The Project Gutenberg eBook of Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain, by James Kennedy.

I.

Magnificent is the Alcazar,

For which Seville is renown’d,

Delicious are its gardens,

With its lofty portals crown’d.

With woods all carved elaborate,

In a thousand forms about,

It raises high its noble front

With cornice jutting out;

And there in ancient characters

A tablet may be seen,

Don Pedro built these palaces,

The sculptures placed between.

But ill beseem in its saloons

The modern triflings rear’d,

And in its proud courts men without

The antique vest or beard.

How many a soft and balmy eve,

In pleasant converse there,

Have I with Seville’s mirthful sons,

And Seville’s daughters fair,

Traversed those blooming bowers along,

On entering which are rude

Gigantic shapes in myrtles cut,

Of various attitude;

And rose-bay trees, in long arcades,

With oranges unite,

And shady labyrinths form, the which

To thefts of love invite;

And hidden jets of water spring

All sudden from the floor,

When trod the painted pebbles laid

In rich mosaic o’er,

That sprinkle on the stranger there,

While shouts of laughter rise,

From those who warn’d by former fate

Now shun such pleasantries!

In summer time, at close of day,

When mid the light cloud’s fold,

The sun declines, encircling them

With scarlet and with gold,

That bright transparent heaven above,

With purple mists o’erspread,

Cut in a thousand varied hues,

By softest zephyrs led,

That glowing atmosphere, in which

One seems to breathe of fire,

How temper they the languid frame,

And soul divine inspire!

The view too of those baths, that gain

From all who know them praise,

And that proud edifice which Moors

And Goths combined to raise,

In some parts harsh, in some more light,

Here ruins, there repair’d,

The different dominations pass’d

Are thus by each declared;

With records, and remembrances

Of ages long pass’d by,

And of more modern years alike

To arrest the fantasy.

The lemon’s and the jasmine’s flowers,

While they the eyes enchant,

Embalm the circumambient air

With sweets they lavish grant.

The fountains’ murmurs, and afar

The city’s varied cries,

With those that from the river near,

Or Alameda rise,

From Triana, and from the bridge,

All lost, confused amain,

With sound of bells vibrating loud

In high Hiralda’s fane;—

A scene that never is forgot

Enchanted forms the whole,

The thoughts of which unceasing cause

To beat my heart and soul.

Many delicious nights, when yet

My now all-frozen breast

Beat warmly, have I seen those halls

By youthful footsteps press’d;

Fill’d with a chosen concourse gay

In country dance to meet,

Or light quadrille, while festive sounds

The orchestras repeat:

And from the gilded roofs rebound

The steps, the laugh perchance

And talk of happy pairs, by love

United in the dance;

With sound of music mix’d the while,

Confused and blended o’er,

As sent according echos forth

From the enamell’d floor.

Yet, ah! those lovely bowers along

I never once have stray’d,

But saw as in a mental dream

Padillia’s gentle shade,

Flitting before my view to pass,

Heaving a sigh profound,

Light as a vapour, or a cloud

That skims the trees around.

Nor ever enter’d I those halls,

But fancying arise

I saw the founder’s phantom, stain’d

With blood congeal’d the dyes.

Nor in that vestibule obscure,

Where with the cornice blend

The portraits of the kings, arranged

In columns to extend,

To that which is blue-tiled below,

And enamell’d is on high,

Which shows on every side around

A rich-set balcony,

And gilded lattice roof above

That crowns it with dark shade,

But thought I saw upon the ground

A lifeless body laid!

Yet on that pavement may be seen

A dark stain to this day!

Indelible, which ages pass

And never wash away:

’Tis blood that dark tenacious stain;

Blood of the murder’d dead:

Alas! how many throng it o’er,

Nor think on what they tread!

II.

Five hundred years shone younger

The Alcazar to the day,

Its lofty walls yet lustrous,

And faultless its array;

And brilliant were the enamels

Which its gilded roofs reveal,

It showed itself the mansion fit

Of the king of proud Castile;

When on one balmy morn it chanced

Of florid May betide,

In that saloon whose balcony

Is on the plaza’s side,

Two persons of illustrious mien

In silence deep were there;

One was a Cavalier, and one

A Lady passing fair.

A Barbary carpet richly wove

Upon the floor was laid,

The gift or tribute which the Moor

Granada’s king had paid;

A silken curtain, bright with flowers,

And ribbons curious wrought,

With various eastern colours deck’d,

Which to our Spain had brought

Venetian galleys, as perchance

Her Doge’s gift of state,

Was thrown across the balcony,

The light to moderate.

