THE MAID OF ARRAGON.
[]OH, ye! whoſe ſympathetic hearts are form'd
To woe reſponſive, and whoſe trem'lous nerves
Vibrate to Sorrow's mournful airs—attend!
Not you, ye gay! not you, ye vacant crouds!
Who labour through the pleaſures of the world,
Nor feel exiſtence when they ceaſe t'impel;
I call not you!—for, oh, your callous boſoms
Fell Diſſipation ſteels, and robs your minds
Of the ſweet energies beſtow'd by Heaven:
But, come, ye few! who love the lonely hour;
Who know the ſenſe refin'd, the charming agony,
Which Pity gives the hallow'd hearts ſhe fills;
To you I call! oh, come, and trace with me
(Whilſt glitt'ring Heſperus holds high his torch)
The mazy windings of yon ſolemn wood.
Behold the lawn, which opens on the left,
With crocus border'd, aromatic thyme,
[2] And ev'ry fragrant ſhrub that tempts the bee
Down from the liquid air, to bathe in ſweets.
The op'ning wicket of that humble cot,
By ſlow degrees, moves gently on its hinge:
And now, with cautious tread, the ſoft OSMIDA,
Looking a bleſſing on her ſlumb'ring Sire,
The threſhold quits; when, from his ſhort repoſe,
Aged ALMANZOR ſtarts:—Where art thou, Child?
Where is my darling? Oh! return, OSMIDA!
Why wilt thou wander in Night's chilly air,
And truſt thy boſom to its piercing dews?
Return, my Child! th' unpitying winds will ſhake
Thy tender frame.—
The night is calm, my Father!
Scarcely a zephyr moves the reſtleſs aſpin;
And the clear moon, with ſoft inviting beam,
Looks through the foliage of the lofty pines.
A moment let me breathe the balmy air!
Confin'd beneath the cottage roof by fear,
And more confin'd by duteous cares for thee,
All day I live immur'd. Then let me now
Taſte Nature's bleſſings—exerciſe and air.
Heaven guard my Child! But ſoon return, OSMIDA;
And downy ſleep ſhake ſlumbers on thy pillow!
OSMIDA quits the cot, and bends her ſteps
Towards the margin of a neighb'ring lake:
But not its lucid boſom tempts her ſteps,
Nor moon inviting through the lofty pines,
Nor balmy air, nor healthful exerciſe;
Ah, no!—it is to breathe her boſom'd anguiſh,
Where Grief, though audible, waſtes her ſad voice
In ambient air—not torturing the ear
Of the rever'd ALMANZOR, Sire belov'd!
[3]
Bending to earth, with eyes that penetrate
The glowing canopy of heaven; in ſounds
More mournful than the widow'd ſtock-dove's plaints
—Tender as youthful mother's lulling ſong,
She thus addreſs'd Omnipotence divine:
Oh, Thou! in whoſe eternal, boundleſs ſight,
The woes, or happineſs, that overpower
The mind of finite man, ſeem but as drops,
That in the vaſt abyſs unite their littleneſs,
To form one mighty whole—to Thee I pray!
Not for myſelf I pray, but for my Father;
For him whoſe care-worn heart, drooping, oppreſs'd,
And torn with barbed griefs, ſeems torn from thee.
His ſoul her wonted confidence forſakes;
He falls from thee; he leans not on the rock,
The ſacred rock, by which alone he ſtands
—And quitting, ſinks to meaſureleſs deſpair.
Oh, Thou, accept my humble heart for his!
Hear, hear ALMANZOR, in OSMIDA's voice!
'Tis he implores. Bleſs, comfort, heal his griefs;
And to thyſelf attach his ſorrow-tempted heart!
Next for my Country, Heav'n, oh, hear my pray'r!
Behold her ſtruggles with a pitying eye!
Drive from thy temple-gates the mocking infidel!
Reſtore thy altars! Send—
The pious Virgin's voice, with terror choak'd,
Unfiniſh'd left her pray'r. Forth, from the ſhade
Of the ſurrounding thicket, ruſh'd a Knight,
In ſhining armour clad, borne on a ſteed
Who ſeem'd to ſcorn the earth, his light heel paſs'd,
As though his element had been the air:
Swift, as the breath of fierce Euroclydon
He bore his maſter to the ſpangled lake,
[4] Whoſe borders, by OSMIDA's knee ſtill preſs'd,
In thouſand glowing colours bloom'd around her,
In thouſand ſcents perfum'd the tranquil air.
Light vaulting on the ground, the Knight approach'd,
And in ſuch courteous phraſe addreſs'd the Maid,
That half her terrors ended with his words.
Leave me, Sir Knight! with firmneſs ſhe reply'd;
And as ſhe ſpoke, her voice, though ſweet, expreſs'd
A cuſtom to command. Leave me, Sir Knight!
This ſolitude is to Misfortune ſacred;
None ever tread theſe unfrequented wilds,
But thoſe to whom the door of ſweet Society,
And Friendſhip's holy gate, are ſhut forever.
And can the ſocial door, and Friendſhip's gate,
To thee oppoſe their brazen locks? O Heaven!
The peopled world thy angels have ſorſook,
And here in deſerts dwell—in human form,
But in celeſtial beauty! Tell me, Virgin!
—For ſure the awe, with which thy eye inſpires,
Beſpeaks thy veſtal ſtate—tell me, fair Maid!
What ills, what ſore affliction, thee have driven
To ſeek, in theſe ſequeſter'd ſhades, felicity
By man refus'd?
My ſorrows, gentle Knight!
I dare not whiſper to the ſpeechleſs air
—Still leſs intruſt them to a ſtranger's ear:
Yet, from your courteſy, I muſt demand
My ſolitude again; and, as you hope
For bleſſing from the Pow'r who hears my voice,
Swear never to divulge, that in theſe glades
A Maid you found—by outward beauty grac'd,
But whoſe ſad heart, Sorrow hath call'd her own,
And ſtern Affliction long enroll'd a ſiſter!
[5]
The Stranger paus'd: and then, as if to win
Her confidence, and woo her from reſerve
By frank example, thus the Nymph addreſs'd:
To whom ſhould I reveal this bleſs'd abode?
Whoſe feet conduct to violate your haunts?
I, who, like you, by keen misfortunes preſs'd,
Seek ſhelter from the world; and even now
Forſake my native ſkies; quit Gallia's ſhores,
Her purple vineyards leave, her fertile meads,
Her ever blooming fields—all theſe I quit—
For theſe, to wretched hearts, bloom, ſwell, and fertiliſe, in vain.
Unhappy Youth! breath'd forth the ſad OSMIDA;
And is Affliction's appetite ſo vaſt,
That daily victims can't allay her rage?
But, gentle Knight! where will your journey end?
What Porter waits to hear your bugle ſound,
And ope the gates, with welcome in his face
To greet his honour'd Lord's expected gueſt?
Alas! ſweet Maid! no hoſpitable gate
DE COURCI ſeeks; no welcome waits his ſteps:
To Eaſtern climes I bend my weary courſe;
—Jeruſalem the home which ends my progreſs.
There let me bear your woes. Inſtruct me, Lady!
That at the Holy Sepulchre your name
May animate my pray'rs; that there your griefs
May, ſanctify'd, aſcend the porch of heav'n,
And, in their ſtead, ſoft peace, and blooming joy,
Return into your breaſt. That duty paſs'd,
My ſword ſhall lend its vigour to the cauſe
—The ſacred cauſe, which arms our Chriſtian legions,
And drains our cities of their val'rous Knights.
OSMIDA's eye, beaming with new-born hope,
And gratitude awak'd, ſhot forth her thoughts,
[6] Ere from her vermeil lips theſe accents ſtole
—In breath more fragrant than an Eaſtern morn:
Wilt thou remember me at Zion's gate?
And ſhall my ſorrows from the holy cave,
In which the Saviour drew his ſecond breath,
Aſcend to the Almighty's throne?—Again
She ſtopp'd, and check'd her growing frankneſs.
The Stranger ſaw inſtinctive prudence riſe,
And fear'd to give the virtue time to act.
Yes, he rejoin'd, with zeal more pure and ardent
Than converts feel, who, at the holy altar,
Bewail a life of curſt idolatry,
Will I your ſorrows pour, in that bleſs'd ſpot
Where Sorrow ſurely cannot plead in vain.
Struck with the piety which deck'd his words,
Yet doubting ſtill, the timid, truſting Virgin,
In ſilence, with herſelf thus cogitates:
A Chriſtian Knight he is, and with his life
Now haſt'ning to ſupport the Chriſtian cauſe.
Oceans and continents will ſoon divide us:
Why then the knowledge of my woes with-hold,
When bleſs'd Benevolence demands the tale?
Then, turning to the Stranger, meekly ſaid
—Such kind perſuaſion confidence demands;
Yet patience will you need, whilſt I relate
Events ſo ſtrong, they fitter would become
A manly tongue. Of battles I muſt ſpeak,
Of falling kingdoms, and victorious arms.
Theſe ſtrains accord not with a female voice;
Yet will I ſtrive to nerve my thoughts and language,
And raiſe my fancy to the lofty theme.
But not alone of war ſhall I diſcourſe,
Of meeting armies, or contending ſtates.
