A Moorish Romance.

“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.

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 ............