In the recess in front, with woods

Well carved, and richly graced

With mother-o’-pearl inlayings,

Was an Oratory placed;

Where of the sovereign Virgin

The image stood devout,

The sculpture somewhat rude, but yet

Attractions not without;

Which with a plate of silver,

For ornament was crown’d,

Its rim reflecting amethysts,

And emeralds around.

A manuscript of holy prayers,

Which miniatures adorn,

Precious with gold and ivory

Upon its coverings borne,

Was seen there placed upon a stand,

Form’d of an angel’s wings,

The figure badly sculptured,

But with neat finishings.

And on the floor of gold brocade

A cushion one might see,

Which by its sunken pressure show’d

The marks of bended knee.

And on the pure white walls were hung

Bright arms along the space,

And interspersed were banners,

And trophies of the chase.

An ornamental table stood

In the middle of the floor,

On which a well-tuned lute was placed,

Though partly covered o’er;

A rich-cut board for game of draughts,

And a coffer by its side

Of silver filigree, and jars

With chosen flowers supplied.

The Lady near the balcony

Sat very pensively,

In a great gilded chair of state,

Whose back was form’d to be

A canopy, or cover o’er,

And in gay curvings down

Were lions, castles, and the whole

Surmounted with a crown.

Her dress a silken robe of green,

Which show’d a various tinge,

In twisted threads, with pearls and gold

The embroidery and fringe.

Her head-dress than the snow appear’d

Ev’n whiter to behold,

And covering o’er the fine clear lawn

Her long dark tresses roll’d.

Her face was heavenly, and her neck

Divine, but in their hue

Like wax, the colour which fear paints,

And long-known sorrow too.

Her eyes were like two beaming suns

Beneath their lashes tall,

Where shone two precious pearly drops

As ready down to fall.

She was a lily fair, whom death

Was rudely threatening seen,

For a corroding worm the heart

Was tearing deep within.

Now in her thin pale hands, convulsed

It seems with fear or doubt,

Her kerchief white, of border’d lace

And points, she twists about;

Or with absorb’d distracted mien

She agitates the air,

With fan, whose feathers Araby

Had sent, the choicest there.

The Cavalier was slightly form’d,

And of the middle size,

With reddish beard, a restless mouth,

And most unquiet eyes.

His visage pale and dry appear’d,

Nose sharp and of a crook,

Noble his port, but sinister

And terrible his look.

In a red mantle he was wrapp’d,

With golden plates o’erspread,

And gracefully his cap was placed

On one side on his head.

With measured steps, from end to end,

He paced along the room,

And different passions o’er his face

Though silent seem’d to come.

At times he reddens, darting round

Fierce looks, that seem to tell,

As flames cast forth from eyes of fire,

The very deeds of hell.

And now a fierce and bitter smile

The extended lip displays,

Or on the gilded roof he fix’d

A darkly lowering gaze.

Now hastening on his course, from head

To foot he trembles o’er,

And now proceeds his noble mien

Of calmness to restore.

Thus have I seen a tiger fierce,

Now tranquil, now with rage

Revolve himself each side across,

And round his narrow cage.

Thus pacing o’er the carpet there

His footsteps are not heard,

But soundless they, yet were distinct

As ever that he stirr’d,

The crackling of his arms and knees:

In distant lands, ’tis said,

That with like noise has Heaven supplied,

For man to shun in dread,

O, wonder rare! a serpent, named

Thence Rattlesnake, that springs

Quick at the moment it comes nigh,

And kills whome’er it stings.

The Lady was Padillia,

That sat in mournful strain;

And the stern silent Cavalier

Don Pedro, King of Spain.

III.

As round some solitary tower,

At setting of the sun,

Fierce birds of prey are whirling seen,

Revolving one by one,

Thus with Don Pedro in their turn

Have various thoughts a trace,

Whose shadows darken as they pass

The expression of his face.

Now occupies his angry mind

His brother’s power and state,

Of those whose mother he had slain,

And birth would criminate.

Now of unquietnesses borne,

Great scorn and insult shown,

Or of his failing treasury,

Nor means to fill it known.

Now of the fair Aldonza’s charms,

His fortune ’twas to gain,

Or of the blood-stain’d forms of those

He had unjustly slain.

Now some projected enterprise,

Some treaty to defeat,

Faith-breaking with Granada’s Moor,

Or treason or deceit.

But as the birds the lonely tower,

The broken heights between,

Are all at length, as one by one,

Retiring hiding seen;

And constant only one remains,

Revolving it infest,

The fiercest, strongest on the wing,

That will admit no rest;

Thus all that multitude confused

Of passions wild and strange,

Of which Don Pedro for a while

Was tangled in the range,

At length from breast and head alike

Fled finding a retreat,

And living left distinct alone,

With horror great replete,

The image of Fadrique,

His eldest brother famed,

The pride of knights and Master those

Of Santiago named.