[7] —Here on this ſloping bank, Sir Knight, repoſe;
And I a tale—for Pity—will unfold,
Were Pity's tears innum'rous as the ſands.
The Knight, with token of reſpect, obey'd.
OSMIDA, with the grace of ſweet reſerve,
At gentle diſtance, near the moſs-grown roots
Of an expanding beech, a Wood-nymph ſeem'd
—A woodland goddeſs! and her graſſy ſeat
Chaſte Dian's rural throne. Grave Recollection
On her ſweet features ſpread an air compos'd;
Whilſt in Night's zenith—'midſt her radiant court,
The cryſtal Moon ſeem'd fix'd in ſtill attention:
The ſilent waters of the lake more ſilent flow'd:
The Zephyrs, drawing cloſe their ſilken wings,
In ſoft ſubjection held the ruſtling branches:
The wheeling bat far off her circles draws;
Whilſt the Night's ſweet muſician ſtill'd her ſong,
To learn a ſadder note—from fair OSMIDA.
All thus in ſilence wrapt, the thoughtful Maid,
With tone ſedate, begins the promis'd tale.
This happy clime—this Arragonian realm,
Had late a Monarch, whom her Sons rever'd;
—As King rever'd him, as a Father lov'd:
He lov'd his People, knew no care but theirs;
And the fond bleſſings, which they gave his name,
Blunted the thorns a diadem conceals.
Peace, in this happy reign, her throne eſtabliſh'd,
And brought her proper bleſſings in her train;
Fair Commerce wav'd her pennons in our ports;
The fertile plough ſubdu'd our ſterile fields;
Our granaries, like thoſe of Egypt, drew
From neighb'ring countries, riches and renown.
[8] The cottage Peaſant, round his well-fill'd board,
Saw thankful faces and contented hearts:
No iron taxes grip'd his pallid frame,
Nor tore the morſel from his children's mouths:
Blithe as the morn he roſe to healthful labour,
And hail'd, with joy, th'approach of feſtive eve.
Such once the favour'd lot of envied Arragon.
Her fame, her riches, ſpreading to the Eaſt,
Entic'd the Moors from their polluted home:
Sudden their prows invade our peaceful ſeas;
—Sudden the bold Barbarians croud our ſhores;
Defenceleſs hamlets turn unnatural beacons,
And blaze the woe-fraught tidings through the land.
Like a night-torrent, fierce, uncheck'd, they come
With devaſtation at their courſers heels;
Death, rapine, ruin, mark their dreadful progreſs,
And reach the bulwarks of the royal city.
Deep conſternation ſpreads through ev'ry ſtreet;
Th'affrighted virgins to the temples run;
The mother graſps her child, and ſhrieking flies;
Whilſt huſbands, fathers, brothers, all in arms,
Chide the dear mourners who retard their ſpeed,
Snatch laſt adieus, and ruſh upon the walls.
But from the walls, what image ſtrikes the view!
A turban'd phalanx on the hill appear'd,
Rapid deſcending to the plain below.
Upon the right advanc'd a mighty column,
Of armed chariots form'd—ſo thickly ſet
With ſcythes, and ſwords, and barbed ſpears, each ſeem'd
A ſteely porcupine; whoſe burniſh'd quills,
Catching the rays of the meridian ſun,
Gleam'd back upon the town refulgent horror.
[9] Upon the left hand mov'd the tawny markſmen,
Whoſe ebon bows, and quivers richly ſtor'd,
They ſung, were given by Death—unerring archer!
The dreadful pomp deſcended to the plain,
Fix'd their bold ſtandards, and entrenchments form'd,
—Whilſt our ſcar'd citizens obſerv'd their works,
Like trembling birds, who, looking from their neſts
Upon the charming cockatrice, behold
Inevitable fate. But black deſpair,
That firſt enerv'd, next lent their courage fury:
Lead us! they cry'd—lead to the Mooriſh camp!
What are their numbers, ſingle as they come?
With us, our parents, children, lovers, laws,
Religion, liberty—all join the battle,
—Brace our firm arms, and give ten thouſand points,
Ten thouſand deaths, to ev'ry Chriſtian ſword.
This holy rage, like ſparks electric, flew
From man to man. Each urg'd his valiant friend,
To ſave their city, matrons, daughters, wives,
—As if on each their preſervation hung.
Scarce could the pious King reſtrain their ardor,
So ſure they ſeem'd of conqueſt and revenge.
But he, who knew that from th'almighty arm
Their foes' deſtruction only could proceed,
The gates of every temple open threw,
And, with humiliation deep, repair'd
Before the ſacred altar of our God.
The ſoldiers, citizens, the nobles croud,
And ev'ry holy roof grew inſtant vocal.
Proſtrate and weeping, they implor'd the High
For Gideon's ſword, and mighty Joſhua's arm.
"Shield us!" they cry'd—"Oh, ſave thy faithful people!
Nor give us to the mockers, for a ſcorn!
[10] Omnipotence! preſerve us from the yoke
The foe prepares for our devoted necks!
Humble the boaſters, who repoſe their ſtrength,
Not on thy arm, but in their own frail numbers!
To Thee! O God of Battles! we appeal.
Hear, hear our voice!"—When lo! from Heaven's bright concave,
In gracious intimation, that their prayers,
Wafted by guardian ſpirits, reach'd the throne,
A mighty peal of thunder rapt their ears,
And purple lightnings quiver in the ſky.
The Arragons, with hopes thus ſanctified,
Ruſh'd from the temples, like impetuous flames;
—Or like fierce tigers, who their deſtin'd prey
At diſtance ſee; and pant, and foam, and rage,
With pride of certain conqueſt. But their prince
Strove this incautious ardor to reſtrain.
—All-bounteous Heav'n, he cry'd, by means, not miracles,
Decides the fate of armies, and of kings.
Let prudent foreſight, then, direct your aims,
Leſt raſhneſs blights the harveſt of your courage!
The haughty Moors, contemptuous of our ſtrength,
Doubtleſs expect to ſee our opening gates
Receive them, maſters, at the trumpet's ſignal:
To aid their blindneſs, we will offers make,
Of terms too humble for a ſtate in freedom,
And yet too high for Conqu'rors to accept.
Then, in the night's meridian, when no ſtar,
With tell-tale beams upon our poliſh'd mail,
Shall ſhew us to the watchful centinel,
—Then will we rouſe the lion from his den,
And prove our courage worthy of our cauſe.
The humming notes of growing apprchation,
Like diſtant thunder, gaining on the ear,
[11] Broke forth at once into applauſive ſhouts.
Live! live the King! re-echoed ev'ry mouth;
O guard my People! ſaid the heart-touch'd King.
The heralds ſent, and their miſleading terms,
To blind, with fears unfelt, the Mooriſh camp,
All now prepare, for the wiſh'd hour of onſet.
The ſounding anvils beat their clanging muſic;
Peace-ruſted ſwords regain their edge and poliſh;
The nervous archer tries his idle bow,
And gives new plumage to his miſſile darts.
The matrons, virgins, catch the martial fire:
Theſe ſongs prepare, theſe roſy garlands twine,
To greet, on their return, the conqu'ring heroes.
Yet, 'mongſt the virgins, one ſad heart was found;
'Twas in the boſom of the royal Princeſs.
Her vows, her plighted troth, had long been given
To young MONTENOS, Duke Medina's Heir.
He, only he, could melt her icy breaſt;
—None could ſo well deſerve an untouch'd heart.
His mind, more noble than his princely birth,
Lent glory to his name: matchleſs his form!
As poets feign celeſtial Virtue wears,
When viſible to man. Oh! wonder not,
The Princeſs lov'd with ſtrength no common flame
Could have inſpir'd! Her ſoul was full of love:
She liv'd, ſhe breath'd, ſhe thought, but for MONTENOS.
Ten thouſand terrors now beſieg'd her ſoul;
Ten thouſand nothings, which her fancy dreſt
In colour, ſubſtance, circumſtance, and form.
Yet, from her lover, 'twas her care to hide
The tender weakneſs which her heart confeſt.
Shall I, ſhe cry'd, a mighty kingdom's heir,
Shew terrors that the humbler maids deſpiſe?
[12] My Country rocks upon a precipice.
—Go then, MONTENOS! prop her falling ſtate!
Repel th'invader! tread on Slav'ry's neck!
And 'mongſt her dear preſervers be thou Chief!
The ſhades of eve advance, and from the camp
The ſubtle meſſengers return—return
With inſult loaded, and contemptuous threats.
No leſs the Moors demand than general vaſſalage;
That conquer'd Arragon—ſo proud their ſtyle!
Should yield them homage, and perpetual tribute.
A day they grant us to reſolve on ſlavery,
—To turn apoſtates, and revolt from Heaven,
Or ſee our towers extended in the duſt.
No terms or meſſengers they will receive;
But open'd gates, and creſcents on our ſpires,
The anſwer they expect. This lofty menace
Leſs with ſurpriſe than anger was receiv'd;
—It ſpoke the ſpirit of the fierce invaders.
Some hours—tremendous pauſe! were yet to paſs
Between this period, and that meant for action:
Gloomy ſuſpence ſat brooding o'er the army,
And hid, not damp'd, the ardor of their courage.
All, ſelf-collected, ſeem'd retir'd within,
And the full mind had render'd language mute.
