usurping reign— Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor Exulting point to Spain!
Well may he cleanse the rusty Key With Afric sand and oil,
And hope an Andalusian home Shall recompense the toil!
Well may he swear the Moorish spear Through wild Castile shall sweep,
And where the Catalonian sowed The Saracen shall reap!
Well may he vow to spurn the Cross Beneath the Arab hoof,
And plant the Crescent yet again Above th' Alhambra's roof— When those from whom St.
Jago's name In chorus once arose,
Are shouting Faction's battle-cries,
And Spain forgets to "Close!" Well may he swear his ataghan Shall rout the traitor swarm,
And carve them into Arabesques That show no human form— The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds Invite the savage Moor,
And tempt him with the ancient Key To seek the ancient door!