Now from Humillia’s conquer’d walls,

With matchless courage won,

In triumph had Fadrique come

O’er vanquish’d Aragon.

Where erst the bars, the castles now

He floating left abroad,

And to present the keys he brings

His brother, king and lord.

Well knows the king no rebel he,

But friend and ally true,

And more than Tello madly hates,

And more than Henry too.

’Twas he Fadrique had the charge

From France to bring the queen,

The Lady Blanche, but he allow’d

A year to intervene.

With her in Narbonne he delay’d,

And rumours thus of those,

Which whether true or false alike

Are poisonous, arose.

And in Medina’s tower the price

The Lady Blanche now pays,

Of all the palace whisperings,

And journey’s long delays.

And on his shoulders yet untouch’d

His head Fadrique wears,

Because of his great wealth and power

And honour’d name he bears.

But, woe for him! the ladies all

Him as their idol own,

For his gay port and gallant mien,

And manly courage known.

And if he cause the throne no fear,

In his fidelity,

He gives what’s worse, though that were bad,

The heart strong jealousy.

Meanwhile the fair Padillia,

Whose judgement clear and great,

Her royal lover’s secret thoughts,

Though deepest penetrate,

In whom the goodness of her heart

The enchantment still excels,

That in her beauteous face and form

So marvellously dwells,

Unhappy victim lives of fears,

That ever her attend,

Because she loves the king, and sees

His course in evil end:

She knows that based in blood and grief,

And persecution’s train,

A palace never is secure,

No throne can fix’d remain.

And she has two young tender girls,

Who with another sire,

Whate’er their lot, might all have gain’d

Their hearts could best require;

And in Fadrique’s worth she sees

A stay and partisan.

She knows he comes to Seville now,

And as from words can scan

Her fierce lord’s brow dark lowering,

In evil hour he came,

And to allay suspicions,

Or give them higher aim,

At length, though with a trembling lip,

The silence breaking dared

To speak, and thus the words that pass’d

Between the two declared:

“Your brother then, Fadrique,

Triumphant comes today?”

“And certainly in coming,

The wretch makes long delay.”

“He serves you well, and hero-like,

As does Humillia show,

Of loyalty gives proofs, and brave

He is”—“Sufficient so.”

“You may be sure, Sire, that his heart

Will ever true remain.”

“Tomorrow still more sure of that.”

Both silent were again.

IV.

With joy the Master to receive,

Through Seville’s streets along,

Great rumour spreads, and arms resound,

And men and horses throng.

And shouts of welcoming, amidst

Repeated echoes rise,

Which from Hiralda’s lofty tower

Are scattered to the skies.

Now comes the crowd approaching near,

But less the shouts resound,

And now the palace gates they reach

Mid silence all around:

As if the Alcazar had enjoy’d

The privilege to appear,

In sight, and still the enthusiast flow,

And turn it into fear.

Thus mute and breathless, motionless,

The people stood in dread,

As if with magical respect

The plaza’s bounds to tread;

And enters there the Master now,

With but a scanty train,

And of his order some few knights,

The palace gates to gain.

And forward on his course directs,

As one without alarms,

Who goes to meet a brother kind,

With open heart and arms:

Or as some noble chieftain comes,

For glorious deeds the cause,

From grateful monarch to receive

Due honours and applause.

Upon a dark and mettled steed,

That breathes of foam and fire,

And while the bridle scarce restrains,

Seems proud of its attire,

With a white mantle o’er him cast,

Flung loosely to the air,

O’er which the collar and red cross

His dignity declare;

And cap of crimson velvet girt

His brows, whereon unfold

The winds the feathers’ snowy plumes,

And tassels bound with gold.

All pale as death, the furious King

His brother saw from far,

When on the plaza entering first,

And fix’d as statues are,

Awhile he stood upon the floor,

And from his angry eyes

Seem’d burning horrid lightning thence

In flashes to arise.

But starting soon, himself around

He turn’d the room to leave,

As if he would some welcome guest

Right affably receive.

When thus Padillia saw him turn,

Her heart beyond relief

Of anguish full, and countenance

So beauteous mark’d with grief,

She rose, and to the balcony

Went troubled, by the square,

And to the Master motions wild,

With gestures to declare,

In evil hour he comes, and waves

Her kerchief him away,

And by mute signs thus bids him seek

Safety without delay.

Nothing of this he comprehends,

But for saluting takes

The warning, and discreetly thus

A gallant answer makes.