At this grand moment, when no thought of aid,
—Of human aid, had glanc'd acroſs the ſoul,
In from the Weſtern gate—like bees returning
From their diurnal circuit—ruſh'd amain
Ten thouſand ſons of war. At this bleſs'd ſight,
Such tranſport ſeiz'd the citizens, and troops,
It ſeem'd triumphant holiday, and joy
Would even in frolic ſport—ſo ſudden the effect.
To Leon's King we ow'd this grateful ſuccour:
[13] He heard the Moors were hov'ring on our coaſts,
And, as a Chriſtian king, the cauſe adopted.
But now the ſtreets, choak'd up with armed men,
Pour back their warriors through the Weſtern portal:
There, in the marſhy vale, that to the North
Extends its rich campaign, the army grew
In form. Pardon if I, a ſimple Maid,
Cannot relate, Sir Knight! in artful terms,
How, in what order grew. I have not ſkill
To uſe the phraſes chance hath giv'n mine ear▪
Were I to ſpeak of flank, and rear, and van,
You'd find my tongue to wild confuſion lead.
—Learn then but this: the King the centre kept;
MONTENOS, ſtately pine! led on the front.
The Stranger bow'd reply, in mute reſpect.
OSMIDA, gently pauſing, thus reſum'd:
The tender Twilight, which till now had look'd
With timid eye upon the martial plain,
Withdrew her beam, to follow diſtant day:
Night, oft invok'd, advanc'd her ebon ſtandard,
To which all Nature yields well-pleas'd obeiſance:
But iron War, ſcornful of Nature's laws,
Makes Reſt his captive, and the ear of Silence
Frequent invades, whilſt from the throne of Night,
Coëval pow'r! ſhe rules the drowſy world.
So now through Arragonia's ſtreets, his march
—Unmeaſur'd by the drum's imperious notes,
In aweful pomp he takes. Balconies crouded
Show'r down their bleſſings as the ſoldiers paſs,
Whilſt thouſand voices ſpend themſelves in pray'r,
And thouſand ardent eyes appeal to Heaven.
At length arriv'd towards the Eaſtern towers,
The army made a momentary halt.
[14] When, lo! the holy Prelate, with a train
Of cloiſter'd ſaints, barefooted, rob'd in white,
And holding each a crucifix, advanc'd.
Ye more than warriors, ſaid the Man of God,
Ye Chriſtian ſoldiers, think whoſe ſword you bear!
The barb'rous nations of the earth, whoſe ears
Were never bleſt with ſounds of Goſpel Truths,
Have yet atchiev'd ſuch wondrous deeds in arms,
As will convey their names, with glory deck'd,
To the remoteſt age in Time's dark womb.
A thouſand nations have for freedom fought,
A thouſand others for revenge have arm'd,
And giv'n deſtruction to th'offending foe:
To ſave their matrons from the brutal rape,
Their daughters from Pollution's arms, have ſent
Victorious myriads to th'imbattled field.
All theſe you fight for; but you fight for MORE—
—You fight for CHRIST. See here! behold your Saviour!
Torn on the racking croſs! Theſe wounds for you
Were given. This blood—this ſacred blood! for you
Guſh'd forth, and mingled with corruption. Go then!
Bleed, agonize, and die for Him! Rapt Seraphims
Are now preparing your celeſtial crowns:
—Go and atchieve them! Choirs of holy angels
Now tune their golden harps, and hymns prepare
To greet ye conqu'rors in the gates of Heaven:
—Go! bleſſed ſoldiers—Go!
The Father ceas'd.
From ev'ry mouth burſt forth—as if one ſoul,
One voice, through all the army reign'd—"We go!"
Inſpir'd thus by the Prieſt's heroic charge,
Each ſeem'd to preſs to be the earlieſt victim;
Their ſouls on fire, were eager to depart
[15] The earthly ſphere, and ſeiſe on their immortal crowns.
Thus rapt, the ſoldiers paſs; and through the gates,
Like miſts exhaling from the earth's moiſt boſom,
Spread on the ſurface of the hoſtile plain.
The gates ſhut cloſe their wide-extended jaws,
—Shut cloſe for ever, on the valiant youths,
Whoſe feet now leave them—to return no more:
But they, by other hopes than life inſpir'd,
March on; whilſt Night her curtain cloſer draws
To hide their progreſs from the watchful foe.
In vain the night her ſable curtain draws,
And bids the ſtars keep hoodwink'd in their courſe;
For faithleſs Echo to the Mooriſh guard
Betray'd the diſtant ſound of pacing ſteps.
From guard to guard the haſty ſignals fly,
And ſhoot like meteors through the dark expanſe.
The Infidels, alarm'd, ſeem all in motion,
Whilſt the faint quiv'ring lights, that lately ſerv'd
To guide the hunters in their dang'rous chace,
Now blaze and multiply, till all the camp
A vaſt illumination ſeems, that gilds
With dreadful ſplendor the ſurrounding gloom.
Our troops, undaunted, quicken as they tread,
And haſty marching grows to eager ſpeed.
To arms! to arms! the ſcar'd beſiegers cry.
Your arms are here! th'advancing foe replies,
—Thirſting to drench their ſwords in Mooriſh blood!
Silence, no longer uſeful, now gives way
To all the dreadful din that battle loves.
The haughty trumpet, and the vig'rous drum,
With the ſhrill fife's acuter voice, accord
To ſummon valour in the fearfull'ſt heart.
The Moors ruſh forth, impetuous and confus'd.
[16] No orders thought on, and no orders heard:
Some to the trench, ſome to the chariots fly
To buckle to the ſhafts the frighted horſes:
—The reſtive ſteeds reject th'accuſtom'd yoke,
Daſh their fierce leaders wildly to the earth,
Then, plunging, bound along the beamy plain.
Our troops had gain'd the ditch, and to the beards
Of the beſiegers—now beſieg'd, advanc'd,
Ere the firſt panic left their courage calm
—The battlo's fury in an inſtant ſpreads,
And all its horrors rage mature at once.
The bows are uſeleſs; throat to throat they fight;
—Foes mix with foes, ranks preſs on hoſtile ranks,
Till each are loſt, and form one dreadful whole.
Death never triumph'd as he triumph'd now;
—With haſty victims never was ſo gorg'd:
He who is killing, by another's ſlain;
And he, in finiſhing his blow, partakes
The fate he gives. Scarce had the armies join'd
Ere thouſand ſouls had paſs'd th'eternal bourn:
On ev'ry ſide bulwarks of dead appear
—Torrents of reeking gore. The blood of Moors
And Chriſtians forms one common flood, and rolls
Its heavy tide in ſtagnant ſtreams along.
Say, Stranger, haſt thou ſeen the warlike ſports.
Yearly preſented in our vaſt Steccado?
Superior to the reſt, the Bull-fight claims
Glorious pre-eminence. Forth from their dens
The bellowing monſters ruſh, and the earth rings
Beneath their haughty hooſs. The ireful foam
Runs from their churning jaws; their burniſh'd horns
Now raſe the earth, now proudly toſt in air,
Challenge the waiting warriors to the combat:
[17] The waiting warriors, ardent for the ſign,
Dart on their foes: the lordly beaſts evade
The well-aim'd ſpear, and, clad in native might,
Scorn the bright corſlet and the nodding helm:
Onward they ruſh—whilſt deathful fury burſts
In livid ſparkles from their blood-red eyes;
They gore the gen'rous ſteeds, their riders cruſh,
Or ſend them claſhing through the duſty air.
Throughout the concave, ſound the eager plaudits,
And boiſt'rous admiration ſpeaks the joy:
At length the fav'rite bull—he whom the keepers,
For fire and ſtrength, ſuperior to the reſt,
Had long mark'd out, is loos'd upon the plain:
All marvels ceaſe the inſtant he appears;
And what ſeem'd wondrous but a moment ſince,
Has now no tongue to ſpeak the mighty act
—So much beyond all thought his deeds excell
The glorious devaſtation of his peers.
Juſt ſo MONTENOS ſhone among the heroes
Whoſe bitter chaſtiſement the Moors endured.
Where'er he mov'd, deſtruction mark'd his progreſs,
And death ſeem'd couchant on his pond'rous axe.
The Night, ſo dreadful! lengthen'd out her hours,
As though ſhe ſtaid to view the battle's conflict,
Or hide its horrors from the ſpringing day.
At length the glowing portals of the Eaſt
Diſclos'd the Morn—in ſplendor ſhe aroſe;
But, as if grief-ſtruck at the murd'rous ſcene,
Her face in humid clouds ſhe inſtant wrapt,
And ſeem'd to weep in drops of ſacred pity.
Yet Conqueſt ceas'd not, with her vig'rous arm,
To plant her banners o'er the reeking field:
[18] —For us her banners wav'd—for us ſhe triumph'd,
And Vict'ry ſung loud Iö's for the Chriſtians.
The Moor, now ſeeing that his ſcatter'd hoſt
Had their chief leaders loſt—their numbers waſted,
Like ſifted corn before the driving tempeſt,
For quarter calls. His troops, upon their knees,
Yield up their arms, and Mahomet invoke,
To ſcreen his worſhipers from dreaded vengeance;
But Chriſtian ſoldiers war not for revenge,
Nor know to trample on a vanquiſh'd foe.
Their homage is accepted, and their chiefs,
With low'ring fronts, and hearts by malice gnaw'd,
Follow the victors in their march triumphant.
Strait to the city-gates they bend their courſe,
Where from the walls the holy prieſts had watch'd
The iſſue of the fight. There too, the Princeſs
—In horrors exquiſite! had paſs'd the night.
Judge then her rapture, her exalted joy,
When ſhe beheld, on their victorious march,
Betroth'd MONTENOS, and her royal Sire!
Forth to the plain—heedleſs of form, ſhe ruſh'd:
Her Virgins follow'd, and the rev'rend Prieſts,
Led by the holy Biſhop, form'd her train.
The day—as if ſhe bore an active part
In all th'events her teeming hours brought forth—
Chac'd the dark clouds, unveil'd her radiant face,
And gave new glories to the ſcene ſhe view'd.
The King approach'd—the Princeſs, at his feet,
Ador'd the mighty arm which thus reſtor'd him,
Loaded with laurels, from the deathful field:
Her valiant Lover, leading in his hand
The Mooriſh Prince, with eager pace advanc'd,
[19] To claim his ſhare of her enraptur'd welcome.
Receive, he cry'd, a conqueſt which your eyes,
And not my ſword, atchiev'd. Inſpir'd by you,
Who could reſiſt my arm? This princely foe,
Who wonders acted, and whoſe arm deſerv'd
A righteous cauſe; by you, bright maid, ſubdu'd,
Your victim I preſent. The ſullen Prince
Scarce deign'd to lift his eye; when, with a grace
No fancy can pourtray, the gallant youth
Made to his miſtreſs this heroic gift.
Oh fatal preſent! gift replete with woes!
Why did not heaven in its mercy ſend
Its winged ſhafts, and at that inſtant ſtrike
The royal Maid, where, fix'd with joy, ſhe ſtood!
Then had her breaſt, untorn with throbbing anguiſh,
Sunk peacefully—alas! where roves my tongue!
Let me, in order, lead you to the ſequel.
It needleſs were my ſtory to prolong
In painting ſcenes your fancy will ſupply:
The joyful entry, and triumphant feaſts,
Devout proceſſions, and heroic ſports,
All theſe are fruitful themes, and would demand
A time the waning night denies. In brief,
The captive Prince a mighty ranſom offer'd,
With league of amity and laſting peace.
The terms accepted, gallies were diſpatch'd
To bring the barter'd price of his redemption.
Mean while he join'd the games, and ſeem'd to loſe
His barb'rous roughneſs in the toils of pleaſure.
Alas! in other toils his mind was caught;
The Princeſs ſeem'd too lovely to ZORADOR,
Whoſe ſenſual ſoul ſhe touch'd with fierceſt paſſion.
[20] He dared to ſpeak of love, and to herſelf
Vaunt his bold hopes; whilſt he beheld approach
The day, which was to join in nuptial bands
The Royal Maiden and her lov'd MONTENOS:
The marriage ſports already were prepar'd,
And yet the Moor, audacious! talk'd of love.
—Repuls'd with juſt diſdain, he to the King
His love-ſick tale, with ſullen port, addreſs'd:
I am not uſed, he cried, to offer crowns,
And have them ſpurn'd, like vulgar lovers' toys.
Give me your Daughter! I'll give her a throne:
Dominions ſhe ſhall have, to which your Arragon,
With all its boaſted fields, and bluſhing vineyards,
Seems but a fertile ſpot; ſo vaſt the country
Whoſe ſceptre I command! The King's firm anſwer
Shew'd the proud Infidel, his ſuit was vain;
And, that a Chriſtian Princeſs, to a ſubject
More fitly would be match'd, than with the Monarch
Of wide-ſtretch'd continents—whoſe wretched Sons
Were taught to ſcorn the doctrines of a CHRIST.
ZORADOR's fury to ſuch tranſports grew
At this deſtruction of his hopes, he ſeem'd
No longer man—His eye-balls glar'd with madneſs;
His foamy rage—like a tempeſtuous ſea
Laſhing her ſhores in vain—ſpar'd not himſelf:
His beard in frightful fragments ſtrew'd the floor;
Whilſt his inflated boſom rack'd within,
Without reſounded from his barb'rous blows.
He curs'd, blaſphem'd, and wept: his ſtrength exhauſted
Left him at length, as though a wakeful ſleep
Had ſeis'd his faculties, and numb'd the fire
Which fill'd his torrid veins. His ſlaves, who oft
[21] Beheld their lord a victim to himſelf,
Bore to his couch the proſtrate harmleſs tyrant;
And there, with trem'lous lutes and vocal harmony,
In ſweet enchantment woke him from his trance.
His haughty ſoul, that ſcorns all other laws,
Will yield to muſic all her boiſt'rous paſſions
—Hang on each ſtrain, melt at each magic note,
And tranſient virtues catch from trilling airs.
Compos'd, at length, or maſking what he felt,
Again ZORADOR ſought the penſive King;
Pardon, he cry'd, Oh Prince! a wretch undone!
Forgive the frenzy of a heart unſteel'd
By diſappointment's ſhocks. Nurs'd by proſperity,
By fortune follow'd, I had learnt—fond man!
That fate, that earth, that heaven, for me combin'd,
And from misfortune hallow'd my encircled head.
Your powerful arms, O King of Arragon!
Firſt taught ZORADOR that he was a man;
And now your Daughter's ſtill more powerful eyes
Have taught ZORADOR, that he is a ſlave.
Maſter and tyrant of a thouſand beauties,
Who court my paſſions, live for my delight,
I breath'd, unknowing that I had a heart,
Till cruel love, wrapt in Deſpair's wild torments,
Gave all its nerves a ſenſe of curſt exiſtence!
I love—with agony—with madneſs, love!
Oh, ſpare me then the horror of a ſight
My fiery brain ſplits but to think on! Save,
—Father of her whoſe charms thus abject make me,
Save from the tortures of her marriage rites,
The heart which burns and waſtes with hopeleſs ardors!
The ling'ring moon has number'd all the hours
[22] That I allotted for my fleet's return:
Soon as the eaſtern wind invades their canvaſs,
The bellying ſails will whiten all your channel,
And their red ſtreamers bluſh along your ſhores.
My ranſom paid, I quit theſe hoſtile walls,
—Where my loſt peace will ſtay enchain'd for ever.
Then, whilſt I bear my woes to diſtant ſeas,
Then may the ſpouſals be triumphant ſung,
And not one wretch remain to curſe the ſound.
Here ceas'd ZORADOR; whilſt the melting King,
Unable to withſtand a claim ſo urg'd,
Granted his royal ſuitor all he aſk'd.
The Moor, impreſs'd with thankfulneſs, retir'd,
And the good Monarch gave Medina's Heir
Command to curb his warm, impetuous wiſhes,
Until his rival ſought his native ſkies.
The ſhifting winds ſoon wafted to our ports
The Mooriſh ſquadron. To the capital
The fleeter camels bore the various treaſures
Meant for redemption of their captive Prince.
Stuffs, ingots, ivory, form'd their precious burden;
Carpets of Perſia, hangings wrought with gold,
Muſcovian ſables, ſcarves enrich'd with pearl;
Silk robes, by Grecian damſels taught to glow
In flowers of vivid tints, and buds ſo prompt,
They ſeem'd to blow beneath the gazer's eye;
Sabres with glitt'ring hilts of curious art,
And ſcymeters whoſe ſheaths di'monds illum'd,
And ſanguine rubies dy'd; all theſe were borne
In pompous march, through Saragoſſa's ſtreets;
Whilſt haughty courſers, from Arabia's hills,
Champing gold bits, adorn'd with ſumptuous houſings,
[23] —Or bearing Turkiſh tents of gaudy drapery,
Shut, from the wonder-loving croud, the long proceſſion.
And now approach'd the joyful, wiſh'd-for morn,
Whoſe breath upon our happy plains the Moors
Were doom'd to leave. ZORADOR, with ſuch port
As diſappointment gives to tumid ſpirits,
Made to the King and Princeſs his adieus.
He left the city with a train of ſlaves,
Shedding profuſely, as they paſs'd along,
Rich ſhowers of gold upon the gaping rabble,
—Whoſe venal voice pierc'd Heaven with "Live ZORADOR!
Soon as the tidings of the Moors' departure
Our ſpeedy couriers brought, the word was given
To make all ready for the royal marriage.
Raptur'd MONTENOS, madd'ning with his bliſs,
Could ſcarce ſupport the intermediate hours
That led, with lagging ſteps, the nuptial morn.
The nuptial Morn arriv'd—rous'd from her ſlumbers
By the ſhrill voice of ſilver clarions, join'd
By the ſoft hautboy, the ſeducive lute,
And ſweeter pipe of choral maids, ſymphonious.
Forth from the palace to the church, through ſtreets
With carpets laid, and myrtle garlands hung,
The glad proceſſion led its length'ning train.
The King, beneath his canopy of ſtate,
Preceded by his guards, firſt object mov'd:
Next to his ſuite the Princeſs, bluſhing, follow'd;
Her train upheld by twenty noble maids,
Whoſe beauty, in their ſnowy robes, ſeem'd chaſtity
Incarnate. Next, at diſtance—as of rank
That yet allow'd not of a royal ſtate,
MONTENOS walk'd, ſucceeded by the court.