And to the open’d portal comes,

With guards and bowmen lined,

Who give him passage free, but leave

His followers behind.

If he knew not Padillia’s signs,

Don Pedro knew them well,

As he before the chamber door

A moment seem’d to dwell,

In deep suspense o’er his resolve,

When turning back his eye,

He saw the Lady warn him thus

By motions thence to fly.

O, heaven! then was that noble act,

Of pure intent to be

What call’d the executioners forth,

And seal’d the stern decree.

Follow’d by two esquires alone,

The Master scarce in haste

Upon the royal vestibule

His foot confiding placed,

Where various men-at-arms were seen,

In double iron barr’d,

Pacing along as sentinels

The entrance stairs to guard,

When over from the balcony,

Like fiendish shape of ill,

The King looks out, and “Mace-bearers,”

He shouts, “the Master kill.”

Quick as the lightning in a storm

Comes ere the thunders call,

Six well-appointed maces down

On Don Fadrique fall.

He raised his hand to grasp his sword,

But in his tabard’s gird

The hilt was bound, impossible

To draw it at the word.

He fell, a sea of blood around

Ran from the shattered brain,

Raising a cry which reached to heaven,

And doubtless not in vain.

Of deed so horrible the news

At once around was spread,

And thence the brotherhood and knights

Together quickly fled.

To hide them in their houses fled

The people, trembling sore

With horror, and the Alcazar’s bounds

Were desert as before.

V.

’Tis said, the sight of blood so much

Is wont to infuriate

The tiger, that he still rends on

With stomach satiate;

Solely because ’tis his delight

With blood the earth to stain,

So doubtless with the King it was

Such feelings grew amain.

For when he saw Fadrique laid,

Thus prostrate on the ground,

After the squires in search he ran

The palace all around;

Who tremblingly and livid fled

The apartments various o’er,

Nor find they any hiding-place,

Or whence to fly a door.

One happily at length succeeds,

To hide or fly outright;

The other, Sancho Villiegas,

Less happy or adroit,

Seeing the King still follow him,

Enter’d half dead with fear

Where was Padillia on her couch,

With her attendants near;

They trembling, as she senseless laid,

And by her side reclined

Her two young tender girls, who were

Angels in form and mind.

The unhappy youth still seeing there

The spectre following nigh,

That even this asylum mocks,

In his arms quickly high

Snatches the Lady Beatrice,

Who scarce six years has known,

The child for whom the King has e’er

The most affection shown.

But, ah! naught serves him this resource,

As in the desert naught

The holy cross avails, that clasps

The pilgrim hapless caught;

When roars the south wind, burns the sky,

And seems as if up-driven

A frightful sea, of waves of sand,

Commingling earth and heaven;

Thus with the child between his arms,

And on his knees compress’d,

The furious dagger of the King

Was planted in his breast.

As if that day had witness’d naught

The palace new or rare,

The King sat at the table calm

To eat as usual there;

Play’d afterwards a game of draughts,

Then went out pacing slow

To see the galleys, arming soon

To Biscay’s shores to go.

And when the night the hemisphere

Had with its mantle veil’d,

He enters in the Golden Tower,

Where he shut up has held

The fair Aldonza, whom he took

From Santa Clara’s walls,

And as in blind idolatry

Who now his heart enthralls.

With Levi then his treasurer,

Who though a Hebrew vile

Has all his confidence, he goes

On state affairs awhile;

And very late retires to rest,

With no attendants nigh,

Only a Moor, a wretch perforce,

His favourite waiting by.

Enter’d the lofty vestibule,

The Alcazar’s tranquil bound,

One moment paused the King and pass’d

His gaze in turn around.

A large lamp from the vaulted roof

Was hanging loose, and cast

Now lights, now shadows, as it swung,

As by the breezes pass’d.

Between the polish’d columns placed

Two men in armour were,

But only two dark figures show’d,

Watching in silence there.

And still was Don Fadrique laid

Extended on the ground,

With his torn mantle o’er him spread,

In a lake of blood around.

The King approach’d him, and awhile

Attentively survey’d,

And seeing that his brother yet

Was not entirely dead,

Since he perchance as breathing seem’d,

His breast a heave to make,

He gave him with his foot a push,

Which made the body shake;

Whereon he, giving to the Moor

His sharpen’d dagger bare,

Said, “Finish him,” and quietly

To sleep went up the stair.

THE DUKE DE RIVAS.

THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

IX.
MANUEL BRETON DE LOS HERREROS.

THE DUKE DE RIVAS.

THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

IX. MANUEL BRETON DE LOS HERREROS.

IX.
MANUEL BRETON DE LOS HERREROS.