[24]
The King had almoſt reach'd the holy portals,
When from the croud a youth advanc'd, who caught
Each wond'ring eye. His face, a maſk—deſign'd
For youthful beauty, hid. His airy form
Seem'd worthy ſuch a face. His habit tiſſue,
Emboſs'd with purple ſtuds. His flowing hair
With knots of pearl was ty'd, and on his head
A garland bloom'd. An iv'ry flute he held,
Through which he breath'd ſuch melting, touching, ſtrains,
That Harmony herſelf had ſtaid to liſten.
As he approach'd, the ſoldiers clear'd his way,
Till in the front before the guards he ſtood.
The Princeſs came, whilſt he, with rev'rence low,
And ſofter breathings, ſeem'd to great her preſence.
She paſs'd; the Bridegroom came—in quicker notes
He bad his muſic flow; and, forward ſtepping,
Offer'd, with courteous air, the tuneful pipe.
MONTENOS, ſmiling, ſtretch'd his hand, when—horror!
His breaſt receiv'd the flute, which hid a poniard—
—A ſecond blow, ere thought could be recall'd;
The third, the murd'rer on himſelf beſtow'd,
And welt'ring dropt into the arms of Death.
Aſtoniſhment uſurp'd each vital faculty,
And rooted all who ſaw the bloody deed.
The Bridegroom, ſinking on th'aſſaſſin's corps,
Rous'd from their trance his horror-ſtruck attendants;
Whilſt the chill ſounds of Death! Montenos! Murder!
Fled to the wretched Maid—almoſt a wife.
Not daring to demand the cauſe; her pulſe,
Stopt by congealing fear, forbore its office,
And a kind ſtupor hid her from her woes.
[25]
Back to the palace, now, the dying Bridegroom,
By Knights in hymeneal robes was borne,
Whilſt others dragg'd his murd'rer's mangled corps,
To ſearch for motives to the cruel deed.
His maſk unclaſp'd, diſclos'd a well-known face
—A mute he was, and in ZORADOR's train.
A fiend-like ſcroll, conceal'd within his veſt,
Develop'd all the murd'rous hell-born project.
Theſe were its words: "'Tis not the ſlave, but I,
Who give the blow. Vengeance, if not my love,
Shall be appeas'd. Learn, King of Arragon!
Learn both to know and dread the ſcorn'd ZORADOR!"
Such were the lines which bore the ſtamp of fate.
The lovely victim of the Moor's revenge,
Breath'd not a word, but ſtrain'd his beamleſs eye
To find the object that his heart's laſt pulſe
Ador'd—not ſeeing her, they ſeem'd to ſhut
All others out—and Death, with haſty ſeal,
Clos'd their dim lids in everlaſting ſleep.
Here paus'd the Virgin, as immers'd in thought;
The ſtory, fraught with woe, had caſt a ſhade
Of deeper ſorrow o'er her penſive brow:
Her lab'ring boſom ſent forth heavy ſighs,
And her ſad mind ſeem'd loſt in one idea.
The Knight, who eager grew to know the tale
She promis'd of herſelf, preſum'd at length
To bring her recollection to the point;
At which her roſy lips their portal clos'd,
And ceas'd to charm him with their touching accents.
I will not, Stranger! ſaid the fair narrator,
Tax your attention with events unneedful,
[26] The Court's diſtreſs, the ſorrow of the King,
The Bride's, th'unwedded Bride's, forlorn diſtraction.
Long tedious months led round their joyleſs ſuns,
Ere comfort beam'd upon her widow'd heart;
Nor then, till, at the tomb of her loſt Lord,
Her ſolemn vows ſhe made, never to hear
A lover's ſoothing tale; but, in virginity
Perpetual, wait the hour that ſhould unite
Her faithful ſpirit with her murder'd Lord's.
This duty paid, a dawn, like that of peace,
By ſoft degrees illum'd the mourner's mind.
The Court, prompt in expedients to diveſt
Misfortune of her ſtings, ranſack'd all pleaſures,
Invented freſh delights, new joys invok'd,
For their ſweet antidotes to pois'nous grief.
Thus had two years their ſlow-revolving hours
Brought to the great account; when from the eaſt
A dark portentous cloud, lab'ring with ills,
Pregnant with thouſand woes, obſcur'd th'horizon.
ZORADOR—he whoſe ſoul from inmoſt hell
Was ſent to ſcourge the earth—not glutted yet
With all the horrid joys that wait on vengeance,
Not yet forgiving our triumphant arms,
Which ſhear'd the laurels his whole life had reap'd,
—Again came pouring, like a mighty deluge,
To overwhelm the land in laſting ruin.
He came.—Why ſhould I lengthen out my tale?
Our nation's force, oppos'd to the Moor's army,
Was kindling torches to obſcure the ſun.
Again we ſaw them hover on the hill:
Again we ſaw—like famine-bringing locuſts,
[27] Their hoſts deſcend, and ſpread upon the plain.
No parly, as at firſt, they would allow:
Their batt'ring-rams the meſſengers they us'd;
—Arrows and catapults, their killing words.
A dreadful day our troops ſuſtain'd the ſiege,
And fill'd the breaches with their ſlaughter'd foes.
At length, a billet on a javelin's point
The ramparts paſs'd, denouncing rape and ſackage,
If ſtubbornly our citizens delay'd
To own ZORADOR conqueror and king.
The threat effected all the Moor had hop'd,
And Arragon's grey Monarch was abandon'd
By thoſe whoſe rights he'd guarded with his blood,
—By thoſe his ſmiles had cheriſh'd, and his honours grac'd.
The throneleſs Sov'reign, when he ſaw his gates
Open their faithleſs jaws t'admit the foe,
Ruſh'd, in diſtraction, to his Daughter's chamber:
Fly! let us inſtant fly! he gaſping ſaid;
The Moors have vanquiſh'd, and my Child's a ſlave.
Their ſtandards now inſult our conquer'd ſtreets,
And curſt ZORADOR will not long delay,
Within my palace walls t'aſſert his rights.
Come then, my Daughter! leſt diſhonour find thee,
And kill they parent with a thouſand deaths!
The Princeſs, whom affliction had ſubdu'd,
And taught a firmneſs ſtranger to her years,
Graſp'd her lov'd Father's hand—Lead me, ſhe cry'd,
Where Providence ordains! my duteous ſteps
Shall ever follow yours, ſoften your path,
And chear, to life's laſt ſigh, your rugged journey.
A golden caſket, as ſhe ſpoke, ſhe ſeiz'd,
That held, till now, a hoarded uſeleſs treaſure;
[28] And through the galleries, with breathleſs haſte,
And ſtep precipitate, follow'd the King,
—Unknowing to what corner of the earth
To point their feet, or whom they ſhould intruſt
With their advent'rous flight. A faithful Lord,
In this ſad exigence, with cordial words,
The royal fugitives thus met and cheer'd.
"O Sire! from Arlos take the only duty
That ſtormy fate now ſuffers him to pay:
My horſes wait, cloſe to the garden walls,
With truſty knights to guide you to my caſtle.
Dreading the worſt, I had prepar'd this refuge,
When the fell Moor began his fierce aſſault.
For me, I'll ſtay and greet, with ſmiles deceitful,
ZORADOR, whom I hate, to ward, if poſſible,
What further ills his malice may deviſe."
The King embrac'd, with ſervent gratitude,
The noble youth—and follow'd where he led.
There a cloſe chariot, harneſs'd and attended,
Waited to bear them from the dang'rous ſpot.
The flying ſteeds ſeem'd conſcious of their office,
And inſtant cleft the air with eagle ſwiftneſs.
Mean while the Mooriſh troops ruſh'd through the gates,
And on our bulwarks fix'd their haughty ſtandards.
No terms the citizens obtain'd, but thoſe
Of vaſſalage and uncondition'd ſlavery;
Whilſt their chief officers were inſtant ſworn
To be allegiant to the ſwarthy Infidel.
Mean time, with ſpeed, towards the royal palace,
As to his home, ZORADOR bent his courſe;
Vaunting, that now the Chriſtian King ſhould, kneeling,
[29] Aſk him to wed the Daughter whom he woo'd
With offer'd thrones, and was, with ſcorn, rejected.
But, when he found no Sov'reign to inſult,
No Princeſs to affront with odious paſſion,
His furious tranſports made a thouſand victims.
The Nobles' houſes were with ſtrictneſs ſearch'd:
The churches, monaſt'ries, were all defil'd
By the unhallow'd infidels, in vain.
Three days the ſearch continu'd, when the Moor,
Foaming with diſappointed pride, made oath,
That, if the Princeſs in eight days appear'd not,
The convents-walls ſhould to the ground be ras'd,
And their pure veſtals ſate his ſavage ſoldiers.
Theſe dreadful tidings to the King and Princeſs
The faithful ARLOS ſent. "My caſtle walls,"
He ſaid, "no longer will protect my Sov'reign.
The church itſelf will aid the keen purſuit,
—Deeming it better that one royal Maid
Should feed the luſt of a deteſted tyrant,
Than that their holy virgins ſhould become
The prey of the licentious ſoldiery.
Fly then, my Prince! The loyal Knight, whoſe hand
Preſents this teſtimony of my faith,
Will to a ſecret ſpot (where he himſelf
Aſylum found) attend your wand'ring ſteps;
—Not wand'ring long! for ſurely Heav'n, that tries
The virtue which it loves, will reconduct you
To your loſt people's arms, and rightful throne."
The darkeſt robe of night o'erſpread the hemiſphere,
When at the caſtle GONZALES arriv'd.
The royal pair, in humble weeds diſguis'd,
Inſtant forſook the hoſpitable roof,
And ſought untravell'd wilds, and gloomy deſerts.
[30] The ſpirits of the King, weigh'd down with ſorrow,
Had ſunk beneath accumulated ills,
Had not wiſe Heav'n endu'd his Daughter's mind
With ſtrength to bear her griefs, and chear her Father's.
With tender talk the tedious way ſhe ſhorten'd;
And, when exhauſted Nature aſk'd recruit,
Hymn'd him to ſleep beneath umbrageous trees.
A whole day's ſun beheld her duteous cares:
The moon aroſe, and ſtill they journey'd on;
But the ſucceeding ſun, with earlieſt beam,
Guided the travellers to a foreſt's verge.
Here GONZALES the ſteeds unrein'd, and drove,
In envied freedom, to a neighb'ring mountain,
Leſt their betraying hoofs ſhould guide purſuers
To the aſylum of the hunted King.
In the wood's centre they a cottage found,
Form'd, by Misfortune's hand, of humble clay:
Two rooms it had, in each a ruſtic bed;
For ſtately chairs, a bench; a rough-hewn table,
That ne'er with other dainties had been fill'd,
Than labour cull'd from the ſurrounding herbs;
Or from the vines—that in the deſert air,
With their delicious burdens long had ſwell'd,
Nor found one tempted hand to eaſe the load.
Such the retreat the fugitives had found.
Adieu to gilded roofs, and chorded minſtrelſy!
Adieu to greatneſs, and unhealthful pomp!
The winds now ruſtle through their ſtraw-crown'd cot,
And birds, with wild-note ſweet, compoſe their concert!
Full ſeven ſlow moons have turn'd their monthly orbs,
Since GONZALES the cottage left, and ſince
No human ſound, but their own penſive tones,
Have reach'd the Princeſs and her Father's ears.
[31] What can I more? If my eventful tale
Hath touch'd the chords of pity in your heart,
And ſwell'd the ſympathetic tear—ſoft tribute!
By gentle minds, to ſorrow ever paid,
—Know, 'tis no ſtranger's woes I have related;
I am the object of my own ſad ſtory—
It is the Princeſs ſpeaks—
Enough! exclaim'd
The Knight, ſpringing with ardor from the bank,
Enough! our prize is found! and wealth and rank,
And bright ZULEDA's ſmiles, are now DE COURCI's!
Thus ſpeaking, to his lips he fix'd a bugle,
Whoſe piercing ſounds ten thouſand echoes bore
On airy wings, through the ſurrounding woods.
The ſignal heard, ſix Moors obey'd its voice,
And ſpurr'd their horſes headlong through the glades.
For theſe OSMIDA ſtay'd not. The falſe Knight
No ſooner ſpoke his joy, than, like a fawn
Who from the neighb'ring thicket hears the voice.
Of the fierce wolf—ſhe bounding left her ſeat,
And fled to ſafer ſhades. A ſtarting ſtar
Leſs rapid cleaves the air, when Ethiop Night
Shews on her wanton breaſt his lucid trail.
Meanwhile, the royal cottager, whom Sleep,
Spight of his cares, had woo'd to her embrace,
Broke from her tempting arms. He call'd OSMIDA.
Liſt'ning in vain, to hear her cheering voice,
He ſtarted from his couch, and, rob'd in haſte,
Ruſh'd forth to ſeek her in her fav'rite haunts:
Darting his fearful eye acroſs the lawn
On which their cottage ſtood, cloſe on its edge,
—Panting and breathleſs he beheld his darling.
With all the little ſtrength that age had left,
[32] He haſten'd to receive her. What his dread!
When at his feet he ſaw the Princeſs drop,
Exclaiming, as ſhe fell, in fainting voice,
Father! ALMANZOR! King!—The fear-ſtruck Monarch,
Unable from the moſſy graſs to raiſe
Its lovely burden, ſinking by her ſide,
Strove by his tears, and fond paternal voice,
To rouſe her torpid ſenſe, and wake her ſoul.
Not gueſſing at th'extremity of woe,
Which ſoon muſt burſt upon his hoary head,
He thought ſome frightful reptile had ſurpris'd,
And chill'd, with female fears, her tim'rous mind.
But, oh! how ſhort a while his fate allow'd
This ſoft deluſion! Through the night's ſtill air
The ſound of human voices, and the clank
Of iron hoofs, reveal'd a ſcene at once,
That almoſt ſhook his ſoul from her frail tenement.
The Gallic leader of the Mooriſh band,
(And ſure no ſoil but Gallia's could produce
A Knight thus treach'rous, thus completely form'd
To guide a project hatch'd in nether hell!)
Mark'd with his eye OSMIDA's flying courſe.
Courage! he cry'd—as the baſe ſlaves advanc'd:
All our paſt trouble, and our long fatigues,
This happy hour repays. OSMIDA's found!
Found at the inſtant that my famiſh'd hopes
Scarce lent a ray to guide me in the chace.
When, through the tiſſu'd thicket, to my eye
The friendly moon reveal'd her, hope prophetic
Call'd her OSMIDA—yet my eager tongue
I dar'd not with that hope intruſt, leſt Fear
Should draw her veil upon the dangerous truth.
In prayer ſhe was employ'd; which inſtant taught me
[33] That piety muſt be the bait to ſnare her,
—So won her confidence, and read her heart.
Allah be prais'd! rejoin'd a bearded Infidel,
Freedom is ours—ZORADOR's favour thine!
But, Chriſtian, art thou ſure thou haſt beheld
ALMANZOR's Daughter? One fair maid, alas!
We have already to our maſter borne
For her he ſought, and ſcarce with life eſcap'd,
So fierce and rageful was ZORADOR's anger!
The Princeſs, ſelf-acknowledg'd, ſaid the Knight,
Fled from this ſpot, ſcar'd at my bugle's ſound.
A cottage, ſomewhere in the ſombrous foreſt,
Conceals the trembler, and her aged Sire.
I mark'd the road ſhe took, and now will guide you
To thoſe who will not hail us—welcome gueſts.
Thus ſpeaking, he puſh'd onwards through the wood,
And ſoon eſpy'd the little peaceful dwelling,
In which, for ſeven long months, the exil'd King
Had ſigh'd his anguiſh to the paſſing winds.
Upon the earth they ſaw the hoary Monarch,
Supporting on his knee the drooping head
Of his unhappy child: his hands were claſp'd,
And rais'd towards that Heav'n which now allow'd
Sorrow to drain her vial on his brow.
This moving picture, e'en DE COURCI's eye
Could ſcarcely ſee, with pity unſuffus'd.
Skill'd in deceit, and hiding a bad heart
With all the poliſh learnt in faithleſs courts,
He, with an air ſo meek, approach'd ALMANZOR,
As though he ſought him only to bewail
The ſad events that ſhut him from the world.
The King, perhaps, had yielded for a moment
[34] To the deluſive hope his look inſpir'd,
Had not the group of Moors—who yet approach'd not,
Explain'd the dreadful purport of the viſit.
Unhappy Monarch! ſaid the ſoft-tongued Knight,
Much it afflicts me that my barb'rous fortune,
From all ZORADOR's court, DE COURCI choſe
T'explore the ſacred ſpot of your retirement.
Had not the tyrant at his hateful nod
Devoted Moors enough, and callous ſlaves,
Us'd to the work of infamy and guilt,
But I, a Chriſtian knight, muſt be ſelected,
To guide an enterpriſe ſo curſt?—Oh Fate!
Thou never loadedſt me with ills till now!
The King, experienc'd in mankind, ſaw through
The thin diſguiſe of this moſt florid ſpeech:
He ſaw the ſerpent in the ſpicy ſhrub;
—He ſaw the villain in the gentle eye.
Not deigning a reply, he bent his head
O'er the reviving Princeſs. Oh, OSMIDA!
Exclaim'd th'afflicted Prince, thy beating pulſe,
Thy dear returning breath is now unwelcome.
Rather I'd ſee thoſe eyes for ever clos'd,
This flutt'ring heart fixt by Death's potent voice,
Than thus receive thee back again to life.
The royal Virgin's ſcarce-recover'd faculties
Announc'd themſelves in fears: "Oh! let us fly,
My Father!—let us fly!" ſhe murmur'd forth:
"We are purſu'd—the Knight! the wiley Knight!"
Purſued, indeed! replied the weeping King;
Purſued and caught. O! my heart's dear OSMIDA!
They have us in their toils—we're loſt! we're loſt!
Rous'd at this dreadful ſound, the waken'd Princeſs,
[35] Starting, threw round her eyes—they met DE COURCI's!
A grave-ſent ſpectre, in the deep of night,
Scarce gives ſuch horror to the ſhrinking ſinner,
As did DE COURCI's form, to ſhock'd OSMIDA.
Speechleſs, ſhe hid her face, and claſp'd her father;
Who ſtrove t'inſpire a calm his heart diſown'd.
The poliſh'd villain, who the blackeſt crimes
With impoliteneſs could not ſtain, withdrew,
That the bewailing mourners, unreſtrain'd,
Might pour their anguiſh in each other's breaſt.
—Vain were the taſk, to paint th'impaſſion'd ſcene
Which grief, and fear, and thouſand racking thoughts,
With glowing horrors, all conſpir'd to fill.
The courteous Knight, obſerving where he ſtood,
That the firſt torrent of their grief was ſpent,
Ventur'd again t'approach the wretched pair.
Pardon, illuſtrious Prince! he cried, the ſlave,
Whom harſh neceſſity, alas! compels
To ſtop your converſe with your beauteous Daughter.
ZORADOR—he, who knows no law but will,
The ſmalleſt breach of whoſe commands, the rack,
Or more inevitable death awaits—
—Ordain'd, that ſoon as your retreat was found,
A moment to delay ſhould not be giv'n;
But inſtant! maugre circumſtance, or tears,
That we ſhould bear to their forſaken home
Th'unwilling Princeſs, and her royal Sire.
Now, if it pleaſe you, we muſt leave this deſert,
For haunts more fitted to your royal rank.
This mock'ry of reſpect, return'd the King,
To thoſe whom you command, adds points to inſult.
Our maſters you; then treat us as your ſlaves!
[36] The only boon I can deſcend to aſk,
Is, that my Daughter, in this fatal journey,
May not be torn from me. From thee! ah, no,
Precipitant exclaim'd the royal Maid.
Together let us go, whate'er our fate!
Still let my filial voice my Father cheer,
And pierce the night of his collected ſorrows!
DE COURCI ſeem'd to pauſe, when ſtrait a Moor,
Of port ſuperior to the reſt, thus anſwer'd—
It is our Sovereign's will, that you, fair Lady!
Should hold no converſe with your princely Sire,
'Till your arrival in your native city.
Doubt not, but then, each boon you aſk, and all
Your fruitful fancy can deviſe, our maſter,
Gracious to charms like yours, will grant with rapture.
When Beauty ſues, he knows not to deny.
What then will be your Beauty's pow'r? You—
The King, impatient and enrag'd, broke in
Upon the Moor. Ceaſe, Saracen! he cried,
Nor dare thus violate my Daughter's ears!
Or thou ſhalt find, that in a deſert, old,
—Unarm'd, ALMANZOR is a King. Lead on!
And ſince high Heav'n ordains, thy impious Maſter
Should hold the balance of our fate, obey
His harſh command! tear us aſunder! yes!
Drag from the old man's heart, the laſt ſole joy
His woes had left to ſave him from deſpair.
Plunge me at once in horror's deep abyſs.
Not long—not long, my friends, will you afflict me.
A ſhow'r of tears, that down his furrow'd cheeks
Upon the boſom of OSMIDA fell,
Ended a ſpeech—which men ſteel'd by long uſe
[37] Againſt the touching voice of heav'n-born pity,
Could not unſoften'd hear; but ſtrove to palliate
To their own hearts, in coarſe-ſpun ſophiſtry,
The baſeneſs of their voluntary taſk.
Sprightly Aurora looking through the clouds,
Which bluſh'd with pleaſure at her near approach,
Chas'd from the hemiſphere the pale-ey'd moon,
—Who had ſo ſweetly ſhone, ſhe ſeem'd 'till now
The morning's counterfeit. But Oh! to mis'ry
Whether the pale-ey'd Moon, or ſprightly Morn,
Or Sun refulgent leads the paſſing hours;
All, all alike, they undiſtinguiſh'd roll,
One cheerleſs chaos, one impervious gloom.
If to DE COURCI, and the wond'ring Moors,
OSMIDA lovely ſeem'd—how lovely now!
When bright'ning day diſclos'd her to their view,
One blaze of charms—charms of that tender caſt,
Which ſorrow did not ſully, but become!
Her poliſh'd form was graceful as the antelope's;
Her air majeſtic, as the ſailing eagle's—
When 'mongſt the fleecy clouds he gently waves,
And views high Skiddaw, like a ſhrub below.
Her face a Raphael would have caught, to form
A young Madonna, bending o'er her Child
With brow ſerene, and love-diſtilling eyes.
Her locks—ſuch locks as Nature only gives
Once in an age, to perfect ſome rare beauty,
Seem'd like a golden veil—part hung before,
Shading a poliſh'd neck; which look'd, between
The burniſh'd threads, like pureſt ivory
Through gilded net-work: part the Zephyrs ſnatch'd,
Playing enamour'd in the beauteous toils:
[38] The reſt in dropping ringlets fell behind,
And kiſs'd the foldings of her flowing robe.
Such was the Princeſs; whom a Moor now ſeiz'd,
And on DE COURCI's ſteed ſecurely fix'd.
A ſilken ſaſh, held by the treach'rous Knight,
Paſs'd through OSMIDA's girdle, and enchain'd
The mourning Virgin, and her deadlieſt foe.
Upon another ſteed was plac'd ALMANZOR,
Behind a guiding Moor. This was the ſtate
The kingdom's Monarch, and the kingdom's Heir,
Were now conſtrain'd to uſe. No pompous guards,
No bleſſing populace, no proud grandees,
Their ſteps attend;—but oh! how ſmall that grief,
Weigh'd with the horrid fears, the tort'ring doubts,
Which fill their boſoms, and abſorb their thoughts!
The leafy deſert—which ſo long had ſeem'd
A cheerleſs priſon to th' illuſtrious pair
—They quit, with aching hearts, and heavy ſighs.
Its ſolitary ſhades—how welcome, now!
Its humble turf-form'd cot, its devious glades,
Its choral groves, they would with rapture greet,
And hail them, as the dear abodes of Peace.
But theſe they have for ever—ever left;
And ſoon the foreſt's verdant roof grows dun
Upon the diſtant eye. The eager Moors,
With ſpur and ſlacken'd reins, kept pouring on,
Leaving whole leagues obſcur'd with floating duſt.
The royal Priſoners, ſcarcely with a glance,
Can ſpeak a thought, much leſs converſe, and ſhare,
With kind participance, each other's woe.
Thus they continued through untrodden wilds,
Whoſe ſavage echoes never yet had learnt
To imitate the cordial voice of man:
[39] —The churning boar, and howling midnight wolves,
Had taught them all the language that they knew.
At length the Sun, behind the weſtern mountains,
Hid his pervading eye: the humid Eve
Led on her deep'ning ſhades, to quench the thirſt,
The fev'riſh orb had left, on plants and flow'rs.
The Moors now ſtrain their wiſtful eyes,
To meet ſome woodland, or ſome ſhelt'ring cave,
In which to court their ſtrength-reſtoring ſleep.
The laſt they found—it ſeem'd t'have been the haunt
Of fierce banditti—or more peaceful home
Of ſome ſequeſter'd hermit; for its floor
The chiſſel's edge had ſmooth'd, and its low roof
Was rudely faſhion'd to a ſemi-dome.
Here the ſad trav'lers were allow'd the reſt
Which through the fervid day they'd aſk'd in vain.
The Princeſs, whoſe ſoft limbs were not inur'd
To ſuch extreme fatigue, ſunk lifeleſs down,
Soon as her feet had touch'd the ſolid earth.
The aged King, with ſcarce more ſtrength, approach'd
To catch his falling Child—The flinty floor
Receiv'd them both—OSMIDA and her Sire.
With care officious, the attending ſlaves
The duties of humanity perform'd.
The Princeſs they recover'd; and a ſpot,
With their own garments, ſpread, to form a ſeat
Leſs rig'rous than the rock, for its high inmates.
Parch'd corn, ſun-candied grapes, and racy wine,
They plac'd, reſpectfully, before the King:
Exhauſted Nature crav'd the cordial draught;
Whilſt to her Sire's requeſt OSMIDA yielded,
And of the patriarchal feaſt partook.
[40]
DE COURCI and the Moors dar'd not reſign
Their heavy lids to ſleep, but in rotation.
Two, the cave's entrance guarded; and the third,
Plac'd near ALMANZOR, interruption gave,
Whene'er the royal Parent and his Child
Strove to beguile the melancholy hours
With ſuch ſad converſe as their griefs allow'd.
This had ZORADOR order'd, leſt OSMIDA
Should from her Father catch more fortitude
T'oppoſe his furious paſſion, than he thought
A female could poſſeſs. Celeſtial chaſtity
He held a phantom bred from Cuſtom's laws,
And that the magic of licentious love
Could melt its airy form—for now he meant
T'aſſert a conqu'ror's rights, and place the Princeſs
—Not on a Throne, but 'mongſt his fav'rite ſlaves,
And make her Sov'reign of his looſe ſeraglio.
Conſtrain'd to ſilence; Sorrow's bleſt phyſician
Stole by degrees upon their aching eyes.
O ſoft enchanter, Sleep! why did Idolaters
Ne'er build thee temples? Thee, whoſe ſweet dominion
Boundleſs extends, wherever Nature breathes!
Thee, in whoſe arms Anguiſh forgets her throbs;
Chill Want, the nipping blaſt; and wild Deſpair
Finds gleams of comfort—I ſing Paeans to thee, Sleep!
Scarce had the mettled courſers of the Morn
Brought her gay chariot to th'horizon's edge,
And coif'd the mountains with her ruddy gold,
—Ere prompt DE COURCI, and the watching Moors,
Flew to capariſon their grazing ſteeds.
Returning quick, they rous'd their torpid fellows,
[41] And laſt awak'd OSMIDA and the King.
What an awakening! Touch not, O my pen!
Upon the catching theme! Of woe enamour'd,
Thou'lt hang too long upon the tears, the ſighs,
The grief-fraught words, with which they hail'd the day.
—Events more active aſk thy little ſkill.
Some hours they had purſu'd their ſteady courſe,
When, from a coppice bord'ring on the road,
An armed troop ruſh'd forth. So quick their motion,
DE COURCI's band, ere they beheld their danger,
Were in a circle drawn—more dreadfully portentous,
Than wand of witch or wizard ever form'd.
The gallant Knight, who at his girdle wore
Unwilling beauty, ſeem'd at once the object.
Three vizor'd warriors at his ſtirrups ſtood;
Two held their lances to his throat; the third
Deſtroy'd the magic zone which held the Princeſs,
And ſnatch'd her inſtant from DE COURCI's ſide.
With ſuch diſpatch was this atchievement made,
The Knight had ſcarcely drawn to ſave his prize,
Ere he beheld her raviſh'd from his arms
—And at a diſtance from th'aſtoniſh'd troop.
Turning, with fury, on his foes—who thus
Had all his ſplendid hopes reft from his heart,
He rais'd his arm, and aim'd a pond'rous ſword,
Where guiltleſs it could not have fall'n; when inſtant
His unpois'd body, with Herculean force,
Was to the earth propell'd: breathleſs he lay,
And trampling ſteeds ſoon fix'd him to the ſpot,
From whence th'unhappy youth ne'er roſe again.
The Moors, undaunted at their leader's fate,
Suſtain'd th'aſſailant's ſhock, as if reſolv'd
Their pris'ners and their lives ſhould both be loſt,
[42] Or undivided kept. Two forc'd their way
Towards the ſpot where, guarded by her Knight,
The Princeſs ſtood; three of the foe purſu'd,
And made the path which led to her, the road
To death inglorious. The remaining Saracens
Fought as thoſe fight, who, knowing they muſt die,
Reſolve the victors ſhall buy conqueſt dearly.
But he who at his crupper held the King,
More fiercely than the reſt—more madly fought.
His fellows too hemm'd in the ſtruggling Monarch;
And, turning to the Prince their horſes haunches,
Form'd with their ſpears a threat'ning glory round him.
When he who held him—watching for the moment,
Broke from the reſt, and on the diſtant winds
Seem'd borne away. The demon who preſides
O'er evil acts, and aids the deeds that moſt
Partake of Hell—ſurely his ſteed impell'd,
And brac'd his ſinews with unnatural vigor.
His fiery eye, darting o'er hills and plains,
Scarcely outſtripp'd his hoofs; the vales, the woods,
His glance devour'd, were in an inſtant left
Behind his feath'ry heels, that onward preſt—
Whilſt the purſuing, ſtretching, mad'ning foe,
Beheld new hills, new plains, new woods, ariſe
Between their courſers and their raviſh'd Prince.
Meanwhile OSMIDA, in amazement loſt,
Beheld herſelf unchain'd, and yet not free.
Thoſe who had held her pris'ne [...], ſhe ſaw ſlain;
But who are theſe, who riſk, thus gallantly,
Their lives for her and the dethroned King?
Perchance new maſters; perhaps again they're ſlaves.
Scarce had this queſtion, in her whirl of thought,
Had time to firm itſelf, ere at her ſide
[43] She ſaw the noble ARLOS.—Hence! vain fears.
The magic touch of hope her boſom ſwell'd,
And confidence chac'd ev'ry doubt away.
Raiſing the ſnowy veil which hid her face,
She beam'd a ſmile upon the loyal Knight,
That in his mind o'erpaid ten thouſand dangers.
Fly, my beſt ARLOS! ſaid the charming maid,
(As at her feet he knelt) and ſave the King!
See where he ſits, unarm'd, amidſt his foes!
Were he in ſafety, all my thoughts were peace.
The Knight up-ſpringing, ſtaid not to reply,
But inſtant hors'd, ſpurr'd onward to his troop:
His troop he join'd, but not till the rich prize
He flew to ſave, was raviſh'd from his hopes.
Three of the band he inſtantly diſpatch'd,
To ſtop the progreſs of the flying Saracen.
The few remaining Moors, urg'd by deſpair,
Still madly fought, preferring preſent death
To the ſlow tortures, which they knew their Tyrant
Would fail not to inflict, on thoſe who loſt
The beauteous object of his brutal love.
Their wiſh they ſoon receiv'd, and their freed ſpirits
Sought the eternal ſhores. The Princeſs now
Remain'd ſole object of the cares of ARLOS.
With eager ſpeed he ſought the trembling maid,
Who ſaw her Parent borne o'er diſtant wilds,
And in that ſight loſt ev'ry new-born comfort.
Her tears bedew'd the ſenſeleſs earth; her cries
Rent Heaven, and her unconſcious feet mov'd quick
Towards the courſe, in which ſhe ſaw her Father.
ARLOS, in ſoothing terms, implor'd the fair-one
To moderate her grief. Doubtleſs, he cried,
The gallant youths, who now purſue the Moor,
[44] Will not purſue the flying ſlave in vain.
They know the mazy roads—each devious path,
Each ſecret turning—and will meet the villain
When leaſt he can ſuſpect his danger. Now,
Sweet Princeſs! to my caſtle let me lead you.
There, if not happier, yet at leaſt ſecurely
Your tears you may indulge, and feed your ſorrows.
Scarce ſenſible to what was urg'd, OSMIDA
Allow'd herſelf once more upon a ſteed
To be replac'd: her horſeman, noble ARLOS;
Who through moraſſes, underwoods, and roads
Almoſt impervious, brought his royal ward
In ſafety to his manſion. Oh! how bleſt
This moment had appear'd, had the ſame roof
That ſhelter'd her, been ſhelter to her Father!
That ſolace wanting, others loſt their taſte.
Her ſorrows to ſuſpend, ARLOS related
Events that yet could not have reach'd her ear.
The faithful GONZALES, he told the Princeſs,
Suſpected by ZORADOR, bore the rack
With undiminiſh'd courage, nor confeſt,
—Though life was promis'd, and immenſe rewards,
The place of her retreat: that he, Lord ARLOS,
By wiles and arts, the jealous Tyrant blinded,
Who held him trueſt ſervant of the Chriſtians.
Thus, unſuſpected, he had watch'd the roads
Which led towards her foreſt; with his life
To reſcue from the Moors the royal [...]gitives,
If fate malevolent ſhould e'er betray them.
Another tale in pity he with-held:
That the curſt Moor, inſatiate in revenge,
Had caus'd MONTENOS' Father, Duke Medina,
[45] To die upon the block—on ſtale pretence,
That he had form'd a plot to wreſt the crown.
His family he baniſh'd, their rich lands
Confiſcate made—and yet the Tyrant liv'd!
As the ſad Princeſs heard, with growing horror,
Repeated acts of cruelty ſcarce human;
The Knights return'd who had purſued her Father.
It was enough: ſhe ſaw them paſs the gates,
Without the King; no circumſtance was needful;
None could her anguiſh leſſen—none her woe increaſe.
Their tale ſcarce won attention. Much they talk'd
Of hot purſuit, and of the villain's ſpeed;
—That once his flagging courſer rais'd their hopes,
When ſudden on a neighb'ring plain appear'd
A troop of Spahies in a mock engagement:
The Saracen gain'd vigor at the ſight;
Whilſt thoſe who follow'd, meaſur'd back their road,
Knowing the ruin of their Lord inevitable,
Should they, his faithful vaſſals, be diſcover'd.
Vain were th'attempts of ARLOS, to diſpel
The deep diſtreſs which ſeiz'd OSMIDA's heart.
The ſweeteſt words, e'er fram'd by conſolation,
Were ſpent upon the air. The young ELVERA,
Siſter to ARLOS, lent her infant aid
To chear the royal gueſt; and with ſoft prattle,
—Kiſſing the drowning roſes on her cheek,
Strove to divide her ſorrow-fixt attention.
But, oh! her Father was a wretched captive:
What could abate the anguiſh of that thought?
In vain ſurrounding ſlaves watch'd ev'ry motion;
In vain the cielings roſe on ſtately columns,
[46] Forcing their grandeur on the awe-ſtruck eye;
In vain the downy beds invited reſt,
Beneath rich canopies imboſs'd with gold.
Dearer the ruſſet pillars of the foreſt,
Whoſe meeting branches canopied the earth
Where ſtood her lonely cot. Oh! dearer far
The humble couch on which her Father's head
Securely reſted; where her ready hand
His pillow ſmooth'd, and filial cares excited
Sweeter ſlumbers! Who, now, will watch his ſleep,
Or ſooth his griefs to reſt? Who waits his waking,
To cheer, with tender voice, the lengthen'd day?
So ſpoke the heart of the unhappy Princeſs.—
Now to the hoſpitable cares, her fate affords,
We leave the Mourner, and purſue the King.